Knowing

by Laurel Dewey

  “Hello, Jane.”

  “Boss?” she said, using her pet term for him. “How’d I conjure you up?”

  He smiled. “You called my name?”

  Jane was perplexed. “I didn’t call your name.”

  He looked at her, peering into her soul. “Think about it.”

  She stared into his eyes and realized it wasn’t Weyler’s eyes staring back. “What’s going on here?”

  “I thought it would be easier for you to hear my words from someone you knew. Someone you felt comfortable with?”

  Jane looked around the area but all she saw was pitch-blackness. “What is this place? Where am I?”

  “Let’s call it your mind.”

  “Let’s call it whatever in the hell it is.” She could feel her heart racing.

  “Calm down, Jane. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  She looked at him, diving into his orbs. “Is that right? I’d say there’s a helluva lot to be afraid of. Given the situation I’m in?”

  “You’re smart. You’re very smart. You’ll figure it out. I had to do a lot of things without any computer or phone or car.” He sat back in a relaxed position. “So, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

  “How many questions do I get?”

  He smiled. “This is not a fairy tale. You get as many as you want.”

  “Who is after Harlan?”

  “You already know that.”

  “I do?”

  “What else?”

  Jane wanted to believe this was a dream, but it wasn’t. “Who shot you?”

  “Some expert shooters they hired to track me down.”

  “Did you know you were going to die?”

  He smiled. “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they falsely put out the info that I died when I chose to disappear three years before. When they call you ‘dead,’ it’s a done deal. Even before things happen in real time, they always talk about it like it’s already happened. They believe that secures the energy for the actual physical event and assures its success.”

  Jane contemplated everything. “Did you know you were going to die that day?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said matter-of-factly. “It had to be on that day.”

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons. Most of which you won’t believe.”

  Jane had heard it all and she was somewhat offended. “Try me.”

  “They love numbers. They love seasons. Then they like to combine those two. It’s all about the energy, Jane.”

  “They dabble in the Occult?”

  He shook his head. “They don’t dabble, Jane. They’re drowning in it.”

  Her head spun, trying to decipher his clues. “What? Are they Satanists?”

  “Satanists are weekend warriors,” he said calmly. “These people do what they do because it’s in their blood. It’s all they know.”

  “Okay, so they’re into the occult?”

  “You’re trying to attach what you think is a meaningful word to explain darkness. But you’re falling into the trap. Occult simply means ‘hidden.’ It doesn’t always mean evil.”

  She was starting to get angry now. “So, they’re into hiding things?”

  “Don’t approach this with anger, Jane. If you do, the rage will prevent you from seeing the subtleties. And yes, it’s very much about hidden information. Why do they agree that certain things need to be hidden?” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. “Because the individuals who understand the way the world really works do not believe that everyone else can grasp what they have understood for a very long time. Knowledge is passed down from generation to generation within the hierarchy. Secrets are embedded in the fabric of their existence and they accept it. They explicitly understand that coveting those secrets gives them power that others will never have. And through that power, they believe they will never fail. Why? Because as long as they make the rules, they’ll never lose.”

  Jane considered his words. “And you worked for these people?”

  “I did.”

  She stared into his eyes. “And you killed for them.”

  He sighed. “Yes. I did.”

  Jane kept checking herself because the entire scene was challenging her sense of reality. “What in the hell do they want?”

  His visage grew serious. “The two most precious things.” He pointed to his chest. “The heart,” he drew his finger to his temple, “and the mind.” He pointed back to his chest with emphasis. “The heart,” and again to his temple, “and the mind.”

  Jane sat back and let out a hard breath. “Are you going to keep throwing metaphors out at me or are you going to give me a little more help?”

  He was silent for several long seconds. “You’re not hearing me, Jane. Maybe if you heard from someone else?”

