“I came to apologize.”
Barton watched his brother, a man who was so familiar, yet so distant from his life. In Charlie’s soft eyes he saw the summers and winters, the joys and pains of childhood they shared together. This pulled at his heart so hard that he nearly had the urge to vomit again. When he opened his mouth to speak, the ugly monster tried to escape Barton’s belly. It snarled for him not to make amends with one hell-bound, for it would condemn him as well. But that voice, that brimstone bigot, did not know Charlie, did not see him as Barton once had: as a brother, as a human.
He also remembered his lifeless body splayed across the office desk. What if he was dead? It did not make him feel like a good man to know that the last words spoken to this, his sole living family member, had been of foul hatred and condemnation. He looked at Charles with tears in his eyes and wondered how he had possibly ever come to hate his own brother.
“I’m so sorry, Charlie,” was all he could muster before his voice cracked. “Mother—would have been so—ashamed of me.” He hung his head and watched the floor as it was swallowed in a blur of tears.
He stood there for a full minute before he felt a solid grip on his shoulder. Charlie embraced him. Barton could honestly not remember the last time he’d actually been hugged by another human being. Along with the hot tears, he felt an unseen weight drain from inside his chest.
“I never thought you were a bad person, Bart,” Charles said.
“Thank you.”
“God, but you’re so cold. Maybe you ought to come in and stand by the fire. You haven’t been out walking in this weather, have you?”
Behind Charlie, Remy emerged from the kitchen, and gave an insistent tap on his watch.
Barton wiped his eyes and nodded toward the door. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Maybe next time. Give Joseph my best.” He gave a sincere smile.
In the background, the telephone began to ring.
“You go answer that. I’ll show myself out. Good night.”
In the hall, Remy patted him on the shoulder. “Nicely done, my friend. Don’t you feel better? Hold still now. There’s a good lad.” He wound up a fist and socked Barton a good one in the teeth. Once more, the world went black.
Back in the comfortable surroundings of his office, Barton actually produced a genuine smile. It was the first he’d worn in a very long time. “I feel…strange. Both good and bad, but…”
“At peace?”
“Yes, that’s it!”
“Very good,” Remy said, straightening his tie. “Then my job here is done. You’re free to go now.”
“But, what about the future? We’ve seen my past and present. Aren’t you supposed to show me something of the future?” Barton was feeling better than he had in years, and now a bit of playful wit had returned to him. “Not very good form to botch Dickens is it, Remy?” He laughed.
“There is no future, Barton.”
“What? What do you mean?” And then he traced the room with eyes that were dawning fearful realization. Below him, his body still lay facedown across the desk, the coffee cup tipped to soak one shirtsleeve. “Where is everyone? Shouldn’t there be paramedics here? Why can’t I wake up?” He slapped and pawed at his body’s arms and face, trying to somehow fight his way back inside.
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“But, you said I was—”
“Still alive. At the time of our departure, yes, you were.” He scratched at his beard thoughtfully. “But, you passed shortly after. Your unfortunate stagehand has yet to discover your body. She will be here momentarily.”
“But, why then?” Barton found it increasingly harder to find root in emotion, but knew he ought to be angry. “Why waste all the time with the running around?”
“Because I had to. Without righting those wrongs, I’m certain that your soul would have remained dissatisfied, and quite possibly, trapped here forever. And I’m sorry, old boy, but this house is already occupied. It is my home, and I love her just the way she is. And so I must bid you farewell.”
Barton felt himself slowly fading into the background, like the dulling beam of a spotlight being switched off. He could feel nothing as both his body and his thoughts were washed away from him in a tidal wave of iridescent light.
Remy flickered out of sight as someone approached the office door outside.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” his voice whispered. “The show will go on. It always does.”
Last Call
Lisa Sampras sat with her face glued to last week’s edition of The Gawker, which was spread flat across the short, empty, pinewood bar. She was not only the lone occupant of the C-shaped serving counter, but of the entire restaurant, as well. Not that tonight was much different in terms of customer activity than it was on any other given night. Lisa only had to fire up the grille twice on a good business day: once for the regular lunchers and, less often than not, once for the occasional diner.
