His Name Is John

by Dorien Grey

  In one of his dreams.

  And then, with the suddenness and intensity of an electric shock, John was there. Not just there, he knew, but directly beside him on the couch, so close their calves surely would have been touching if John had been corporeal. It caught him with such surprise that his entire body involuntarily jerked and he almost spilled his drink.

  “Something wrong?” Rick asked as he reentered the room.

  “No,” Elliott hastened to say, closing the book; “just a twinge in my shoulder. It happens every now and then.”

  Rick rejoined him on the couch, and John’s presence subtly shifted to accommodate him.

  “Ah,” he said, then gave a heads up nod at the book. “Great book,” he said. “You like nature photography?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Elliott said, still recovering from the shock of John’s appearance.

  “G.J. Hill,” Rick said, again indicating the book. “Fantastic photographer. I’ve admired his work for years—at least I think it’s a ‘his.’ I hate it when people just use initials, and there’s no information or picture of the author anywhere on the jacket or inside the book. But I guess it doesn’t matter, it’s the work that counts.”

  Elliott forced himself to reopen the book and thumb through the pages. John’s presence was almost palpable as he did so.

  The photos were extraordinary, each one featuring the moon in varying stages of fullness. In only a very few was there even the slightest evidence of human habitation. The instant he closed the book and set it on the coffee table, the power of John’s presence dimmed, like quickly turning a rheostat from “bright” to “low.”

  It was only with extraordinary conscious effort that he was able to regain his inner composure and allow himself to get on with the evening.

  It was worth the effort. Rick, he was delighted to discover, was an excellent cook, and the entire evening, once he was able to put the shock of John’s sudden appearance behind him, went by far too quickly. When Rick invited him to spend the night, he was more than happy to oblige. And when they finally got to sleep, he was aware of nothing at all except a deep sense of peace across which, like the shadow of a tree in bright moonlight, he could discern an indescribable sadness.

  * * *

  Elliott had always prided himself on the fact that logic, order, and willpower were key factors in his life. Yet driving home from Rick’s on Sunday afternoon, he realized that those very traits were counterproductive to dealing with the question of exactly who or what…or why…John might be.

  The very idea that ghosts and spirits might exist was not logical; having one in his life was disruptive to his sense of order, and using his willpower to hold John, as he realized he had been doing, simply was not working. John wasn’t going away. If anything, he was becoming more intrusive, and Elliott found that fact disturbing and more than a little frightening.

  He got the distinct impression that John, so recently transitioned from life to death, was not unlike a fledgling bird trying to figure out how to fly. Were John’s appearances, for want of a better word, trying to communicate something? If so, what? What possible connection could there be between a basement and dreams and photographs of mountains? And how could John be trying to tell him anything at all when the strongest message he had been able to convey was that he knew nothing except his name?

  The only things Elliott was sure of, in connection with John, were that, like it or not, John probably did exist, that he was almost certainly the unidentified man who had died in the emergency room, and that for whatever reason he had sought out Elliott for help in finding out who he was.

  As he parked in his building’s garage and took the elevator to his floor, his mind remained fixed on John. He most certainly did not want a repeat of the previous night, when he’d been caught totally unawares by John’s intrusion. But he had no idea how to avoid it. He tried summoning John, reaching out to him with his mind like some necromancer and feeling not a little foolish in doing so, but there was nothing. His mental radar picked up no ectoplasmic blips. Obviously when, where and how John made himself known was not up to Elliott, and that fact, too, distressed him.

  He realized as he unlocked his door and entered his apartment that this was the first time he had seriously devoted himself to thinking of John as he related to his own life. And even as he did so, he was conflicted. These were not the actions of a rational man, part of him pointed out, and the rest of him was loath to disagree, but countered that as a man rooted in logic and order, he couldn’t simply disregard whatever was going on without trying to understand it.

  Though he vaguely sensed John’s presence several times during Sunday afternoon and evening, it was frustratingly peripheral. By concentrating as hard as he could each time he was aware of it, the only feeling he was able to discern was something akin to bemusement. Whether it came from John or from himself he wasn’t able to determine.

  On the logical grounds that the only time John evidenced himself other than in emotion was while Elliott was asleep, he deliberately went to bed early, only to realize that one of the perversities of human nature is that few things are harder than trying to go to sleep. He finally just gave up on trying and eventually drifted off.

  Sorry.

  For what?

  For being so difficult. I know you’re trying to help.

  Why were you at Rick’s?

  I don’t know. I was just…there.

  Did it have something to do with the book?

  I don’t know. I like the pictures.

  Did you recognize something in them?

  I don’t know. They are nice pictures. They make me feel…

  You can feel?

  Of course I can feel! Not physically, but…

  How did the pictures make you feel?

  Calm. Comfortable…sad.

  Gradually, like static on a wandering radio signal, bits and flashes of totally unrelated dream images began intruding themselves. Elliott fought to concentrate, even though he was aware he was dreaming.

  How about the basement in the Capetti building. Why were you there?

  I don’t know.

