Ghost Rider: Stories by Jonathan Lowe

by Jonathan Lowe

  "Oh, shit,” I said, at last, and then simply threw the doors wide to see. Just as I did, though, (to find no Cesare Paciotti boots, no women's clothes at all, but rather a man's), I heard the entry door in the other room slam shut. This was followed by the distinctive sound of a deadbolt being thrown.

  Do you really think me that deadbolt dumb? Sal had asked me. It was a question I now asked myself as I tiptoed back into the living room to find a short, middle-aged man with blond hair turning to face me with a bag of ice. I focused on his face as all four of our eyes widened in shock—his with terror, mine with vague recognition.

  "I'm ... here to fix the ice machine,” I managed to say.

  From AWAKENING STORM

  (originally published by Blackstone Audio, narrated by Barrett Whitener. Now an e-book at Fictionwise.com. About a lady psychologist with a secret motive to help a man cope with nightmares by facing the greedy televangelist who caused them.)

  The spider that crawled from its hiding place inside the hanging bull's skull above Michael's bed was not a tarantula. It possessed no large, slow-moving, hairy arms. It was small, by comparison. But it was faster. Its venom, too, was significantly more deadly. As the brown recluse hesitated on the edge of crossing under the skull, it suddenly slipped from the base of a bony projection of nasal cartilage on the skull. And it fell.

  It landed on Michael's forehead.

  Michael opened his eyes, although he wasn't sure why. Then he felt something twitch on the sensitive skin of his forehead, and he froze in terror. The sudden springy impact and a slight spasm in his forehead had animated the spider into a defensive mode. Now, as he slowly raised his hand, the thing darted onto his eyelid, poised and ready. When his eyelid twitched as well, the insect atop it sent a barb of nerve venom deep enough into the fleshy lid to penetrate and mingle its minuscule cargo of toxin with the eye's surface liquid. Its offensive reaction complete, the spider now jumped into Michael's hair.

  Michael thrashed wildly, hands butterflying across his sweaty scalp. He screamed as he twisted, locking himself into his bed sheet as effectively and as tightly as if into a straight jacket. The spider jumped onto the wall just in time to avoid being crushed, and now it waited there, on the hard, unmoving surface, tense and ready for what was next.

  The skull's eye sockets stared down at Michael in the moonlit bedroom as a silent transformation began. He began to go blind.

  He screamed louder and tossed his pillow away from his head, thinking the pillow had obstructed his view of the twilit room, but it had not. He rubbed his left eye at finding a soreness there—a shooting pain that was almost electrical in nature. He blinked rapidly, rising up in bed, thrashing against his mummy-like wrappings. Once free, he stumbled into the bathroom, and turned on the light.

  He stared into his reflection. His left eye was open, but he could only see it with his right. A welt appeared on the surface of the eye. It was a milky white color, as if bulging with puss. He splashed water into the eye, braying out in pain. It was no use.

  The eye was dead. He had a dead man's eye.

  His face, too, looked dead in the mirror. His clammy skin was ashen, his curly black hair awry. The wrinkles he'd always tried not to notice were deeper than usual, giving a sunken deathmask pallor to his normally well groomed and handsome appearance. He screamed again, then rushed to dial 911. But the phone was dead now.

  The line had been cut.

  He turned to see a figure behind him, now, in the shadows. The glint of a blade ... He screamed as loudly as he could, and this time it worked.

  This time the scream woke him.

  Only a dream, only a dream, only a—

  Breathing heavily, his heart thumping abnormally in his chest, Michael was staring up at the motionless bull's skull above him. The dark sockets stared down at him like the eyes of a demon.

  He turned to switch on his nightlamp, and saw his alarm clock. It was 2:18 A.M.. He got up, wrestled the skull off the wall, and took it into the other room, where he laid it on his desk. Then he returned to bed, and cut the light. Now it was 2:20 A.M.. Still hours to dawn.

  What would be next? he wondered. What nightmare was coming next? And how bad would it be?

