Memory Hole

by Douglas Jern

  The woman screamed as she drew closer, eyes wide and teeth bared, like a crazed attack dog bearing down on its prey. The resemblance was so striking that Homer could almost see the foam dribbling from her mouth. She was set on bloody murder, and Homer was happy to oblige her. With a slight modification, of course. He traced history back to the point just before he had killed the driver of the van, smiling as he met the woman’s gaze. It was done.

  Switch

  The knife was in the woman’s hand as she fell to her knees in front of the dying target. Homer moved away from her, affecting the same fright he had three hours earlier, and was accepted into the folds of a new herd of spectators.

  He watched the woman closely, looking for any sign of suspicion on her face. She showed none; she was silent, seemingly overwhelmed by the monstrosity she had committed, oblivious to her surroundings.

  As he heard sirens approaching, Homer decided to make himself scarce. He was out of fresh disguises for the day and would rather not be seen by the police if he could avoid it. The people in the crowd did not even glance at him as he walked by—they were far too preoccupied with the tragedy unfolding before them.

  Homer brushed away the mild uncertainty that tempered his elation at his success. It was true that he could not be entirely sure that the woman was unwise to his deception, and there was no time to confirm it. Still, he reasoned with himself, after running into the first person in thirty years to see through his power, the idea that he would encounter another one on same day was preposterous.

  Besides, if he were to start doubting his power now, where would it end? No, this morning’s incident must have been the exception that confirmed the rule, and letting himself be ruled by fear of repetition would be like refusing to go outside in rough weather for fear of being struck by lightning.

  Satisfied with a job well done, Homer went home.

  EVENING, NOW

  “…suspect has been identified by police as Laura Greenwood, a freelance journalist. She is believed to be accompanied by Detective Zachary Zimmerman of the Stonewell City Police Department, who aided her escape from the police station where she was being held in custody. Police are asking citizens to report any sighting of Greenwood or Zimmerman, who are both to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Greenwood was arrested earlier today on the suspicion of three murders, one of which was that of her own brother, Jeffrey Greenwood, who was also in police custody at the time…”

  Laura’s face, taken from a photograph posted on her blog, stared at Homer from the TV screen, smiling happily, as if she did not have a care in the world. It was hard to believe that the woman in this picture mere hours ago had been dashing towards him with bloodlust in her eyes, her face contorted with rage. The name echoed in his ears in tones of foreboding. Greenwood. The implications of her escape from custody were serious, and in view of her relation to Jeffrey, alarming.

  Siblings!

  Homer looked to his right, at the bookshelf where the old baseball lay on a red cushion, occupying the place of honor in the center of the shelf. He had never used it since that day, and it still bore the dirt and dust of the years gone by, preserved in a sealed plastic bag until he had settled down in the apartment he now called home. There were no photographs in Homer’s apartment, no memorabilia to tell the tale of his life, save for the baseball. It was the only physical thing in his possession from the time before Homer Moley, from the time when he had still been Robert Bauman, from the time when Rick had still been alive.

  He turned off the TV, silencing the newscaster mid-sentence, and walked over to the bookshelf. He picked up the baseball and held it to his forehead as he had done so many times before, feeling the warmth of that long-gone summer day radiating from the orb of leather, as though it was a tiny sun. He had killed Rick that day, or at least had brought Alan’s fury down upon him, which amounted to the same thing.

  He put the baseball back on its cushion and gave it a final, loving caress. There was no hate in him now. Just as living with Alan had extinguished his sense of pain, so had killing him vaporized his ability to hate. And through use of his powers, cunning manipulation of facts and obfuscation of his own identity, there had been no one left who could hate him.

  Until now.

  Siblings. Laura’s escape from police custody now made perfect sense to Homer. She was like her brother. Like Jeffrey, she had somehow seen through the Memory Hole’s deception, recognizing Homer as her brother’s killer. And now she was out for revenge. Inadvertently though it may have been, he had become her Alan. She would never forgive him, as he knew he would never forgive her had their roles been reversed. It was clear what he had to do.