  Suddenly, he was swallowed in a pool of darkness. Within a split-second, another spotlight shown on a chair within arm’s reach of Jane, and in it was her younger brother, Mike. He was wearing a Bronco’s sweatshirt and jeans. A signature crooked grin crept across his face, causing his face to soften and make him appear fifteen years younger than his hard fought thirty-three.

  “Mike?” Jane asked in a stunned voice.

  “Is this better?” he asked.

  It was Mike’s face but it wasn’t his eyes or his voice. “No. It’s creepier than shit! What is this, for God’s sake?!”

  He reached over and grasped her hand. “The heart and the mind, Jane.”

  “Mike, I—” she stopped herself, “I don’t know what that means!”

  “There’s a war but it’s not fought for freedom. It’s fought for ownership. And the ones who own the essence of a man and the soul of a child are the winners.”

  “Essence of a man? Soul of a child? I don’t understand…” She looked around the area again, hoping for a doorway out. “My God, what in the hell is this?!”

  “Pay attention, Jane!” He grabbed her wrists tightly. “The heart and the mind!”

  “You said that already and I still don’t know what in the fuck it—”

  The image of her brother vanished and in the blink of an eye, Hank sat in the chair in front of her, illuminated in a cylinder of beautiful light. Taking her hands gently in his, he dove into her eyes with exquisite love. For several, intoxicating seconds, she only saw Hank staring back at her. Then the glaze of the other eyes engaged. But there was a part of her that wanted desperately to believe it was truly Hank.

  He lifted her hand to her chest. “The heart,” he said before lifting her hand to her forehead, “and the mind.”

  She wanted to fall into his body, even though she knew it wasn’t him.

  “Jane! Are you listening?”

  “Heart and the mind,” she whispered.

  She tipped her forehead against his. “I just want you to know that I’m okay—”

  And with that, she opened her eyes and stared into semi-darkness that filled The Shangri-La motel room. Darting up in bed, she breathlessly checked the time. 10:30. Harlan was still asleep but something wasn’t right. She heard the low rumble of a car engine slowly rolling by their room and heading a bit farther before stopping. Jane slipped out of the bed and moved the curtain back just enough to be able to see. It was the police and for the first time in her life, she wasn’t happy to see them.

  CHAPTER 15

  She dove across to Harlan’s bed, jarring him out of his hard snooze. “Harlan!” she said quietly but forcefully. “Wake up! We’ve gotta get out of here.”

  Harlan struggled to consciousness. “What? What?”

  Jane stumbled around the room in the semi darkness, shoving clothes back into bags and grabbing all the food. “Cops! Outside!”

  “Aw, shit, Jane.”

  She grabbed the pair of jeans she�
��d tossed across the floor, a random shirt from her bag and her boots and ran into the bathroom. She could hear Harlan dragging the bags and the cooler to the door. Her mind raced with various scenarios, none of which were appealing. Then a thought crossed her mind that was so devious it might just work. Zipping up her jeans, she strode back into the room and found her leather jacket. Searching the pocket, she came up with one of the prepaid cell phones nestled against her wallet. She turned to Harlan. “Keep packing. And don’t say one word, no matter what you hear me say! Understood?”

  He nodded nervously, grabbing everything around him and plunging it into bags. She returned to the bathroom and shut the door. Pounding on one of the walls, she confirmed that it was pretty much a cement bunker and noise proof. Jane paused briefly, closed her eyes and quickly got into character. She then dialed 9-1-1.

  “9-1-1. What is your emergency?” The operator said.

  “He’s gonna kill me!” she whispered loudly with a strange southern twang. “Oh, my God, help me, please!”

  “Ma’am, where are you? I can’t tell from your phone.”

  “I’m at The Shangri-La motel,” Jane said breathlessly, rattling off the address she located on the back of the toilet. “I’m trapped in the bathroom. He’s got a gun and he said he’s gonna kill me and the baby. Please hurry!”

  “We have a unit already in that area, ma’am. What room are you in?”

