Dedication
For Christy.
Twenty years fly by and it is still a wonderful, amazing adventure.
Acknowledgements
A special thank you to K. P. Hornsby and Janet Guy, faithful beta readers who never shy from telling me when an idea falls flat. This book is better because of you.
Thanks also to Don D’Auria for letting me share these twisted tales and to the team at Samhain who brings each one to life.
Overture
Rebooted
Chapter One
June 1980
Lightning arced across the night sky. In its flash, the Sagebrook water tower stood like a gleaming white beacon above the trees on the hill. Ten seconds later, thunder rolled in behind it, the way every event has an echo that follows.
Five figures scurried along the catwalk around the tower, one of the old-fashioned kinds, where a squat cylinder with a conical hat sat on six spindly steel legs a few hundred feet in the air. A newer tower served the people’s water needs, but the old girl was an icon for the Long Island town, so the trustees kept it painted white and emblazoned with the “Sagebrook—Founded in 1741” logo to remind themselves of their heritage. Once per year, the logo changed to celebrate the graduation of the Whitman High senior class.
The boys on the catwalk were going to see that this year it changed twice. These seniors had committed more than their fair share of pranks—stolen street signs, a tap into the high school PA system, swapping the state flag in front of school with the Jolly Roger. But this stunt would top them all.
They had all met in the sixth grade, where their teacher had dubbed them “The Dirty Half Dozen” due to their inseparability and penchant for trouble. The title had stuck. They hadn’t done anything as dangerous as tonight’s foray, but anything worth a good laugh was worth doing.
“Who’s got the red?” Bob whispered, though no one but the boys could be within earshot. He crouched at the base of the new banner that read “Congratulations Class of 1980” with “Go Minutemen” painted underneath in red letters. Bob was rail thin with an unruly head of brown hair that consented to a part on the right and little else. An unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.
“Right here,” Paul said. He handed Bob a can of red spray paint. Paul stood several inches taller than the rest of the boys, and his broad shoulders made the narrow catwalk a tight fit. He wore his Minutemen football team jacket, though Dave had told him the white leather sleeves would look like two glow worms crawling across the tower at night. His hair was cropped close, and he sported the shadow of what he euphemistically called a moustache.
A blast of cold wind hit the tower. The snaps on Paul’s jacket hit the metal railing with a reverberating ping.
A third boy, Jeff, hung over the catwalk railing. He had a long face with ears that stuck out just enough for a good round of elementary school ribbing. He held his New York Mets ball cap tight as he looked down at the perimeter fence. A ten-year-old Olds Vista Cruiser station wagon idled near the hole in the fence. There was a slight lope to the modified V8’s rumbling exhaust through the turbo mufflers. The headlights were off, but the parking lights lit the edges of the car. Jeff spoke into a cheap Japanese walkie-talkie.
“Dave,” he said. “What the hell are you doing with the lights on?”
“Damn,” Dave answered from the Vista. “Sorry man.” The marker lights in the car went dark. “It’s clear down here.”
“At two a.m. it had better be,” said Ken, a redheaded kid with a rash of freckles across his cheekbones. He slipped behind Jeff to join Bob and Paul. He brushed against Jeff’s butt as he squeezed by.
“Watch it, homo,” Jeff said.
“It’s your ass,” Ken said. “It’s so enticing. We’re here in the dark…”
“Hey,” Bob snapped. “You girls want to shut the fuck up and start spraying?”
Twin lightning flashes lit a big cloud like a floating anvil-shaped lantern. Thunder crackled across the sky five seconds later.
Marc, the last boy on the tower, sat at the opening where the access ladder met the catwalk. His feet dangled through the opening. Both hands gripped the catwalk rail. He was the slightest of the group, and he had to brace himself against a renewed gust of wind that rocked his thick, curly, black hair back and forth. There were only four cans of paint, so he could have stayed in the car on watch with Dave. But he had something to prove by climbing the tower, though he wasn’t sure if it was to the others or to himself. The journey did enlighten him about one thing. He was definitely acrophobic.
