by Sean Platt
First, he decided to search through her computer’s images. While none were named or tagged Boricio, or any derivative of, Mike found what he was looking for within minutes — a picture of four people, Mary, Paola, Boricio, and a woman who looked to be Boricio’s girlfriend.
“Bingo,” Mike said.
The image looked too much like the sketches of the suspect in his daughter’s death. Too similar for coincidence.
Mike saved all of Mary’s images to a flash drive, then clicked on her browser and began looking for anything relating to Boricio.
Unfortunately, her e-mail account’s stored password didn’t work. She must’ve changed it and not updated her browser. The first miss in his search so far.
He wondered if Mary was out of town. And if so, had she gone to visit Boricio? He checked her apps and found a personal finance application button, which, if she used it and synced it with her bank account, would update regularly to reflect her credit or bank card charges.
He clicked it and was thrilled to see Mary’s bank card history show up. He saw hotel and restaurant charges in L.A., from one day before.
Everything in Mike told him to come back another time and talk to Mary after she got back, until a tiny voice inside him prodded:
What if she’s with him? This could be your only chance.
Throughout Mike’s career as a cop, he had learned to trust his gut above all else. He wasn’t about to stop.
It was time to continue his road trip.
Mike wait until he was far away from Mary’s house before calling Margie to explain that he’d be on the road a little longer. Fortunately, she was used to his occasional road trips that he usually used for field research.
As he stuck Mary’s laptop under his jacket and left her house, placing the flowers beside Mary’s back door, Mike thought of his daughter again.
Soon, Honey. Soon, I’ll make everything right.
Twenty-Eight
Mary Olson
Malibu, California
By the look on his rosy cheeks, Boricio had slept like a baby. The rest of them slept horribly.
Mary hadn’t felt so on edge since fleeing the Drury that awful October past, then fearing for her life through every second of the long, hard winter, until Desmond led them to temporary solace at the Alabama farm.
Rose was clearly terrified, but didn’t want to talk about anything, preferring — or maybe even needing — to pretend that nothing had happened before her meeting with Marina. But as much as Rose wanted to pretend that her horrible reality didn’t exist, the truth was a blushing ache all over her face.
Boricio had returned to the hotel to “take care of the bodies,” whatever that meant, and he had done it for all of them, which horrified Rose in a way Mary could only imagine, but not truly understand. Mary had known both versions of Boricio, both before and after Luca’s fixing, and didn’t think there was anything about him that could surprise her. But Rose had known Boricio only as her lover. Mary was grateful for his earlier version, because it was that version who no doubt saved her life the night before, and would no doubt help her find an answer for Paola, if Rose’s machine failed to work.
Mary felt for Rose, thought she could practically hear her heart beating as they drove the coast toward Marina’s — even if she could buy Boricio’s reasoning that the bodies he buried were only dead because they were infected by some sentient monster from “who-knows-where-in-the-fuck-all,” and Mary wasn’t sure she did. Rose was clearly afraid that it was only a matter of time before they traced the bodies back to Boricio, then, of course to her.
Mary would be happy to reassure Rose, relay more of the horrible stories from the dead world that made Mary fear the police less than the living evil from that other Earth, the monster who swallowed her daughter, holding her prisoner until Luca had saved her, infecting her mind and turning her into an empty shell, or perhaps a marionette with pure evil as puppeteer. Mary would be glad to tell her why she trusted Boricio, despite his homicidal tendencies, though Rose didn’t obviously didn’t know much about those, if anything at all.
Rose clearly wanted none of that, wanted to know nothing, so she held her eyes to the window as Mary drove, following her cell phone’s directions and doing her best at pretending the night hadn’t happened. She would have to deal with it soon, after leaving Marina’s. Until then, Mary figured, Rose would be keeping her mind on the dotted line.
Sick as he was, Mary felt an irrefutable comfort from Boricio. She wished he was with them now, riding shotgun in the Volvo. Someone or something was after them. On the dead world It had invaded Paola, and Mary worried that It might go inside her again. Mary was haunted by that constant thought, ever since last night’s events.
What if It knows where we are, because It can see inside Paola, after having been inside her before?
Mary wished she was more like Rose, able to shut off her mind and simply not think about the creeping evil, but that wasn’t how she was wired. Mary would find a thought, and gravitate around it like a moth and flame, even if the flame threatened her sanity.
She wanted Boricio for protection, and friendship. Even though she had Paola riding in back, Mary barely knew Rose, and felt odd going with her alone to meet the leader of a well-known, and oft-ridiculed cult. She had a hard time believing she wouldn’t see Marina as thoroughly full of shit, and didn’t want to offend Rose if that was the case. If Boricio was with them, he’d say what she was thinking without Mary having to, since she was sure it wouldn’t be far from what he was thinking himself. Boricio never had problems telling it like it is. Mary would think it, he would say it, and save her the embarrassment of an unnecessary scene.
All three of them had asked Boricio to go, but he was barely awake and in need of some shuteye after disposing of the bodies.
