by Mark Tufo
“Just listen to her, Matt,” Peter said. “This isn't an intervention, though I won't promise you it’s not coming.”
“I haven't had a drink.”
“Your mind is as clear as it has been in some time, Matthew,” Isabel said. “And you will not drink again after this night.”
“I don't know if you're that good, Isabel,” Peter said.
“No, wait,” Allyson said. “Isabel, what do you mean?”
“What he will see here will change his life. It’s just something I know,” she said with a slight smile.
Emma took Matt's hand and squeezed it in hers. “You need to trust us, Matt. We're involved in something that will either push you over the edge or turn your life around. I'm not sure we know which way we're going yet, but Isabel seems to think it'll change you for the better.”
Matt sat in silence for a moment, looked at Emma, then around Isabel's shack. He sighed. “I'm not sure I want to quit drinking, Em. That's the problem. Even when I'm sober and I know what kind of trouble it's been for me, I still can't see giving it up. It's like that proves I can handle it or I'd never be sober at all, even to have that one clear thought.”
“But how good does that one clear thought feel?” Emma asked. “There can be lots more, Matt.”
Matt leaned forward and kissed Emma on the cheek. “You've been the best part of Peter since he met you,” he said.
At this, Allyson stood from the rickety wood kitchen chair and paced to the window. She looked out and said nothing.
Peter looked at her, but decided to talk to her about it later. She was jealous of Emma but there was no reason to be. Not now. Not ever.
Matt slapped his hands on the table. “I'm not sure what's going on, but I'll play for now.”
Isabel slid the box from beneath the table. “I, too, felt things as my hands touched upon these photographs,” she said. “Not so much that I feel I could be taken, though I could be wrong. I began to use tweezers to handle the photographs, for the images here have significance for me, somehow, and I am too old to take journeys such as this alone.”
Allyson returned to the table and sat. Everyone leaned in closer.
“I have divided up the photos in this box by the faces. There are over a hundred and eighty-six photographs here. Many are not of Chris, Lilly or Ellen, and I do not know what connection they may have to those of us in this room. There is the chance some of you were present when the image was taken, therefore it has significance to you.”
She lifted freezer-sized Ziploc baggies from the box and placed them on the table.
“This man appears frequently in many pictures. When I saw this, I knew who he was.” She slid a single baggie across the table, and the photograph of a man in a white priest's collar adorned the yellowed newspaper article. “He's Joshua Mattingly, whom you spoke of as being a participant in an earlier journey, Emma.”
Allyson and Emma nodded in unison. “The priest of the church we went to,” Emma said.
Isabel put the picture away, atop a larger baggie. On the table, no fewer than eight large baggies were arranged in a row. “Matthew, you will now find out who you were.”
“Who I was? I have no clue what you’re talking about. To be honest, you all sound a bit nuts.”
“You’ll get it soon,” Emma said.
“Assuming I do, what if I was nobody?”
“I have little worry of that,” she said. “Please, Emma. Get your medical equipment ready.”
* * * * *
In the newspaper photograph, the priest stood holding a shovel. It was some sort of work day at the church, and Joshua Mattingly was mugging for the news photographer's camera as he buried the shovel in a patch of weeds outside the church. Leaning over the handle of the embedded shovel, the image of the Father smiled from the yellowed page. His hair was mussed, falling over his forehead, and his fatigue was as evident as his striking good looks.
“I want you to touch this photograph first, Peter. If you feel anything, please let go immediately. I don't want you to go just yet.”
Peter reached out, his hand hovering nervously over the paper for a moment before he lowered his fingertips to it. The look in his eyes as they grew wide told everyone in the room that he did feel something. His hand jerked back fast. “Jesus.”
Isabel nodded. “This tells me you were present, Peter. That's all I needed to know. Emma, your turn.”
“Would you mind telling me why I'm here and what the hell's going on? Maybe just try to act like I’m a newcomer?” Matt stared at Emma, hoping for an explanation.
