by TJ Vargo
"I've got the whole world in my hands."
Alone, walking in the dark, a bag of groceries in her arms, Carmen couldn't help but look behind her. How many months had it been? Six? Seven? Still, time didn't help. She knew they were somewhere out there, searching for her. She stopped and scanned the street behind her. Empty, except for the pair of young drug dealers that were always on this particular corner, waiting to hawk their wares. They shot her hooded glances and she started walking again.
At the door to her apartment building she wrestled her grocery bag into the crook of one arm and fished a set of keys out of her jeans, unlocking the door and pushing it open. She edged past a drunk sleeping in the hall and shut the door, locking the deadbolt. The drunk mumbled in his sleep as she stepped over him. Living on the run was terrible. Couldn't get a normal job - never. She sighed and began walking up the two flights of stairs toward her cold water flat. Normal jobs required personal information - name, social security number, address. Sooner or later someone would come across that information. Someone who served him. Grinding it out, working in the underbelly of the city as a dishwasher, housecleaner, and even working on the fringes of the porn industry - setting up "screen tests" for new girls - it all paid cash and kept her hidden. That porn stuff though, she had to stop that. Even now a hole opened up in her heart thinking about all those runaway girls being eaten up by those empty-eyed men. They were the kind of people that didn't care if a person lived or died, as long as they got theirs. It worried her that she didn't care as much as she thought she should.
Once in her apartment she walked across the room to set her bag down on the bed. There was a squeak behind her and she turned to see the door to her room swinging open.
"Damn thing never stays closed," she muttered, making her way over to it. Grabbing the knob a dark shape stepped in front of her. Her heart jumped in her chest.
"You have something for an old vet?"
"Oh my God. Oh my God," Carmen said breathlessly, nearly giggling from the scare the bum had given her. She took a deep breath, shaking her head at him. "You scared me. I thought you were someone else." Smiling in spite of the fact that this disheveled street person was at her door, holding out his hand, his brown skinned fingers poking through the ends of his gloves, she waved at him. "Wait here, I'll get you something."
Rustling through the bag of groceries, she had a strange thought. Hadn't the bum downstairs been white? That couldn't be right. The one at her door was an old gray-haired black man. But he was wearing the same clothes as the man she'd seen downstairs - green army jacket, black knit cap, blue jeans. Two bums in the building wearing the same clothes, but different skin? She didn't think so. Her memory must be playing tricks. This had to be the same guy. She closed her hand over a pack of cigarettes at the bottom of the bag and pulled them out. Still, she could've sworn the man downstairs was white. An urge to get this guy out of here as fast as possible overtook her. Smokes were like gold on the street. She turned, prepared to hand them over and send him on his way even though she had a definite craving for one right now.
"I don't want those."
Carmen took a step back. His face was inches from hers. How had he gotten so close? She hadn't heard a thing. Another step back and her legs were against the edge of her bed.
"You know what I want."
A tightness closed over her heart, creeping up her neck until it was rigid. From the shape of an old Negro bum came the figure of a tall man, dressed in black, a wide-brimmed hat on his head. Dark bearded, eyes half mast with amusement, the man reached out and pushed her shoulder. She fell back onto the bed, staring up at him, her pulse booming in her ears. For a bare moment she thought of screaming, bringing someone to help her.
"No, no. Be good now," said Nathaniel, wagging his finger. Those black eyes of his bore into her. As he leaned over her, placing his hands on either side of her shoulders, his face drawing close to her, she heard the door to her room slam shut.
"Now we can talk my love," he said. "Where is my daughter?"
"I don't have her."
"Answer me child."
A tugging at something inside her began. A nice feeling, like being asleep with her eyes open. She bit down on her lip, drawing blood. No. She didn't want to feel good. She didn't want anything from this world anymore. Nothing he could offer made a difference. He couldn't control her with good feelings and lies anymore. The girl and the boy, her babies - she'd never tell him where she'd left them. They'd be free of him and the monsters that followed him. And she saw in his eyes that he knew this. That made her smile.
