tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15354790640836307892024-03-13T16:36:32.516-07:00TOUCHEverything has a story to tell.T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-68861904477463238602011-06-16T21:44:00.000-07:002011-06-16T22:30:30.539-07:00First Draft Complete!6/16/2011<br /><br />Dear Readers,<br /><br />Thank you to all of you who read <em>Touch </em>as I posted this first draft a chapter at a time. I apologize that due to other projects the posting was so infrequent these last couple of months. I hope you found it to be an entertaining story. Personally, I have really enjoyed watching this idea grow.<br /><br />After I allow this manuscript to rest a month or two, I plan on returning to <em>Touch</em> to give it a final polish. Hopefully, by the end of this summer I will have this novel available for readers as a free ebook in multiple formats. I also plan on putting out a paperback edition for those who might be interested in purchasing a copy.<br /><br />For those of you who were waiting till I reached the end before reading this thing: Well, it is now complete. At least this first draft. I have the complete table of contents below for easy reference:<br /><br /><br /><br /><ul><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/01/chapter-i-guardrail.html">Chapter I: The Guardrail</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/01/chapter-ii-bloody-orange-grove.html">Chapter II: The Bloody Orange Grove</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/01/chapter-iii-this-aint-ritz-carlton.html">Chapter III: This Ain't the Ritz Carlton</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/01/chapter-iv-green-tiger.html">Chapter IV: The Green Tiger</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/02/chapter-v-turkey-sandwich.html">Chapter V: A Turkey Sandwich</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/02/chapter-vi-ripples.html">Chapter VI: Ripples</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/02/chapter-vii-leg.html">Chapter VII: The Leg</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/02/chapter-viii-economy-suite.html">Chapter VIII: The Economy Suite</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/03/chapter-ix-coffee-and-cigarettes.html">Chapter IX: Coffee and Cigarettes</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/03/chapter-x-swans.html">Chapter X: Swans</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/03/chapter-xi-loving-embrace.html">Chapter XI: A Loving Embrace</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/03/chapter-xii-its-gonna-be-long-night.html">Chapter XII: It's Gonna Be a Long Night</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/03/chapter-xiii-checking-in.html">Chapter XIII: Checking In</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/04/chapter-xiv-house-of-rising-sun.html">Chapter XIV: The House of the Rising Sun</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/04/chapter-xv-mr-green.html">Chapter XV: Mr. Green</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/04/chapter-xvi-where-angels-sing.html">Chapter XVI: Where Angels Sing</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/04/chapter-xvii-medieval-constructs.html">Chatper XVII: Medieval Constructs</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/05/chapter-xviii-poolside.html">Chapter XVIII: Poolside</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/05/chapter-xix-spare-rod-and-spoil-child.html">Chapter XIX: Spare the Rod and Spoil the Child</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/06/chapter-xx-mrs-green.html">Chapter XX: Mrs. Green</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/06/chapter-xxi-mommy.html">Chapter XXI: Mommy</a></li><br /><br /><br /><li><a href="http://touchanonlinenovel.blogspot.com/2011/06/chapter-xxii-kiss.html">Chapter XXII: A Kiss</a></li></ul><br /><br /><p>Thank you again for reading!!!</p><br /><br /><p>Sincerely,</p><br /><br /><p>T.J.</p>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-78940203550466225772011-06-16T21:32:00.000-07:002011-06-16T21:43:02.474-07:00Chapter XXII: A Kiss<div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through an open window. He was thirsty. He looked around and saw Gloria sitting in a chair next to him. He realized he was in a hospital. There was a muted television on a stand above the foot of his bed set to ESPN. A silent golf tournament was underway. The room smelled of antiseptic and Freon. A filthy air conditioning unit rattled next to the window as it blew out a cold and steady breeze.<br /><br />Gloria reached over and took Bill's hand. "Hey guy, how you doing?"<br /><br />Bill smiled. "Not so hot."<br /><br />She smiled back. "Well, that's to be expected after getting a load of buck shot in your arm."<br /><br />As if reading his mind, she held up a Styrofoam cup. He drank, gratefully, and enjoyed the sensation of ice cold water on his palate. "Thank you," he said, aware of a dribble of water falling from his lips.<br /><br />"Don't mention it." Gloria reached up and wiped his lips with a paper tissue.<br /><br />"How long was I out?"<br /><br />"Long enough for me to have some news. I don't know how you did it, Bill. I don't understand this thing at all, but that skull was more than enough for a warrant. More than enough for a couple arrests."<br /><br />"The Greens?"<br /><br />She nodded. "We thought it was a single guy, but we were wrong. It happens. There was a storage building on the property, off in the woods a ways." She frowned. "I'm glad you didn't see it."<br /><br />Bill remembered his vision. In his head, he saw the room full of the corpses of children patched together from various body parts, stitched together with ropes and wires and support poles, black and white feathers everywhere, and a floor littered with the bodies of dead swans. The scent of foul raw poultry assailed his senses. He nodded. "I did see it, but I'm glad I didn't have to see it again."<br /><br />Gloria pointed to the television. "The talking heads have been having a field day with his one. It's the talk of the nation. Old Jimmy Swaggart had nothing on the Green's. I kind of feel sorry for the older Green, but his son was a real piece of work. Not to mention his wife. They both confessed. In fact, they were bragging. And to think they are still claiming they were doing god's work."<br /><br />"God as they understood Him, I guess. But that's not God."<br /><br />Gloria smiled. "Whatever you want to call it; I don't understand any of it."<br /><br />"Thank God for that!"<br /><br />Gloria grew silent. She reached over to Bill's face. "I missed you, you know. I thought about you a lot."<br /><br />"I missed you, too."<br /><br />She leaned in and touched her lips to Bill's. He kissed her back a moment and the pain went away for the briefest of moments. Her kiss was familiar, comforting, and kind. It reminded him of a more innocent time. Then she pulled away. "Now, I'm going to miss you again." She smiled but did not look happy. She looked to the door and stood up. She slapped her hands against her slacks. "Anyway, I need to be going. You have some visitors on the way."<br /><br />Bill arched his eyebrows.<br /><br />"She loves you, Bill. They love you. I don't understand your touch exactly, but things aren't set in stone. You may be able to get a feel for the past, you may have some basic understanding of the present, but none of us can ever know what the future holds. Hell, what were the chances of us meeting up together again like this? Pretty damn unlikely. Anyway, I need to go."<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. She turned towards the door. "Wait!"<br /><br />Gloria turned back around.<br /><br />"Benny loves you, you know."<br /><br />She smiled. "I know."<br /><br />"He's a great guy."<br /><br />"I know."<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. "Maybe you're right. Maybe no one can see the future. Maybe the future is only what we make of it. Perhaps the crap I felt was just how things could go, a possible future. Perhaps that future could be different if I invest the time to make it different." He thought of his kids, his wife, and hoped it wasn't too late.<br /><br />Gloria nodded. "Maybe."<br /><br />Bill smiled. "Love matters, Gloria. It's important. Family's important. What you do is great. You've accomplished so much, but you're lonely. I feel it. I know you're afraid. I am, too. When you let someone close, it makes it that much easier for them to hurt you, but I think you're right: The future is what we make of it. I hate to sound cliché, but we deal with the hand we're dealt. That's all any of us can do. And if you want to know what I think, Benny's one hell of an ace up your sleeve. That's all I'm saying."<br /><br />"I know. I know. Thank you, Bill."<br /><br />"Thank you, Gloria."<br /><br />They paused and looked at one another. A tear fell down Gloria's cheek leaving a trail of mascara. "Goodbye, Bill."<br /><br />Bill smiled. "See you around, G."<br /><br />"Maybe."<br /><br />"Yeah, maybe."<br /><br />She left the room. After a few minutes there was a knock at the door. He heard the muffled sound of tiny voices. Over it all he heard the most beautiful voice he had ever known: "Bill?"