“Just a minute, Matt. You'll find out soon enough.” Emma, unlike Peter, did not hesitate at all. She pressed the palm of her hand to the page and waited. Nothing. “Okay,” she said, looking at Matt. “Short, quick story. I found these photographs in a trunk in my mother's attic. Don't know where they came from before that. When some of us touch them, we're drawn inside, like some kind of freaky virtual reality, only we're in the past, living the moments during and after the picture was taken. Now don't ask me to explain it any further, except to say that you might be part of it, too.”
Matt laughed. “You guys are full of shit. Where’s the hidden camera?”
Emma glared at him. “No joke, Matt. You’ll be a believer in less than ten minutes.”
Allyson listened as though letting it all sink in again. She reached out and placed her hand atop the paper, shuddered involuntarily, then quickly withdrew it. “I'm—Ellen’s in it.”
Isabel nodded. “Okay, now you, Matthew. If you're there, I want you to go with the feeling. Let it draw you in.”
“Let me strap on the monitor first,” Emma said. “It's his first time.”
“Is it dangerous?” Matt asked.
“We're not entirely sure,” Peter said. “To be honest, there might be some risk. As long as we're in a controlled environment—”
“And not in a car,” Emma interrupted.
“—and not by yourself, everything seems to be relatively safe.”
Allyson smiled timidly, blushing at Peter's remark.
“Okay, here goes nothing,” Matt said. “That thing ready, Em?”
“Yep.”
Isabel touched Matt's arm. “Be careful, Matthew, and if you see anything, remember what you see.”
* * * * *
The sun shone bright and hot on the workers, but Joshua Mattingly was feeling so good about his community that even ten more degrees could not have hindered his spirit. The flyer he'd hung up for the last few Sunday services had served its purpose; many parishioners had turned out for the spring cleanup and planting event. All for a few cookies, some coffee, and a good feeling inside.
The Laguna air smelled of the sea and moist earth, a combination he'd like to bottle and keep at ready all the time. He breathed it in and smiled, feeling the fine coating of dirt clinging to his arms, but not caring much. It felt good.
The newspaper photographer packed up his camera gear and said good-bye, and as Joshua returned to work, he glimpsed Ferguson Carver's black Rolls Royce approaching in the far distance. Suddenly, his light mood turned heavy. He dropped the shovel handle and quickly approached a man who worked in a garden to the left of the church entrance.
“Chris, get inside, hurry. Ferguson Carver is here, maybe with Ellen.”
“Ellen?” He stood and dusted off his pants, hurrying inside the church.
Joshua retrieved his shovel and resumed digging up the weeds in the overgrown garden. As the car pulled up to the curb in front of the church, he rested it against the building and turned to greet the passengers, a wide smile on his face.
The door opened and the driver emerged. He walked around the car and reached for the door handle with a white-gloved hand, pulling it open. Out stepped Ellen Carver, wearing a long dress and apron, perfect for tending the garden and maintaining her dignity and respect.
“Ellen, thank you so much for coming! We had a wonderful turnout, but we can use all the help we can muster.�
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Ellen smiled. “You're very welcome, Father. I can stay—”
“She can stay until my driver arrives to take her home,” Ferguson Carver said, stepping out of the car. I'll have her doing no work on her knees, and no lifting of any sort. She's to be given the lightest task at hand.”
“Father, I can pull weeds or—”
“You heard me. I'll send the driver for her in two hours.” He returned to the car and the driver closed the door behind him. The rear window unrolled and Carver said, “If I find dirt under her fingernails, I'll kill you, Mattingly.”
The Rolls Royce drove off, not a moment too soon for Joshua Mattingly.
* * * * *
“The two of you may use my private quarters for an hour. The door locks from the inside, so use it. I know what it's like to be in love and not be able to spend time with that person.”
Chris and Ellen stared at him. “But Father . . . isn't that—”
“I wasn't always a priest,” Mattingly said. “Go ahead. And take the time to get to know one another. I don't want to see you out here in less than an hour.”