"Who do you think you are? Smiling at me."
His fingers clutched her mouth, digging in painfully, forcing the smile away. She didn't resist. Let it hurt. He had nothing for her. Money, clothes, jewels, sex, food, power... none of it mattered any more.
"All these things I give to you if you but kneel down before me."
She remembered his words when she was first brought to him and how she'd bought in to it. His face now inches from hers, his eyes blazing in anger - she saw the complete emptiness inside him for the first time. And it made her proud of herself to finally see him for what he was.
"You think you can keep her from me?"
His fingers slipped from her mouth and grabbed at the waist of her pants. She closed her eyes as he unbuttoned them. There would be fear if she saw him. With her eyes closed it didn't matter.
"You'll be happy to know that instead of pain, I've decided to give you pleasure."
He took his time, tugging her pants and underwear off while he hummed to himself. There was a sensation of ice cold on her bare leg. She flinched at the touch of his finger trailing up her inner thigh. So cold it burned. He threw her underwear on the floor and drew close, his breath giving off a curious smell. She wondered if he had a handful of pennies shoved under his tongue.
"In all the centuries I've walked this earth, you were the only one who gave me children. But I only want the girl - you can keep the boy. Is that too much to ask for?"
Her eyes squeezed shut. Don't answer. Don't give him a chance to trick you. The icy touch on her leg stopped as it reached her pelvis. God help me.
"Mmmm, hmmm. Cat got your tongue? Well, let's forget about the girl for now."
His weight moved onto her, prying her knees apart. Don't let me be scared God. Please let me be brave.
"If you made one girl for me, maybe you can make another. Let's give it a try, shall we?"
She started to scream and stopped. She opened her eyes. There was nothing to see. Nothing. A blackness filled her from where he entered her. No pain. No sensation at all. Just a sense of being pushed to the edge of an abyss. Her lips moved for the last time in her life, sounding out a bare whisper.
"You'll never find my babies."
From somewhere outside herself she heard his roar. Then something broke inside her. Pain blinded her to everything. Her hands and feet curled in on themselves. The thoughts in her head raced in a blur, images and senses flashing.
Daddy giving her a bubble bath. Biting a peach. The slap of cold water on her skin as she plunged into a lake. Mom pinning her hair up for the prom. The smell of a pencil being sharpened. Peeing into a toilet. Rough hands holding her face. The sound of something tearing. An oven burner glowing orange. Steam rising from a road wet with summer rain. A buzzing. Her father. Her mother. Don’t go. The children. Her children. Keep them safe. Keep him away. It hurts. Sooooo baaaad.
It stopped.
Somehow... it stopped. As if a great unseen hand had grasped her and pulled her away from the pain and the blackness.
She looked down, seeing Nathaniel shake her lifeless body, his eyes lit with endless rage. He would never touch her again. With a final wish that her son and daughter would never be found by him she released herself, taking one last look at her dead body under Nathaniel, seeing how he had filled her eyes with blackness. But she was filled with light now. And she saw an even greater light. She sped toward
it. It was a light that burned like the sun. No blackness could follow and she lifted and melded with it, the very concept of black gone now and forever.
Chapter One
Eight Years Later
Wind whipped against the little girl's face, then changed directions, blowing a tangled nest of black hair across her eyes. A squeal came out of her as the strong hands of her Daddy caught her and pushed her high toward the sky. A blue sky with a bright sun that came down to meet her as she rode her swing higher and higher. She kicked her feet at the sun, wishing she could get up there and touch it. It seemed so nice. All bright light and warmth. Not like the bad man in her head. Her nose wrinkled. He was cold. He didn't like the light. Her momentum slowed and then stopped at the apex of the swing and she fell back toward earth, her stomach rising and making her giggle. If Daddy didn't ever stop pushing maybe the bad man would never get in her head again. She readied herself for another launch, feeling Daddy's two big hands (they're as big as elephant ears!) catching her. But he didn't push. He caught her, slowed her down, and ruffled his big hand through the long black curls in her hair.
