Interference

by S. L. LUCK

  Never before had Troy succumbed to his Dark Friend when he was with someone. Until then, he had always managed to refuse his Dark Friend’s entry into his psyche when he wasn’t alone, but not for fear of hurting others. He repressed his Dark Friend because of what its discovery might do to himself.

  That night in his mother’s car was the first time his Dark Friend joined him in the presence of another, and it gave him a greater euphoria than he had ever known. Misty’s distress hardened him until his erection was almost painful. Almost. Every time Misty screamed, his Dark Friend cheered him on, stroking those inner parts of him he kept hidden but were then very much alive, feeding him the way only his Dark Friend could. When it was over, Misty’s eye makeup was dripping down her cheeks, and her nose was leaking over her lips and chin. The quiver of her breath through her wet nose evoked a vulnerability that he found particularly appealing, and he told her how beautiful she was. Then he let go of her wrists and pressed the button that lowered the window. Some of Misty’s hair had fallen on the gravel outside. More fluttered onto his mother’s floor mat beside them. That was when Misty slapped him and flung herself out of the Corolla’s open window, screaming.

  He should have killed her. Instead, Troy threw her sandals out of the car, over the cliff, and drove off, letting Misty find her own way home. For a long time, he wondered if Misty would complain to the police. He didn’t feel like a rapist. The first part had been very consensual, and Troy felt that the latter was just a rough extension of their intimacy. He didn’t want to end up in prison, however, so he bided his time, waiting for the event to catch up with him, but Misty never did tell. He suffered no dirty looks from her friends at school, no angry appearance from her parents, no investigative phone call from the police. As weeks then months went by, when he’d gone on a number of boring dates—only so more girls could confirm that he was a decent human being—his Dark Friend’s whispers once again became demands.

  It wasn’t sex his Dark Friend wanted. It was never sex, though sometimes it did start out that way. It was pain. It was fear. It was terror and agony and the slow crawl of death. His Dark Friend roared with approval when Troy was patient, shunned him like a child when he was not. There were rewards for making his Dark Friend happy. That thing inside him gave him strength and a level of cunning he didn’t think any other person had. Now his Dark Friend wanted Anabelle. Get her, it told him. In the thirty plus years of their partnership, his Dark Friend had never demanded a specific death; any death would do. But the strangeness of Anabelle so tantalized his Dark Friend that Troy felt it salivating inside his head.

  But how to get close to a protected woman? If his mother were still at Garrett General, he might have been able to figure it out. He could have seduced the hospital staff, perhaps even the uniformed officers he saw outside her door when he chanced an elevator ride up that way on the second night of his mother’s stay. That close, his Dark Friend was almost frenzied with eagerness, and it was Troy who had to hold him back. It pained him to do so. When the elevator doors opened, Troy didn’t expect his skin to burn or his eyes to water or his mouth to tremble like a lost hiker in a desert coming upon a mirage. But that’s what it was. When those doors opened, the feeling that came over Troy almost crushed him to his knees. It was a drop of water on a dry tongue, a nibble of bread after a hunger strike, the bellow of a ship’s horn to the shores of an almost deserted island. Whatever Anabelle was, it was what his Dark Friend wanted. No. It was what his Dark Friend needed.

  Go back Troy. Dump your mother and go back! The voice inside his head ordered him as they drove to Southbridge. And if it weren’t for the radio report on the river and the chaos that put the entire city on edge, well, he supposed he would have gone back and snuck into Anabelle’s room. Reflecting now as he drove, however, he was glad he hadn’t. The state he was in, his work would have been sloppy and sent him straight to prison.

  He hadn’t got to where he was by being sloppy, though. Troy had been a meticulous student ever since the first grade. Where other kids tossed their coats and books and bags around the cloak room in his school, Troy—always the last one in and the last one out—carefully gathered his things and put them in their proper places. Even with that first cat he was careful, waiting until the winter when the stench wouldn’t attract attention. And he’d only advanced to people when he’d gotten into enough of a rhythm with stray cats and dogs that he could keep surprises to a minimum. He learned that darkness, inner and outer, was his friend and that solitude was an even greater companion. Victims without partners or children or friendships were as easy as candles: a quick blow and you’d never known they’d been lit at all. He couldn’t do this with Anabelle, of course. There were too many eyes, too many people enmeshed in her recovery. The whole city was rooting for her, for fuck’s sake, so Troy had to abandon his preferred method of hunting and instead approach the only other way he knew how: with paperwork.