<br /><br />No matter what may happen, no matter the potential betrayals and heartaches, no matter the cost, and there's always a cost, Bill knew that – because of these shining moments – what lay on the other side of the door was worth any amount of pain.<br /><br />"Come in."<br /><br />THE END </span></div>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-63979304483486260272011-06-16T21:13:00.000-07:002011-06-16T21:29:12.155-07:00Chapter XXI: Mommy<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill touched the soil. He was aware of Mrs. Green next to him. Her humid breath caressed his cheek as she leaned over him.<br /><br />"Are you okay?" she asked.<br /><br />Bill couldn't answer. The soil told him a story.<br /><br />***<br /><br />"I'm sorry Mommy!" a child's voice.<br /><br />A woman spoke: "Spoil the rod and spare the child."<br /><br />"I didn't mean to."<br /><br />She either didn't hear him or didn't care. Either way, it didn't matter. She raised a shovel.<br /><br />Bill smelled piss and shit and shame, and above it all, fear.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Bill retched and fought unconsciousness. The donut from that morning did not taste nearly as good on the way out as it did on the way in. He looked down and saw a mess of coffee, wet crumbles, and sprinkles.<br /><br />"Are you all right?"<br /><br />Bill looked up and saw Mrs. Green. He flinched and fell down. He scrambled backwards with his feet and hands until he pressed his back against the wood of the barn. Shards of peeling paint pressed against his thin t-shirt. "You had a child?"<br /><br />Mrs. Green's face matched her name. "What did you say?"<br /><br />"You had a child!"<br /><br />Her face grew grim. She crouched down and placed her hands on her knees. "I never had a child. What are you talking about? Who are you, anyway?"<br /><br />"You had a child. You killed him. He was just a baby."<br /><br />A firm hand slapped his cheek. "Shut up!" She stood up and walked away. She turned around backwards and spit at Bill. "I never had a child."<br /><br />Bill looked at his hands. They trembled. Spit poured out one side of his mouth. His tongue swelled. He closed his eyes and tiny hands clenched Bill's hands. He squeezed those tiny hands, trying to comfort this ghost of a child. He opened his eyes and saw he had clenched his fists. Bill fought to unclench his hands. Once they were open wide, he saw they were empty. Yet his hands retained the impression of the soft skin of a child, unblemished and untarnished by this world. Bill noticed a mound in the earth. Grass covered it, but it was still a mound. He looked and saw Mrs. Green heading towards the house. He stood on shaky legs and looked around. There was no shovel, but there was a pitchfork. He grabbed it and began to dig. The earth was dry and hard. Rocks made digging difficult, but he ignored his exertion. The lingering touch of the child's hand pushed him forward.<br /><br />After removing the first foot of dirt, the digging became easier. Hard-packed earth gave way to rich soil. Bill looked around the side of the barn from time to time to make sure no one was coming, to verify he was alone. He dug.<br /><br />The hole grew deeper. He wondered what he was doing, what was pushing him on, and for a moment, doubted his touch. He closed his eyes and felt an embrace, the embrace of a child. He opened his eyes and dug harder. He ignored the sickness in his gut, the shaking of his limbs. The pitchfork scraped against occasional rocks. He no longer looked around the side of the barn. His focus intensified on his labor. He had no choice but to dig. Digging was all that mattered now.<br /><br />The pitchfork scraped against something white. He thought it was another rock. He pushed the pitchfork down and pulled up. The white object came loose from the earth. Bill sat down and looked at the upraised pitchfork in his hands and began to cry.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Looking down on him was a tiny skull. A tine of the pitchfork was jammed in an empty eye socket. The skull looked down on him. Without the lower jaw, the skull was frozen into a perpetual, silent scream.<br /><br />"What have you done!"<br /><br />Bill turned around.<br /><br />Mrs. Green glared at him. A shotgun was in her hands. She held it up with her eye lined down the barrel.<br /><br />"You killed your own child."<br /><br />"This is my property. You didn't have no right to be digging here. This wasn't any of your business, asshole. I don't know what you are or who you are, and I really don't care."<br /><br />There was a loud crack. It echoed across the land. Bill was tossed to the ground and became aware of a dull ache in his shoulder that quickly turned into a sharp pain. He reached up and touched his shoulder and pulled it away wet with blood.<br /><br />"You killed him."<br /><br />"You just don't know when to shut up, do you?" She cocked the rifle again. She aimed.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Another crack of sound filled the air.<br /><br />Bill closed his eyes and winced, but there was no impact.<br /><br />He opened his eyes and saw that Mrs. Green was on the ground. She yelled and writhed in pain. She held up her hands. Her right hand was missing several fingers. The partial stump gushed blood.<br /><br />Gloria stood in a powerful stance with her legs far apart. Her pistol shone underneath the hot Florida sun. Benny walked over from behind Gloria and kicked the rifle away from where it lay next to Mrs. Green.<br /><br />Another man stood to the side. He was a slim man with thinning hair dressed in a jogging outfit. "Radha!" the man yelled and ran over. He kneeled down next to the woman and glared at Gloria. "You shot my wife!"<br /><br />"Your wife was just about to kill a man. She'll be okay. Gloria's a great shot. If it had been me, she'd probably be dead," Benny said. He had his gun out now and pointed it at the couple. "Now, would you mind telling me whose skull that is?"<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The man began to cry and mumbled incoherently.<br /><br />Gloria put her gun away and pulled out her cell phone. She called an ambulance, hung up, and walked away as she started talking to someone else. Bill thought he heard her say something about a warrant.<br /><br />Bill looked and saw his shirt was covered in blood. It pooled on the ground.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Lying on its side next to him in the growing pool of blood sat the skull of a child. It continued its silent scream. Bill reached out a bloody hand and touched the skull. "It's okay now." The skull grew silent.<br /><br />The sun was directly overhead. Bill looked out at the grassy land all around him. Wisps of Spanish moss fluttered with an unfelt breeze. There were mounds everywhere. If he had not been looking for them, he would not have seen them. He wished he had not seen them.<br /><br />Several dozen screams rose from the earth and Bill felt his body shudder and suddenly grow cold despite the heat. He leaned to his side and fell down. "They're everywhere. They're everywhere. Everywhere," he repeated over and over until he could no longer speak and the world faded. </span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-42137603545872004402011-06-04T07:12:00.000-07:002011-06-04T07:21:28.778-07:00Chapter XX: Mrs. Green<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Benny turned down a dirt lane. It wound past a pine forest which opened up into a large open field dotted with cypress trees. Spanish moss hung and blew with the breeze. The sun overhead was bright and yellow and hot. The song of crickets and birds drifted through the open windows of the rental car. Gloria waved her hand outside the window and moved it with the air flowing past. She held a pen in her other hand and bit the tip while she looked at a legal pad in her lap full of notes.<br /><br />"Well, here we are." Benny said.<br /><br />Bill looked up. In the center of the field was a large white home. It looked like a plantation. Roman pillars stood on the porch. They pulled into the gravel driveway which was a large circle. In the middle of the circle was a flowerbed blooming with roses in various colors. Azaleas bloomed along the porch.<br /><br />Benny turned off the ignition and they stepped out of the car.<br /><br />"Walk around, Bill. Touch things or something. I don't want you to go inside. You aren't FBI, and I don't want it coming out we had a civilian with us during all of our investigation. It might nullify anything Green says in there in court."<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. "Sure thing. I'll just take a walk. I could use one anyway. This was a pretty long drive." He fingered the lighter in his pocket and his mouth watered at the thought of a cigarette. He knew he was probably getting addicted to the dang things again, but didn't care. He wanted one.