“We better hurry,” Marc said. “We don’t want to be up here in the rain.”
“You said we’d have clear weather,” Paul said to Ken as Ken handed him a can of white spray paint.
“No,” Ken said. “I said there was a twenty percent chance of a shower. When I have a few free hours, I’ll explain probability to you, Jockstrap.”
“There’s a one hundred percent probability I’m going to throw you all off this fucking tower if you don’t shut up,” Bob said. The spray can in his hand started to hiss. “If we don’t do this tonight, they’ll have time to paint over it before graduation. Let’s go.”
“All for none…” Paul said.
“And none for all,” the group finished. The teens’ unofficial motto, in its sarcastic denial of camaraderie, completely represented their philosophy.
Paul, Jeff and Ken joined in, and the side of the tower sounded like a den of spitting cobras. The “G” in “Go” lost a few of its edges. A “B” took shape on the tower’s side.
Another bolt of lightning arced from the anvil cloud to the ground. This time the thunder reported only a second after. The smell of rain wafted in on the breeze. A spray of fat drops splattered against the tank like machine gun fire.
“Hey, guys,” Dave’s voice said from the walkie-talkie in Jeff’s belt. “It’s starting to rain down here. Is it raining up there?”
“No,” Ken answered to himself with a roll of his eyes. “It always rains from the ground up.”
Jeff gave a quick look at the peak of the tower, then at the approaching cloud. “This thing is one hell of a conductor. We should…”
Lightning split the sky above their heads. The thunder was simultaneous and sharp, so loud the boys could feel it rumble.
“Hang on, wussies,” Bob said. He gave the tower one last blast from his can. He stood up and leaned back against the railing. “Go Minutemen” had been transformed into “Blow Minutemen.”
Paul gave his “L” one final shot of red. He appraised his work with an admiring stare. “How did Ms. Kravitz ever give me a D in Art?”
Marc stood at the ladder, one foot on the first rung. “Let’s go!”
The air around them seemed to come alive, as if the molecules had decided to dance in circles around each other. The hair on the boys’ arms stood on end. Jeff’s walkie-talkie buzzed like a cicada. A freezing downdraft swept the catwalk. Five heartbeats went into overdrive.
“Lay flat!’ Jeff shouted.
The boys dove for the decking. Marc, already on the ladder, just hung on.
A white light blinding as the power of God enveloped the tower. Deafening thunder blanketed the boys, and the air turned hot and dry. Uncountable volts pumped through the tower as the lightning bolt ripped from the spire on the peak to the ground below. Jeff’s radio exploded in a shower of sparks and melted plastic. The boys’ bodies jittered against the catwalk decking, belt buckles clanging against the steel. Clothing smoked, and there was the disgusting smell of burnt hair. The split second seemed to last forever.
The night returned and the boys were flash blind. Jeff lay flat, his head near the ladder. Marc groaned next to him. On instinct he shot his arms out over the catwalk opening.
He felt the nylon of Marc’s jacket and grabbed just as Marc sagged away from the ladder. Jeff’s over-stimulated muscles cried in protest as he pushed Marc upright. His sight returned and he shook Marc.
“Marc!” he shouted. He gave him another shake. “Pull yourself up!”
Marc shook himself conscious and forced his eyes wide open. He dragged himself up and onto the catwalk where he rolled face up. His scrawny chest heaved as he gulped huge breaths of air.
At the other end of the catwalk, Bob pushed himself up from the decking. “I feel like a broiled steak,” he muttered.
Paul rolled over into Ken’s sneakers. He had a headache the size of a Buick. The world came into focus, and he saw three of his friends stirring to life. Ken did not move. He shook Ken’s leg.
“Kenny! You okay?”
Ken did not respond. In the low illumination, Ken’s normally fair skin looked ghostly white. His chest was still.