They pulled up to Marina’s house — the J.L. Harmon Estate — and though Rose had prepared her and Paola for what they would see, Mary was unable to stifle her awe.
“Wow,” she whispered, turning to Paola in the seat behind her.
“No kidding,” Paola whispered, putting a lump in Mary’s throat, not from the words themselves, but because Mary still wasn’t used to her 13-year-old (baby girl) daughter looking as though she could legally drink.
They had approached the three-story house from behind, driving along a gorgeous stretch of dry and sandy Malibu beach, then behind a waterfall, and past what looked like an acre of lush landscaping before pulling to a stop in front of a sprawling palace. Everything about the house was giant: columns, windows, doors, and view.
Mary looked up to an upper floor window and saw a man looking down, no not looking, staring. An icy chill flooded her body, starting at the base of her neck and slithering low past her waist.
She tried to be like Rose, ignoring the stare as she slammed the Volvo door, greeted by a valet before they were led into the house and asked to wait in a sprawling foyer.
Marina showed up in fewer than five minutes, smiling wide as if there were cameras at the door.
Mary had seen Marina on TV, but was still surprised by her in-person beauty. More than just pretty, Marina was gorgeous. She looked freshly scrubbed, her cheeks lightly blushed, long, honey-colored hair piled high on her head. She turned to Rose, kissed her once on each cheek, said it was wonderful to see her, then turned to Mary and Paola, waiting for her introduction.
“These are my friends, Mary and Paola Olson,” Rose said, then turned back to Marina. “You helped me so much with my migraines, and my anxiety — which I hadn’t even told you about — that I was hoping you could help them as well. Thanks again for seeing us. Their problem is … special.”
“Of course,” Marina smiled, seeming pleased. “That’s why we’re here.”
Marina didn’t ask what their special problem might be, she just led them through the foyer and into a breathtaking study without any walls, just a single partition of glass running the length of the room and opening out to a pool, tennis court, and gard
ens so lush they made Desmond’s yard in Warson look like a desert.
Marina gestured for the three girls to sit in an oversized, white sofa, then she sat across from them and crossed her legs. “So,” she said, “what seems to be the trouble?”
Before Rose could answer, Mary said, “I’d rather not say.”
“You’d rather not say?” Marina raised her eyebrows, then without waiting for Mary’s response added, “Then how can I help you?”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. Harmon, but I’m not sure what to think about … any of this … and as much as I’d love to believe, I would have an easier time if I wasn’t telling you what sort of problem you were trying to solve.”
Instead of getting defensive, Marina smiled and said, “Go on.”
Mary held Marina’s eyes. “From what Rose has told me, your machine is called The Capacitor, and it fixes something you call The Current, which you believe to be some sort of metaphysical stream that exists between mind and body, is that correct?”
Marina smiled. “Roughly, yes, but it’s really not quite that simple.”
“Well,” Mary continued, “if that’s basically it, then I think you might be able to help us.”
Marina sat for a long minute, ignoring Rose as she looked from Mary to Paola and back, several times. Finally, her face slightly tensed, she said, “Very well then, follow me.” Marina stood from her overstuffed chair, then crossed the study to a door behind a long desk and swiped her thumb across a pad beside the door.
The door opened. Marina stepped through it, then turned toward the girls and motioned for them to follow. The new room was mostly bare except for a long tube with a small window at the top.
Paola said, “Isn’t anyone going to ask me what I think?”
Rose was silent, Mary stuttered. Marina said, “Of course, Dear, I’m so very sorry. What do you think?”
Paola looked at the machine, then at Marina. “I don’t care how it works, I just want to know if it can hurt me.”
“Of course not.” Marina shook her head. “If it could hurt you, we would never allow you inside it. It’s possible The Capacitor won’t do anything to you at all. I’ve seen that happen plenty, though I believe even then it’s delivering results we cannot see. Because The Capacitor works by repairing your cells, and improving The Current between mind and body, there’s no way it could possibly cause your harm. It’s either good, or nothing.”
“How can you be sure?” Paola asked.
Mary thought that Paola seemed uncomfortable, but wasn’t sure if her discomfort was because of the giant house, the stranger who owned it, the religion that bought it, or the odd, magical machine that could somehow promise the impossible.
“Well, Dear, you know what they say about death and taxes, right?”
“No,” Paola shook her head. She was too young to worry much about either, though she had more experience with the first than she should have.
“It means that nothing is certain. Intuition, yes. Inspiration, yes. But certainty, no. You can feel that something is true, but you can never know it for sure, even if it’s right in front of you. Proof can lie. If you begin with certainties, you’ll end up with doubts, that’s why it’s better to start with doubting and leave with belief.”
Paola seemed uncertain.
“Are you sure about this?” Mary asked her daughter.
“Even if it might help me, then yes. I don’t think I really have a choice. I mean, what do I have to lose?”
Mary didn’t want to answer with any one of the hundred things she thought could go wrong. Best not to add to her daughter’s apprehension. If Boricio was right, and this thing was a fancy placebo machine, she didn’t want to load her daughter with negative energy.