<br /><br />Benny and Gloria walked up to the porch. Bill stood outside the car and watched. The door opened and a smiling man stepped out onto the porch. Gloria lifted up her badge and said something. Bill couldn't hear the conversation. The man on the porch, the one Bill assumed must be Green stopped smiling and waved Benny and Gloria inside. Benny and Gloria followed him through the door. Before Green went inside he looked to Bill. His face was stern and unreadable.<br /><br />Once the door closed again, Bill pulled out his smokes. He lit one up and sucked in a comforting draught of smoke. He looked around. He decided to explore the grounds. He started off by walking around the circle of roses in the middle of the driveway. Bees flitted from petal to petal, buzzing and pollinating. A Monarch Butterfly lifted off a yellow rose and fluttered into the sky.<br /><br />"Beautiful aren't they?"<br /><br />Bill turned around. A young woman smiled at him. Her hair was nearly as dark as her eyes. She was dressed in gardening clothes: white overalls, blue flannel shirt, and Crocks. Her white overalls were stained green and black with foliage and dirt. She held a dirty spade in her hand with a pink handle.<br /><br />She pointed at the roses with her spade. "They were here when we moved in, but in bad shape. Overgrown. They needed cultivating and care. They had been ignored for too long. You know what happens when things get ignored? They get out of control. It takes time to make things work again, to look right, you know?"<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. He took a drag from his cigarette.<br /><br />She looked over her shoulder towards the door. "You got a smoke I can bum?"<br /><br />Bill shrugged. "Sure. I guess so." He held the pack of cigarettes out to her.<br /><br />She put her hand over his outstretched hand and shook her head. He felt a surge of thoughts and hidden desire surge through him. It was surprising in its intensity. He tried to ignore the thoughts and images assaulting him. So much lust, so much anger, too, and above it all, bitterness. Mixed in with all of it was something stronger, deeper, something like rage. "No. Not here. Franklin gets angry when I smoke. Says it's unbecoming of a preacher's wife. Everything's unbecoming of a preacher's wife."<br /><br />Bill shrugged. "I wouldn't know."<br /><br />She smiled. "Just follow me, okay. He can't see us if we're behind the barn if he happens to look out the window." She retracted her hand. She touched her fingertips with her thumb. "You have nice skin. Soft or something."<br /><br />Bill smiled. "Thanks."<br /><br />Behind the barn, she squatted down on her haunches and rested her back against a red wood wall. The paint peeled in places. She sucked on her cigarette deeply and let out clouds of smoke. She puffed it down to the butt within a couple minutes. "Ahh. Haven't had one of those in months."<br /><br />Bill nodded. "I hadn't had one in years until recently myself."<br /><br />She looked up to him. He wondered if it was a just a play of shadows but realized that her eyes were a strange color: a deep purple. He'd heard of purple eyes before, but never seen them in person. The effect was disorienting. She smiled. "Do you think I'm pretty?"<br /><br />Bill cleared his throat. "Uhm. Sure. I guess."<br /><br />She giggled. It wasn't a school-girlish giggle. It was deeper and more seductive. It was the sound of a woman playing coy. "Most guys find me pretty. They always have. I don't get to have too many guys looking at me these days. You know, I'm sometimes surprised by how much I miss it. It's good to feel desired, you know. Hey, you mind if I have another smoke?"<br /><br />Bill shook his head. "Sure." He flicked a cigarette out the open end of his pack. She took it and held it to her lips. She looked up to him with her purple eyes and smiled, waiting for him to light it for her. He extracted his lighter from his pocket and lit her smoke.<br /><br />She inhaled. "Ah. The only time guys see me these days is at church." She pouted. "They all think they're too good to look at me there. If their eyes come across me, they glance away."<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. He lit another cigarette for himself. "Sounds like you have some serious problems." He laughed at his own joke inside his head, but was careful not to allow a smile to cross his face.<br /><br />Bill touched his hand to the boards of the barn over her head. There were no stories there, or at least, nothing interesting. It was a very old barn, had held many residents, but for the last few years served as a storage space for unused antiques and excess furniture.<br /><br />"Can you help me up?" The woman, Mrs. Green, reached up her hand. When they touched Bill again, the shock of her touch overwhelmed him. He fought an urge to pull away, not wanting to seem impolite. She pulled herself closer and looked into his eyes. "I don't know what it is, but you have great skin. Every time I touch you, it's like an electric current."<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. She leaned in close as if to kiss him. Bill pulled away. The scent of carrion filled his nose. He bent over, suddenly sick, and began to gag.<br />He touched the ground and shuddered. </span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-64845229071786947202011-05-29T13:09:00.000-07:002011-05-29T13:18:24.289-07:00Chapter XIX: Spare the Rod and Spoil the Child<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Benny flicked through the channels. He moved the channels past a cooking show, a show with a young couple looking for houses, a myriad of talking heads doling out news of varying importance, some band performing with acoustic instruments dressed up like lumberjacks, an infomercial for a new knife that promised it could cut just as easily through an aluminum can as it could a tomato – Bill wondered why anyone would ever need to cut an aluminum can? Benny finally settled for a sports show providing the latest statistics for college football.<br /><br />"Georgia's looking pretty lousy this year," Benny said.<br /><br />Bill nodded. "Georgia's looking pretty bad most years these days."<br /><br />Benny grunted. "Your Gators aren't doing so hot either, bub."<br /><br />Bill shrugged. He continued his conversation, but his mind roamed elsewhere. He felt the sheets beneath him, heard their stories: the lonely business men, a bickering vacationing couple fighting quietly with the kids asleep in the twin bed next to them, a pair of newlyweds. He paused at the feeling of the newlyweds, grew embarrassingly aroused, and tried to shift his thoughts further away. He was not some creepy peeping tom and had trained himself to ignore such stories. Young couples seemed to be everywhere. They were in gas station bathrooms, on picnic tables, in the woods, in rental cars. Everywhere.<br /><br />Bill thought about his wife and wondered if she would have been open to such things when she was younger. He doubted it, but then again, he wasn't sure. He missed his wife but could only see her with the other man. He wondered if a place could rekindle what was lost, or at least slipping quietly away, but doubted it. He needed to talk to her, to tell her his thoughts, but he worried how she would react. Could he get her to believe him? Yes, he knew he probably could, but what could this development possibly add to their relationship? They had been slipping out of touch for years. They had sunk into the routine of busy lives – separate careers, kids, PTA meetings, book club meetings for her, fantasy football for him, his model ships, her romantic comedies – there just wasn't enough time. They had lost time for each other. What they were – the young couple who stayed up all night talking or making love – had changed into what they had become – business partner who were lucky to sneak in twenty minutes alone to themselves once the kids were asleep, and usually, they were so exhausted by that time they most likely spent those moments getting ready for bed themselves in a state of zombie-like exhaustion.<br /><br />Bill looked over to the phone but decided not to pick it up. Not yet.<br /><br />Benny started flipping through the channels again. He paused at an infomercial with athletic women pole dancing in fluorescent leotards and smiled over to Bill. "Great way for a girl to get in shape, huh?"<br /><br />Bill politely smiled back. "Think that lady down at the pool uses this workout?"<br /><br />Benny laughed. "You mean Magda?"<br /><br />Bill caught the reference to Something About Mary and laughed, too, but it was simply a social effort. His mind roamed, and where it roamed there was very little humor. The sheets beneath him, the bed, and all the embedded memories of the hotel room became background noise. He thought about his vision at the church. He thought about his vision at the walking track. He thought about the crime scenes. Most of all, he thought about the victims: kids, just little more than babies. They were so innocent, so trusting, so undeserving of such a horrid fate. How could faith twist into something so sick and peculiar? How could the words of a kind and perfect man simply asking people to love one another turn into such a fugue of violence?<br /><br />"Spare the rod and spoil the child."