  As luck would have it, he found Anabelle’s father in the hospital cafeteria being badgered by Jessica Chung. A large man, William Cheever was taller than Jessica even as he sat eating a bowl of soup. Troy had come down for a respite from his mother’s whining and saw the reporter shove a microphone between the man’s face and his rising spoon. Unconcerned with the look of utter despondency on William’s face, Jessica ordered her cameraman out from behind a curved metal art installation and told him to keep rolling no matter what. Calmly, William Cheever returned his spoon to his bowl, wiped his lips, and pushed back from the table. Heads turned and mouths gasped as William attempted to stand but fell back into his chair when Jessica leaned against him, demanding he give the city an update on his daughter and what was really happening in the ICU. Ordinarily, Troy would have left a situation like this alone. Unless it involved malpractice action, there was no benefit for his involvement. The scene was dark providence of course, and when Troy swept in to rescue William, he knew he had found his way to Anabelle.

  Presently two blocks away from the Cheever’s north-side bungalow where they would review their representation agreement, Troy wondered not for the first time what it was from Anabelle that his Dark Friend wanted. His is Dark Friend’s urgency suggested to him that either Anabelle’s otherness would go away or that something or someone else might want it too; and though he tried to push these thoughts aside, the latter wouldn’t be suppressed. He sought an explanation from his Dark Friend. Why her? Why now? he asked the voice inside him.

  Because, was his Dark Friend’s only answer, coming in the form of a headache. A punishment for inquisitiveness.

  Troy rubbed his temples, blinked, and slowed his speed as he finally pulled into the Cheevers’ driveway. His quick penalty indicated to Troy that there was something his Dark Friend wasn’t telling him, so he chanced one last question. Are we alone? he asked, turning the engine off. He felt a constriction inside him, as though his Dark Friend was trying to close up the spaces where Troy might discover the answer. Briefcase in hand, Troy waited inside his car, pretending to read a message on his phone but really seeing nothing at all because his vision suddenly blurred. Then a great expanding filled Troy, rushing through his bones, his bloodstream, his soul. His vision returned forcefully, and Troy saw with terrible certainty that there was another that wanted the same thing he was after.

  No, his Dark Friend finally said. We are not alone.

  19

  On the long stretch of city-owned grassland between the Botcher and Fischer farms on the northeastern edge of the city, Garrett’s fairgrounds were bustling with preparations for the Fall Festival. The previous week, a record eighty-seven tents had been erected and now organizer Perry Searles was busy confirming the would-be occupants with volunteer Dakota Cardinal as they wound along the path, checking paper place holders against their floorplan. As with previous layouts, they positioned the rides outside of the tented area, along the western perimeter, where the giant Ferris Wheel, Zipper, and coaster rides were large enough to draw attention to an otherwise iso
lated area of the park. Middle-sized rides—the Parachute Drop, Giant Swing, Giant Slide, Gravitron, and the stomach-flipping Kamikaze—abutted both the larger rides and those more suitable for toddlers and younger children. From this amusement area, festivalgoers would pass through a historic covered bridge to the tented area where the men now checked the boxes on their sheets. “That one’s not right, Dak,” Perry said to him, pointing to a large corner booth. “That’s Darwin’s Donuts, not Edna’s Eatables.”

  Dak frowned, looking from his clipboard to the place holders, back to his clipboard. “I swear I had them right this morning.”

  “Isn’t her son one of our volunteers?” Perry asked, reminding Dak that Edna’s own husband had pulled the switcheroo on them the year before, and the year before that, too cheap to spend the extra hundred bucks for the better space. They had caught on, of course, but it hadn’t stopped Edna from telling anyone who would hear that Perry and Dak were xenophobes and that the corner spaces had rats in them.