  “Room seventeen! Second floor. North side. Please hurry before he—” She hung up quickly and darted out of the bathroom.

  “Gee, Jane. You are startin’ to scare me,” Harlan said with a slow cadence.

  She carefully peered out the window. “You got everything ready to go?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay. When I point to you, open the door and we’re outta here.” She continued to play sentry for a few more seconds until she saw the single cop respond to his radio call. Once he raced up the side staircase, she signaled Harlan to open the door.

  Jane unlocked the car and Harlan quickly wedged his body into the backseat as she piled the bags and cooler into the vehicle. Retrieving a sheathed knife from under the driver’s seat, she snuck a look around to make sure the cop wasn’t in view. Without hesitation, Jane stabbed the right rear tire of the patrol car with several damaging gashes. Racing back to the Mustang, Jane put it in neutral and rolled down a low incline that spilled onto the darkened, desolate, two-lane road.

  “I’ve always wanted to do that,” she said with a mischievous smile. Turning on the engine, she skimmed down the deserted road without her headlights until she was a quarter mile away.

  “What’s the plan, Jane?”

  “Right now, we drive and we keep driving until I can figure something out.” She checked the gas gauge. She had just under half a tank left. Heading east, the territory became increasingly barren. About thirty minutes later, she rolled down her window and chucked out her disposable phone. Between the sham 9-1-1 call, the slashed tires and ditching the cell phone, Jane figured she was getting oddly comfortable rotating on the other side of the law.

  Continuing for another thirty minutes, she came upon a small town on the far southeastern plains. It was one of those “if you blink, you’ll miss it,” towns. About a mile later was a lonely bowling alley sitting out in the middle of nowhere.

  Harlan extricated himself from the blankets and bags that filled the back seat and sat up. He was wearing the rigged ball cap Jane made for him with the LED lights adorned across the front. “Stop, Jane! Pull in there!”

  “The bowling alley? Why?”

  “Just do it!” he said with urgency.

  “Harlan, we have to—”

  “Just do it, Jane!”

  She stopped the Mustang and turned back to him. There was a strange look in his eyes. “Oh, fuck. What now?”

  “I have to go in there.”

  “The bowling alley?” She checked the time. “It’s coming up on midnight.”

  “You told me to start takin’ some initiative, right?”

  “Initiative I have some control over. Why do you need to go in there?”

  He started to move his large frame toward the door. “Fine. I’ll get out and walk.”

  She spun the car around. “Oh, shit, Harlan.” The parking lot was nearly empty but the lights were blazing inside the large building. Jane drove around to the back of the building and parked the car in a far corner that was littered with empty quart amber bottles of Tecate Mexican beer. Before the key was out of the ignition, Harlan was chomping at the bit to get out of the car. Once he pried himself outside, Jane reached into the glove compartment to retrieve her Glock, tucking it into the back of her waistband. She found the orange prescription bottle of Oxycontin that Harlan stashed in there. For some odd reason she couldn’t fathom, she felt compelled to grab it and shove it into her jacket pocket. She turned back to find Harlan heading toward the bowling alley. “Hang on, Harlan!” Finding her Ruger .380 and holster, she quickly locked it onto her boot and bolted out of the car.

  When she turned the corner around the bowling alley, he was nowhere to be seen. “Fuck!” she screamed, scanning the near empty parking lot. Heading inside the building, there was one lane open and two guys who were clearly inebriated. She glanced around and didn’t spot Harlan. Seeing a bar in the far corner of the bowling alley, Jane ran toward it. A red neon sign above the entrance welcomed her to The Dystopian Lounge. The pungent scent of tobacco filled the air. To the left was a long bar and a lonely bartender leaning against the shelves of booze. Three very drunk patrons sat at the various tables, none of them paying any attention to the large man on stage with the microphone in his hand, wearing overalls, a plaid shirt and a ball cap that was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  Jane had no clue what to do except slide up against the back wall and watch everything unfold. The bartender, who was doing double duty as the Karaoke host, called out to Harlan, asking him what song number he wanted. Jane observed Harlan closely and realized part of him had symbolically left the building. In an altered state, he turned to the bartender and instructed him to play song number “one forty-four zero.” Jane focused on the bartender. He suddenly took extreme interest in Harlan as he moved to the console that sat on the top of the bar and plugged in the four-digit code. Jane hung back and waited as the canned music started. At first it sounded like cheesy cocktail music, peppered with a little piano, drums and a Moog synthesizer. And then, without referring to the “cheat screen” where the lyrics rolled, Harlan began to sing. It was Tony Bennett’s “Just in Time” and he sang each word with pitch perfect rhythm.

