Forest of the Mind (The Book of Terwilliger 1)

by Michael Stiles

  Ed reached into this opening and dragged out a small cardboard box, six inches square and three inches deep. Placing the box on the counter, he eased the drawer back into its tracks and closed it. The smell of burning charcoal got suddenly stronger as he carried the box to the living room, and for one terrible moment he feared he would drop it. He recovered and set it gently on the table, then went to pick out a record from his collection. A troupe of circus performers cavorted on a city street on the album cover: a strong man, a midget, jugglers and tumblers. He slid the disc out of the sleeve. The music wouldn’t drown out the gnome, not anymore, but it helped a little. He put the record on the turntable.

  The sound of tiny ceramic footsteps on the tile floor of the bathroom made him jump. The gnome was looking for him. Ed watched the hallway with dread.

  It appeared at the corner of the hallway that led to the bathroom and his bedroom, gazing up at him with its one red eye. Ed met its stare for a moment, but he could never look into its eye for long. The left side of its ceramic face was broken, a long crack running from its forehead to the edge of its always-smiling mouth. Fumbling for the record player, Ed picked up the tone arm with trembling fingers and switched the turntable on. The record began to turn.

  “Ed.” That was all it ever said. It hadn’t said anything at first. When it had come to him at first, a few days after Eleanor had died, it had merely stood in his bedroom doorway watching him while he was trying to sleep. From the first time it had broken its silence, the only word the gnome ever uttered in its surprisingly deep voice was Ed’s name. Ed wondered if that was all it could say. Its face didn’t move when it spoke; the mouth was nothing but a splash of faded red paint on its ceramic lips.

  “Ed,” it said again. It was appearing more often now, sometimes even speaking to him inside his head when he was at work. He had tried to pick the thing up once when it had first started tormenting him, intending to throw it out the window. But he had not been able to move it from where it stood.

  “Leave me alone.” Dropping the needle onto the record, Ed flinched as music suddenly blasted from the speakers at high volume, shaking the floorboards and reverberating in his chest. Jim Morrison belted out “My Eyes Have Seen You” at a level fit to wake the dead.

  Ed went back to the box on the coffee table. In the beginning, he had been able to banish the creature by drinking alcohol. Alcohol wasn’t enough anymore.

  “Ed,” it said again.

  He plugged his ears, knowing that wouldn’t help either. “Ed.” It continued to stare at him with that red eye. “Ed. Ed. Ed.” He pushed his fingers into his ears until they ached, but he could still hear it.

  The next time it spoke, it said something new. “Rrrr.”

  Taking his fingers out of his ears, Ed forced himself to meet the gnome’s gaze. “What?”

  “Thhhhh. Rrrr.”

  “What?”

  But that was all he could get out of it before it started saying his name again, over and over.

  Inside the box were five small paper envelopes, the kind of envelopes he used in the evidence lab to store small powder samples for testing. Three of the envelopes were empty. The other two contained a small amount of fine powder. He removed one of these and opened it.

  The powder was his only means of escape. He snorted the contents of one of the envelopes, carefully put the envelope back in the box and hid the box in its hiding place, then sat on the couch again to wait for it to take effect.

  The gnome continued to call him, but its voice slowly faded to a dull buzz in the back of his head. It gradually blurred and became indistinct. But this time it didn’t go away completely. The gnome was getting stronger.

  4

  The Bald-Headed Men

  December 1968

  “LAPD, Parker Center,” a bored woman answered the phone.

  “I’m calling for Dan Berry, Criminalistics Lab.”

  Ed waited while the secretary looked up the name.

  “What was that name again?”

  “Dan Berry. He’s the commanding officer of the―”

  “Mary?”

  “No, Berry. B-E-R-R-Y. My name is Edwin Terwilliger.”

  He heard some papers being shuffled. “I don’t see any Twillers listed here. Are you sure you’ve got the right name?”