<br /><br />"Huh, what'd you say?" Benny hit mute on the television.<br /><br />"As a kid, were you ever beaten?" Bill asked.<br /><br />"Why do you ask?"<br /><br />"I just remembered something about Green. At least I think it was Green. There was a bestselling book a few years back, a Christian living thing, about discipline and child-rearing. I remember buying a copy of it at the suggestion of a fellow church member. It was pretty harsh stuff, I thought. All about spanking and using paddles and switches and stuff and talked about how liberal psychologists were trying to take away parents' rights to use corporal discipline in their homes. A spanking manifesto, basically. I thought it was pretty harsh stuff, honestly. I mean, yeah, I spanked my kids from time to time when they were little. But sparingly. Typically just popping their hand if they reached for the stove or slapping their butt if they tried to run out in a parking lot, that sort of thing. My parents spanked me. I got paddled a few times in school, but it wasn't all there was to discipline. My parents rewarded good behavior and sent me in the corner if I acted out most of the time. I only remember a handful of spankings. I tried to do more or less the same with my own kids. But this book, what it said was just so harsh, I felt. It quoted that line from the Bible again and again: 'Spare the rod and spoil the child.'"<br /><br />Benny nodded. I think I know the book you are talking about. It got the headlines for a while when I was in college. Kind of like the Chinese Tiger Mom thing at that time."<br /><br />"Was that written by Green?"<br /><br />Benny scratched at the stubble on his chin. "Maybe."<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. "I think so, too. Let's go online and find out. If so, I think it's time we have a talk with Green's son."<br /><br />Benny slipped his laptop out of its case and turned it on. "It'd be flimsy evidence, won't hold up in court, but if you're right, this might just be a godsend. Fits our profile anyway."</span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-54499120807705418772011-05-18T20:21:00.000-07:002011-05-18T20:26:57.863-07:00Chapter XVIII: Poolside<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill sat by the pool and smoked a cigarette. He watched the grey smoke curl up into pale blue sky and dissipate against a backdrop of white puffy clouds. A pair of children swam and splashed in the tiny hotel pool. They laughed and jumped around and screamed. Bill watched them and shivered. The air felt far too cool for swimming, but he understood – knew it from their accents – that the family was made up of snowbirds who had come down to Florida for an escape from the chill of the northern climate. The mid-seventies might feel cool to a nearly lifelong Floridian such as Bill, but to the northerners it would be sweltering.<br /><br />The mother of the children sipped from a can of beer. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the armrest of her faded blue plastic chair. Her thick pink fingernails glinted with sunlight. She was too thin and too tan, almost orange. Garish red lipstick stained the filter of her cigarette. Her wiry arms gave her a corpselike appearance. Thin, mottled skin hung from her bones. She nodded to Bill and smiled. Bill smiled back to be polite and looked away.<br /><br />Bill rested his head on the back of the chair and felt the cool plastic. It told stories of mothers much like the one in front of him. Thousands of mothers watching their children, slathering themselves with suntan oil, adjusting bathing suits and postures to look just right, looking at men, looking for men, enjoying being looked at by men, or being disappointed when men looked away. Some of these women were simply happy to feel the sun, and Bill vicariously enjoyed the feel of the sun through the cipher of the plastic chair’s stored memories.<br /><br />“Hey, Bill. Got you some coffee.” Benny sat down next to Bill.<br /><br />The woman across the pool looked over the top of her sunglasses towards Benny. Benny turned away and faced Bill. Bill saw Benny was blushing. The woman across the pool smiled.<br /><br />“Beautiful day, huh?” Benny nodded up to the sky.<br /><br />“Yep.” Bill took the cup of coffee from Benny’s outstretched hand. “Not hitting the mini-bar tonight?”<br /><br />Benny shook his head. “Nah. It’s the Sabbath.”<br /><br />Bill smiled and nodded. “That it is. So, let’s take it easy.”<br /><br />Benny nodded. He leaned back in his chair.<br /><br />Bill reached out his hand holding the pack of cigarettes. “Want a smoke, man?”<br /><br />Benny shook his head. “The Sabbath.”<br /><br />Bill nodded. “Fair enough. Where’s Gloria?“<br /><br />“Taking a bath. I guess she needed some alone time." His voice became distant and hollow.<br /><br />Bill held the cigarettes out again. “Sure you don’t want one?“<br /><br />“Nah.“<br /><br />Bill shrugged his shoulders. He extracted another cigarette and lit it from the burning cherry on the butt of his previous smoke. He inhaled deep and exhaled. He coughed. “Stuff isn’t good for you anyway.”<br /><br />Benny nodded. He had his eyes closed and appeared lost in though. “Nothing fun ever is.”<br /><br />The too tan woman continued to steal glances at the two men sitting across the pool from her. </span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-80491947880267718952011-04-28T17:29:00.001-07:002011-04-28T17:32:22.601-07:00Chapter XVII: Medieval Constructs<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“It was just a dream, Bill.”<br /><br />Gloria looked back to Bill. A little line creased between her eyebrows. Her eyes were perfectly framed by the rear-view mirror, and Bill was struck by how lovely her eyes were despite her stern expression.<br /><br />Bill sighed, “Maybe. But it didn’t feel like a dream. It felt like, you know, touch. It felt like I was feeling a story.”<br /><br />Benny crinkled back the paper wrapper on his cheeseburger and took a bite. He slurped a sip of soda. “I don’t know. Maybe it means something, G?”<br /><br />Gloria looked over to Benny. “Christ! Not you too?”<br /><br />Benny shrugged. He held a French fry up to his mouth. “He’s been dead-on so far as far as we know.”<br /><br />She inhaled and shook her head.<br /><br />“I don’t think it was real,” Bill said. He ate a French fry and swallowed it down with a sip of soda. The straw in the soda held a hint of the lives surrounding it. He saw a single mother dreaming of a night out away from her kids and knew this to be the woman who had served them the fast food back at the drive-through window. Bill tried to ignore the feelings and stories embedded in the plastic and Styrofoam and paper. He ate a chicken nugget and tasted its history. It surprised him how little of the history of that nugget had to do with chickens and how much had to do with various grains and varieties of soy.<br /><br />“What do you mean: Not real?” Benny asked.<br /><br />Bill swallowed his nugget with a slurp of soda. “Well, it doesn’t fit in with my own theology, I guess. Did you ever read Dante in college?”<br /><br />Gloria nodded.<br /><br />Benny nodded, too. “I never actually read it, but I studied it. Got an A on a paper about it. I remember writing about the rings of Hell and all that.”<br /><br />Bill nodded. “Exactly! Rings. The stadium became rings. When I looked around at all the devils and demons, they were the souls of the damned. Now that I think about it, there were levels. Just like Dante. The tortures differed to suit the sin, an inverse of all that is good, and The Devil was at the center of it all. But what were the angels doing there?”<br /><br />Gloria sighed. “Dreams are funny like that. Sometimes they don’t mean anything, you know?”<br /><br />Bill ate a fry and looked out the window. They rode through a Florida suburb. Farmers' markets and strip malls whizzed by. “Maybe. Maybe you’re right and it was just a dream, but if it’s not, if it wasn’t just a dream, then it’s worth noting. Perhaps I have a link, you know?”<br /><br />“A link?” Gloria looked back at him in the rearview mirror.<br /><br />Once again, Bill found himself staring into her eyes. He tore his eyes away, thought of his wife, felt guilty, and looked back out the window. “A link to our guy. This wasn’t my theology. This wasn’t a reflection of my beliefs. I’m not that literal, I guess, in my, uhm, I guess you could call it my translation of faith. I believe differently.”<br /><br />Benny grunted. “One of those Rob Bell guys, huh? Let me guess: You don’t believe in Hell?”