  Did you feel anything there? Anything about that wall?

  I felt…odd.

  Do you know why?

  No.

  Are you trying to tell me something?

  I don’t know.

  The dream-static became more intrusive until it gradually drowned out his exchanges with John and he simply gave up and let it take over.

  * * *

  Donning his usual “work uniform”—sturdy seen-better-days jeans, battered work boots, and a frayed long-sleeve shirt—for the first time since his accident, he ate a quick breakfast of toast, cereal and coffee, made a sandwich for lunch, emptied the remainder of the coffee pot into a thermos, and headed for his car. He kept his tool belt, work gloves and a variety of tools in the trunk, and made his usual quick check to be sure he had everything.

  He was at the Sheffield property a little before eight and was the first of his crew to arrive. He went directly to the basement, conscious of John’s growing presence from the moment he started down the steps. By the time he reached the laundry room, he knew John was there, waiting, by the wall. There was no sensation other than that of presence—no confusion, no anxiety, nothing.

  He resisted the temptation to immediately go to the wall and start punching a hole in it; gladly deferring to his willpower, which dictated that he wait for the others. In the meantime, he busied himself with clearing a section of the utility area end of the room to make way for stacking the building materials he’d ordered for delivery sometime during the morning. That done, he disconnected the “Out of Order” washing machine—all four, and the driers, were going to be replaced anyway—and moved it away from the wall to be taken upstairs for disposal.

  He’d managed to “walk” the machine over to the door when Sam arrived. “Lumber’s here,” Sam announced. “They pulled up just as I was coming in. Where do you want them
to put it?”

  “Have them bring it on down, and we can stack it right here,” Elliott replied, pointing to the area he’d just cleared.

  Sam nodded and went back up the stairs.

  By the time Arnie and Ted arrived, the lumber was unloaded, and a number of other distractions dealt with, it was close to noon before anyone even thought of the wall. Elliott had been so preoccupied with work he was totally oblivious to John.

  “So when are you going to check that wall?” Sam asked.

  The minute Sam mentioned the wall, John was back, if he’d ever left.

  Elliott looked at his watch. “Why don’t we break for lunch,” he suggested, “and tackle it as soon as we get back?”

  Like Elliott, the others customarily brought their lunch, and they all went outside to sit on the back steps to eat. When they’d finished, he went to his car and took a large hammer and concrete chisel from the trunk, and all four men returned to the basement. John’s presence seemed stronger, though again he perceived no accompanying emotion…except, perhaps, for the slightest sense of curiosity.

  “You’re going to cut us in on any cash back there, right, Elliott?” Ted asked, only half joking.

  “Sure,” Elliott replied, running one hand along the wall at about shoulder height. Picking a spot almost in the exact center of the wall, he held the chisel in one hand and raised the hammer with the other, feeling only a slight twinge. Carefully, so as not to destroy more than one concrete block, he chipped away until his target block was completely and cleanly removed. Moving his head forward, he tried to peer into the darkness. He could see nothing except a section of the original wall behind the opening he’d just made. There was the strong odor of mold.

  “Get me a flashlight,” he said, and Arnie removed one from his belt and handed it to him. Shining the light through the hole, Elliott moved it around the space. Nothing. The hole was too small to let him put his head and arm in, and he really didn’t want to make a bigger hole.

  “Damn! I wish I had a mirror!”

  “Hey, Ted,” Arnie said, “lend Elliott your compact.”

  “Very funny,” Ted replied. “But I can do better. Some asshole clipped the passenger’s side rearview mirror off my truck last night. I’ve got it on the front seat. I’ll go get it.”

  He left and returned a moment later. Though it was a little awkward, Elliott held the flashlight with his left hand. Holding the mirror with his right, he put it just inside the opening and began shining the light around the space, trying to coordinate it with moving the mirror.

  When he moved the light to the floor, he could see something there. It looked like a rolled-up rug. He choreographed the flashlight and mirror as best he could, moving the light from one end of the rug to the other, then stopped abruptly. At the top of the rug there was nothing. At the bottom of the rug was a pair of shoes.

  They were not empty.

  CHAPTER 4

  The police arrived shortly after Elliott called them on his cell phone, and after only a few questions during which he referred them to Capetti as being the building’s previous owner, they took Elliott’s phone number and told him and his crew to go home. The stairway leading to the basement was blocked off with “Do Not Cross” tape.

  Having little other option, Elliott sent Arnie, Ted and Sam home, telling them he’d call them as soon as he found out anything, and resisting the temptation to hang around, he did likewise. He immediately called Cessy, and without telling her what had happened, asked her to have Brad call him as soon as he got home.

  While the discovery of a body had distracted him, as soon as he got into his car and headed home, his thoughts turned to John and how he related to everything that was happening. As far as Elliott could tell, John was not currently present as he drove, though by intense concentration, not unlike squinting one’s eyes to see something more closely, he could get a very vague sense that John was somewhere nearby, and a distinct impression that he was deliberately trying to be unobtrusive. He once again tried, by sheer willpower, to “summon” John…and once again failed.

