by R. T. Lowe
“Wait a minute!” Felix said. “Did he do something?”
“No,” Allison said calmly. “Simmer down. I can take care of myself. He didn’t do anything. I just went out to dinner with him. One time. That was enough. And this was like a month ago, anyway. Okay? So that’s it.”
“But—”
“You almost hooked up with someone in the ERA,” Allison reminded him. “You should be worrying about yourself. They talk like it’s a political movement, but I think it’s a cult.”
“You think so?” Caitlin peered over the screen of her laptop, then clicked it shut. “I agree with their basic platform. I think the government has forgotten it represents the people—all the people—and not just the one percenters. And I love how they’re so focused on the future. What’s their motto?”
“A hundred generations,” Allison said.
“That’s it!” Caitlin said. “I think it’s great they’re actually concerned about where we’ll be as a society in a hundred generations. The Democrats and Republicans are just focused on getting votes today. They don’t care if the air’s breathable in a hundred generations. Or about our drinking water, or the fact that we’re poisoning ourselves with GMOs, pesticides and chemicals, or that we’re over-fishing the oceans. The only fish left glow in the dark because their mercury content’s so high. The Democrats and Republicans don’t even know what the word sustainability means. If we leave it to them, the entire country will be one big toxic no-man’s-land. It’s about time an organization like the ERA came along.”
“I agree with all that,” Allison said. “Don’t get me wrong. But it still seems like a cult. They’re so secretive about everything. And why do they make everyone get the same weird tiger tattoo?”
“Yeah.” Caitlin’s mouth twitched downward at the corners. “I’m not sure. I wish they wouldn’t. I mean, if they didn’t, I might even consider joining.” She looked slightly dismayed.
Silence followed.
“Anyway,” Allison said, breaking a lengthy lull in the conversation. “Back to my fairy tale porn—did you guys hear they’re making Mesmerizer Jolie into a movie? They’re saying Dirk Rathman’s going to be Phillip. I saw it on TMZ.”
“I know,” Caitlin said, her voice shrill with excitement. “He’s perfect for that role. I can just picture him as Phillip. I can’t wait for it to come out.”
“Dirk Rathman is soooo goddamn hot,” Harper said. Felix felt her eyes on him even before her unusually throaty tone got his attention. She was staring directly at him, her eyes half-closed, dreamy and full of desire. “That man can murder my vagina anytime.”
Lucas laughed, burying his face into his folded arms. “That’s a classic.” He looked up, his face red, and blotted the tears with the heel of his hand. “Murder my vagina. I love that one.”
Felix stared back bleakly at Harper, but broke off the contest first. He couldn’t figure her out. What was the point of that? Was she mad about Amber? Nothing even happened. Only yesterday she was telling him that his eyes were ridiculously sexy. And today she wanted Dirk Rathman to murder her vagina. He smothered a heavy sigh by biting down hard on his lower lip—a little too hard. He tasted blood.
The room went silent again. They looked from one to the other, wondering who was going to toss the next grenade.
“Anybody else have something to add?” Caitlin asked, resting her chin on her folded hands, looking around the table. “Any more announcements? Hook ups? Cults? Fairy tale porn? Politics? Anything else?” She paused. “No? Great. Beause I’d like to get a few hours in before dinner.” She flipped open her computer and looked down at the screen.
They went back to their textbooks and notes, typed away at their laptops, and Allison resumed her reading of Mesmerizer Jolie. The tension faded. But Felix couldn’t focus; he couldn’t stop thinking about his conversation with Bill.
He sat back in his chair and yawned, gazing at the room.
The first time Lucas had brought them here, all but one of the bulbs was out, and they hadn’t been able to see the paintings. But after the game against Watsforde yesterday, he and Lucas had spent two solid hours cleaning, dusting and straightening things out. They’d also changed out the light bulbs—all sixteen of the floor and table lamps in the room (he’d counted them in an OCD moment). And like so many things at PC, Felix found the paintings fascinating—and bizarre.