<br /><br />“No. I believe in a Hell. If there’s a Heaven, there’s got to be a Hell right? You can’t have or understand the concept of light unless there’s some dark somewhere. At least that’s the way I see it. But what is Hell? What is Heaven, for that matter? Are they physical places or spiritual? What are they exactly? I can’t say I know. I’ve read through the Bible probably dozens of times, been an active member of my church for the last six years, typically attend Bible classes and the main services, but I’ve never been able to find a definitive answer on these things. There are beliefs, there are theories, but little that I would accept as fact when it comes to specifics regarding an afterlife. I know some Christians who believe Heaven and Hell aren’t really even an issue until later on. They believe the dead sleep until Christ’s return and then are judged and have their salvation or damnation determined. I don’t know, definitively, about any of that stuff. I would be unlikely to trust anyone who tried to tell me those answers with absolute authority, to be honest. That’s the sort of thing usually reserved for end times cults like the Davidians, for just one example. Anyway, I don’t think anyone living today really knows exactly what Heaven and Hell really are. It’s a mystery. But I really don’t think they look like their Medieval depictions anymore than Jesus was an Aryan with blonde hair and blue eyes. Those are Medieval constructs with very little resemblance to the original Jewish source materials.”<br /><br />Benny laughed. “He sounds pretty smart, huh?”<br /><br />Bill could see Gloria’s eyes smile in the rear-view mirror. “Did you go to seminary in the years we’ve been apart by any chance?”<br /><br />Bill smiled. “No. Just had a lot of time to think over the years and reflect over some of the bitter things like that, especially the last few months since I’ve been on my own. I know enough now to know I don’t really know anything. What you believe and what really are are not always the same thing.” Bill thought about his wife, the love they shared, the way they touched, the way they kissed, the way she promised him her love and loyalty, the way he saw her in another man’s arms the last time they touched. “Beliefs are not the same as facts. They’re more fluid, I guess. At least they are for me. That’s how I know that what I was seeing—“<br /><br />“You mean dreaming,” Gloria interjected.<br /><br />“No. I mean seeing, or feeling,” Bill said. “What I was feeling was not my own view on things. The vision was too solid. The underlying theology or cosmology or whatever you want to call it was too consistent. It was concrete and unchanging. It fit in with the worldview I’ve been seeing at the crime scenes, is what I’m trying to say.”<br /><br />Benny turned around in his seat. “So, do you think Pastor Green’s involved in some way?”<br /><br />Bill nodded. “Maybe, but maybe not. In my dream or vision or whatever it was, Pastor Green was the Devil. I don’t think our guy sees himself as Satan. He’s too self-righteous for that, I think.”<br /><br />The three of them bumped in the car as Gloria rode over a speed bump to enter their hotel’s parking lot. She parked the car. “So you think our guy doesn’t care for Pastor Green that much, huh?”<br /><br />Bill shook his head. “I don’t know if care is the right word. I think our guy cares for him plenty. He did put him at the center of Hell, after all. No, he’s not the hero of The Bible, but Satan’s got a little bit of pull, especially in Dante if you think about it. No, I think our guy respects Pastor Green. I think our guy respects Pastor Green a lot, in fact.” </span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-69457061766002047812011-04-21T18:54:00.000-07:002011-04-21T19:08:08.761-07:00Chapter XVI: Where Angels Sing<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The stadium towered over them. Benny looked up and whistled.<br /><br />“This used to be the stadium for the Jaguars before they moved,” Bill said.<br /><br />Gloria nodded her head. “Church sure has changed since I last went.”<br /><br />“When was that?” Benny asked. “1986?”<br /><br />“I think it was 1990, actually. Whatever, this is a far cry from the white clapboard Baptist church we used to go to. A stadium, huh? How much of it do they fill?”<br /><br />“I’ve never been, so I can’t say for sure, but I saw it on Sunday morning TV a couple times. Looks like it’s usually pretty much filled.” Bill covered his eyes to block the sun as he looked upwards. A jet plane flew overhead leaving the scar of a vapor trail against the pale blue sky.<br /><br />Bill bumped forwards. He tried to ignore his touch as a person rushed by. The man was dressed in a black suit and tie. His thin hair was dyed jet black and combed across a shiny head. The lines of thin hair appeared to be stiff with hair gel. Bill shuddered at the touch. He saw a man with secrets but nothing unusual, the normal sins: adulterous thoughts, murderous rage – that sort of thing. The man passing by was a man with secrets and shame. In short, he was a regular guy.<br /><br />Bill noted the crowd surrounding them and rushing forward towards the entrance of the church. There was a mix of all kinds of people, all ages. The older ones tended to be dressed in formal wear: business suits and dresses. The younger people dressed like wannabe hipsters in garish colors and denim, with shaggy haircuts and scraggly facial hair. As Bill neared the entrance, he could hear the blaring sounds of the church band. A Christian contemporary act blasted distorted chords providing the entire scene a feel more like that of a rock concert than a Sunday morning service.<br /><br />The Greeters met Bill, Benny, and Gloria with wide toothy smiles and hands outstretched holding glossy programs for the church service. The program was more like a magazine than the paper flyers Bill usually received at his little Methodist church back home.<br /><br />Benny thumbed through the program. “Fancy.”<br /><br />Bill nodded. "Expensive."<br /><br />They walked inside and looked for a place to sit down. There were no seats near the stage. They had to settle for some seats up near the rafters. The electric guitars and bass reverberated around their heads and drowned out all the vocals. Bill thought he heard the familiar refrain of “Nothing but the Blood of Jesus” but could not be sure. It could have been Iron Maiden, too. The sound was simply too distorted to differentiate. He looked to the large monitor behind the band and saw the lyrics and confirmed the song was the hymn and not “Run to the Hills.”<br />The music died down.<br /><br />“Good morning brothers and sisters. Isn’t this a glorious day to gather together in worship?” A voice echoed across the steel rafters. Bill looked down and saw a man walking around with arms outstretched. He wore a grey suit that shimmered under the stadium lighting. A wristwatch and large wedding band glimmered. He was the picture of prosperity.<br /><br />“Isn’t God good?”<br /><br />“Halleluiah!” the congregation replied. It was a roar.<br /><br />“We gather here together to lift up His Name, to lift up His glory…” there was a meaningful pause. When the man spoke again to finish his sentence, the tone was hushed. “…and to serve for His purpose. We need to listen, brothers and sisters, for His voice can be found in the quiet. We need to listen! For He still speaks, and we still have work to do. Are you ready for your purpose? Are you ready to listen? Are you ready to hear and to heal and to be healed?”<br /><br />“Halleluiah!”<br /><br />Bill noticed Benny joined in on that last Halleluiah.<br /><br />Gloria’s face was still and cool as marble. Her hands were clasped in her lap and white from applied pressure.<br /><br />Bill rested his head back and tried to ignore the feelings in the stadium seating. There was the guilt of hundreds of altar calls weighing down on his shoulders. He shut his eyes and sighed. Bill opened his eyes. He looked at the track lighting overhead and the sharp lights blurred into a mellow white.<br /><br />And then the angels descended.<br /><br />***<br /><br />The stadium faded to black. All light disappeared. In the place of the stadium lighting overhead, there were angels, hundreds of them. Bill gasped. He looked over for Benny and Gloria, but they were gone. In their place sat a pair of demons. Bill looked around and saw all the people were gone, the entire audience. Devils were everywhere. Some danced and rutted with one another in a massive orgy where the screams were not of pleasure but of pain and disappointment. Others sat on their haunches and screamed as intestines spilled out of wounds that would never heal. These poor souls tried to stuff their guts back inside, but it was a futile effort. More guts spilled out for every handful they were able to push inside. There were layers and layers of demons. They writhed and seethed with pain and shame.<br /><br />The angels looked down from above with consternation written across their faces. They had no mouths, but still they sang. It was a song of mourning for the lost saints that could have been saved had they only listened while the angels still had mouths to speak on God’s behalf.