But here and now, with his ever-reliable conscience dead, he’d lost all knowledge and support for a defense against this unearthly enemy. Somehow the intruder knew that killing Sparke’s conscience would be his ticket into Sparke’s world. Like tearing down the castle gates in order to pillage the enemy. Just how he accomplished the metaphysical feat was another thing altogether, beyond comprehension.
Half-deafened by the savage scream of the intruder, Richard clawed blindly at the body of weight suppressing him and holding him down. His breath instantly escaped him, a powerful thumb pressing forcefully upon his Adam’s apple, bruising his windpipe, nearly blinding him. He searched for air, now unable to inhale, only whimpers of despair seeping from his trembling lips. In his fading mind’s eye he saw his own face behind the attacker’s mask, peering down at him as he struggled for air and begged for an answer to this violent mystery. And still, amidst the pain and blinding expectations of death, he sought his daughter Debra, now restrained under knife-point in the grappling arms of the intruder, a trickle of blood seeping from her neck as she grimaced in silence, tear-filled eyes in search of her father’s help.
She was gone.
The man in black moved closer to Richard. Richard could feel his warm breaths just inches from his ear, filled with sinister laughs. Richard shivered as he heard his own voice whispering to him, “Yes indeed, Sparke, it’s showtime. Are you ready to play?” Richard gasped and tried to snap his head around but the man in black held on tight, further pressuring his windpipe. Richard felt absolute darkness taking hold of him, a trap-door permanently closing out the hypnotic world.
As if toying with him, like a cat with a bird, the intruder loosened his one-armed grip. Richard fell forward, sucking in long labored breaths, heaving as the world spun crazily around him: darkness giving way to rapid spiraling lights. When the dizziness subsided he saw the knife positioned in the man in black’s other gloved hand. Blood coated the blade. Debra’s blood?
“Where is she?” Richard demanded. His powerless voice was caustic, grating.
The masked man grinned, murderous eyes radiant, familiar yet unspeakably alien. Richard saw saliva oozing through the small mouth-hole. “You mean your delicious little daughter? She’s here with me. But not for long, Sparke. Not unless you do as I say.”
Without his conscience it was difficult to comprehend the exact nature of the moment, and even through the fear and the gross reality of the situation--the smells, the sounds, the pain--he still managed to remind himself that he was under Dr Delaney’s suggestion, under hypnosis, in a state not unlike sleeping, yet more powerful, more intense. Now, with the man in black present, he wondered if he were actually sleepwalking, roaming about Delaney’s office while the good doctor took notes, fascinated with Richard’s performance as he acted out some inane task. “This is a dream,” Richard yelled, spittle flying as he gasped for air. “And you are a product of my mind...my own fucking imagination...I am aware now, cognizant...this is nothing but a dream. A lucid dream, just like Delaney and I discussed a long time ago. You must go now!”
The man in black leaned away from Richard, suddenly still, emotionless through his mask. His eyes were unmoving. Staring beyond Richard. The mouth, unflinching. He was frozen in time.
Richard stared back, whispered mostly to himself, “A dream. And I control you.”
He moved to stand, one eye aiding his wobbly legs, the other mindfully regarding the motionless man in black. It proved no use. Like lightning the man in black shot back into action, and with a quick flick of the wrist, grabbed a thick handful of Richard’s hair. He pulled with impressive strength, laughing, dragging Richard a few feet across the room before pushing him to his knees. The pain in Richard’s scalp was incredible, a thousand needles penetrating his skin--hurt and despair exploding from his pores like a volcanic eruption. The man in black laughed in a vile, hateful voice, placing the razor-sharp blade of the knife against Richard’s neck. “Your mother is with us too, Richard. Along with your daughter. Lovely Julia. You remember her, don’t you, Sparke?” His voice was whispery, each word formed with care in effort to get his dreadful point across.