Lack of customers aside, Lisa still believed in keeping regular hours, and, accepting this work ethic, found herself buried in tabloids and the occasional romance novel for most hours of the day. Some business experts might have called it tough-living, how Lisa managed to scrape rent and living costs out of such a failing entrepreneurial venture, but that was simply a fact of life in a town that relied mostly on highway traffic to keep its few businesses alive.
Despite her slow days, Lisa was happy. With no griping coworkers or ill-tempered supervisor breathing down her neck, Lisa counted herself one of the lucky few in the working world who held the title of “self-employed.”
When she was only twenty-two, Lisa had taken the life insurance money left to her by her mother and used it to rent out two small, adjoining spaces from Jim Russell along the faded brick-front building. The structure was kept well for its age, and Lisa’s Highway Hideaway added some much appreciated color to make up for the other stores, whose only occupants were dusty window signs that proclaimed them “Available For Rent.” Except for Rudy’s, down on the end, which along with being the only bar in town, was the only business that sported customers from open until close. Lisa herself would most likely stop by there later to have a drink with Alice after she closed up shop. After all, it was Friday night.
Lisa was reading an entirely too sensationalized article about a young Hollywood celebrity who seemed to be in the bad habit of not wearing underpants, and was also incompetently incapable of concealing the fact to people with digital cameras. As Lisa would agree with the writer, the chance of pubic publicity was probably the only reason anyone had bought a ticket to her latest release party.
Sighing loudly and standing up to stretch her neck, Lisa took a look at the clock. It read 8:45 in glowing digital green. She stepped into the kitchen behind the bar and began her nightly ritual of tidying the areas around the grille and the freezer.
As she backed out of the silver-walled kitchenette and back into the main bar, she let out a whispered scream.
“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry sir,” she said with a hand to her chest. “I didn’t hear you come in. I was just in back cleaning up for the night.”
The man sitting on the other side of the countertop looked like he had at least a decade on her twenty-six, and was dressed in a dark green work shirt. He was fairly clean-cut, and only had a shade of a beard, suggesting consistent grooming habits.
“No, no. Not at all, ma’am,” the stranger said. “I was just hoping to catch a quick bite before you closed up shop.” He flashed genuinely kind eyes and a smile at her. “Looks like I might have missed the boat, huh?”
Lisa smiled back at him and, no longer shaken by surprise, said, “No, sir. According to my little friend over there,” she gestured at the clock that still held a couple minutes back from nine, “you made it just under the wire.”
The man began to stand and said, “Well, I don’t want to be any trouble—“
“Nonsense,” Lisa interrupted. She pulled a menu from beneath the counter and placed it
in front of his seat. “Why would I turn away one of my only customers today? Least I can do for not hearing the bell and making you wait out here. Take your time,” she said with a nod.
“Much appreciated,” the man said. “I just got done with my delivery down at Rudy’s and they don’t have a kitchen.” He scanned the menu.
“You a trucker?”
“Yes ma’am,” he answered.
“Lisa,” she said and stuck out her hand.
The man hesitated a moment before offering his own. “Carl.” His hands were the same temperature as the inside of Lisa’s sputtering old Frigidaire. She clasped his hand with her other to offer some heat.
“Hell’s bells, Carl. You’re frozen. You pulling a cold load?” Carl pulled back his hand hurriedly, rubbing it vigorously against the other.
“Yeah. Just finished dropping a load in the cooler over at Rudy’s. You wouldn’t believe how much beer stock that place goes through every month.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said with a grin. “Well, you decide on what it is you want to eat, and I’m gonna go fix you up a cup of soup to warm those bones.”
“Thanks,” Carl answered.
Lisa went back to her shiny, tiny kitchen and pulled out a can of instant tomato soup. One and a half nuclear minutes later she brought it out and set it in front of him. “All set?”