  “No, my name is Terwilliger. I’m calling for Mr. Berry.”

  “Huh.” The receptionist considered this for a long time, then said, “Hold, please.”

  There were several clicks as she transferred the call. Ed waited some more.

  “Facilities,” a man’s voice said.

  Ed frowned. “I’m trying to reach Dan Berry in SID.”

  A long pause. “SID?”

  “Scientific Investigation Division. My name is Ed Terwilliger; I’m a former—I’m an employee. I work for Mr. Berry.”

  “I don’t know any Berry.”

  Ed sighed. “Can you put me through to SID, please?”

  There was a click, followed by the sound of a phone ringing. It rang eight times before someone answered.

  “LAPD, Parker Center.” It was the same woman he’d started with.

  “Hello,” Ed said, taking a long, deep breath to keep himself from shouting. “My name is Edwin Terwilliger, I work in SID, and I need to talk to Dan Berry.”

  “I just put you through. You want to talk to him again?”

  “No,” Ed said through gritted teeth. “You put me through to someone else. I need to talk to Dan Berry in SID.”

  “Don’t get snippy with me,” the woman warned him. “I’ll put you through. Again.”

  Ed tapped his foot impatiently as he waited, wondering whether his old boss would even remember who he was.

  “Criminalistics.” Another woman’s voice; Ed didn’t recognize it, but at least he’d reached the right department.

  “I’m calling for Mr. Berry.”

  “Dan Berry?”

  “Yes! This is Ed Terwilliger. I work in his division, but I’ve been out for a while.”

  “You work here?”

  “Yes! I used to work for Mr. Berry, and I need to find out if he can reinstate my job.”

  “Mr. Berry doesn’t work here anymore.”

  Ed hadn’t thought of that possibility.

  “But I can transfer you to someone who can help. Can you hold for a moment?”

  A little nugget of hope stirred in Ed’s gut. “Sure.”

  The woman who answered the phone this time sounded sickeningly perky. “Personnel!” she squeaked.

  Snarling, Ed dropped the phone on the hook and stormed to the bathroom to take a shower.

  * * *

  A hard lump under his left arm caught his attention as he was drying himself off. He twisted around to examine it in the mirror; it was dark and hard like a stone embedded in his skin. He wondered how it could have been there without his noticing it. He got his fingernails around the edges and pulled, but it was stuck firmly in his skin.

  He was still contemplating this oddity when the humming started up in his head again, abruptly enough to make him jump. He saw a flash of movement in the doorway.

  “God damn it,” he muttered. “What do you want?” He followed the gnome to the kitchen to find it standing in the middle of the linoleum floor, flickering slightly. It turned toward the hiding place under the cupboard where he kept his box of supplies.

  “I don’t need that anymore,” Ed told the creature. The gnome faded from sight for a moment, then reappeared several feet from where it had been a moment before. It was now just a few inches from the cupboard.

  “I said I don’t—Stop that!” The gnome had started banging its head noisily against the cupboard. “I don’t know what you want!” This only made it bang its head harder. Ed got down on his knees and yanked out the overfilled bottom drawer. It overturned as he pulled it out, sending its contents—loose rubber bands, several packs of matches, a roll of masking tape, assorted screws and washers—skittering across the kitchen floor.
He reached into the hiding place and pulled out the cardboard box. The gnome stopped to watch.

  “See, it’s still here,” Ed told the creature. He opened the box, and what he found inside made him sit down on the floor.

  It was full of money.

  Ed picked up a pile of bills. There were twenties and fifties, bundled together with rubber bands into uneven stacks. Ed did some counting and a little arithmetic, but he had trouble keeping count with the gnome watching. There appeared to be at least ten thousand dollars in the box.

  His fingers brushed against something else inside, something hard and heavy beneath the money. He pushed the bills aside and discovered a small automatic pistol and a box of .22 caliber ammunition.

