Duncan waited for Rachel to respond.
“Well...” he started.
“The Olde Tyme Photography Studio in Rock Bay,” Rachel finally said. “I saw it on display in the window. I didn’t know about you or Katherine then, but for some reason I had to have it.”
“You know,” Patricia said, “I think you should both be ashamed of yourselves. Especially you, hero! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a phone call to the telephone company and request that my number be changed immediately. Goodbye.”
“No, wait!” Duncan yelled, “Please don’t hang—ahhh, shit!”
“Let her go, Dunc,” Rachel said, then disconnected.
Duncan flopped back down into his chair. Oh my God. Katherine Bently went missing over a decade ago.
Elbows on the desk, Duncan rested his face in his hands. He was still bothered about not having immediately recognized the name Katherine Bently when he first heard it come from the guard, then the nurse, at the hospital. He supposed he could forgive himself that. He wasn’t a pup anymore. But to have still remained clueless after discovering its relationship to Rock Bay as he read the admissions form—that should have set off all sorts of red flags and obnoxious buzzers.
The essence of that turbulent time had not been forgotten; yet, somehow, in a censoring sort of way, the players had been.
But now everything was so clear. The images he’d captured just yesterday were still fresh, drying on the walls of his mind. And today the ones he continued to pull from the emulsion tray radiated with a sheen that was almost supernatural. Those memories were coming back to him with such speed and startling clarity that the present seemed vague and distant in comparison.
He wasn’t so much bothered that the distance between forgotten and remembered had closed on him so quickly—as any number of stimuli can provoke lost memories, he knew—but rather by the uncanny detail the memories continued to bring. Queerly, he felt suddenly on the verge of living two different lives simultaneously, as if those memories of Patricia and Katherine Bently had snapped their demarcating tethers of time and were now floating back into the here and now of his consciousness.
In either reality or delusion, though, he was quite sure that Rachel wasn’t going to like sharing him again.
Rachel entered with a towel in her hair, the goop gone from her face. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? I mean, Christ, over eleven years—”
“Look, I know where you’re heading, but I think we can dismiss reincarnation as the culprit here. Besides, missing doesn’t mean dead.”
“Is that what the cop in you believes?”
Duncan shook his head. “No, the optimist.”
Rachel laughed. “My dear man, you don’t have an optimistic bone in your body.”
“Okay,” he grudgingly agreed, “my pragmatic side, then.”
Scooting one of the director’s chairs to the front of his desk, she sat down. “Look, Duncan, Katherine’s obviously dead. We’re dealing with something here that may very well defy rational explanation. I know that’s hard for you to accept. It’s hard for me, too, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to start approaching this from a very different perspective.”
He poured himself another shot. “I already have.”
“Oh? And what might that be?” she said, then saw the answer in his eyes. “Oh no, you want to take Amy to Rock Bay, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“To see your old flame.”
“Yes again.”
She was bristling now. “And what’s that going to prove?”
“I’m not sure.”
She threw up her arms. “Well, it wouldn’t be a total loss. I mean, you could still get your dick wet!”
Although his judicious side strongly advised against it, he laughed at her. “Could you stop it for just five minutes? Could you? Just long enough to hear me out?”
Smoldering, Rachel folder her arms. “Alright. I’m listening.”
“I don’t know what will happen if I take Amy to see Patricia. But I know it has to be done, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Duncan said, “I don’t think Amy’s safe here anymore.” Maybe none of us are, he almost added. But even if he decided to tell her everything else, every sordid detail about his visit with the photographer, he wasn’t about to include Gamble’s restaurant recommendation. It was just too damn silly, if not downright terrifying in its implications.
Suddenly concerned, Rachel said, “Why do you think that?”
“Something the photographer told me last night. A man by the name of Gamble may have an interest in Amy.”
“Whoa!” Rachel said, pushing out her palms. “Wait a minute! You’re telling me that the same guy who took Amy’s school pictures knows another guy who has an ‘interest’ in our daughter? What kind of interest, Duncan?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is he a talent scout from Sesame Street? A pedophile? What?”
“I said, I don’t know.”
Rachel leaned forward, grabbing the edge of his desk with both hands. “I want the police notified immediately. I want this photographer guy questioned—”
“He’s dead.”
Rachel eased back into her chair, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Really?” she said, stretching out the word like it was taffy.
Duncan simply smiled. “I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Rachel smiled back. “You’re not telling me everything.”
“No, I’m not,” he confessed. “But if you’ll go with us, I’ll catch you up on events. We’ll get Amy, then hop the first flight available.”
“I can’t. In case you forgot, I have a commercial to shoot tomorrow morning. But you just go right on ahead keeping secrets, Captain Donut! Juanita and I will take very good care of Amy.”
“I’m taking Amy with me.”
“Oh no you’re not.”
“Don’t fight me on this, Rachel.”
She bolted up from her chair. “Tooth and nail!” she promised, then stomped away, leaving cotton balls in her wake. “P.S.” she added. “Go fuck yourself!”
Funny, he thought. That’s just what that guy Gamble had said in his postscript, more or less.
3.