“You bet. I think I’m gonna go with something easy. How about the ham and turkey sandwich?”
“Just got fresh deli meat yesterday,” Lisa said approvingly. She hurried back into the kitchen, feeling pretty good about herself. Not only was it nice to have a customer, but it also felt good to be able to help someone out. She knew for a fact that regardless of which direction Carl was driving, he was at least thirty minutes away from a larger town, by which time no restaurants would be open. Hell, none would be open now. The only reason Lisa kept her place running this late was with the hope of catching the business of one of the Rudy’s drunks who’d gotten a case of the munchies.
Lisa pulled out all the usual sandwich ingredients and was about to lay on the mustard, when she hesitated. She leaned out to ask Carl if he wanted mustard, but froze with her head in the doorway. She watched Carl as he poured the fresh cup of soup carefully into the sink behind the bar. He then sat down again in his seat, and Lisa pulled herself out of view. She was sure he hadn’t seen her. What the hell? Lisa asked herself. Whatever, he’s paying for it.
“Hey, Carl,” Lisa announced before sticking her head out. “Are you a mustard fan?” He smiled back at her innocently.
“You bet,” he said. Lisa pulled herself back when he started again. “Can you hold the tomatoes, though?”
“Of course,” she answered. Lisa repeated the answer in her head. Tomato soup. There was nothing strange about being polite. She had just looked out at the wrong time. Of course this man wouldn’t be as rude as to turn down a generous gesture. With that, she felt a little better about herself and her customer.
Lisa returned to the diner with a plate in hand and a smile on her face. She made a conscious effort not to ask him about the soup when she removed the empty cup, being a bit embarrassed about not having asked him his preferences in the first place. He accepted the sandwich and potato chips graciously. “Thank you, I’m starving.”
She was glad that he had ordered a simple sandwich and glanced at the clock. Lisa was only a few minutes into the hour, and with any luck, would be out of there in another ten. Though a nice enough fellow, Carl didn’t seem like the kind of guy who could chat your ear off, or even want to. If Lisa wasn’t at Rudy’s by nine thirty, she knew that Alice would walk her well-beered buns down the sidewalk and bang down her door.
Trying not to look in too big a hurry to leave, Lisa walked casually toward the front door and stuck her head out. She looked both ways, but lingered longer on Rudy’s direction to the left. The night air was a little chilled, and the moonlight crested the horizon of mountain peak directly above where the valley had been cut for the interstate.
Achem.
Lisa turned her head back inside, where Carl was looking hopefully at her. “Sorry to be a pain, but do you think I could get a drink, too?”
“Oh,” Lisa slapped her hand to her forehead. “I don’t know where my head is this evening. I’m so sorry. What would you like?” She hurried behind the bar and continued, “Juice, milk, soda pop, water…”
“A glass of milk would be fantastic.”
As she turned to the kitchen, Lisa absently glimpsed Carl’s plate. Half of his sandwich was gone! Hiding her widened eyes, she left him for the kitchen refrigerator. How did he eat half of that huge sandwich so fast?
When she returned into the bar area, Lisa placed the glass of cold, whole, cow juice in front of Carl. Now, the entire sandwich was gone. Lisa stared at it in amazement. “A little hungry, are we?”
“Oh boy, you bet,” Carl replied, rubbing his belly, which looked oddly lumpy beneath his shirt. “In fact, I wanted to ask you if it was possible you might still have the sandwich makings out back there.”
Lisa’s eyes spread even wider. Not only had she rarely seen people finish the first, Lisa had never before seen anyone put away two of her sandwiches. Partly out of her own surprise, and a little bit out of curiosity she nodded her head and backed into the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later with another plateful of stacked ham and turkey. He tapped at the empty glass with his fingertip, and Lisa saw that he needed a refill.
“Thank you,” Carl said patiently.