  * * * *

  1

  "So anyway,” the nervous but handsome man on her couch continued in a quick wispy voice, “I can't sleep. I mean I really do sleep, but I try not to. Some people get by with a few hours a night. Mainly old people. That's all we really need, isn't it? Couple hours to recoup? It's the rapid eye movements that get you. I've got a loud alarm clock now, to prevent that. Like one of those car alarms, with a high hooting followed by some loud horn blasts that diesel trucks make. Because, you know, I dream in technicolor. They're panoramic, wide-screen. And horror in a way, like the Hellraiser movies."

  "That right?” Veronica McCord guiltily scratched one word on her note pad. Wacko. Then she added a question mark.

  "You find that odd, don't you? That my favorite thing to do when I'm supposed to be sleeping is walking around downtown, and looking into the shop windows."

  "Isn't that dangerous?"

  Basket case.

  "No, no—you mean from muggers or cops? Muggers are asleep that late, and cops ... well, you can see them coming, unless they're in unmarked cars. Got stopped once, but I explained that I'm a photographer."

  Veronica rechecked the man's brief profile in her case folder. “A photographer? Nothing in here about that. Says you work at a restaurant."

  She held her pen above her pad, again. She couldn't help it. Like a magic 8 ball, as she listened to Michael speak, the words popped up, inappropriate though they were to the discipline to which she had been licensed by the state of Arizona. Outwardly, of course, she only nodded or shook her head, anticipating the months years ahead it would take to unravel this particular mystery. In the meantime, she indulged herself with simplistic labels that she secretly hoped other psychologists sometimes indulged as well.

  A napkin, spoon, and soup tureen shy of a full place setting?

  "Coffee house, actually. That's my new job. I used to be a photographer, though, see. For a magazine, and then for myself. Weddings, graduations, you name it. That's how I can afford talking to you, for now."

  "Uh-huh. Which magazine?"

  "National Geographic."

  "You're kidding."

  "Am I? Maybe so. I meant to say RV Life. Although I've never owned an RV myself. My dad did, until that time he went down to Big Bend National Park in south Texas, and some two bit drug kingpin waylaid him, figuring a ‘73 Caddy wasn't as comfortable as having an air bed and an outlet for a satellite linkup. You know, so you could know exactly where you are, and how the Broncos and Raiders are faring."

  "You and your dad were close?"

  Michael looked at her, turning his gaze from the ceiling at last. He resembled an actor named Ray Liota, a man with jet black hair, intense blue eyes, and a kind of mischievous charm that hid a lurking danger beneath. “Not really,” he said. “I did run away from home, if you can call it that, at age eighteen. We're weren't rich, either. Dad used the money he might have used for my college education on the RV."

  Veronica adjusted her note pad, studied the words there, and then ran a line through one of the tags she's written. “So tell me about your mother, Michael."

  Michael's lips widened into a thin smile. “That's what it always comes to, doesn't it, Doc? Are you sure you don't want to ask me what I was doing downtown taking photos late at night?"

  "Okay,” Veronica sighed. “But next session, please don't drink so much coffee before you come in here."

  "No coffee?” His voice sounded fearful again.

  She shook her head emphatically. “No. Because I'd like to hear from the real you."

  * * * *

  There were fourteen envelopes waiting for her at her condo on north Country Club drive. Veronica tossed six away—one marked Occupant, and five others less obvious advertisements. The manila one bearing th
e law office return address she ripped open immediately, letting several other personal letters fall onto the foyer table absently. When she read what was there, she stared into the ornate mirror above the table, and watched as a tear formed in the left corner of her eye. She brushed the tear away before it could fall, denying its reality, and combed her long red hair to one side. She would make it, she decided. Somehow she would find a way to get Jeremy back, even if it took a dozen more brainstorming sessions with colleagues and friends.

  She slumped into the couch beside the phone. Who to call this time, though? Already she'd made a nuisance of herself to Valerie, to Mel, to Bill and Jody. Since her lawyer had given up, and now—as she feared—the lawyer she'd been referred to had tossed in the towel as well, who was left?

  That's what it always comes to, doesn't it, Doc?