  “We don’t get paid enough for this crap,” Dak said, returning their holders to their proper places.

  “Smiles and bullshit ain’t enough for you?” Perry joked.

  “I get enough of that from my kids,” Dak said honestly.

  In truth, both his sons had grown to be fine men. Jesse had a reputable career with the city in animal enforcement, and Johnny had shown promise in law enforcement, but whether his younger son continued on the right side of the law was another story. Though his sons thought otherwise, Dak wasn’t oblivious to Johnny’s antics. Dak’s childhood friend Dan Fogel was sure to keep him apprised of any encounters with the boys. Dak was aware of everything; from the time Johnny had crashed the quad he wasn’t yet old enough to drive to the time Jesse, goaded by his classmates, had stolen five chickens from Roy Botcher’s henhouse and let them loose in the locker room at Elliot High an hour before their senior team was meeting Garrett High in the basketball quarter final.

  Dak forgave those misdemeanors in stride, accepting them as intrinsic to childhood, as his own father had when Dak himself was younger. Whoever the perpetrator, both boys listened to Dak’s fatherly advice when they misbehaved, but it was Johnny’s eyes that seemed to gloss over until the talks were over. The boys were grown men now, but it was no surprise to Dak to hear from Dan how Johnny got picked up for fighting at Shooter’s and spent the night in jail over the summer. Dak feigned ignorance and didn’t bail him out, believing a night in the slammer without them coddling him would do more for Johnny than another talk. Months afterward, with a glowing review from Dan for Johnny’s summer internship, Dak became cautiously optimistic that Johnny was closer to maturity than to childhood.

  He finished his round with Perry, satisfied that no other cheapskates had made switches, and they set toward the parade staging area where dozens of volunteers were clustered around a handful of floats.

  Away from the shade of the tents, the air was so hot and damp that both men were layered in sweat once they hit Roy Botcher’s driveway, where half the floats would eventually gather before their trip to City Hall and back. Panting, Perry aired the collar of his shirt and Dak rolled up his sleeves, wishing he had worn a t-shirt. “I tell you, Dak, I haven’t seen an October like this since I was in diapers, and that was sixty years ago. It’s so damn hot.”

  “That must have been crap you were feeling,” Dak said. “It’s never been this hot in October.”

  A strange look came over Perry’s face and he slowed his stride to look at Dak. He spoke quietly, confidentially. “Snow yesterday, heatwave today. The river dryin’ up. That bus crash. Those goddamned birds damn near breaking every window in the city. You get a funny feeling about all this?” Perry took one of his Nicorettes from his front pocket and began to chew.

  Dak wiped the back of his neck with his sleeve. “It’s strange all right.”

  “Strange? It’s more than fucking strange, Dak.” Perry’s voice was a wild whisper, and Dak remembered that Perry avidly read the Enquirer for his weekly dose of conspiracy nonsense. “Shit’s happening here, Dak. You know the Feds are in town? Did you know that? There must have been twenty SUVs in the convoy I saw. Drove right by my house, Dak. Right by it, I tell you, and they weren’t stopping for groceries. Something’s going on, and maybe it’s just Garrett, but maybe the whole damn country is going to get like this, maybe the world.”

  Dak looked at the horizon, where the sun was red and angry. He kicked at the gravel on Roy’s driveway. “You want to know what I think, Perry? I think Nature’s angry. I think she’s mad at what we’ve done, and now it’s her turn to get even with us.”

  Perry stopped walking. “Your Elder tell you that?”

  “Don’t need to hear from an Elder to know that we’re destroying the planet.”

  “That’s crazy talk. Nature getting even, now I’ve heard it all. You want to know what I think it is? It’s aliens, if you ask me. They’re doing some spooky shit here and it’s all going to come out when we start getting beamed up for experiments.”

  “Now who’s talking crazy?”