When the two youngsters disappeared into his office, he slipped out the side door of the church and approached a woman waiting nervously behind the church, hands wringing together, face flushed. She had a scarf over her hair and sunglasses on.
“I couldn’t resist coming,” she said. She followed him into the church, a timid smile on her face. She dressed in a chambray button down shirt and a simple cotton short sleeved blouse and cotton slacks. Her hair was pulled up beneath the scarf, and she looked as though she had dressed for gardening.
Joshua knew differently. As they walked down the narrow corridor to the basement, Joshua pulled the scarf from her head, allowing her long, auburn hair to fall over her shoulders.
He took her hand and squeezed it gently in his, stopping to look into her eyes. “I've missed touching you, Lilly.” He touched his lips to hers and she melted into his arms. “Come, now. We have an hour to ourselves.”
“Matt, come out.”
Joshua stopped suddenly and looked behind them. Was there a volunteer following them? Who was Matt?
“Matt! Wake up, man. Come on.”
Swirling colors replaced the sensual facial features of Lilly Morris. Joshua felt himself being drawn up and out of his life . . . like a wind-whipped desert cloud . . . until he didn't know who he was anymore. He was one man, then another. Panic set in as he realized he was losing his mind.
* * * * *
“How you feeling, Matt?” Peter said. “Can you talk about it?”
“Shit,” Matt said. “Not yet, I don't think.”
“It will be better to speak of what you remember now, before you forget any details of your journey.” Isabel had held onto his arm the entire time.
“I was a good man and a bad man,” Matt said, running his fingers through his hair. “On one hand, I helped two people be together, and on the other, I was screwing around with . . . he looked at Emma. With her.”
“With me?” Emma said, an embarrassed look on her face. “Or Lilly?”
“Technically it was Lilly, but we know, don’t we, Em.” He winked.
Emma blushed. “Keep talking.”
Allyson asked, “How do you feel?”
“Okay, I guess. The good Father let Ellen and Chris use his private quarters for a rendezvous after her father dropped her off at the church to help with some landscaping project.”
“Now that’s a picture I might have to go into,” said Allyson, smiling at Peter.
Peter smiled back.
Isabel stood. “I believe the next thing we should do is make a relationship tree.”
“Tree?” Emma said.
“As you would with a family genealogy. Only ours will not only have things such as who is related to whom, but who is helping whom, and who is courting whom. This chart will have current incarnations, the past incarnations, as well as the original lives. We must keep track of each development.”
“Yeah,” Peter said. “We can also put photos we’ve been into on the board and write on note cards what happened in each one. Like scene cards from a movie.”
“Yes,” Emma said, excitedly. “Only we'll let the scenes come together to tell us the entire story after the fact, rather than directing the action.”
Isabel smiled. “I think you all understand what I mean. Let us begin to paint this picture of your past.”
* * * * *
Lawson Newland sat in the borrowed unmarked police car, his binoculars trained on the small window of the secluded canyon house. The darkness inside him churned and grew, his anger blacker as each second ticked by.
Peter Webster. A teacher of degenerates. A man who could not uphold a level of education suitable for mainstream high school kids, he had undoubtedly been sent down to work with the dregs, the ones whose hope was lost already. Drug addicts. Thieves. Idiots. What Webster had in mind taking Allyson to this dump was a mystery. As far as Newland could see there were no drugs being done, just a bunch of photographs on the table, an old woman sitting facing them.
She'd better not be posing nude. He'd beat her to within an inch of her life.
Allyson was his pride and joy, and it had taken a strong hand to raise her after her mother had been murdered.
Sarah, his wife, had been the woman he’d always hoped for. Beautiful, smart. He never understood what she saw in him, but he tried not to question it.
Then one day, after only seven years of marriage, a man took her away from him.