“My...mother...is...dead,” Richard stressed through clenched teeth. Fiery sweat poured from his face across his stinging lips. He could feel the blood pounding in his jugular where the man in black had thrust his thumb.
Richard tried hard to wrestle himself away, but the man in black strengthened his grip and jabbed the point of the blade into the side of Richard’s throat. The pain ran down his spine like a jolt of electricity, and he could feel the warm trickle of blood rushing down his chest. “Not in this world she’s not. Your daughter, she’s here too, alive and kicking. You know all about this world, don’t you Sparke? That perfect world your mother told you about so many times before...in your dreams. In your motherfucking dreams!” Although the man in black spoke in Richard’s voice, Richard didn’t find anything remotely familiar about the tone, the manner of speaking. It was driven by sinister forces, something purely evil and utterly foreign of which he possessed no knowledge. The man in black might have been Richard’s double in every physical aspect, but psychologically they sat on opposite poles.
“What...do...you...want...from...me?” Richard’s words were forced, sounding almost inhuman through the barrier of pain.
The intruder came close. He twisted Richard’s head around so they faced one another, eye to eye. “I want your life, Sparke.”
Over his nemesis’ shoulder, Richard could see the blue light. It had diminished in size, once taking up nearly half the room, its reach now spanning only a quarter of its original mass. And it was still shrinking, like the conceptual super-nova ready to explode. “Why? Why me?” was all Richard could think to ask, not really a question for the intruder, but more for the senses of the world--a weak attempt at prayer for a man assuming his time had come. Such an unfulfilling conclusion to a life wrought with hardship and misfortune.
The man in black answered him, clearly taking pleasure in their exchange, as if playing a game of semantics. “Why? Because we love you.”
Richard kept his eyes on the collapsing light, peering up momentarily at the masked man: at his piercing eyes, his slick lips. He asked, “Who are you?”
The man howled with maniacal delight, his ongoing laughter gently weakening his campaign to subdue, and he loosened his grip on Richard’s hair. “I am you, Richard Sparke! I am your essence, all you are, and all you could have been, had you made...different choices in life. Look at you, you sniveling piece of shit. You’re a worm out of earth in search of someplace warm and cozy to bury your dirty wriggling self in shame. A flapping fish out of water. A bawling calf miles from its mother’s teat. You...are...lost. And you disgust me, Sparke. You--”
A high pitched whistling noise filled the room, sounding like an emergency broadcast tone on a television with the volume turned way up. It interrupted the man in black from his diatribe, and he spun around, eyes suddenly wide with panic. He screamed at the sight before him: the blue light from where he first emerged, now a mere pinpoint of luminescence, floating like a tiny alien spacecraft in the center of the good doctor’s room. Unmoving, he stared at it for a few moments, then in silence, broke his inaction and dove toward it, arms outstretched in front of him, feet nearly leaving the floor.
He collided with it, and on contact an explosive strobe-like flash filled the room.
Soon thereafter, Richard’s world went black.
Lies
“Was I right?” Leonard followed a zealously moving Kevin across the front lawn towards a small residence parking lot on the left side of the Washington building. Every spot was filled with the vehicles showing Presidential Studios permits in the front windshields.
“Hey, give me some credit. It’s not like your hint was all that obvious.”
“Okay, then. Good job sneezy. But you still haven’t told me anything yet, so I reserve the right to rescind my compliment.”
“That
’s because I’d rather show you. More interesting that way. And as far as I’m concerned, you have no rights.”
“Thanks, partner.” Leonard followed a grinning Kevin between two SUV’s, across to the other side of the lot where a white Sentra was parked underneath a large oak tree, nose out.
Leonard saw the damage at once. “Well I’ll be a son-of-a-gun.” He walked over and ran his hand along the scratches in the paint and chrome on the front end. Two small dents pocked the middle of the car’s hood, each one about the size of an egg. Although the Sentra was white, staggered streaks of cream-colored paint from the crossing gate were easily visible on the glossy finish. Even some splintered wood chips remained, lodged up near the windshield wipers--the telling evidence of Pamela’s aggressive misdeed.