<br /><br />Bill looked down through the layers of Hell that had once been a mundane stadium full of hipsters and old folks seeking salvation. At the center of it all was Satan himself. He walked on a glowing plateau jutting out of a lake of fire. He walked on four legs in a crab-like scramble. His hoofs shot up sparks as they struck the nearly molten stone beneath him. The Devil smiled, and despite his terror, Bill understood the glamorous beauty of the Lord of the Flies. He was powerful and the embodiment of unchecked ego. He was unchecked greed. He emanated the essence of freedom, though Bill knew consciously that that freedom was false. Lucifer was imprisoned in the lowest section of Hell, furthest from God, furthest from good, furthest from light. Satan waved his hands and orchestrated lives in the layers and worlds above, but would never be able to reach up to Heaven. He would never again feel the Heavenly breath of God on his face or glory in His light. Instead, Satan roamed with others’ eyes, others’ hands, and they were infinitely weak, infinitely impotent. He could make a stir in the worlds above. He could control a figure here and there, but despite his best efforts, not even humanity could be ruled by him. God’s goodness was still too strong.<br /><br />The Devil stomped and raged. He thrust his hands outwards and the throng of devils roared with feigned praise, only worshipping because of their own fears of further punishment, not out of reverence or anything resembling love. There was no love here, only self-preservation.<br /><br />The angels looked down and continued their song. Tears fell down their cheeks and soaked the soft skin where their mouths would be if they had mouths. The music vibrated like bells, like chimes. It was glorious and otherworldly and emanated from the tips of their hollow wings. Bill felt the angels’ tears fall onto him. They burned against his skin like acid and sent up plumes of acrid white smoke wherever they touched. That smoke smelled like sulfur.<br /><br />***<br /><br />“Bill!”<br /><br />Bill felt himself being shaken. He opened his eyes. He tried to talk but it appeared his mouth had been sewn shut.<br /><br />“Bill!” It was Gloria. She looked down on Bill. She stroked his hair, and Bill leaned into her touch, grateful for the feel of humanity. He looked around and saw the congregation was singing. None of them appeared to have noticed he had fallen.<br /><br />“How long was I out?” Bill finally managed to say with much effort.<br /><br />“Oh, about thirty minutes or so. You slept through the entire message. It was a good message,” Benny said.<br /><br />Gloria leaned over and whispered in Bill’s ear. “Whatever. I almost fell asleep, too.”<br /><br />Bill moved his mouth around.<br /><br />Gloria arched an eyebrow. “You okay?”<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. “I think so,” he lied.</span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-65947302771853178452011-04-14T17:39:00.000-07:002011-04-14T17:46:06.402-07:00Chapter XV: Mr. Green"Green." Benny paced back and forth across the hotel room. He clutched a Gideon's Bible in his meaty fist and held it up against his chest as if it were a talisman. "Green. You know, the name means something to me, too, but I just can't quite place it."<br /><br />"Maybe you're thinking of Clue?" Gloria smiled.<br /><br />"Clue?" Benny looked to Gloria.<br /><br />"You know the board game? It was Mr. Green with the candlestick."<br /><br />Benny smiled back to her. "No. That's not it. But Green, there's something... Did we run it through our database?"<br /><br />Gloria lifted her eyes to the ceiling and rubbed her temples with her slender fingers. "Do you have any idea how many Greens there are in this area with records. Even if we narrow it down by violent offenders, it still leaves so many. Besides who knows if the guy's even in the database. He may not have a record. In fact, I'd almost be willing to bet he doesn't have a record at all. Think about it. How many of the guys we've gotten so far have had any records with anything besides traffic tickets or minor drug charges? One thing I know for sure after seeing these crime scenes: Our guy's meticulous. I bet he doesn't even drive over the speed limit. I'm betting he's an anal son of a bitch." <br /><br />"I don't know about that." Bill heard his own voice and hardly recognized it. His tongue felt swollen in his mouth. It took concentration to form every vowel and consonant. "The lumber was strewn about everywhere."<br /><br />"Maybe that's his home turf? Some of the most meticulous, clean-cut, seemingly most put together people have home lives that are wrecks. Look at that lady." Gloria nodded up to the television. An episode of Hoarders was on. "Look at the way she dresses. Her business suit has been pressed. Her stockings don't have any runs. Her make-up is perfect. She probably has some job requiring attention to detail. Maybe banking, maybe accounting, maybe medical billing, who knows? But look at her home. We can't judge books, or people, by their covers. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that this guy puts out a good front. With the exception of the feathers, every scene looks staged. Well, actually, even the feathers seem staged now that I think about it – just a few feathers here and there around the body parts. A calling card, I guess. That head placed just so to look out the window. That headband made out of briars –"<br /><br />"The crown of thorns!" Benny thumped the Bible like a Baptist preacher in the heat of a fiery Sunday sermon. "Green! You don't think?" The blood washed out of Benny's face leaving him pale, almost green.<br /><br />"What?" Gloria asked. "What is it, Benny?"<br /><br />"Green." Bill nodded his head and looked down at the bed. The words were a struggle. "Can't be."<br /><br />"What is it?" Gloria looked between the two men. "What am I missing?"<br /><br />"You don't buy into our hocus pocus, G. You probably wouldn't know. Green's a big name around here. A whole family of preachers. I saw old man Green once at a revival. He used to even have a television program that was nationally syndicated. He spoke at a service attended by Ronald Reagan. In fact, he served in some capacity with George Bush the First as some sort of religious liaison."<br /><br />Gloria nodded. "That guy? I think I know who you're talking about."<br /><br />"I hope not." Bill said. <br /><br />"Me, too." Benny looked at The Bible in his hand. "Let's pray not. They Greens are huge around here. Even have their own network and theme park, Jesus Land, or something like that. Families come from all over the country to watch a Passion play."<br /><br />Gloria winced. "How nice. The parents and their kiddies get to watch a man tortured and maimed. Sounds like a great vacation."<br /><br />Benny shook his head. "G, you don't get it, but, yeah, I think it's a little odd, too. Weird stuff. Important to remember what happened. I believe the torture, crucifixion, and resurrection are key events in my faith, but a theme park just doesn't seem right. In the Old Testament God got pretty pissed about the sculpture of a bull. Just imagine how he'd feel about a theme park full of statues and various representations. Sure, it's set up to glorify Him, but Jesus wasn't too happy about all the money changers and traders in The Temple. It was one of the few times that Jesus is shown to get really mad and lose his temper in his mortal life. I don't think he'd be too happy on a theme park set up in his name. Too much money exchanging hands for his taste, I'd assume."<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. He focused on his lips and tongue and spoke: "I been there. Got free tickets from a client. Took the kids when they were little. They had nightmares for weeks after. Never again. Took weeks to get them to go back to church without screaming." <br /><br />Gloria looked to Bill. She pulled her head back and lifted an eyebrow. "You go to church?"<br /><br />Bill nodded. "Methodist."<br /><br />She softened her voice. "Damn! Things change, huh?"<br /><br />Bill smiled. "I'm not exactly the hellion I used to be. I grew up. Mostly."<br /><br />Benny smiled. "He once was lost but now he's found." <br /><br />"I don't know about the found part." Bill thought about all he had seen, all he had touched, and all he had experienced through his flesh. "I still feel pretty lost." He tried to imagine the out of focus person in his thoughts, the man with the obscured face. "Green." <br /><br />Benny made a strange face and looked out the window. "Crap, I hope not. My uncle'd be pretty disappointed. He gives money to the Green's Jerusalem Campaign every Easter and has done so for years. I've seen some of the Greens before in person, one of the sons, Jeremiah, at a revival. He seemed like the real deal. Sincere, you know? I felt the Spirit." <br /><br />"Sincerity's often nothing more than a mask." Gloria said.<br /><br />Benny nodded. "I know. People are so damn deceptive sometimes. You never know where you stand with them." He looked over to Gloria with a serious expression on his face.<br />Gloria opened her mouth as if to say something and then shut it. She sat down and abruptly stood back up. She clapped her hands together. "I think I'm going to get some coffee. You boys need any?"