  She snatched up the receiver and began to punch digits mechanically. A sweet familiar voice across the continent in Jacksonville answered, “Hello?"

  "Mom, it's me. How are you?"

  "I'm fine, dear. Your dad is out golfing again with that state senator, what's his name..."

  "Polk? Senator Mark Polk?"

  "That's it. How are you?"

  "I'm worried about Jeremy, Mom."

  Her mother's voice was borderline sympathetic. “What else is new, dear."

  "That new law firm I told you about, Rogers and Weiss? They specialize in custody cases, and now it's official, they've cancelled out on me too. I just got a letter saying they're returning my retainer. They obviously don't think anything will change. Do you think Edmond got to them too?"

  "I ... Well, how could he do that, honey?"

  Veronica paused, then sighed. “You're right. They're probably just intimidated."

  "Well, that's certainly true, I'm sure. Edmond is a Federal judge. He has powerful friends, and a spotless record. Even if you could prove he used his influence in the custody trial, do you really think it would matter?"

  "We'll never know. But I do know one thing, Mother. When I move my practice to Phoenix, and there's no more shuttling back and forth like this, I'll be watching Edmond like a red-tailed hawk. If he ever stumbles, well, I'll be there with a list of child psychologists as long as his arm!"

  She heard her mother sigh this time. “I know this hurts, Veronica. It does me too. But Edmond is a good father, you know that. I've heard you say so yourself."

  "Is he? How can he be good, to take a son away from his own mother? I don't drink, or fool around. I'm the good one here. This just doesn't happen, unless you're a judge ... unless you abuse your power, and—"

  She stopped herself. No, she decided. They'd had the same conversation many times before, and nothing had changed in the three months since the divorce. It wasn't healthy to dwell on things you couldn't change. A strong person, a successful and well-adjusted professional person simply didn't cope with life that way. Better to focus on the reality of the moment, and to do what one could to improve the situation.

  "If only you'd gone to church with Jeremy, honey,” she heard her mother say, a slight hesitation in her voice. “A boy does need a spiritual influence in his life."

  "Now you sound like Edmond's lawyers,” Veronica replied with disappointment. “Are you trying to say it's God's will that Jeremy live with his father? Is that what you want too, Mother? If so, you've gotten religion a little late in the game. It was always Dad that—” She stopped herself again, hearing the same tone return so quickly to her own voice. She sighed. “What I mean is, I don't mind Jeremy going to church, Mother. And Edmond could take him there on weekends. I don't have a problem with that. The Baptists are a little severe, being Republicans ... just look at how they've changed Edmond's decisions from the bench. But that's okay too! When Edmond wanted what you said, I stood right up and said ‘fine.’ But I just don't think that's enough for him. He wants Jeremy in a Christian school. Wants to turn him into a Jesus freak."

  The silence on the phone line now seemed deadly. She could barely make out her mother's breathing, which sounded pained somehow. It was a bad choice of words again, she knew. Her mother was very sensitive these days, she had to remember that. She continued carefully, explaining herself.

  "Mind you, I have nothing against Jesus. Love and compassion and all. But I wanted Jeremy to have a wider view of things, Mother. It's only reasonable. Edmond didn't have to keep throwing the word Atheist at me until the jury buckled. Now I've got that big letter ‘A’ branded on my back, and when I wear my old school jersey at the park, people don't see it as representing the University of Arizona. I should sue Edmond for slander, is what I should do. But that would get nowhere either, so what's the use?"

  There was a long pause. Her mother continued to say nothing. Maybe all she saw was the big A too, now.

  "Are you there? I know what you're thinking. Edmond's a good man, and he's even better now in your book, since you've both found God. I'm happy for you. But just because I don't believe I'm a lost soul going to hell doesn't mean I'm not a good person too."

  "I know you are, dear,” Connie McCord said at last, although there was a slight disappointment to her tone. As if good was not enough.

  "Okay, then.” Another long pause. “Anyway, thanks for listening, and being there. I mean that. Say hi to Dad for me?"

  "I will, honey."

  They finally hung up.