“You check out the plates?” Leonard asked.
“The car is registered to Pamela Bergin, of 338 Culver, Presidential Studios. Washington building, apartment 5A.”
“So she lied then.”
“Unless someone else drove her car this morning. Which is doubtful, given what we know about Sparke and his relationship with her. And the witness descriptions.”
“I agree.”
“So then what about the blood?” Kevin asked. “She had no injuries.”
“None that we could see.”
“You think she might have hurt her leg, or another part of her body?”
“Anything’s possible, but I think there’s a better chance that a third party was involved. Someone neither Sparke nor his girlfriend wanted us to know about. That would explain the inconsistencies in their stories, and it strengthens our theory of earlier, that there’s more to this story than meets the eye. I don’t know about you Kevin, but it seems to me that Sparke and Pamela might be in cahoots on something big and secretive, to a point where they find no alternative but to silence this mystery third person for fear of having their story leaked. They keep him or her a secret from us, hence keeping the truth of their story under wraps. Also, it appears that neither one of them wants us to know they’re involved with the other, wouldn’t you think?”
“Maybe. It all sounds a bit far-fetched though, if you ask me.”
“I know, but so did the whole incident with his ex-wife two years ago. You know, regardless of how small or far-fetched our theories are, we more than likely have something real heavy on our hands here, at least as far as Fairview is concerned. I’ve seen more violent, and as far as I can immediately tell, more unlawful activities in my time. But I’ve never--and I think I can say this now--I’ve never seen anything quite so, well, mysterious.”
Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s put aside the fact that at least one and probably both of them are lying. Now, do you honestly believe there’s more to this whole story than what we’re skimming off the surface? I mean, for all we know Pam is simply scared that she might have to pay a fine for acting like a lunatic this morning. Or spend some time in jail for reckless endangerment. And as far as Sparke goes, it appears that he’s lying because his girlfriend didn’t have any injuries about her.”
“Absolutely.”
“So the big question is, why?”
“Beats the shit out of me. Look, the blood had to come from someone, right?”
Kevin nodded. “Of course.”
And it wasn’t from Pam, as far as we can tell.”
“Right.”
“So there has to be a third person. Someone who drove Pam’s car. Unless Pam lied and was at Sparke’s condo, along with this third person, and something went violently wrong. Maybe the third person got hurt and bled all over Sparke’s kitchen floor, and then Pam fled the scene...with the other person’s blood on her.” Leonard peeked into the Sentra but didn’t see any blood anywhere. “Then again, maybe not. Interior looks clean.”
“This is getting crazy, Len.”
“Either that, or we’re real bored and have nothing better to do but over-scrutinize everything.”
They walked away from the parking lot, each of them silent and trying to postulate all the incidentals and possibilities in their heads. In mid-thought, Leonard peered up at the Washington building. He noticed a young woman with long brown hair and sunglasses staring out at them from the glass atrium interconnecting the Washington and Lincoln building. She ducked away before Leonard could discreetly point her out to Kevin.
It sure looked like Pamela Bergin.
“Better to over-scrutinize,” Kevin said, “than to miss something really important. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Leonard nodded, thinking, Yes Kevin, I agree. And I also think, like you, that this is getting crazy. He picked up the pace, eyes on the atrium. No one was there now, but still he felt as if eyes were on him. Scrutinizing him. “Let’s go see where Sparke heads to next.”
Plasma
Silence ensued. Utter silence.
No longer feeling the restrictive grip of the man in black, or hearing the whistling noise, Richard attempted to come to his senses. He could feel his own body, the muscles weak and twitching as if sore from a formidable task; the skin cold and rife with gooseflesh; limbs trembling as if stricken with Parkinson’s disease. He could feel the sweat pouring down his back, his chest, his face. He was doused in perspiration.
He struggled to open his eyes.
A dull light met his flickering gaze.