Allyson had been only five years old when it happened. Sarah was at some exercise class in the evening. Yoga, or something like it. The class was over at 9:00 PM, and she left late, having stayed a bit to chat with the instructor.
When she went outside to get in her car, there was a man waiting in her back seat. He had always warned her of this possibility, and he supposed she listened, but this time she didn’t. The man used some sort of chloroform on her, raped her, and then strangled her.
Newland was on shift that night, and a babysitter was with Allyson at the house. He got the call from the dispatcher, but they didn’t yet know who the woman was.
Recognizing the name of the fitness center, he’d raced to the scene, lights and siren clearing the way. The odds that it was his wife weren’t that great, but he’d had a bad feeling.
On the way he’d gotten a call from the babysitter. Allyson had had some episode, and was screaming and crying, inconsolable. He told her to do what she could for the child and continued speeding to the scene.
And it had turned out to be the worst case scenario.
Raising Allyson by himself, dealing with his grief, none of it was easy. He’d become severely protective of the child, and Lawson did not intend to let the bond between them loosen. Not in the least. Not one centimeter.
He put the binoculars in his lap and made a note of the license plate on the car that had pulled up last, a blue Toyota sedan.
Lawson Newland would be waiting for his daughter when she returned home tonight. It was obviously time to re-establish the order of things.
* * * * *
Peter Webster’s twin brother Glenn moved his hips to the music as he porked the 17-year-old daughter of Henry DeCarville, former and current client, presently experiencing a minor cash flow problem.
Rebecca was no virgin before her time with him, but she had nice, supple breasts and her pussy was shaved, just the way Glenn liked it. She was a skinny brunette with a tiny nose and full lips, and she'd already given him a head-to-toe with her tongue, and that was just fine. So young and obedient. So willing to please.
Glenn looked back at his wife Lisa, whose head drooped, tears streaming down her face. Tracks from old tears left streaks of black, like a sludge-polluted river that had dried up, leaving only the evidence of man's carelessness behind. She reminded Glenn of a female version of Alice Cooper toward the end of one of his early rock concerts. Hair tangled, hanging in a twisted
mess. If she had a boa constrictor draped over her neck, it would complete his mental image. He smiled and looked at her bound wrists, pumping harder into the ever-accommodating Rebecca DeCarville.
Lisa was nude as well, with visible bite marks on her breasts and inner thighs, another of the spectacles Glenn had wanted to see before blowing his wad earlier that evening. Hell, he might even blow three times tonight. It was that good. The memory of Rebecca biting and sucking Lisa's tits and pussy sent him over the edge again. He slumped against Rebecca and immediately wanted a cigarette.
When he was sure he was finished with her, he called Henry to pick up his whore daughter. His client arrived within ten minutes, his bill settled in one easy payment. Henry, an extortionist extraordinaire, showed no visible signs of regret as the slump-shouldered teenager shuffled her way her father’s car. He waved a hand back at Glenn, who laughed as the car drove away, revealing the bumper sticker, My child was student of the month at Laguna Beach High!
Cocksucker of the month, more like. He closed the door and went back inside, chuckling under his breath as he knelt down beside Lisa. His limp, shriveled cock dangled like a parody of its former self, but Glenn paid it no attention. He was through with it, and did not care what Lisa thought of it. “You shoulda seen that bumper sticker,” he said, turning the key on her left handcuff. It snapped loose. “Student of the month. Cracked me up.”
She said nothing, but Glenn hadn't expected an answer. Blonde, exceptionally pretty and merely twenty-four herself, Lisa had learned better than to complain about his sexual appetite or his business methods. He gave her a good life and she allowed him his freedom, both with her and without her.
He removed the other cuff. “You looked great, babe. Turned me on while I did her.”
“I'm going to shower now, okay?” she half-stated, half-asked.
“Sure,” he said. “Hurry. Don't waste water. There's a drought, you know.”
“I know.”
Glenn watched her walk into the bathroom, leaving the door open as he'd instructed.