"That's enough. Daddy's getting tired honey."
No, no, no... The little girl kicked her feet, grunting her protest. "I want to go to the sun. Where I forget about the man."
"Those are bad dreams honey. Not real. Bad dreams." He mussed her hair again and got down on a knee to look her in the eyes. Lowering his voice, he growled, "No bad man can hurt my girl while I'm around. Your daddy is stronger and scarier than any bad man. I'll crush him and I'll smash him and I'll kill him to death if..." he tweaked her nose, "if he scares you. Then there's no more dreams."
The little girl smiled, but the light in her eyes dimmed. She slid down out of her swing and let her daddy take her hand. Looking up, she said, "But you can’t stop the bad dreams. Sometimes I go to see the little boy that's just like me. Sometimes I go and I help him."
Daddy's eyes squinched up and he looked away. Sometimes he did that when he didn't want to talk anymore. She felt him tug her hand and say, "C'mon let's go in. I think you're getting tired."
Slow as Daddy tried to walk, it still was hard to keep up with him. She chugged along as fast as she could, careful to not fall down and ruin her first communion dress. Her lips pressed together. If she got it dirty then she couldn't have her first communion - that's what mommy said. Just this once she could wear it, only when Daddy was with her, and then it was going back on the hanger in the closet until next Sunday. With her free hand she pulled the dress up to her knees and redoubled her steps to keep up with her father's stride.
The man walked up the steps of the back porch. It was an old house, a Dutch Colonial, in an old neighborhood near the downtown area. He'd just painted it a year ago, replacing the rotten boards and recaulking every joint on every window. It was as neat and solid as could be expected for a house nearly one hundred years old. He squeezed the hand of his daughter, pulling her off her feet and swinging her up the porch steps and into the cushion of a wicker rocking chair (also repainted - a classy dark green he'd seen in a home remodeling magazine). Giving her a stern look he said, "Don't go anywhere. I'm going to get us something to drink. I'll bet your mom made lemonade for us before she went to help out at church." He reached out to squeeze her bare knee, the one with a flowered bandage on it sticking out from under her dress. Before going inside, he repeated, "Don't go anywhere," once more and pushed open the screen door that went into the kitchen.
He took one last look back at his daughter before the door closed. He reminded himself to stop being so worried. For him and his wife, having a little baby girl show up on their doorstep was a blessing and a curse. Although they had finally been able to legally adopt her (after two years of wrangling with the Child Services Department, bloodless bastards), there was always the nagging feeling that whoever had brought her to them would someday show up to take her away. It was a constant struggle to keep himself from thinking his angel would someday disappear as easily as she'd appeared. He struggled with these thoughts now, trying his best to pour lemonade and get together a plate of chocolate chip cookies without stopping to check on her. He worked faster, spilling some lemonade on the counter. Something to clean up later, he thought, turning to put the pitcher back in the refrigerator.
Balancing the plate of cookies in one hand and holding the glasses of lemonade against his chest, he started toward the door. She was a good girl, but she scared him. The bad man in her dreams story scared him. The talk of going to visit the little boy "just like me" in her dreams scared him. How a little girl could make him feel so damn helpless and afraid he didn't know. But his little angel did just that.
Backing into the screen door he said, "Here it is honey. Lemonade and cookies." The door squeaked and slammed shut as he turned. "But don't get this on your dress. Your mom will get mad at daddy if..."
The wicker rocking chair was empty. His grip went slack. Lemonade and chocolate chip cookies hit the wooden floor of the porch as his eyes swept the back yard. The swing hung empty, barely moving in the summer breeze.
It was a bad thing to do. She kept her eyes down, hearing Daddy, Mommy and the priests talking. Even looking at the floor she could tell they were all looking at her as they talked, trying to keep their voices low, but still talking loud enough for her to hear. It was Daddy's voice mostly and she heard it raise up in a tone that sounded angry but sad at the same time. She pressed her knees together tightly, her little fists balled up on the silk lap of her white first communion dress as she sat and waited for them to finish.