  Ed pondered this for a moment, looking from the gun to the money in his hands, then back to the gun. Having no idea what to make of this, he put all the money back in the box and slid it back into its hiding place.

  The gnome flickered again and disappeared.

  Ed picked up the items that had fallen out, replaced the drawer, and went out for a walk to mull things over. Fresh air seemed like a good idea at the moment.

  Outside, Ed lit a cigarette and took a long pull from it. The smoke tasted better than the smog-laced air. Then, glancing around first to make sure no one was nearby, he spoke softly to the gnome.

  “Okay, I know you can hear me,” he muttered to the creature, which he knew was still lurking somewhere in the back of his brain, “and you knew about that money. Why aren’t you saying anything?”

  He waited. The gnome didn’t reply.

  “You used to talk to me. Now I can see you, but not hear you. Is it because you can’t talk anymore?”

  Silence. He walked down 3rd Street, alternately smoking and muttering as he passed the storefronts. The passersby all seemed interested in getting well out of his way, which suited Ed just fine.

  “If you’re a figment of my imagination,” Ed continued, “then I already knew about the money. Which means I should be able to figure out where it came from. Did I rob somebody?”

  Someone groaned. Ed thought at first that it was the gnome trying to answer him, but then he realized the sound had come from a gray, human-sized lump on the sidewalk in front of a drugstore. It was a bum covered with a dirty old blanket. Unlike most bums Ed had seen, this one had a clean-shaven face and was completely bald.

  “Spare a quarter?” the man said in a feeble voice that was almost a whisper.

  Ed kept on walking. But his conscience soon bothered him too much to bear; he turned and walked back to the man, feeling in his pockets for change. He pulled out a handful of coins, mostly nickels, and dropped them into the beggar’s hand. “Merry Christmas,” he said. The man said something in reply, but it was too quiet for Ed to hear. He leaned down to hear better. “What did you say?”

  The man’s other hand whipped out from under the blanket, seizing Ed by the wrist. The man got to his feet and dragged him into the dim, narrow alleyway between two stores. Somehow he got his arm around Ed’s neck and began to squeeze. Ed kicked his feet and flailed with his elbows, finally landing a solid blow to his assailant’s diaphragm. The man let go and Ed spun around to face him. He was a head taller than Ed, and solidly built.

  “So you want to do this the hard way?” the bum said in a gravelly voice. He smiled, white teeth standing out against his filthy skin. They were excellent teeth for a man living on the street.

  Ed was still calculating his odds of a successful dash out to the street when a second man, equally bald, came around the corner from the back of the alley. This one was brandishing a knife.

  Ed turned to run. The first man seized him by the back of the shirt. Ed struggled until he heard his shirt start to tear, but his attacker put a burly arm around his neck and shoulders to keep him from moving. “Hold still!” he growled.

  The second man waited at a distance until he was sure Ed wasn’t going to break free, then stepped closer and tore the front of Ed’s shirt open. “Cover his mouth,” he told the one who was holding Ed. The first attacker put a hand tightly over Ed’s mouth.

  The man with the knife grabbed Ed’s left arm and lifted it up. Ed started to struggle again, but the one holding him somehow got a grip on Ed’s elbow and held his arm up high. “Keep moving, and this’ll hurt a lot more,” he whispered in Ed’s ear. “It’s up to you.”

  “Just like Lord Orc said,” the man with the knife said. “How did he know?”

  “Get it over with,” said the other one.

  The smaller man stuck the knife into Ed’s armpit and made a deep cut. Ed tried to scream, but the hand over his mouth kept any sound from escaping. He felt two deep cuts, then a third, and then the man started digging around inside his flesh with the knife. Tears ran down Ed’s face and sweat broke out all over his body.

  “Almost got it.” The cutter removed his knife and something fell audibly to the ground. “There.” He bent down and picked up a short, black cylinder with tiny bits of flesh attached to it, which he held up for Ed to see. It was about the size of a cigarette filter. “There you go,” he said. “Now they won’t be able to—ughhh.”