Patricia Bently raised her hands toward the sylvan mantle above the fireplace, stopped suddenly, then lowered them. She rubbed her fingers against both her pant legs, wiping away the natural oils that had built up since her shower three hours earlier, not wanting to smudge the glass or the beautiful pewter frame. Or worse, have it slip from her grasp and fall to the brick hearth below.
She raised her hands once more and again hesitated at the edge of the mantle, a plank of knotty pine sanded to a silken grade.
She just couldn’t bring herself to touch the photo, afraid that if she did her daughter’s image would disappear, leaving her alone in the picture.
But that was stupid. No, it was downright silly. She’d never had this problem before.
“McNeil, you crazy bastard,” she mumbled to herself. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Patty dear, who was that on the phone?” Joan Pendleton said as she ambled into the room, dusting rag in one hand, a fresh replacement of doilies in the other.
Nonchalantly, Patricia said, “Oh, that was just Tooney.” Before the rows of pictures, she pretended to be reminiscing, keeping her puffy eyes away from her mother’s scrutiny. If she told her mother who had really phoned, more importantly why (not that she believed any of his bullshit for a second), she’d have Patricia on the first plane to Los Angeles, ready to commit the crime of this century, complete with her own homemade ladder and a medium to contact Bruno Richard Hauptmann just in case she should lose her nerve.
“Jim Tooney from the bowling alley?” her mother said.
“No, Ma,” she said, rolling her eyes, “Jim Tooney from Jed’s Bait and Tackle. Christ, how many Tooneys do you know in this rathole?”
After giving it serious thought, she said, “Well, just the one, I suppose. What did he want?”
“League jackets are in.” That was a truth, but not a recent one.
Poised with rag over an imitation Tiffany lamp shade, Joan said, “Well, I was hardly eavesdropping, but the conversation sounded pretty spirited for just a jacket, dear—”
“Look, Mother, not that it’s any of your business, but he…he just keeps asking me to go out with him, and I finally had to let him down hard, is all.” Another fib. God, she hated stretching them out like this. And, although her mother may have been failing in many respects, her bullshit detector pinged away just fine much of the time.
“I see,” Joan said. “But really, dear, you do need to get out more.”
“As you remind me all the time.”
Patricia stared at the photo. Then, finally, she turned to her mother: “Ma, you still think...Katherine’s alive?” She knew the answer, of course, and hated herself for asking. But, at least for the moment, she needed to share her mother’s perennial delusion.
Joan didn’t even look up. “Of course she is, dear,” she said. “You just mark my words. One day, Kathy’s going to show up on our doorstep and the mystery will be over.”
Over? Patricia wondered, turning back to her daughter’s face. Or just beginning?
4.
Juanita Santiago stood in the pediatrics’ waiting area, trying to summon enough courage to embrace the candy machine and shake it hard enough to free a Heath Bar from its clutches. The traitorous machine had eaten her last bit of change, and she was hungry.
She pointed at the candy bar. “You are mine. I pay for you fair and square.”
Juanita had spent the night at the hospital, in Amy’s room. She’d gotten there late, but the staff had no problem with her staying. In fact, some of the nurses even brought in a special chair for her, one that reclined.
While Señor Duncan and Mrs. McNeil had argued over some old and interesting picture, she’d returned to the hospital. Her need to be with Amy had grown dire. Something was coming. She didn’t yet know what that something was, but it sure wasn’t going to be Julio Iglesias. And that was really too bad as far as Juanita was concerned.
When she arrived last night, she’d been told at the nurses’ station that something loud and strange had occurred in Amy’s room just prior to her arrival. The nurses had been vague, and even laughed about it, but Juanita was sure it was no laughing matter, and chastised herself severely for not having gotten there sooner.
She’d been neglectful of her responsibility to Amy, had not been on her toes, and vowed it would never happen again.
Having decided that a bear hug would be more than her short, flabby arms could handle, she looked both ways, kissed the rosary in her right hand, then punched the plexiglass.
It rattled pretty good, smarted even better, but nothing fell.
She glanced down the hallway where Amy was in her bed, staring down at a bowl of oatmeal, toast and jelly, two sausage links, a cup of apple sauce, a cup of hot chocolate, orange juice, cranberry juice, and a small banana. What a spread.
Kissing her beads, she kicked the machine.
Overestimating her strength, she stumbled backward, falling on her rear.
Heavily cushioned, she got up uninjured, dusted herself off, then peered into the machine’s repository. She hadn’t gotten her Heath, but did succeed in dislodging a packet of plain M&M’s, a roll of breath mints, and some angry stares and finger-shaking from a few nurses down the hall.
She looked at their respective prices, and discovered that the combined cost of both items exceeded that of the Heath bar.
To hell with it, she thought, then withdrew her pilfered snacks. It was stealing, no doubt about it. But hunger was a cruel temptress. Besides, she’d been saying her rosaries all morning. A few more weren’t going to hurt.
A doctor approached. A very tall, handsome man, he wore green scrubs and a warm smile. He stopped in front of the candy machine. A beautiful silver necklace hung around his neck. “I understand you stayed with the Bently girl last night,” he said. His voice was captivating.
