SEVEN
Bev and Kristin bought plastic bottles of Evian water at the bar and took them along to the beach. White sand glared beneath the sun’s rays, splaying a blanket of warmth for the crowd: sunbathers, lifeguards, athletes flexing their muscles for strolling bikinis. Pacific Ocean waves crashing against the surf, into the bodies of waders. They walked northward toward a less populated point, nestled themselves in the sand, and took in the therapeutic vista.
Silence dominated the moment, Kristin pressing her face to the sky to worship its offer of warmth, Bev taking this time to think of Julianne. They’d met in their late teens after graduating high school, each of them working cashier shifts at an L.A. Bi-Mart. Quickly they’d discovered that they’d shared some common interests. Like a taste for the hard rock music that had come in from England in the sixties: The Who, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix. Both had been brought up by aunts after losing their parents at a young age; they’d couldn’t afford college, and yearned to work enough hours to afford themselves small apartments. After a week, they’d started dating steadily and in two months pooled their narrow resources and moved into a South L.A. apartment together. After two years of sinful, blissful, faithful, and rather meager living, Julianne got pregnant. It was an unplanned shocker for the teens, who’d always played their love-making cards carefully. With no one else to talk to other than themselves, they’d discussed their options and came to a quick conclusion: their love was special and would last a million lifetimes; their baby was a gift to treasure and they would keep it and raise it to the best of their abilities. They’d arranged a quick trip to Las Vegas, pledging their vows to one another in a small church off the south end of the strip. Eight months after the young lovers received their license for love, Kristin was born.
And, as always, when thoughts of Julianne filtered into his mind, Bev flashed back to the accident. How he’d waited at the red light at the not-so-busy intersection of Crandon and Wolfland Road, how there hadn’t been any cars at all passing through the green light. And when his signal turned green, he looked both ways anyway because one couldn’t be too careful, especially with an infant in the car, and when all seemed clear, he inched out into the intersection, but how could he know that coming down Wolfland Road at sixty miles an hour was a car being driven by a girl who’d just hours earlier drowned her sorrows in a bottle of Jack Daniels and had decided on taking her own life, and what the fuck, how about a couple of innocents with her? Every cell in his body flinched when he recalled the howling shriek of the tires on the road—an instinctual response from the girl who might’ve had second thoughts in the last moments of her life—and he remembered turning, looking past Julianne who’d just echoed the scream of the tires herself, hands raised in defensive terror as the out-of-control car leaped at them like a shot from a cannon, and that for a split second he could see the girl behind the wheel of the car, and that her face had no discernible features, just a black void of nothing in the moment frozen in time, and then there was a different kind of shriek, that of tearing metal, and his world spun away into a black vortex like that swirling where the girl’s face should have been, and the next thing he recalled were the ambulance sirens and the pain that rose up into the agony of knowing that he’d lost his one and only true love, and what about my daughter? was all he could say, over and over again before his blurred vision pooled back into focus and he could see the twisted mangled car, the shattered glass, the blood on the pavement, and all he could only keep on wondering, what about Kristin?, and how is it that am I alive?, and so did the police at the scene whom he overheard saying, It’s a miracle. The man and the child are going to be fine. They should be dead. Just look at the car...it’s destroyed…
The impact had been devastating for Julianne, who’d become instantly unrecognizable in the crushed carnage of their car. And the cops had been correct in their immediate assumptions—miraculously Bev had managed only bruises from the accident, and thank God for the car seat that’d held six-month old Kristin Mathers; she’d cried terribly and gained only internal injuries, resulting in an three-day hospital stay, but she’d made it home just in time for her mother’s funeral, which had been delayed pending a police investigation.
And thus began Bev and Kristin’s lives, minus Julianne Mathers.
It always took great strength for Bev to put these hideous memories of catastrophic agony into the appropriate recesses of his mind, where they could do no additional damage. To counteract the pain, he utilized another branch of strength to drum up the more mystically pleasurable recollection of his day in Alondra Park, when the swan came to deliver his message from Julianne; yes, this helped him to relegate his doubts and fears of continuing his life with a sense of happiness and utter contentment, to move on as the sole provider for his daughter, who’d needed him for her survival.