  Laura Greenwood must die.

  PART THREE

  REVENGE

  AUGUST 9, NOW

  00:00 – Homer

  The interior of the warehouse was dim. Faint moonlight sifted through the dirty windows, enhancing rather than dispelling the darkness. The empty shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling were like the ruins of an ancient city, dead and forgotten for centuries.

  The minute hand of Homer’s old Timex passed twelve. Midnight. If Laura were true to her word, she would be here any minute now. He adjusted the sleeves of his suit, ensuring the concealed knives were securely in place. He carried no visible weapons and had instructed the Survivors inside the warehouse not to carry any firearms. Though he doubted that the sound of gunshots would carry beyond the warehouse walls—let alone raise alarm if they did, given the lawlessness of the neighborhood—guns were a liability to be avoided whenever possible. Besides, he had always been more comfortable with blades.

  As soon as he had received Laura’s message agreeing to the meeting, Homer had begun the preparations. Getting in touch with the owner of the warehouse had been a simple matter; as a member of the Survivor’s Network, he was at Homer’s beck and call. He had obeyed Homer’s every command, making sure the warehouse was closed for business for the next five days, (a concession that Homer suspected made little difference to the owner’s profits given the state of the place) and ordering the materials for the modifications Homer wanted done. Three trucks had arrived in the afternoon and the owner’s goons had scurried back and forth between them and the warehouse, carrying crates and setting up walls like good little worker ants. The job was finished in four hours, not a bad time, and Homer had come in to inspect the results at nine in the evening.

  Just as he had instructed, an enclosure had been constructed in the center of the warehouse, made up of black wooden boards three meters tall. There was an opening in the south wall of the enclosure, wide enough for a man to walk through. A roofed corridor made of the same black boards had been constructed between the enclosure and the south entrance of the warehouse, and all other entrances had been sealed off. There was also a hidden door in the northwest corner of the enclosure, which could be opened with a strong shove in case of emergency.

  Once the enclosure was finished, the workers had carried in the final and most ingenious part of Homer’s request and installed it to his liking. With this, every angle was covered.

  There were four Survivors with him in the enclosure, and two others posted outside by the south entrance. Who they were was not important to him right now; they were there to serve as human shields, nothing more. Laura was coming to kill him, and he did not know how much she knew of his power, or what secret tricks she may have up her sleeve. Bringing several Survivors together was something he would rather avoid, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  Of the four Survivors positioned in the corners of the enclosure, only one mattered enough to warrant Homer’s recognition. Joey Valenti stood to Homer’s right, sweating profusely despite the relative cool of the warehouse. And he had ample reason to be nervous; this would be his last night alive. Joey had been a useful addition to the Survivor’s Network, well-connected but largely unimportant. He had served Homer well as a messenger boy. But the fact that Laura had sought him out to inqui
re about Homer suggested that Joey had been running his mouth off to the wrong people, crossing the fine but crucial line that divided aggrandizing rumor from incriminating testimony. He would have to go. Upon seeing Homer enter about half an hour earlier, Joey had let out a loud shriek and fallen on his knees. Homer had smiled at him, which set off another frightened yelp, and then taken his position at the rear of the enclosure, between Joey and another Survivor whose name he did not recall. Joey had eventually managed to get back on his feet, and now stood there, trembling and perspiring, casting frightened glances at Homer.

  All four of the present Survivors—six counting the guards outside—were acceptable collateral should the encounter with Laura turn violent, which he expected it to. He had instructed her to come alone and ordered the guards to shoot anyone else approaching on sight. If Laura should die before reaching the interior of the warehouse, he would accept the outcome and declare the affair finished. But if she made it in here, alone or otherwise, he looked forward to an interesting and informative conversation.