All were sumptuously framed and all were of President Woodrow striking various poses. There were twenty-nine in all—Felix had also counted the paintings. Several were official-looking portraits he must have sat for when he was serving as president of the school. In one scene, decked out in sportsman’s gear complete with hip waders and a hat festooned with fishing flies, he was casting a line into a picturesque river. In another, he was sitting in a tufted wingback chair, smoking an elaborately carved pipe. One huge canvas depicted him reading a book to a group of attentive children in a classroom setting. And in three different paintings, he sat in a lush English garden, appearing relaxed and staring off thoughtfully into the distance as if the future were his to see.
Chapter 25
A Brave New World
“Three, two, one.”
A heavy, immeasurable silence passed.
Gabriela Conseco didn’t shudder. She didn’t cower. She stared at the face of the man holding the gun at her. That’s why he didn’t pull the trigger. He didn’t like that she wasn’t afraid. He didn’t like that her unflinching eyes were on his, a defiant smile playing at the edges of her mouth.
“Couldn’t do it, could you?” Gabriela said as the man—the Faceman—lowered the muzzle. She had no memory of how she got here, though it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together: Cross country practice had just ended and she was standing by her car in the school parking lot fishing for her keys in her backpack. Then she woke up in the desert, lying in the dirt, the Faceman gazing down at her.
A look of amusement flickered over his face, then his thick brows came together over cold dark eyes. “You didn’t try. And if you don’t try, you’re going to fail. And if you fail, I’ll have to kill you. And well… I’ve hit a bit of a losing streak lately, and I’d like to know what you are before I get down to the dirty work. And I absolutely love your name—Gabriela. It rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it? I bet all the boys like whispering it in your ear. Would you like me to whisper it in your ear?”
“I’d prefer that you didn’t,” she said, her eyes filled with revulsion.
“I’m only teasing. That’s not my… thing.” The Faceman turned to the west where the sun was sitting low on the horizon. He stayed like that for a moment, watching, then he started pacing, the sand beneath his boots crackling under his prodigious weight. “I love the sunsets here,” he said, a touch of wistfulness in his voice. “Everyone says Arizona’s too hot, but this”—he stopped and lifted a hand toward the mosaic of pinks, purples and reds wreathing the sky—“makes it worth it. And you all have air conditioning and pools so I don’t know what you’re complaining about anyway. It’s lovely, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” She stared up at him, trying to hold his gaze, but his eyes kept flicking away. The abomination was afraid of her. He could break her in half with his bare hands. But Gabriela could see the darkness inside him—and he could sense it. His demon’s face, his monstrous size—everything about him—was revolting, but that was only a reflection of his beastliness. He had no soul. No heart. He was The Beast.
“I don’t think I would ever get tired of saying your name,” he told her, still staring off at the horizon. “So I’ll go through this again, Gabriela. One last time. Because I like you. And I really like your name. I’m normally not inclined to grant second chances. But I very much want you to pass the test. It would be a crying shame if I have to put a bullet into that pretty face of yours.” He paused. “But I promise you, this is your final opportunity. Move that rock”—he waved the barrel at a smooth round stone about the size of a tennis ball—“or you die.
You get just five seconds. This is crunch time, Gabriela. This is an opportunity to show your mettle. If you pass the test—hallelujah—you get to serve a higher power. Are you clear on the ground rules?”
She’d known from the moment of regaining consciousness (feeling cold and numb, her head pounding with pain with each beat of her heart) that she couldn’t talk him out of this, so she didn’t try. To Gabriela, the devil was more than just a philosophical or theological concept, more than just a word used to describe humanity’s wretchedness, what her pastor called the ‘Urges’. The devil was the personification of the Urges—its physical manifestation—and it was standing before her now in the tangible form of the Faceman. But she saw him for who he really was.
“You’re the devil,” she said plainly, her eyes steady, unafraid. “Your rules mean nothing to me.” She glanced down at the rock. He’d been demanding that she “move it with her mind” ever since she awoke. Ridiculous. Only He could do that.