This time while she was in the kitchen, Lisa stole a look out the door frame. Her mouth dropped. Carl was furiously stuffing his entire sandwich down the front of his shirt, without emotion. The bastard had probably done the exact same thing with the first one. Lisa frowned. Well, now what? He was wasting her food, that’s what. I’m going to go out there, get my money, and get this creep the hell out of my restaurant, she decided.
With a fake smile Lisa asked him how his food was.
“Oh, just delicious.”
“You know, you just might be the fastest eater I’ve ever served before,” she said dryly. “Hey, listen. I’ve got to close up here pretty quick, so I don’t mean to shoo you out of here, but I kind of need to count out my register.” This was a lie. Lisa damn well knew that her drawer had the same twenty dollars in fives and ones that it had this morning, plus the four dollars for Ronald Wendell’s lunchtime sandwich.
Before she had finished speaking, the man placed a one-hundred dollar bill on the counter.
“Oh, I’m sorry Carl. There’s no way I can break that. Especially not at this hour.”
“No need,” he replied. “Not looking for change.” In what was shaping into one of the strangest evenings she had ever spent working behind that food bar, Lisa found her eyes again making with the fried egg routine. Not only was that the single largest tip she’d ever gotten, but the most money that the restaurant had put into her pocket in any given week.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t take that, Carl. Why don’t you go down to Rudy’s and get some change.”
Carl simply shook his head and grinned. He looked in the direction of the clock and said, “Nope, she’s all yours. All I ask for in return is another one of those delicious sandwiches.” He pushed the bill forward to the far inside edge of the bar top. Though unaccustomed to taking a tip before a customer left, Lisa reached out slowly and took the slip of paper in her hand. She smiled confusedly back at him. You know what? What the hell.
“I’ll bring some more milk while I’m at it,” she added. Lisa stuffed the large bill down the front pocket of her jeans, and went quickly to put together another sandwich, though with a little less inside this time. No need to waste it if she was unsure where it was going. But still, why order anything at all, if he wasn’t even hungry? And then it hit her. There were really only two explanations that came to mind. Either he was a psychopathic killer, who for some reason got his jollies while doing the act with deli products i
n his pants, or he was only in the restaurant to talk to her. Was it possible that this man was interested in her? She had enough confidence in herself to know that she was by no means unattractive, but rarely did it happen in a town like this, that a man even relatively close to her age was present to give her any attention. She blushed a little at this.
Carl was still smiling broadly when she set the plate back down. She smiled right back at him, and then realizing what he assuredly intended to do, looked away awkwardly. “Mustn’t have eaten this week, am I right?”
Carl chuckled and looked down at his plate. “Listen, I promise I’ll just put away this one last sandwich and be on my way. I’ve still got a good chunk of road ahead of me tonight.”
“Oh yeah?” Lisa asked. “Where are you off to at such an hour?” Carl shifted a bit in his seat. He cleared his throat, which sounded like pollen allergies had not been kind to him this season.
“Not quite sure, actually. I kind of ran into a snag that forced me into a change of plans.” He spoke with a friendly face, but his words were frosty cold. Lisa’s arms prickled into gooseflesh at Carl’s vaguely chilling statement. He must have noticed her discomfort, too, because then Carl rose to his feet for the first time. “Listen, I’m sorry to trouble you like this, it’s just that—well, I don’t know any better way to put it. I can’t allow you to leave this place.” His face seemed to have attracted more shadows to his skin. His stony expression made Lisa step backward into the wall that served as the barrier between bar and kitchen.
Lisa had been wrong about Carl. Or rather, she had been right about Carl initially, and should have adhered to her more disturbing impression. “Why?” she whispered. If she could scream, maybe Alice could hear her. Wishful thinking. She knew that with the juke blaring, it was damn near impossible to hear anything else inside the bar, let alone from three spaces down. Carl leaned toward her, and in an instant was on her side of the bar. Lisa screamed. Carl had moved so quickly that Lisa had not actually seen him make any effort at all, he had just appeared before her.
Chasing the Sandman Page 18