  Veronica felt awful now, for sure. Like she'd just beaten up her own mother. But their anniversary was coming up. Maybe she could send flowers, and get them into one of those spa weekends on Hilton Head island, where the employees pampered and massaged and dined you. Maybe even The Palms, where she and Edmond had honeymooned in what seemed a lifetime ago, but was really only ten years. Her and Edmond's own anniversary would have been coming up in a few months ... She considered that. What if she'd gotten religion too, or pretended to, at the same time as Edmond? Now they might be returning, and the tickets she'd be buying would be for herself. Then she'd have Jeremy every day, not just one day a week, most of which was spent with the hundred forty mile commute.

  Better yet, she thought, what if Edmond hadn't gone to that Baptist church when her father came to town and invited him?

  Veronica went into the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. Musky jumped up on the table in anticipation, whiskers twitching. She took out a carton of skim milk, and poured some into a bowl, placing it in front of her lovable fat cat. Musky sniffed at it haughtily, not liking the new diet at all.

  "You're no good as a substitute, you know,” she said wearily as she stroked the animal's large furry frame. “All you do is look to me for food so you can maintain your beer belly. Were you a Roman in ancient times, or what?"

  There was no answer as Musky lapped at the white liquid. Only a purring tremor radiated along the rotund back. As she felt the vibration, Veronica stared at the photos of Jeremy magneted to the refrigerator. One was of Jeremy in a swing at Reid Park. It had been his eighth birthday, and he'd wanted to go as high as possible, to a point where the swing hung up there in the sky and gravity was momentarily gone, with him like an astronaut tethered to the Space Shuttle during an orbital walk. Veronica remembered how beautiful the trees were that Fall day—trees so rare for Tucson. Tall cottonwoods with golden leaves shimmering in the sun, and with that rare fresh chill in the air, making the leaves rustle and vibrate.

  She looked down at Musky, then back at the photos again. So many memories. Memories that now seemed all the more precious for their own rarity. Her days now seemed to rush past like the traffic along Speedway Blvd. Was this all anyone had left for a life in the end—photos?

  She thought about the photos that one of her patients, Michael Rivers, had mentioned. And about Michael too. Such a disturbed and repressed man, although sensitive. The photos he'd taken downtown, as he'd described them, were of abandoned parking garages. Closed cafes in the eerie neon light, their stools on top of the tables. Antique shops with only one solitary bulb dimly illuminating the waiting furnishings
and memorabilia. What was he trying to show? Society's apathy or some personal abandonment? It was curious, she had to admit.

  After dinner, and needing distraction from work and from thoughts of Edmond, she scanned the movies she'd accumulated from membership in the BMG Video Club. Movies she'd chosen at random from lists, but had never taken the time to view. Her finger paused over the title ANGELS IN THE OUTFIELD as she was reminded of an even older sacrilegious movie her parents would also no longer approve. In OH GOD! George Burns played the Omnipotent One while looking like a seedy tourist who'd missed his tour bus. It's just a comedy, she imagined explaining to her mother. Besides, Hollywood also made an angel out of Warren Beatty once in HEAVEN CAN WAIT, so what did it know? Lighten up, Mom! Or rather the voice in my head!

  She chose a half completed book from her bookshelf, instead. Another religious comedy, titled GOD IS MY BROKER, this time. A comic novel about a monk who got stock tips from the Almighty and turned his monastery into a media circus, she remembered. But now she imagined disapproving looks from her father, and so she chose a legal thriller instead—a cliche-ridden formula story with at least one or two serial killers, which was last year's bestseller. But while reading, she was reminded of Edmond again, and so she sipped Chamomile tea as she watched the Late Show monologue. She didn't laugh at Martha Stewart jokes, but it managed to ease her mind at last. As she got ready to turn in she remembered that research had long shown that what one thought about just before going to sleep affected their dreams. Would she be lucky enough to find relief for her loneliness tonight?

  The Chamomile helped. With Musky curled beside her, her eyes soon darted quickly beneath her closed eyelids, and she dreamed about being at the park with Jeremy.