  This last word was accompanied by the sound of a wooden crack that made Ed think of baseball, and the man’s head turned and twisted in an unusual way. He fell to the ground in a heap. The grip on Ed slackened, which should have been a relief, but Ed was in too much pain to give any serious thought to escaping. Instead, he stepped backwards, felt a wall behind him, and slid down to a sitting position on the pavement.

  A big black man was standing over the motionless body of the knife-wielding man, preparing to swing a baseball bat. He had to be close to seven feet tall, and his enormous afro added another six inches. The man who had been holding Ed was sidestepping, trying to gain some time to evaluate his situation now that he was about to have his skull bashed in. The black man took this opportunity to step toward his opponent and swing the bat mightily. He made contact with the man’s shoulder, then wound up and swung again to catch him on the side of the head with a most satisfying sound. With both attackers now lying side by side on the ground, Ed’s rescuer planted his bat on the ground and held out a hand.

  “You’re all bloody,” he said, more in the way of an observation than out of concern. “Can you walk?”

  Ed leaned on his good arm, pushed himself halfway to his feet, and toppled over. “I need a minute,” he said.

  The black man leaned down and helped him up. “Ed, we gotta get movin’. They’ll come lookin’ for you soon, probably more of ’em comin’ already. Keep your arm pressed down tight; it’ll stop the blood.”

  Ed reached around with his right arm to pull his left one tight against his body. The pain was making his head swim. “Can you help me with the stairs?” he said to the stranger.

  “Huh? Ain’t no stairs here, Ed.”

  “Up to my place,” Ed explained.

  “No way, you can’t go home. I’m takin’ you back to the house.”

  Ed shook his head to try to make sense of that, but he only succeeded in making himself dizzy. “What was that they took out of me?”

  “I don’t know,” the big man said in frustration. “Just come on.”

  Ed was in too much pain to argue. He let the stranger help him stand up.

  5

  At the Guru’s House

  Ed was standing in a dark place, surrounded by tiny, flickering lights like candles seen from a distance. A woman was wailing in pain or fear, somewhere just out of sight. Something huge and dangerous was approaching from somewhere far away, shaking the ground with its lumbering steps. Panic set in. He tried to take in a deep breath, but something was squeezing his chest and he couldn’t get enough air.

  With a cry, he sat up and opened his eyes. He was back in the hospital—no, he was in a bedroom in a house, lying in a king-sized bed with clean, white sheets. A window next to the bed let in a small amount of dusky light from outside. As he struggled to breathe, he found that the feeling
of being squeezed didn’t go away with the dream. He flung the sheet off and saw that his chest and left shoulder were tightly wrapped with gauze.

  The door opened with a soft squeak, and a dark shape peeked into the room. “Ed? You all right?” It was the voice of the man who had rescued him.

  Ed sat up on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the throbbing under his arm. “Where am I?”

  “This is the Guru’s house.”

  He rubbed his face. The stubble on his chin scratched his hands. “How do you know my name?”

  The man searched Ed’s face as though trying to figure out the joke. “How do I know? ’Cause you used to come here all the time to rap with the Guru.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rayfield Drake.”

  “And who did you say I came here to see?”

  “What’s goin’ on with you? You sure you okay?”

  “Do you have any food?”

  “We got peanut butter and jelly.”

  Rayfield led Ed to the kitchen, an enormous room with sparkling appliances that appeared to be seldom used. Ed sat at the table while Rayfield got out the food. Two sandwiches and a glass of milk later, Ed had explained his predicament to the extent that he understood it himself. Rayfield listened intently, sipping from his own glass of milk and frowning deeply.

  “So you don’t remember the Guru or Doris or anything?” he asked when Ed was finished.

  “Doris?”

  “God damn,” Rayfield swore, then looked embarrassed at his outburst. “I was hoping you’d know where she went to after the Guru died. You know, since you was sleeping with her.”