  The voice of one of the outside guards issued from the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

  “She’s here, boss. Alone like you said. Do we let her in?”

  He took the walkie-talkie and thumbed the SEND button.

  “Affirmative. Send her in.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  The walkie-talkie fell silent, and Homer felt his pulse increase. This was it. In just a few seconds, Laura Greenwood would emerge from the corridor into the enclosure. Soon he would learn her secret. Or not. In any case, Laura was a dead woman walking.

  00:00 – Laura

  The warehouse looked bigger in the dark. It seemed to loom over her like a living thing as she approached it. An unbidden memory of her dream crept into her mind, but she shut it away. She could not afford to hesitate now. In the light of a yellow lamp mounted above the entrance, she could see two armed men standing guard. They raised their guns as she drew near.

  “Identify yourself!” barked one of them, a stocky man with a big handlebar mustache.

  “It’s me. Laura Greenwood. I’m here to see Homer Moley.”

  The mustachioed man lowered his gun and fished out a walkie-talkie from his jacket pocket. He thumbed a button and spoke into it:

  “She’s here, boss. Alone like you said. Do we let her in?”

  There was a brief pause, then the walkie-talkie crackled. Homer’s voice sounded like he was talking from inside an empty refrigerator. Hearing it sent chills down Laura’s spine. It was the voice from her dream, hornets and all.

  “Affirmative,” it said. “Send her in.”

  That was all. The guard said, “Okay, boss,” and put the walkie-talkie back in his pocket. He nodded at Laura. As she made to enter the warehouse, the guard blocked her off.

  “Not so fast, honeybunch,” he said. “Gotta frisk you first.”

  This was it. The moment of truth. If the guards discovered Brianna’s gun tucked in Laura’s waistband, there would be trouble. Laura focused on the man in front of her, pushing herself into his mind. As she had expected, it was harder than entering Zachary’s or Leo’s minds had been. This was a stranger, whose mind she had never seen before. She faced resistance, as if there was a thick plastic sheet blocking the path. She focused harder, imagining her mental probe as rays of light passing through a lens, converging onto a single point to burn through the obstacle… and she was in. She had broken through the barrier and could see the pattern in the man’s mind. The rest was easy.

  You have already frisked me, and I wasn’t carrying anything. Let me pass.

  Laura beamed the message into the guard’s mind and saw the pattern shift. She pulled out, returning to herself with a jolt that almost rocked her off her feet. The guard looked nonplussed for a second, then stepped aside. Laura turned to his companion and repeated the process, noting with satisfaction that it was easier this time.

  When she was sure the guards wouldn’t trouble her anymore, she directed a new message at both of them.

  Two men will come here after me. You will let them pass. You will ask no questions, and you will not report to Homer.

  Transmitting to two people at once was harder, but she didn’t have a lot of time. If she didn’t show up in the warehouse soon, Homer might grow suspicious.

  As if on cue, the man with mustache said:

  “Are you going inside, or what?”

  “I was just about to,” said Laura and hurried through the door. She hadn’t been able to confirm if her command had taken root in the minds of the two men. She hoped it had. For now, all she could do was go on, hoping that Zachary and Leo would make it inside the warehouse without trouble.

  Once her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw that she was in a narrow corridor constructed out of black wooden boards. Now she knew what the men carrying the crates had been up to. It was a clever scheme; anyone going into the warehouse would have to pass through the corridor, which was only wide enough to permit a single person at a time.

  The corridor turned left, then right, zig-zagging its way to God knew where. Finally, as she turned yet another corner, she saw a dim light ahead. She had come to the end of the corridor, which opened into an enclosure about five meters long and five meters wide, made from the same boards as the corridor. The enclosure was unroofed, open to the wide expanse of the warehouse. Beyond the walls, rows of shelves stretched up toward the ceiling like skeletal arms, just like in her dream.

  But it was the enclosure itself, and the people in it, that caught her attention.