  You knew about that body, didn’t you? he demanded.

  There was no response.

  Do you know who he is?

  Nothing.

  Is it you?

  Nothing.

  Even as he asked the last question, he was pretty sure that whoever the body behind the wall might have been, it wasn’t John. The body had obviously been there for a very long time. He seriously doubted that John would have waited seventy-five years or more before making himself known.

  But if the body wasn’t John’s, why had John been in the basement? Maybe he’d find out that evening since John’s specific thoughts came only when he was asleep.

  The discovery of a body in the basement of a building he’d just bought was a major monkey wrench thrown into his schedule. He had no idea how long the police might hold up his work team. He also had no idea in what shape the police would leave the wall, but it undoubtedly would have to be completely removed. It wasn’t that he was insensitive to the fact that a dead human being was involved. Quite the contrary. But after seventy-five years, or however long it might have been, preserving the crime scene would not be as intensely pressing as it would have been if the body were more recently deceased. The urgency of needing to resolve the anxiety of grieving relatives would have long ago diminished.

  Still, he very much wanted to talk to Brad, to see what, if anything, the police may have discovered, or what they were planning to do to determine the identity of the body.

  * * *

  About 5:00 p.m. he briefly considered trying to take a nap, to see if perhaps John might have anything to say, but he thought better of it. John was already enough of a disruption to his life, and he did not want to make the situation worse by starting to cede time to seeking him out.

  He cursorily watched the news at five thirty, glancing frequently at the time, which of course, only made it pass all the more slowly. With no word from Brad by six, he decided to make a quick check of his email, which he hadn’t done in a couple of days. He wasn’t that much of a computer person, and didn’t really have all that many friends he couldn’t just pick up the phone and talk to.

  He deleted thirty-seven spam messages and read only the few personal messages, none of which called for an immediate response. Then, without even thinking about it, he went to Google and found himself typing in “G.J. Hill,” immediately wondering whatever had possessed him to do so. Although Hill was the author/photographer of Rick’s coffee-table book, Moonrise, the one that had elicited the jolt of John’s sudden and unexpected presence, he hadn’t thought of the book since.

  The search yielded several sources—a number of links to various bookstores and the titles of three books: Moonrise, Sand Petals and Sea Dreams. Moonrise was the most recent. Sand Petals had come out two years previously, and Sea Dreams two years prior to that.

  Even though Rick had mentioned that Moonrise had no author information included, Elliott was still rather surprised to find there was no indicated website for Hill and no biographical or personal links. He went to the books section of Amazon and typed in the title Sea Dreams. The instant the cover appeared on his screen, he experienced the jolt of John’s presence as suddenly and powerfully as he’d felt it at Rick’s, and the hair rose on the back of his neck. John was so close behind him he was sure if he turned his head suddenly, it would brush against a face.

  Without turning, he took a deep breath and willed his composure to return.

  I wish to hell you wouldn’t do that! he thought.

  There was, of course no response. He didn’t expect one.

  He enlarged the image and saw it was a nearly full-cover shot of a beautifully iridescent seashell partly surrounded by the froth of a receding wave. As he stared intensely at it, he sensed a subtle wave of…pleasure. His or John’s, he couldn’t tell, but he had his suspicions.

  He then went to Sand Petals, the cover of which was of a Monarch
butterfly on the opening bud of a cactus flower, and then to Moonrise. The appearance of each cover produced a subtle but distinct pulse of pleasure. All three books, Elliott noted, were published by Retina Press of San Francisco.

  The sound of the phone cut off any further speculation as to the link between the books and John’s interest, and he hastily got up from the computer to answer it.

  “Elliott. It’s Brad. I just got home. What’s up?”

  Elliott got no farther than mentioning the body in the basement than Brad interrupted him.

  “Whoa! That was your building? I heard about it, and I knew it was on Sheffield, but I didn’t realize it was your place. Jeez. Cessy says she saw something about it on the local news at five, but she didn’t catch the connection either.”

  “Yeah, it’s mine. What else did you hear?”

  There was only a brief pause before Brad said, “Not much, really. Apparently, it’d been there for years, maybe even a hangover from Prohibition days and the gang wars. Forensics has the body; they’ll be able to get a better idea.”

  “Any idea on how long the police will be holding me up?” Elliott asked. “I’ve got a lot of work to do, and this is throwing me off schedule.”

  “I don’t imagine it’ll be long,” Brad said. “As soon as they get everything they need, they’ll turn the place back to you. I doubt there’s much in the line of clues after all this time.”

  “Good,” Elliott replied. He suddenly remembered his conversation with Al Collina. “There is something you might want to check out, though,” he said.

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I told you at dinner one time that I’d had a call from Al right after escrow closed on the building, wanting to buy it from me. He mentioned that his father had loaned Capetti’s father the money to buy the building. Do you suppose there might be some tie-in there to the victim? And if so, I wonder if Al might be aware of it. Considering that he made the offer before the body was even discovered….”