“Son of a bitch.” Paul’s lifeguard CPR training kicked in. He crawled to Ken’s side and began to administer mouth-to-mouth. After five breaths, he straddled Ken at the waist and began chest compressions. Rain exploded around them, a deluge of freezing heavy drops.
“You die on me,” Paul said between compressions, “and I’ll kill you.”
Ken’s head jerked back, and he sucked in a screeching snatch of air. He coughed and spit a mouth full of rainwater aside. He looked up at Paul sitting on top of him.
“Now who’s the homo?” he croaked. Paul rolled off him and against the tower with a sigh of relief.
Dave stuck his head up through the ladder opening. He’d jumped from the Vista Cruiser as soon as the lightning hit. His long blond hair was soaked and pasted to his head and shoulders. Raindrops beaded up on his wire rim glasses and distorted his blue eyes.
“Jesus Christ, are you guys okay?”
The five on the tower each moved to sitting positions and gave some form of acknowledgement. Then one by one they followed Dave back down the ladder to the base of the tower. The worst of the rain passed and left a sprinkling in its wake.
The boys’ soaked clothes had a variety of singe marks. Ken turned to Paul. “Up there…”
“You weren’t breathing.”
“You didn’t…” Ken ran his index finger around the outside of his lips.
“Hell, no,” Paul said.
“Good,” Ken said. “No one gets to first base without dinner and a movie first.”
The six looked each other over and realized they were all unhurt. Relieved, Paul started to laugh. The rest were soon infected.
“All right,” Dave announced to the group. “Who votes we don’t tell our parents about this one?”
Act I:
Reunion
Chapter Two
Present day
“Yeah, well, I heard your mother liked it that way.”
The punch line that came from the telephone pulled Jeff Block back like a rubber band anchored down in 1980. A half-dozen memories rushed him at once. He broke into an uncontrollable smile.
“Robert T. Armstrong!” Jeff said. Thirty-plus years ago, his high school friend had used that phrase to answer any putdown hurled at him. (“Bob, you’re a moron.” “Yeah, well, I heard your mother liked it that way.” “Bob, you’re disgusting.” “Yeah, well, I heard your mother liked it that way.”) It had eventually worked its way into life as a universal rejoinder. (“Turn left here.” “Yeah, well, I heard your mother liked it that way.” “Open your books to page thirty-four.” “Yeah, well, I heard your mother liked it that way.”) The greater the non-sequitur, the more they rolled on the floor laughing about it. “How long has it been?”
“Longer than I want to remember,” Bob answered. His voice sounded harsh and sandy, like he just woke up. But it was three p.m. here in San Jose, so it was early evening back home in New York. Even Bob couldn’t have slept in that late. “How are things in sunny California?”
Jeff looked at his window at a blanket of brown haze. “Almost breathable. And on Long Island?”
“Crowded and expensive,” Bob said. “Basically, paradise.”
“How did you ever find my number?” Jeff asked.
“You’re on the cover of Innovations magazine,” Bob said. “It’s not like the world doesn’t know the founder of Icarus Systems.” Jeff was the CEO of the world’s premier solar power company.
“But that usually makes it harder for someone to find my unlisted home phone number,” Jeff said.
“Never underestimate the power of the Internet,” Bob said. “So I’m calling about the reunion.”
“The thirty-year high school reunion was last year,” Jeff said. Jeff had not attended, afraid his fame would get him swarmed by the classmates who were now strangers. “You’re late.”
“Nah, screw that,” Bob said. “This is our reunion. The Dirty Half Dozen are getting together Labor Day weekend.”
A mental picture formed of the six of them, the inseparable high school band of brothers. Jeff’s smile reignited. “Really, everyone’s coming home?”
“Once you sign on, the crew’s complete,” Bob said. Bob did a half-assed job of muffling a cough on the other end. “Unless you’re still a wuss.” Wuss had been the ultimate derogatory way back when. Better to be a traitorous pedophile cannibal than be branded a wuss.
“Hey,” Jeff said. “I’ll have to check my calendar…”
“You’re the fucking CEO.” Bob had apparently retained the ability to use the f-bomb as an adjective in virtually any conversation. “You write the calendar. You going to tell me everyone can make it but you?”