A barking dog shook Bev from his reverie. He and Kristin adjusted their positions on the hard sand, a hundred yards back from the surf. Two shirtless, college-aged men ran down the beach, tossing a Frisbee back and forth, splashing in the tide’s crescents and diving into the shallow water to make great catches. A mixed-breed dog with a red bandana around its neck splashed along the edge of the rushing waves, barking gleefully, hopeful to catch the flying disk in its jaws. In between throws, the two guys, tanned and toned and flexing, peeked over at Bev and Kristin who were doing their best to avoid their overt gazes; they’d either recognized Bev beneath his hat-and-shades cloak, or were checking out Kristin. Maybe both.
Or, maybe, they were watching him.
Finally, the Frisbee was overthrown. Bev blew out a deep breath. Predictable. It landed a few yards from Bev and Kristin.
“Here they come,” Kristin said expectantly. “The male species at work.”
“They’ve been looking over here since we sat down.” Bev didn’t want to press the issue any further: that these guys, expertly camouflaged amidst the sunny environment, may very well be keeping tabs on him. Something isn’t right here. I can feel it. In my brain. A perception of being watched.
The dog darted over and clutched the Frisbee in its jaws. Shook it about. Sprayed some sand on Bev and Kristin. The Frisbee throwers rode the dog’s wagging tail, both of them male lions, chests out, pearly teeth bared. Their boardshorts rode low on their slender hips; one wore a matching red bandana around his neck; the other, a seashell necklace.
Bev nodded upon their approach; this simple acknowledgement would hopefully send them on their way. Do they recognize me?
The guy with the bandana leaned down, grabbed the Frisbee from the dog. “Here’ ya go, Garcia.” He flung the Frisbee to the left of Bev and Kristin, a hundred feet away, toward the dunes.
The guy with the seashell necklace said, “Bev Mathers, right?”
“That’s right,” Bev answered impatiently. Kristin smirked, covering her mouth with her right hand.
“Don’t mean to bother you, man...actually I’m really not a fan of your music, but I just thought you’d like to know that there’s a man up there in the dunes watching you with a pair of binoculars. We’ve been watching him ever since you got here.”
“We’re guessing he’s the press, or something,” the guy with the bandana said.
“Where?”
Kristin pulled her hand away from her face. She peered up at the two guys; they eyeballed her up and down and sideways, grinning, vying for her attention. They didn’t get it.
The dog returned with the Frisbee and dropped it at Bandana’s feet. He picked it up, flipped it end-over-end, allowing the sand to spill out. “Don’t look now...I’ll toss the Frisbee toward him. He’s up on the dunes alongside the restaurant. Under the pier.”
Bev eyed Kristin; his quiet apprehension was obvious, seemed to say, Told you so. Expressionlessly, she acknowledged him.
Bandana tossed the Frisbee to the left of Bev, over the heads of two male sunbathers and into the sand alongside the edge of the dunes. The dog took off like a greyhound, racing along th
e beach, spraying sand and shells in its wake. Bev pretended to watch the sprinting dog, glancing up toward the pier instead.
Indeed, a man was there, standing in the dunes beneath the pier about fifty yards away. He wore sunglasses, khaki slacks, and a black tee. In his hands was a pair of binoculars. He shifted his sights toward the surf, most likely mindful to the possibility of having been detected.
“Son of a bitch. It’s the same guy from last night.”
The dog raced back with the Frisbee, dropped it at Bev’s feet then ogled him happily, panting, eager for another sprint. Bev reached forward and grabbed it. Then, stood and faced the ocean. He nodded. “Thanks for the heads-up, guys.”
“Welcome,” they replied, almost in unison, eyes ping-ponging all over Kristin as she stood and brushed the sand from her hips.
Bev held the Frisbee out in front of him. “May I?”
“Go for it,” Bandana said.
He tossed the Frisbee toward the water. The dog and its masters took off after it as it sailed away, caught in the wind.