"How would she know about those kinds of things? You don't teach her that kind of thing in catechism, do you? I know we sure as hell don't talk about those kinds of things around here."
"Mr. Walsh, we know this is disturbing, but I need you to calm down if we're going to discuss this rationally."
"Calm down my ass. My daughter is talking to you - shit you said she was teaching you about fallen angels and you think that's something we can discuss rationally?"
"I never said she was teaching us, I..."
"That's exactly what you said. Teaching."
The priest, a barrel chested fellow with red hair and a face to match exhaled loudly. "Well, I'm amending that. She told us things. Although most of what she said follows church theology about the classification of angels and the fall of Lucifer, much of it was a mish mosh of elements from the Jewish Cabala and ancient occult literature, things we barely touched on in the seminary."
From where she was seated the little girl shifted her eyes up enough to see the priest wringing his hands. She dropped her gaze immediately. Why was he so upset? Didn't everyone have the man in their head? Didn't everyone know these things she talked about? The priest stopped wringing his hands and pointed at Daddy.
"And I've never read about a fallen angel that walks the earth. I don't know where she got that. If someone is teaching her these things, scaring her, it could.... it could damage her."
Daddy let out a big sigh and the little girl thought he would start yelling again, but then mommy's voice broke in.
"Father, could we stop now? My husband and I don't even know what a Cabala is. And we definitely don't know anything about the occult."
The scuffed brown tips of her mother's shoes came into the little girl's field of vision, covering up the flower pattern she was looking at on the linoleum floor of the kitchen. Long fingers combed her long black hair and then rubbed the back of her neck. Mommy always made everything better. Then mommy's voice trembled.
"I don't care what she said. And I don't want to hear another word about any of it. I'm just glad she came to the church and we found her. Walking down the street like that, anyone could have picked her up and... and..."
The little girl felt her mommy's hand tighten on her neck and then mommy's face buried against the back of her head. Warm tears ran onto her neck from where mommy cried. The little girl stuck her lip out, as she often did when she was sad. Should've nev
er told the priests about how the bad man got here. How he went from being a bad angel to being a bad man. But how could she have known that they, these priests she'd always looked up to, didn't know about the bad man? Grownups were supposed to know and be able to help her. Especially grownups like them.
She reached out her hand and tugged on her mommy's dress. It was the dress her mommy wore to help cook in the basement of the church on Sunday's. New red spots of tomato sauce were blotched onto it over faded brown stains.
"Mommy, I promise I won't talk about him anymore if you stop crying," she said, tugging away on the dress and trying to understand why this made mommy cry even harder. She decided to not say anything after that and just let mommy cry while the priests left and daddy came over, telling mommy it would be all right while he hugged both of them.
Pushing her face into daddy's big chest, letting him hug her up, the little girl decided that maybe grownups didn't know everything. Maybe grownups didn't know much at all.
Chapter Two
Present Day
The beer mug clunked down on the bartop. Jackson Lewis looked at it, still clutching the handle. How empty it was now and how full it was just moments ago seemed nearly impossible to him. What the hell. Another soldier bites the dust. All for a good cause. Those damn dreams. A man in black. Black as sin. Wearing a hat similar to the kind worn by the old Amish men that occasionally came into town on their horse-drawn buggies. He closed his eyes, dropping his chin to his chest. Who the hell had dreams about a man in black coming for them? Especially a man in black wearing an Amish hat? I'm crazy; that's all there is to it.
"You want another beer?"
He looked up with alcohol-hazed eyes. "Yeah, another beer would be good," he said, raking a hand through his long, slightly greasy black hair, watching the waitress turn and walk away. She had just relieved the old woman that had been behind the bar and he, for one, thought it was a welcome change. His eyes followed the sway of her hips. He focused on the rhythmic movement. It felt great to occupy his mind with something besides thoughts of the black man in the weird hat.