  “Just in time, I found you just in time. Before you came, my time was running low…”

  Jane hugged the back wall and cringed. If this was Harlan’s idea of an ode of appreciation, she didn’t need it.

  “I was lost, the losing dice were tossed, my bridges all were crossed, nowhere to go!”

  Harlan continued to sing and Jane turned to the bartender. He was still intently focused on Harlan with a penetrating stare. Jane worried he identified Harlan from his TV mug shot. But there was something else—something in the way he watched Harlan that generated a kind of all-consuming fear.

  “For love came just in time,” Harlan continued. “You found me just in time. And changed my lonely life, that lovely day!”

  Jane observed Harlan and realized he wasn’t looking at her. In fact, he was focused far away, and seemingly singing to another person. The instrumental interlude began. Jane trained her eyes on the bartender as he walked over to the wall phone and dialed seven numbers. He kept staring at Harlan as he spoke into the phone with what looked like extreme urgency. In fewer than twenty seconds, he hung up and leaned against the bar, hanging on every word coming out of Harlan’s mouth. When the tune was over, Harlan nonchalantly set down the microphone. The boozed up customers managed a few rounds of applause before retu
rning to their nightcaps. As if he was on automatic pilot, Harlan crossed to the bar and sat on the stool in front of the bartender.

  Jane couldn’t stand it any longer. She walked over to the bar and sat next to Harlan, looking directly at the bartender the entire time. The second she sat down, the bartender regarded her with a confused expression. He looked at Harlan and then back to Jane. Harlan said nothing. He just sat there and waited. Without uttering a word, the bartender set three empty shot glasses in front of Harlan in the form of a triangle. Turning back to the shelves of liquor, he got up on a stool and reached up on the third shelf and back behind the last row of bottles. He brought out two bottles, both with ornate designs. Returning to the bar, and without saying a word, he set the two bottles in front of Harlan. Jane peered over and saw that one bottle was an expensive vodka and one a cheap whiskey. Harlan didn’t look at the two selections. He just tapped his chubby finger against the cheap whiskey bottle. The bartender filled the three shot glasses, corked the bottle and set it to the side. But he didn’t move away from the bar. He just stayed in place and waited. Harlan didn’t hesitate. He lifted the first shot glass and swallowed it without flinching. He snagged the second shot and repeated the gesture.

  The third shot glass, positioned at the tip of the triangle, remained. Harlan didn’t budge; he held the bartender’s steely glare for what seemed like an eternity, before turning to Jane. Jane looked into his eyes and felt compelled to pick up the remaining shot. She held it to her nose, smelling the burnt bouquet that screamed “cheap.” But she let it linger there a little longer than she expected. She was transported back to her fourteenth year, sneaking out to the back of the house at night to steal a few sips from a bottle of cheap whiskey she’d gotten a neighborhood reprobate to buy her. She remembered the naïve anticipation and the sense that she was doing something dirty and bad but increasingly necessary. It was the fun before the fall. It was the lie before she realized it had her in its clutches. It was everything that came before and nothing that followed. It was the innocence that just one more sip would be enough. Jane closed her eyes and felt her will force strengthen. She opened her eyes and set the shot glass down on the bar to the far right of the other two empty glasses.