“I guess I can make it.”
“How fucking hard was that?” Bob said. “Two weeks from today at my house. The party starts at seven and runs all weekend. I booked you all rooms at the Village Green Inn. I’ve got to go. Rest up, Wussie Boy.”
Bob hung up. The Village Green Inn was an old bed and breakfast that had been in business since the American Revolution. It sat on the edge of the old village green in the snooty, historic part of Sagebrook. In high school, the closest any of them came to being at the inn was a summer stint Paul once did doing dishes. The irony was wonderful.
Jeff hadn’t made a spur-of-the-moment decision like that in a long time. It felt pretty good. He took a seat in the kitchen and turned his back on the wall of stainless steel appliances and black marble counters. He looked out across the golden, rolling hills behind his house, most of which he owned.
Bob was right about one thing. Jeff did write the schedule. He’d been going non-stop the last few months getting the Arizona project on line, and this week it made all its milestones. He had also just cut the ribbon on his latest philanthropic effort, the Block Geriatric Research Center in San Diego. He was due for a long weekend off.
And he didn’t have to clear his plans with anyone. Wife Number Three was working hard on becoming Ex-Wife Number Three. Terri had filed for separation and was living in a condo off the Bay Bridge in San Francisco. At his expense, of course. He was the first to admit his mistake of being attracted to neurotic, damaged women. At least he never made the further mistake of having kids with any of them.
Thinking about it, he realized he really hadn’t spoken to Bob in over thirty years. After graduation, the Half Dozen went in different directions, like a clock that had been wound too tightly through those final weeks until one last twist sent the main spring flying.
He hadn’t thought about that last twist in a while. Or was it that he thought about it so often he no longer separated it out, and it had become a permanent thread running through the fabric of his life? Had the others? His memories were no doubt faded by time—were theirs as well?
Jeff’s initial excitement at reuniting with his friends of old rolled back in. He couldn’t worry about that. This reunion was going to be a good time.
Chapter Three
“So who was that on the phone?” Liz called from down the hall of their house.
Marc Brady was slo
w to answer his wife. He gave his thick, full beard a thoughtful scratch and stared at the phone he had just returned to its cradle. “That was Bob.”
“From the Physics Department?”
Marc had to stifle a laugh. His old pal had barely graduated high school. The idea of him teaching in the Washington State University Physics Department was hilarious. Not as funny as Bob teaching with Marc in the English Department, but still hilarious.
“No, it was Bob Armstrong.”
“From Long Island?” Over the course of twenty years of marriage, Liz had assembled a patchwork quilt of the bits of Marc’s pre-college life he’d let slip. Marc never ceased to be amazed at what she remembered.
“Yep, old Smokin’ Bob himself.” Of the Dirty Half Dozen, only Bob had taken up the nicotine habit and had done it at the ripe old age of twelve. “He’s getting a bunch of the guys together on the Island over Labor Day.”
“Wait,” Liz said as she entered the bedroom. Her T-shirt and shorts were still stained brown with the peat she had been shoveling into the backyard garden. She tucked a strand of her short, frosted hair behind her ear. She pointed a plastic trowel at Marc. “Wasn’t he the one that was an arsonist?”
Of course she’d remember that, Marc thought. He leaned back into the bed. At a thin 5”6”, he was swallowed by the king size. He had short black hair that matched his beard in length and was speckled gray. He closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose where his glasses rested. Paranoia about lasers on his eyeballs kept him from shedding the glasses that had recently converted to bifocals.
“That was pled down to vandalism.” Marc sighed. “And it was thirty years ago.” Marc doubted anyone still called him Smokin’ Bob after that.
“He’s still a felon,” Liz said. “How would that look to have a tenured professor spending the weekend with convicted criminals?”
“Criminal, in the singular, dear,” Marc said, looking up at the ceiling. “He’s inviting friends from high school, not from Attica.”
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