“The devil?” He turned to her, his twisted lips rolling back over his gums in a hideous smile, revealing teeth sharpened like spear tips. The smile quickly fell from his face. “You’re smarter than that, Gabriela. I’ve seen your transcript. I know where you’re going to college next year. You’ve got an Ivy League brain. Put it to use. You must realize the devil is just another name for human nature. We’re all the devil. Me. You. Everyone. I just have a little more devil in me than most.” He lifted his chin and laughed loudly.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said to him, not seeing the humor. “He has a plan for all of us. I live to serve Him.”
“Oh my.” The Faceman put a hand to his mouth as if he was dismayed. “You’re one of those, aren’t you? Now it makes sense. That accounts for your stoic resolve. Your fearlessness. You think this is all just a step along your journey to a better place, don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you a secret—this is it. There’s no better place. When you die you don’t go to some Shangri-la in the sky to be rejoined with family and friends and dearly loved pets and plants that died because you forgot to water them. The truth, Gabriela, is that when you die—you die. It’s all over. It’s what your life was before you were created in your momma’s womb. Does that scare you?”
“You can’t tempt me, serpent.” In the declining light, Gabriela was suddenly aware that the desert was all around her. She felt its presence. The warm air was heavy with the sweet earthy scent of wet sage and creosote. She breathed it in, letting it infuse her, feeling its beauty and its strength. She smiled. It was somehow fitting that the Faceman would bring her here. To the desert. To the wasteland. A snake testing her faith. It was meant to be.
“Tempt you? I only want you to succeed. To live. Don’t make a martyr of yourself, Gabriela. There’s nothing more than this.” He lifted a foot off the ground and stomped it down in a cloud of dust. “There is no other side. No heaven. No hell. Nothing. Trust me. I know.”
“You lie with your forked tongue,” she told him. “God has a plan for all of us. He is in control—not you.”
“Is that right?” The Faceman’s lips pulled back from his gold teeth. “You think this is God’s plan? God wants me to shoot you in the face? God wants you to die out here? You think all this”—he raised his eyes to the pale outline of a quarter moon—“is part of God’s grand scheme? If there’s a God then he’s an evil sonafabitch, don’t you think? You said he’s in control—in control of everything, correct? Like the plague. Birth defects. Famine. Cancer. Drought. The Holocaust. If God’s in control then all those things have to go on his résumé. So you may want to reconsider devoting your short precious life to a god who thinks diseases that kill millions and genocide are part of a plan.” A brief grimace slipped across his face. “Do you really want to die? For him? For nothing?”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” she said. “We don’t get to choose how we’re born or how we die. That is in His hands.”
“Oh, Gabriela.” The Faceman gave her a discouraged shake of his head. “I like you. I do. But you’re so misguided. You can choose not to die. Just move the rock.”
“I can’t,” she said firmly. “Only the Lord can perform miracles.”
“No, Gabriela.” The Faceman frowned down at her. “Your lord’s miracles are nothing but cheap parlor tricks compared to what I’ve witnessed. You’re too easily impressed. Burning bushes. Water to wine. Walking on water. Amateur hour, Gabriela. Amateur hour. I’m only asking you to move a rock. It can be done. I’ve seen it. Many times.”
“You’re the devil.”
The Faceman lowered his eyes for a moment and blew out a frustrated sigh through his teeth. “It seems we’re at an impasse. You’re not the first, you know. I’ve had to kill others because of their faith in this silly God superstition. But I can see you’re a true believer. Nothing I say will convince you that you’ve been brainwashed by the powers that be to keep you docile and compliant. One day soon that will all come to an end. And the funny thing is, Gabriela, you could’ve been a big part of it.” He sighed and made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Are we ready to begin the test then? Are you prepared for your God’s will to be done?”
She nodded. She was calm, content. Her nerves and her heart were steady. She’d always believed that one day God would test her. If this was His plan for her, His test, then she would face it courageously with her faith intact. She didn’t shrink away from The Beast; she stood up straight, swept her long dark hair off her shoulders and took a step toward him. The disappointment on his face made her feel stronger, more sure of herself, more sure that He was standing beside her in this, her moment of trial. “I’m ready,” she declared.