He swallowed a dry lump in his throat, unsure of what to make of the scene before him. It was familiar, yet so strangely foreign...
The room...it’s returned to me. Okay...let me take some time and think about this. I was enveloped by a hypnotic vista, a subconsciously created dreamscape filled with monotone backdrops. Unless I’m mistaken, it appears that my waking world has now returned to me. I am once again inside Doctor Delaney’s office. I see the walls, the bookshelves. I can feel the carpet beneath my body. Yes...I am back in the waking world. I’m not under hypnosis anymore...
Or am I?
Was I sleepwalking again?
Lying on the carpet, Richard stretched a hand out. He felt the coarse wool fibers beneath his palm. Through his blurring sights he could see his hand making gentle sweeping motions against the rug.
He stopped. Something felt odd.
Warm. Thick. Tacky.
He picked his hand up. Looked at it.
Even through his obscured vision and the dull lighting he could see the blood. His entire palm was coated in it. Dark, crimson, dripping.
He tried to move, managed to fidget his arms and legs a bit. Remaining in a crab-like position, he wriggled forward, a few inches at first, then a few feet. The wet warmth was beneath him now, he could feel it on his chest, his legs, saturating his clothing. His fingers pressed soaking-wet circles into the carpet. His vision cleared more and more as he slowly collected his wits. He smelled a pungent odor, sharp and metallic-like. Blood. Lots of it. It made him queasy. He felt it all around him, as if he were a human island in some wicked plasmal sea. For a moment he wondered if he were dying, finally a victim of the man in black’s aggression. But strangely he felt little pain, only a soreness on his neck and scalp. So he could reject that dire outcome. He was still alive, left virtually uninjured, pained and tired from the perils encountered while under deep hypnosis.
Out of habit Richard addressed his conscience even though he was fully aware of his inner persona’s demise. If I’d been sleeping all along or under hypnosis, then the man in black should be gone, now that I’m awake.
No answer came to him, of course. He didn’t even know if he’d reached a fully awakened state yet. Strange, to feel this way, as in the past he’d always retained an odd, intuitive awareness following the dreams of blue light: an extra-sensory perception that heightened his senses, stimulated his intuitions until they faded an hour or so after waking. Here things were different, as if the absence of his conscience had changed more than just his ability to communicate with himself.
All he could perceive, feel and smell and taste, was the blood.
He continued forward, se
arching out the coffee table separating the sofa and Delaney’s chair. Grabbing hold of the table’s edge, he pulled his body up into a sitting position, muscles and tendons stretching and cramping, bones popping in protest of the move. He looked around the room, saw the bookshelves, saw the doctor’s desk...
Saw the dead doctor. Butchered, stabbed repeatedly in the face, the chest, the abdomen. Entrails swelled from his gut in a balloon shape, ready to burst. His mouth was gaping, a final scream frozen in its moment of death. A dense blood-tide spread out below his twisted body, flooding the carpet from the coffee table to the bookshelves, a distance of eight feet, maybe more.
Richard gagged, tongue parched, acid tears burning his eyes. He bit down on his hand in attempt to hold the creeping gorge back, but pulled it away in utter repulsion upon tasting the doctor’s blood. He looked down the length of his body. It was coated in red, ringlets of plasma oozing from the carpet at his knees. He felt his entire body stiffening, hyperventilating, perhaps going into shock as his sanity dangled by loose threads. His mind desperately sought the power to hunt his extinct conscience, found only the fortitude to force his body into helpless flight.
Wobbling, he stood up, eyes glued to the glistening corpse.
That’s when he saw the knife. The murder weapon, doused in blood, purposefully placed in plain sight atop the doctor’s groin--an attempt perhaps to mock poor Richard. It was the same knife the man in black held against Debra’s throat--his own throat--only minutes earlier during his hypnotic dream.
An eight-inch steak knife.
Black handle...
Holy mother of God.
It was his knife--the same one Pam used to attack him this morning.
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