CHAPTER SIXTEEN
QUICK SHUFFLE
"It's time," I told Teresa, who was finishing her trick behind a rusted Chevy truck that had no hood or tires and was now good for only one thing: camouflage. "Jim's in jail. You need to get your stuff and get out."
She was busy with her invoice, totaling parts and labor. Seeing the girth of the man beneath her I estimated the latter to be the better part of the bill.
"You need to get out," I repeated. "Get off, first. Now, go home. There's no one and nothing in your way. You’re free."
Teresa looked up, confused, squinting, then focusing on the man underneath her. "Free?"
The man opened his eyes. "Free? Was I that good?"
Her eyes slowly gained clarity.
"You're not done, are you?" He looked hurt.
She stood up, adjusting her skirt. "Yes."
I took her hand and led her down the alley.
I waited until she was comfortably sitting on the couch without distraction. This time there would be no mistakes or loose ends. And it needed to be permanent. And quick. I had people waiting.
I pushed into Teresa's mind, finding myself in a dark cave as I searched for memories. The walls were a montage of memories from throughout her life, all playing at once. Some were oblivious, talking and laughing to no one. Those of more recent memory reached out with desperate hands, afraid of being left in such a hopeless and horrible state. Others, too few others, avoided my gaze as if embarrassed or ashamed. Most stared with emotional blankness, as if they had consigned themselves to being background scenery. But these were more recent past. I moved by a series of Jim's--different expressions and emotions of different days--then a series of sexual encounters between the two of them, which I avoided altogether. There was a wavy section of misshapen heads and distorted bodies that moved randomly in a world of geometrically strained rooms and furniture, a tour of drug memories. Then a turn into dark and damp coldness, emptiness, aloneness, the sounds of dripping water that never hit the ground. Teresa's sexuality.
There was warmth filling a small passage that led to light, and I moved toward it. It was a small hole, the light too blinding to see beyond, but I already knew what lay behind. I ran in a crouch and dove through.
I was on green grass as the sun shone and a girl played in the midst of serenity. I approached her gingerly, walking around in a large circle so as not to frighten her coming up from behind. She turned to me without fear.
"Hello. Have you come to play?"
I knelt down and smiled. "Yes."
She had a stuffed bear and stuffed kitten on her lap. She handed me the kitten and a teacup on a saucer. "This is Puddles. You have to watch her because she spills her tea. Let me pour some for you." She poured the empty pot. "Now some for me, and some for Jeremy. Drink it all up."
I raised it to my lips.
"No, no, that's for Puddles."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Teresa." I put the cup to the kitten's sewn lips.
She cocked her head to one side. "How did you know my name?"
"We're good friends."
"No, we're not."
"I'd like us to be."
"Okay," she said. "What's your name?"
"Trace."
"That's not a name."
"Sure it is. It’s my name. Where are your parents?"
"Inside." She threw her hand over her shoulder indicating a place behind her, but there was only endless green grass.
"Inside where?"
She rolled her eyes. "The ground, silly."
I shivered and put down the cup. "Did they die?"
She shrugged. "I guess so. I don't know. They're not around anymore. Maybe they're in heaven."
I nodded. "How about we take a walk?"
"No, I want to play here."
"Just a short one," I said, standing. "There's someone I want you to meet."
"Who?"
"A friend. A lady. I think you'll like her."
"I don't want to leave Puddles and Jeremy alone."
"We'll come right back." I put out my hand.
"No." She said it firmly, holding onto her bear. "And you're scaring Jeremy."
I grabbed her hand. "We need to go." I thought of Tyler. "I want you to meet my little boy."
She hesitated, leaning away. "You said it was a lady."
"Yes, his mother. And him," I said. "He's about your age."
She stopped pulling for a second, long enough for me to grab her arm and pull her over the table. Toys and china dishes fell to the floor as I stood, knocking over the rest as I held her tightly and ran with crunching steps. The stuffed kitten and bear flew by my ear and landed on the grass in front of me. They turned, eyes menacing, arms outstretched and claws drawn. I kicked the bear and he flew off with a yelp, but the kitten grabbed my leg and I felt a tearing. I rammed my fist onto its head and it slid off. I took a few steps, then turned and kicked it back toward the playhouse.
“Puddles!” Teresa cried. Then, fighting: “Let me go. You’re hurting!”
I ran on over the soft grass toward the dark hole, entered hesitantly, then ran at full speed. Horrible images began to emerge and I thought of nothing but Tyler as they passed.
"You're not real, you're not real," I chanted. "You're just a memory, just an image. Not real."
The girl kicked wildly, pain tore at my side and I stumbled, but kept on. I turned a corner too fast, hitting a wall. I lost my balance, regained it for a brief second, then felt my feet slip out sideways as if on ice. Teresa skidded away, spinning, coming to a stop in a sitting position. Her mouth was open, mesmerized by an image on the wall. It loomed in front of her large as a movie, larger than life. Her, at ten or eleven, just a few years away, being held down by an older man while she screamed.
I scrambled to my feet. "Don't look, please, God, don't look!" She pushed herself away crab-like from the image she recognized as herself.
I ran over and got my hands under her arms, dragging her up, but seeing it was me began flailing again. I threw her back over my shoulder and ran away from her horrible future.
We came out of the darkness to stand before two holes which let in light like stained glass. Looking out, I could see the inside of the bungalow, and a familiar face, my own, looking in.
"Teresa,” I said, knowing somehow that she could see me behind her eyes. “Here. Look here.” I put her younger self down, holding her as she squirmed and kicked. "Look at her. Remember. This was you when you were young and innocent and the world couldn't touch you. Remember, back through all those years, to what’s truly important. This girl, you, her...she's the most important still. Remember."
I felt something like agreement in my soul and bent over, exhausted, dizzy, and as I did the young girl squirmed free. As I reached to grab her she was instantly sucked back the way we’d come, her face frozen in silent terror as she disappeared into darkness.
The eyes blinked. A voice asked: "Who are you?"
"Remember..." I repeated, teetering, and then I was gone as well.
Trace the Dead Eye Page 16