Marina said, “You have nothing to lose. If The Capacitor does nothing, then it does nothing, and I’m sorry it couldn’t help you. But you don’t have to worry about whether you believe in it, or joining our Church or anything like that. I’m offering it as a courtesy because of Rose. However, I will add that this experience is available to so few, almost no one, it would be an absolute shame to have such opportunity at your fingertips, only to turn your back on it.”
Paola was quiet, still thinking.
Marina added a final thought, “Sometimes, when opportunity knocks, you can’t hear it because your heart is beating too loud. It’s okay, I’ve been there before.” She leaned forward and took Paola’s hands. “Trust me.”
Mary bristled not wanting Marina to coerce her daughter into the machine, but before she could speak, Paola said, “I want to do it, I’m ready right now,” all in a single exhalation.
Paola stood, stepped toward The Capacitor, and eased herself inside; Mary thought the plush fabric behind her daughter’s back made it look like a coffin.
Paola might not have had questions, but Mary did. “What happens now?”
Rose still stood vacant beside them, likely maybe she was finally thinking about last night’s events.
“Nothing really,” Marina said. “We close it with you inside, then open it back in five minutes.”
“There’s nothing to set? No dials, no readouts, nothing like that?”
“No,” Marina said. “Nothing like that: It isn’t that type of machine.”
“I’m ready,” Paola said, again, in case it wasn’t painfully obvious to everyone.
Marina set her hand on the door but before she could close it, a man entered the room.
Marina looked up. “Steven!” she said, as if both surprised and happy to see him. The man smiled, turning to each of the girls and running his eyes across them, smiling as if in study. Mary recognized him as the man who’d been in the upper floor window staring at them. She wondered if he was one of the higher-ups in the cult, or Marina’s boyfriend, or both.
Marina asked, “What do you need?”
Something flitted across his face, undeniably odd, a sort of shocked recognition. “Nothing,” his smile widened, as if to bury discomfort. “I can see you’re busy, of course I can wait.”
He turned, then left the study without another word.
Marina turned back to Paola. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay,” she said, then repeated that she was ready.
As Marina closed the door Mary felt another chill, feeling like she’d seen the man somewhere before.
Twenty-Nine
Steven Warner
IT was anguished, sorting too many thoughts inside ITS mind.
Ugly, haunting, horrible, real.
Inescapable.
Confusing.
Last night had gone horribly.
IT had sent ITS minions to erase the disturbing presence of Boricio Wolfe, but plans unraveled, after barely starting. The man was stronger than IT had remembered on the other world when they’d faced one another before.
IT had failed.
IT had underestimated what was required.
IT had allowed others to do the work IT knew IT must now do ITSELF.
The biggest surprise wasn’t Boricio, it was that the hunter wasn’t alone: the woman Mary was with him — the woman whose daughter had hosted IT through the breath of an evening, back in the other world, before IT found the shell, John.
In the midst of ITS meditation, an ugly scent had invaded ITS nostrils. What was first sensed the night before had come nearer; so close that IT knew the smell was somewhere other than in ITS mind.
Then IT realized the scent was coming from outside: the woman, Mary.
And she wasn’t alone.
The last time IT had seen Mary, she was pregnant. IT could sense that she’d lost the baby after returning to Earth. Her sadness cloaked her in a dark aura.
With her, Mary brought the girl, her daughter, Paola. Such a tender mind; too tender to host one such as IT.
The girl’s scent was somehow different, not just older — though she was certainly that — but altered, transformed by The Light.
IT considered the memory — a file inside
ITS mind — then soured at the recall of the man child, Luca, hosting The Light, raising his own army against him on the other world. Though the attempt failed, it had wounded ITS strength.
IT opened ITS eyes, uncrossed ITS legs, then stood, slipped on a robe, and went to the window, peering through the glass and out onto the midnight-blue Volvo as it pulled up to the drive and idled in front of the valet.
The woman, Mary, looked up, and for a second IT wasn’t sure if she recognized ITS presence. IT continued to study her, feel — nearly bask — in her discomfort. No, IT decided, she had no clue who he was, only that there was something she should be feeling.
Humans were vapid, so unaware of their world. Such a diminished ability to be mindful, too often occupied by what they lacked, rather than seeing what was there before them.
Moments later, IT heard Marina on the other side of the door, preparing for the visitors; the visitors who had been to the other world.
IT thought how unfortunate it was that the man, Boricio Wolfe, wasn’t with them. It would be … convenient … to eliminate all threats at once.
These humans weren’t just survivors from the other world, they’d all been touched by The Light. It made them stronger, and more resistant to ITS influence. IT had to dispose of them before they could gain influence, before they, and The Light wherever it was hiding, raised an army against IT.
Why are they here?
Have they come to destroy me?
IT left the mediation room, went downstairs to Marina’s study, crossed to the far side, then pressed ITS ear to the door.
“Are you sure about this?” The woman, Mary, asked her daughter.
“Even if it might help me, then yes. I don’t think I really have a choice. I mean, what do I have to lose?”
Marina was selling the girl on the machine.