Kristin, eyes once again targeting the man, said, “Are you sure it’s him and not a reporter?”
“Like I said before, I ain’t that famous.”
“So, who is he? A fan?”
Bev glanced up. The pantwearer began walking along the dunes, eyes toward the surf. “Nope.” He looked at his feet, nervously shifted some sand. “I don’t like the smell of this. Why don’t we walk down by the water...just pretend that you don’t know he’s watching us.”
Lazily, they strolled toward the surf. They passed the Frisbee throwers, then headed back south along the beach.
Discreetly, Bev peered up toward the pier.
The man was gone.
“He’s not there anymore,” he said.
Kristin looked around the beach, which grew more crowded as they headed farther south. “Where’d he go? I don’t see him.” The waves broke against the surf and churned the sand inches from their feet. The crisp contact of ocean on sand, the gentle squawk of the gulls, the ambience of the crowd, usually set Bev at ease. Now, it distracted him, seemingly incapable of rescuing his turbulent mind.
Scratch…scratch…scratch.
Crumble.
The fingers. They reappeared. But unlike their approach at the restaurant, when they quickly vanished, they now persisted, chipping away at the inside of his skull like tiny picks against soft limestone. His nostrils stung with the stench of something burning. Charcoal. Smoldering wood.
He stopped walking. Grabbed his head at the temples and attempted to counter the internal grope. With his palms, he massaged the pressure points. His skull felt numb beneath his grasp, as though anesthetized.
“Dad...you okay?” To Bev, Kristin’s voice sounded muted, as if she’d spoken to him from behind a thin wall. He tried to answer, but like a weight, his voice sank into his lungs. An oppressive hot flash washed over him, not from of the sun, but from within his own body, as if he’d suddenly acquired a fever of one hundred and four degrees. His veins pumped, his heart pounded, a surge of adrenaline racing through them.
Then unexplainably, like earlier, an overwhelming anger rose in him. His mind instantly rejected everything that he knew and felt, the love for his daughter, his friends and acquaintances, his musical talents. In turn, feelings of animosity flourished; of resentment; of budding hatred; of...strength.
“Dad? What’s wrong?”
A distant echo of her voice. His sensible mind fought hard to counter the horrible feelings blooming within him, but what remained of his inner strength sank deeper into the bowels of his body and treaded in the acids. Mired, he experienced a bizarre sensation—of reaching up toward his mind in a vain attempt to retain a grasp of it.
He could hear his mouth intractably utter, “Get away!”
“Dad!” Kristin hollered, her voice a distant echo—a call from a mountaintop. “What’s wrong with you?”
Bev fell to his knees. Squeezed his head. The inner drowning kept him out of control of much else. His feet burned. His legs trembled. The ghostly-fingers in his head continued their tenacious digging. And now, more than ever, the sensation of crumbling rose in him, as though sediment from his skull had fallen away—the frantic determination of his independent brain a few steps closer to escaping its restraint.
Kristin placed a faltering hand on his shoulder. From deep below, treading the detritus of his churning stomach, he could feel his head slowly turning toward her, his face contorted into a rageful scowl: eyes pinning her with foul hatred; lips stretched wide and hot with saliva. He felt his mouth part, barely, and heard his voice speaking forthrightly in a voice that wasn’t his: “Don’t touch me!”
It has an accent...my voice...
“Dad!” she screamed, her breaking voice tearing through the mental barrier that had concealed his perception. The fingers at once ceased their mental excavation, and he could feel himself quickly rising up from the burn of his stomach back into the intimate territory of his brain. When he got there, tears sprouted uncontrollably. The pressure of the indefinable moment had distressed his body: muscles wearied; shoulders joggling; mind fraught with shame and disgust.
“Dad?” Kristin. Quieter. Tentative.
“Jesus, what just happened to me?” Bev could feel again: the mist from the ocean against his face, the wind and the sand in its grasp. His true sense of touch had seceded—he hadn’t realized it was gone until now. Terrifying.
“Dad...are you okay?”
“I...I am so sorry. I can’t...I can’t explain what just happened to me.”