“Oh, no, señor,” Juanita said, speaking cautiously. “I stay with Amy McNeil.”
He deposited two quarters in the machine. “Tomorrow, you must go with the McNeils and Katherine to Rock Bay.”
“Katherine?” Juanita said, mystified. “Rock Bay?”
The doctor entered the code, and the item fell almost silently into the tray below. “Very soon, the little girl you stayed with last night will no longer be the entirety of Amy McNeil, but will resume to be mostly Katherine Bently.”
Her hands trembling, Juanita whispered, “But, señor, where then is my Amy?”
“Here and there.”
“Are you sent here from God?”
“Not…exactly.”
Fearing the worst, Juanita brought her rosary to her bosom and took a cautious step backward. “The Devil?”
Humored, the doctor reached into the machine, removed his selection, and said, “I’m not here on his behalf, either.”
Each time the doctor spoke, Juanita was waylaid by a variety of smells, and experienced protracted though very subtle moments of déjà vu. They weren’t singular aromas, but powerful ensembles, as if someone with an eyedropper were selectively dripping water on the dehydrated patches of her life and thereby reconstituting the essence of each chosen moment. The visual clarity that followed was no less extraordinary.
The experiences, however, were sorely bittersweet, and her eyes were misting with melancholy.
Juanita stared at the doctor. “How do I know you are not just crazy talking?”
“Here,” he said, “I’ll trade you.” He handed her the candy bar, then took her items. He opened the M&M’s as he began walking away, plopping them one at a time into his mouth.
The package in her hand felt too thin, as if nothing existed within the wrappers.
“You must not let anything happen to Katherine,” the doctor said without looking back. “The day is nearly upon us. At all costs, we must protect the Shallows.” He raised a finger and added, “And don’t forget: What’s the most important meal of the day?”
Juanita stared down at her candy bar. “Blessed Mother of Christ, give me strength,” she whispered.
Carefully removing the wrapper, she found a communion wafer, loose within the foil.
The instant she placed the unleavened bread on her tongue, nausea blossomed in her stomach. Fearing that she’d been poisoned, she turned to vomit—then a strange thing occurred: she instantly found herself being chaperoned across a vast pulsing landscape. One that might be heaven, she thought.
This chaperone, a dark, pillow-like thing, sped ahead of her, then morphed into a portal that she fell through—with no sense of up and down—into a chasm where an incredible presence seemed to sweep her away. A warm, tender wind. She: like a dandelion seed riding a gentle chinook.
With profound gratitude, a voice said, “Time has fallen about your face like a leather veil, yet the raiments of servitude still wear well about you. I am thankful. The road journeyed has led you back to me. But there remains a length to go, so know now that if you pass on my right the fields are thin and bane, pass on my left and the river runs but a fiery wind. Continue onward and you will be blessed with the Father’s own mighty hand.” A warm, blustery pause, then: “Do you wish to linger a moment and receive?”
Tears poured from Juanita’s eyes, and she knew this gentle voice could only belong to the Holy Mother.
Shuddering, trying to muster all her strength, Juanita replied, “Si.”
The Holy Mother asked again, with emphasis: “Do you wish to linger a moment?”
“Si, si, yes!”
“Then receive.”
Although she hadn’t remembered closing them, Juanita opened her eyes—and was back in the hospital. For a brief moment, the sensation that she was still floating remained, and she nearly fell head-first into
the window of the vending machine.
Hands against the Plexiglass, she steadied herself as her equilibrium returned.
Like an inmate with a guilty conscience, she then patted herself all over, feeling for contraband. She really wasn’t expecting to find any, but when crossing a border separating two different worlds, it was best to check oneself for all kinds of hitchhikers. These were tips she’d learned long ago from her many encounters with the Border Patrol and other customs officials, and was thankful that they’d come in handy once again, at least as cautious gestures.
Just what had she received? And what was this place the doctor had called the Shallows?
Well, she felt all right. No, better than all right. She felt…in charge. More so than usual.
Looking down, she saw the candy wrapper at her feet and was suddenly ashamed. She was tidy, not a pig. Not like Señor Duncan, tossing his dirty Fruit of the Looms here and there.
As she bent down for the wrapper, she noticed a reflection in the Plexiglass of someone behind her. It was an old man in a wheelchair. Gray and gaunt, he was nearly lost inside a red and black flannel robe. And his fuzzy slippers, each one planted squarely against a waffled footrest, reminded her of snow shoes. There was a pile of quarters in his lap, maybe five dollars worth, and he was staring up at her, his concern soured with impatience.
She was too afraid to ask how long he’d been waiting.
“You one of them narcolepsy people,” he said, “just shut off whenever and wherever the damn thing strikes ya? Or are ya just plain catatonic, hon?”
Juanita put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, please forgive. I did not know you were there!”
Anxious, as if about to cross a busy highway in his electric two-wheeler, he looked both ways, then said, “Apology accepted. Now move aside, señorita. If they catch me this time, they’ll move the goddamn snacks again, and I’ll never find ’em.”
Seraphim Page 13