  They were interrupted by the double beep of Jesse’s horn as he pulled into Roy’s driveway. The boys looked upset with each other, as usual, but they greeted Dak and Perry with the smiles that had always tugged at Dak’s heart. To Dak’s surprise, his own mother was in Jesse’s back seat. He stepped to the car and opened the door for her.

  “You three got some secret plans I don’t know about?” Dak asked when they were all out.

  “Go easy on her, Pops, she’s had a tough morning. Aunty Hattie just passed away,” Jesse said, rubbing his grandmother’s back.

  Mavis pulled a tissue from her purse and wiped her nose as Dak hugged her. “The devil’s come to town, Dak,” she whimpered. “The devil’s here, I can feel it.” Her shoulders trembled and Dak held her until her shaking subsided while the boys and Perry looked on.

  “What happened?” he asked when he released her.

  Mavis sniffed, dabbing her eyes. “She was fine yesterday. We had tea and she was perfectly fine. She was knitting a scarf for the snowman on the float and then … then …”

  It was Johnny who finally explained. “She swallowed her CPAP hose while she was sleeping. Aunty Dorothy called Grandma this morning and she called Mom, so we picked her up.” For seventy-two years, ever since grade school, Mavis, Dorothy, and Hattie had been best friends. The three had been through graduations, marriages, births, deaths, and divorces together. Dak himself had grown up calling Hattie and Dorothy his aunts, though there was not a speck of relation between them. They were also aunties to his sons and their kids cousins to Jesse and Johnny, a bond thicker than blood, so the news of Hattie’s death brought a film of tears to his eyes.

  “What do you mean, she swallowed it? Those things are attached to masks. They don’t just up and go down your throat.” Dak frowned, regretting that he’d left his phone in his truck, where he was sure there were many missed messages.

  “Mom called Lionel and he confirmed it. They said it was a freak accident, that the hose might have been loose and went in when she rolled over or something,” Jesse told his father.

  Visualizing the misfortune, Dak’s face went gray and his throat tightened. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” he whispered thickly and took her to him again.

  They cried while onlookers pretended not to eavesdrop. The boys, too, joined in on their hug, and the family shared a moment of grief until Perry politely coughed.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Cardinal. Mrs. Freemont was a wonderful woman.”

  “The best,” Mavis agreed with a sniffle, squinting at him through the blaring sunlight.

  “Johnny, fetch Grandma a pair of sunglasses, will you?” Dak instructed, and a moment later Mavis was wearing Johnny’s own Ray-Bans, two sizes too big for her narrow face.

  “I can check the floats on my own if you want, Dak. You go be with your family and we’ll catch up tomorrow. I’ll be fine,” Perry said, grinding his gum as he worke
d out how much he had to do before he could leave. Lena would understand if he weren’t home for dinner again. This time of year, a hot meal was something of a rarity for Perry, but it was a small sacrifice for the adulation he received. Had he chosen a more exciting career—in archeology or engineering perhaps—Perry figured he wouldn’t need the action and excitement of the Fall Fair. But he had chosen accounting, so cold October food it was.

  “Nonsense,” Mavis said now, swinging her big bug eyes at Perry. “I’m here to help, and help is what I’ll do. Hattie would have wanted us to keep going. I may be a bit teary, but I’ll be fine. Just show me where the Southbridge float is and leave me be.” Johnny’s glasses slid down her nose, but she pushed them back up, waiting for directions.

  “Are you sure—” Dak started and saw his mother’s lips harden. Behind her, his sons shook their heads.

  “Aunty Dorothy is waiting for her,” Jesse said. “They’re going to craft in Aunt Hattie’s honor.”

  “I think that’s a fine idea,” Perry said gratefully. He pointed to the line of displays further down Roy Botcher’s driveway. “Southbridge is the third one down, with the gray tarp around it. Lucked out with the weather this year that some of them are building their displays outside.”

  Mavis had already begun walking to the Southbridge display when she stopped and turned to Perry. She blew her nose into a tissue and stuffed it in her pocket, regarding him with a certainty that made Perry pull back. “It’s not luck we’re having, dear. It’s the arrival of hell.”