Voice still shaking, Kristin asked, “Why did you say those things to me?”
“I don’t know...baby, it wasn’t me...it...was something in me. I can’t explain it.” Finally, he looked up at her. In spite of her tan and the rosy glisten of her cheeks, she appeared to be suffering an unhealthy moment. Scared to death; eyes sallow, the whites, bloodshot; mouth trembling. Bev felt a huge welling of emotions, of fear, shame, remorse. He thought I am not responsible for my actions. I didn’t do it...I had no control. I was buried deep below...in my lava.
My lava...?
“I told you, earlier, that I wasn’t feeling well...remember?”
She nodded, taking notice of the people walking by. Many, from their safe distance, inspected Bev’s troubled posture. No one appeared to recognize him. No one offered any assistance.
Slowly, he stood up. Then, held her hands. Squeezed. Despite his trepidation, he now felt physically fine. “I’m not sure what’s going on with me. This is the fourth time it’s happened, I think.”
“Jesus, dad, I’m worried about you.”
“I am too, Kristin. I am too.”
EIGHT
Slowly and carefully, Bev and Kristin retraced their path across the beach, weaving in and out of those spread out on folding chairs and towels. They kept their glances attentive, to the best of their ability given the situation. The Sunday afternoon crowd had multiplied, the sun out full-force now and causing people to amass on the sand like ants on sugar. Spotting the man that had watched them wouldn’t be easy. He could be anywhere.
They climbed the steps to the busy pier. Bought two more bottles of water from a beverage cart on the pier. As they drank, they took notice of the throngs of people around them, basking in the buttery sunlight, roller skating, jogging, just plain having fun. After a minute, they tossed the empty plastic bottles into a steel mesh trash container, then walked across the Danfords parking lot to Kristin’s car. Bev did his best to convey a sense of ignorance to whomever may be watching him—in his gut he knew that he was still being watched, but didn’t intend to alert the one monitoring his actions that he was aware of him.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home?” she asked.
Bev looked at his watch. 3:15. “No, you go. I’ll be fine.” He did have some concerns about another “episode” occurring while driving; he’d planned on going straight home from here, a short ten-minute dr
ive. If history repeated itself, it wouldn’t happen again so soon.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Go along.”
She kissed his cheek, then got into her car, an ‘03 Ford Mustang he’d bought for her when she turned nineteen. He walked around to the front of the car, staring at his reflection in the car’s glossy red exterior.
His distorted face stared back at him.
And then, for a split second, it changed: a malevolent mask, scowling at him. He shuddered, and then instantly, his normal reflection returned.
But it was there. A change. Eyes, wide like saucers, yellow irises set in glimmering black. Skin, bone white, mottled with patches of gray. Lips, red like fire, spread wide to show brown stumps for teeth.
“See you tonight at the party?” she asked.
“Sure,” he replied with feigned enthusiasm, the demonic image lingering in his distressed mind.
“Don’t push yourself. Come only if you feel up to it.”
He didn’t want to disappoint his daughter. Yet, he told himself that if he had one more episode, he’d have to promise himself a good night’s rest, Jake’s birthday or not. It’s anxiety, that’s all. Panic attacks. They come in many different forms, and I’ve got myself a real bad sort.
Explain what you just saw. Explain the voice. Is that anxiety? Or maybe it’s delusional schizophrenia?
“It’s Jake’s birthday,” he answered. “He’ll be passed out by ten. It won’t be a long night.”
“Call me later.”
“I will.”
She smiled. Waved as she closed her window. Drove away.
Bev stood there for a minute, leaning against a white Pathfinder. He rubbed his eyes. Wondered if he should’ve accepted Kristin’s offer for a ride.
The sudden need to relieve himself forced him to move—two beers and two bottled waters will do that. He paced back into Danfords—looking around and not seeing anyone suspiciously eyeing him—where the hostess recognized him as an earlier patron. He smiled. She smiled back. He told her he needed to use the restroom—quickly—and she responded with a soft assenting smile.
Demonologist Page 5