  When she emerged from the corridor, she froze up, caught off guard by the huge crowd of people facing her, all of them standing stock still at regularly spaced intervals as far as the eye could see.

  Her first thought was that it couldn’t be possible. The warehouse was big, but not big enough to house this many people, to say nothing of the infinite space stretching out before her. For a moment, her mind refused to accept what her eyes were seeing. Then she saw what was really there and understood.

  The walls of the enclosure were covered in mirrors. She had emerged from the corridor into a miniature funhouse, reflections reflecting reflections all the way into eternity. The crowd was, in reality, five people standing between the mirrors, and once she had wrapped her head around that fact, the second shock came.

  The man standing in the center was Homer Moley.

  He was watching her with bright eyes that nailed her to the spot. His face was hard to make out in the dim light, but she recognized his eyes—they were straight from her dream. He was wearing a gray suit and black leather shoes. As far as she could see, he was unarmed. The thought offered little comfort.

  Homer took an ostentatious bow, sweeping his arm to one side. Laura half expected him to say, “Welcome to my humble abode.” With his eyes out of her view, she found that she could think clearly. She understood the purpose of the mirrors now and knew the final secret of Homer’s power. The knowledge filled her with dread. With every wall around them a mirror, every angle was covered. And she was outnumbered five to one. Even with the gun, she wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Homer raised his head and smiled at her. She could tell he was enjoying this. Apparently, he liked playing to an audience.

  “Welcome, Laura. So glad you could join us.”

  “Drop the act, Homer. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “But there is so much I want to ask you, Laura. There is no need to rush.”

  He snapped his fingers and the men standing in the corners advanced, surrounding them.

  “First of all, I would like to thank you for contacting me,” said Homer. “When I got the message from Joey here, I could hardly believe my luck.”

  Laura noticed Joey for the first time. He was standing to her left with his eyes downcast, shaking like a leaf.

  Back in the center of the story again, huh, Joey? thought Laura, remembering Joey’s fluctuating confidence at the diner. There was no confidence in him now, only f
ear.

  “You are a hard woman to track down, you know,” continued Homer. “I found your blog, and read it with some interest, but nowhere could I find your address. Your name is not even in the phonebook.”

  “I’ve always valued my privacy. Helps keep creeps like you away.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Joey cringe. She ignored him.

  Homer laughed.

  “I can imagine! There are, of course, many ways for someone like me to find people, slow and costly though they may be. But you came to me instead, saving me quite the bit of trouble. I suppose I should thank both you and Joey.”

  He hesitated. “But then again…”

  Laura had never seen anyone act on their intentions so quickly before.

  A flash of violent intent surfaced from the churning swirl of evil that was Homer’s mind a split second before he reached up his sleeve and pulled out a thin knife with the precision and speed of a veteran magician. Laura barely had time to blink before Homer swept the blade across his throat, spilling a cascade of murky red blood onto the dusty floor. His eyes had been steadily on her throughout the act, but now they flickered to her left, and she knew what he was going to do. A halo of dazzling light burst from his head, howling through her mind, and the world shifted.

  Switch

  Joey collapsed to the floor, blood spurting from his throat, his screams choked into feeble gurgles. The other three men looked on in silence, shock writ large on their faces and oozing from their minds in a cloying haze. They hadn’t been let in on this part of the arrangements.

  That could have been me, thought Laura, unable to look away from the dying man on the floor. Homer could have killed me right now, just like that.

  Eventually Joey stopped thrashing, and the flow of blood diminished to a trickle. A carmine pool had spread across the concrete floor, washing over Laura’s shoes. The sharp, metallic smell was nauseating, but she forced herself to keep her cool. The three remaining men were even more frightened than she was, but Homer was calm. After the initial spark of violence, his composure hadn’t faltered for a second. He remained in the center of the enclosure, ignoring the blood soaking his shoes. His eyes were on her again, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to resist their hypnotic allure.