He raised the gun, one side of his mouth twitching downward. “Move the rock, Gabriela. Five.”
“I will not cry,” she said evenly.
“Four. Come on, Gabriela.”
“I will not beg.”
“Three.”
“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” Her eyes were clear, her voice strong, and growing louder and more confident with each word.
“Two. Scripture’s not going to help you, Gabriela. God isn’t here. He doesn’t exist. If he did, wouldn’t he intervene? Wouldn’t he protect you? Now move the rock!”
“I will fear no evil.” She looked up at him. Their eyes locked. Hers didn’t waver.
“One. You’re disappointing me, Gabriela.”
“For thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou—”
“Zero.” He pulled the trigger.
* * *
The bullet exploded out of the barrel of the .44 and tore through Gabriela’s forehead. She thudded to the ground in a mist of blood. The blast echoed across the flatlands like a rolling thunderclap. The Faceman stepped over to her and stared down at her face for a long while, committing it to memory, memorializing it forever in his mind—taking his mental picture. When he was done, he leveled the gun at her face and pulled the trigger five times.
“Stupid, stupid girl,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You just died for nothing. For less than nothing.” He looked up at the darkening sky as he took a cell phone from his pocket and called a number.
“Yes,” the voice on the other end answered.
“Another Wisp,” the Faceman said. “What’s next?”
“Portland, Oregon,” the voice replied. “Lucas Mayer. Goes by a nickname: Minnesota. Student at Portland College. Freshman.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow.”
PART II
“THE RABBIT HOLE”
Chapter 26
Midterms
Felix collapsed on his bed and buried his face in the pillow, pulling both ends over his ears, squeezing his eyes so tightly shut that they hurt. He wanted to erase the world—sound, light, people, everything. He wanted all of it to just go away.
Tiberius 14-37, Caligula 37-41, Claudius 41-54, Nero 54-68… Tiberius 14-37, Caligula 37-41, Claudius 41-54, Nero 54-68—the names and reigns of the early
Roman emperors had wedged themselves in his beleaguered mind, cycling over and over like the lyrics of an awful, yet catchy, Ke$Ha song. Felix had just finished his last midterm. His brain hadn’t caught on yet. Hence… Tiberius 14-37, Caligula 37-41, Claudius 41-54, Nero 54-68…
In the weeks leading up to the exams, he woke up most nights with random facts pounding away like a pulverizing wrecking ball inside his skull. The reigns of the Roman emperors were a favorite of his subconscious. His performance on the midterms was somewhat mixed: Western Civ and Biology went fairly well, Economics not so well, and he hadn’t been able to finish the final two questions of his Psychology exam because he’d run out of time.
Midterms were officially behind him now, but there was no overwhelming sense of relief, no weight of the world ascending from his shoulders, no stress melting away like a scoop of lard in a frying pan. Relief was a reward served to those who actually did well on the exams. He didn’t qualify for any such honors.
Tiberius 14-37, Caligula 37-41, Claudius 41-54, Nero 54-68… Tiberius 14-37, Caligula 37-41, Claudius 41-54, Nero 54-68…
“Shut the hell up!” Felix screamed into his pillow. He was losing it. His capacity to handle problems (or speed bumps, or hiccups, or anything, really) was stretched invisibly thin, and there was more on his mind than just crashing-and-burning on his midterms. A text he’d receieved from Bill the groundskeeper had twisted his already careening emotional equilibrium another few degrees off kilter. The very instant he’d finished his last exam his phone buzzed in his pocket: “Felix – It is here. My office. Stamford. 6:30. Bill.”
‘It’ was here. Whatever it meant. His bizarre encounter with the groundskeeper had gradually faded into the background as midterm preparations consumed his time and attention. Bill was full of shit. Felix was certain of that. But, he’d decided, what was the harm in swinging by his office? It would just take a few minutes. If he had nothing from his mom, as Felix expected, he would turn around and come back to the dorm. Easy enough.