<br /><br />Benny's expression softened. He looked away. "Sure. Black, okay? I don't feel like anything sweet right now."T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-3157737896157472512011-04-07T16:54:00.000-07:002011-04-07T17:19:39.228-07:00Chapter XIV: The House of the Rising Sun<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Cast by the rising sun, shadows emanated from a forest of pines and tall palms. Red light filtered through dusty windows. Bird songs carried in from outside the long abandoned and dilapidated motel. The wood beneath Bill’s feet felt soggy and creaked with every step. He looked around and thought about what this motel would have looked like a couple decades ago. It had once been a tourist spot, a place for snowbirds from the North to come down and explore crystal clear springs, rivers, and swim with manatees. Now, since the interstate had been built, the snowbirds bypassed the place on their way to Tampa, Key West, or Miami. The rooms were alive with the ghosts of good times long past. Shadows fell in front of him, contrasting the brightness ahead. A few portable spotlights lit up a room at the end of the hallway. Bill walked past men and women in white lab coats. Bill didn’t need the lights to find his way. He felt the scene ahead. He breathed at irregular intervals. Sweat poured down his clammy forehead. A sick knot roiled in his stomach. He wanted to pass out or puke or both, but neither was an option. He had a job to do. <em>Green. Green. Green.</em> The word cycled through his head, meaningless at the moment, but he knew it was important. <em>Green. Green. Green.</em> Bill stepped over a feather. He pointed down at it as he passed. Benny nodded and bent over with an evidence bag. “Are you okay?” Gloria asked. Bill’s pulse throbbed. He felt blood coursing through the veins at his temples, under his neck. He swallowed. “No.” “We can wait, if you need a moment.” Bill shook his head. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I just feel it.” Gloria nodded and stood back. She allowed Bill to enter the lighted room. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Inside the room, more people in white coats loitered. Some took photographs. Others were kneeled down on pads like those used for gardening while collecting various unseen substances with q-tips and gauze. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">A woman walked over to Gloria. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“So this is your guy, huh?” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Gloria nodded. “Yeah. Mind if we have a moment?” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Look. We’re collecting evidence here. Real stuff. Doing real work. You know, not some crazy psychic bull.” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Gloria nodded with a sympathetic look on her face. She softened her voice while still managing to sound forceful. It was the voice of authority, of a mother, perhaps even a queen. “I understand. Really. Just give us a minute. The office said they’d call ahead, that you should be expecting us.” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The other woman’s mouth became a straight line. She pressed her lips together until they were white with pressure. “All right. You got ten minutes, okay? Some of my people have been here for over six hours straight. They’re getting a little tired, and we still have a lot to do once they get to the lab.” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“I really do understand. That’ll be fine. Thank you.” Gloria nodded. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The other woman turned her head. “C’mon folks. Clear out. Let’s take ten. I sent Jacob off to get some coffee, he should be back soon.” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">As the white lab coats passed by, Bill felt their auras. There was contempt, relief, doubt, wonder, and even some belief surrounding them in various degrees. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">After the technicians were gone, Bill stepped forward. In the center of the room there sat a bed whose sheets had once been white but were now alternating shades of brown, black, and green from mold and mildew. In the center of the bed was a human head. The skin was drawn back and dried out so that the skull wore a mirthless smile. The severed head appeared Caucasian based on facial features and blonde hair. But the skin was all wrong, it was too dark. It shone under the spotlights like leather that had just been cleansed and shined to a polished sheen with several layers of saddle soap. A green crown made up of the intertwined branches from sticker bushes circled the head. Speckled black trails fell down in broken lines beneath the crown. Black and white feathers stood out against the backdrop of the dirty bed. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Oh man.” Benny turned away. He convulsed as if about to throw up and held a tissue over his face. “Oh man, oh man, oh man.” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Gloria did not say a word. She placed a gloved hand on Benny’s arm. Bill swallowed and stepped forward. He reached out his hand and hesitated. “Is this okay? I don’t want to taint evidence.” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Gloria nodded. “I want you to get as good a connection as possible. Just reach out with your fingertip though. Try not to touch but a single spot. We’ll note it in our report.” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill nodded. He turned back to the head. It was a tiny head. The eyes were sunken in. Flies swarmed over it. He inhaled deeply and reached out. </span><em><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Green. Green. Green. </span></em><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">*** </span></div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">There was a cloaked figure; out of focus, large and looming, a man, definitely a man. He held an axe in his hand. A small figure lay tied up and wrapped tight in blankets like a cigar. Part of the figure was tied to the top of a stump. Split firewood covered the weedy lot. The man reached up with his axe and swung it down against a log on another stump. The log split immediately with the impact. He left the blade embedded in the trunk and held his hands to his face. He spit in them and rubbed them together. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The hands looked soft, uncalloused. Bill realized this wasn’t a working man. He wanted to step out to grab the figure to prevent what he knew was about to happen, but realized he wasn’t really there. Bill cried out with his mind. He reached out but could not see his own hands extend outwards because he wasn’t there. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The out of focus figure turned its blurred face up to the sky. Sunlight poured down, and Bill did not really see, but sensed, a smile. There was a prayer. Angels surrounded the out of focus figure. One angel wore the head of a lion, one wore the head of a lamb, and the last angel was the cherub that Bill remembered seeing in his vision. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Dead swans littered the overgrown lot mixed in with loose, uneven piles of split wood. Bill heard a psalm pour forth from the figure’s lips, a song of redemption in the blood. The man grabbed the embedded ax from the second stump. He worked it free by jiggling it back and forth. He pushed his foot into the stump and leaned backwards. The ax came free. The figure huddled in the blanket shook and Bill heard muffled cries. The angels looked down with serenity etched across their ethereal faces. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The man walked over to the bundle atop the first stump and lifted his axe. The glinting blade came down hard and fast. Within seconds, blood pooled. The man collected the blood into a silver goblet. He held it up and passed it to the angles. “Like Abraham, I can kill the child. I am true. I am yours.” The angels, one by one, came down and appeared to sip from the cup. The man held the goblet up higher. “Cleanse your servant with the blood so that I might better serve you, so that I might be stronger, less hesitant next time you ask for my service. Help me to usher in your next coming so that the world may be cleansed. May the blood of all the sinners, all those born from sin, wash over the world and make it pleasing to you again so that you might walk among your chosen once again. Lead me out of the desert. I know I’m not worthy, but still I ask. I serve only you.” He turned it over and held up his face. Blood splashed over him. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The figure drank blood and smiled. He looked towards Bill, or where Bill would be if he were really there. His eyes were a pale and vibrant green like the first leaves of spring after a storm. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">There was thunder. Bill noticed the sky. Dark clouds and slanting rain showed up to the west. Above it all, the sun shone, and the dome of an immaculate rainbow enclosed the bloody scene below. </span><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">*** </span></div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Bill! Bill! Are you okay?” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill’s face turned to the left and then the right as a soft hand patted his cheeks with force. “Uh?” He opened his eyes. Gloria’s shadow stood over him. Her hair fell down onto his face and he could smell her shampoo. He reached up and hugged her towards him and began to cry. </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">She hugged him back. “It’s okay, Bill. Shh. It’s okay honey.” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Benny cleared his throat. “Hey, G. The peeps are back, ready to take over again.” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Gloria’s embrace went slack. “Huh? Oh. Okay.” </span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill looked up to the head on the bed. Dead eyes stared off towards the window as if looking outside to the blood red dawn. </span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-38810108277120391672011-03-31T21:12:00.000-07:002011-03-31T21:22:34.545-07:00Chapter XIII: Checking In<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">"Wake up!" said a shadow from the doorway. "Huh? What time is it?" Bill blocked his sleep-encrusted eyes from the incoming light. Benny grunted and slid his large legs off the side of the bed. He sat a moment with his head in his hands, muttered something indecipherable -- perhaps a curse, perhaps a prayer -- and pulled his pants on from where they sat on the floor. He pulled his gun out from beneath his pillow and placed it in the holster already wrapped over his shoulder. He belched. "What's up, G?" The shadow clicked the light switch and Gloria appeared in the shadow's place. She was dressed in a conservative grey sport suit. Instead of her usual heels, she wore a pair of white New Balance running shoes with pink accents. "Been drinking again, huh Benny? I hope you sober up quick." Benny nodded and smiled. "Already sober, boss." She rolled her eyes and smiled. She turned to face Bill. "Get dressed, quick. We have a call. There's been another one." Benny's smile faded. "Shit." Gloria stopped smiling as well. Bill shook his head. He felt tears welling up in the corner of his eyes and wanted to cry. He bit his bottom lip and cursed through his clenched mouth. He looked over at the phone and thought about calling his own children. He had a sudden and almost uncontrollable urge to call them just to make sure they were okay. He knew it was ridiculous, an impulsive and irresponsible urge verging on obsessive compulsive, but the urge was strong all the same. "Just a minute. Can I have a moment to myself to get dressed by any chance?" Gloria tilted her head and placed her hand in her jacket to show off the handle of her pistol. "If I see anything I haven't seen before I'll shoot it, okay?" Bill remembered that joke and smiled. Then he noticed Benny glaring at him. "Seriously, just a minute to myself. I kind of want to make a call." "Now?" Gloria asked. Benny walked over towards Gloria and took her by the arm. "C'mon. Let's just let the guy have a second, okay? You know how much what we’re about to have him do will take out of him." Gloria sighed and allowed herself to be taken out of the room. She looked over her shoulder and said, "Just hurry up, okay?" Bill nodded. As soon as the door was shut he reached for the phone. He dialed the well-known and familiar numbers. It had been the same set of numbers he had once pushed every day from his office phone on his lunch breaks. It was the number he had dialed day after day after day to check on his wife, to check on his kids, to ask them if they needed anything on the way home. "Hello." It was her voice on the line. Bill’s heart throbbed against the roof of his mouth. His pulse coursed through his head. "It's me." "Bill?" She sounded relieved, not angry. Bill smiled. "Yeah. It's me." There was a pause. Then: "You motherfucking son of a bitch! Where the hell are you? I got a call from some FBI agents; they told me you were arrested, that you were with them. Under their protection, they said. Bill, what's going on? Where've you been?" "I had to go out for a bit. It's kind of hard to explain." There was a laugh, but she did not sound amused. "I'd love to hear your explanation." "I'd love to give it to you, and I will, when I have more time. Just one thing, are the kids okay?" "The kids? You mean the ones who ask when Daddy's coming home every day? The ones who asked where you went all day every day? The ones who have just now gotten to the point where they don't ask all day long, only at night, usually right before bed? The ones that have started sleeping in our bed because they're scared and worried about what happened to you? The kids you fucking deserted, you fucking selfish asshole? Those kids? Well, they're fucking wrecks. We're all fucking wrecks here. How did you think we'd be?" Bill winced at her words. Tears fell down his cheeks. He sucked in a sob and hoped she didn't hear. "Are they safe is what I mean? Are they physically okay?" There was a longer pause this time. When Shelby spoke again, it was softer. "What do you mean? Yeah. Yeah, they're okay. They're in our bed. I just left the room so they wouldn't hear me talking. They're fine. Why? What kind of crap are you in Bill? Is this like some sort of Mafia crap? Were you mixed up with something illegal? Do I need to worry?" "No. Nothing illegal. Just kind of hard to believe, that's all. Listen, I got to go. There's some FBI agents waiting outside the room for me, and I have a job to do. I'll explain everything later, okay. And, hey, Shelby?" "Yeah." He sucked in a breath of air. "I'm sorry. I love you." "Whatever." Click.The phone went dead. In a few seconds there was a dial tone. Bill's fingers hovered over the phone. He thought about dialing the number again. Instead, he lowered the phone down onto the receiver, stood up, and got dressed. He went to the bathroom and splashed his pale face with handfuls of cold water to hide the tears and focus his mind. He had a job to do, and it was important he be able to focus. He pushed the sound of Shelby's hurt voice out of his mind, and listened for the cries of hurting children.</span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-91278058769441910122011-03-24T13:33:00.000-07:002011-03-24T13:40:42.105-07:00Chapter XII: It's Gonna Be a Long Night<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Benny snored. Green beer bottles which had once contained an imported pale ale littered the floor around Benny's bed. Bill stared at the ceiling and watched the headlights of cars on the interstate outside the window flash by as parallel beams of light. He tried not to move. The room around him spun. Bill had shared a few shots of Wild Turkey with Benny that turned into a game of caps that turned into a wreck of the big man crying about Gloria while Bill grew weepy talking about how his own wife was destined to cheat on him, how his kids would grow up into monsters.<br /><br />"Nothing's set in stone," Benny had said before passing out. "Pray with me, man."<br /><br />Bill allowed it, but Benny passed out before getting past a sobbing wet request for God to forgive him his sins of adultery. Benny released a cacophony of snores while Bill found himself praying alone.<br /><br />"Give me something, God. Something, anything. A sign. Thanks for bringing Benny into my life. Yeah, he's a bit of a wreck but pretty okay. Thanks for Gloria's comfort. Help me help the little kids before any more get hurt. Help me help my family, if it be your will. I know it's probably wrong I left. Maybe. I really don't know. Just please let Benny be right: Let things not be set in stone. Amen."<br /><br />And sleep descended upon him.<br /><br />And dreams.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Children played in a large green field of rolling hills dotted by rainbows of flowers. The perimeter of the field was made up of a dark forest where shadows crawled. Eyes shone from between branches. Hidden things shook the visible leafy boughs. Shrieks and cries emanated from the darkness and carried across the field, but the laughter of children was not enough to drown out the sounds of the depraved.<br /><br />Bill stood in the center of the field. The children played around him. Some were toddlers taking wobbly steps. There were older children playing with the younger children, shepherding them, rounding them up to the safety in the middle of the field, keeping a length of empty green field between where children played and the shadows fell down from the surrounding forest.<br /><br />Bill realized the children were growing closer together. They crowded together, the older boys and girls staying to the outside to surround the little ones. Bill felt them press against him and smelled sweat and piss and swollen diapers.<br /><br />"No." Bill shook his head. "No."<br /><br />He saw fresh shoots come out of the grass on the perimeter. New trees grew up where it had once been a grassy field. The forest encroached upon the safety of the open spaces. The screeches of the things in the trees grew louder. The children stopped giggling. They stopped playing.<br /><br />A sudden silence erupted around Bill. It was broken by the occasional cry from the direction of the forest.<br /><br />A voice cried out from that dark and dank wilderness: "God bless the beasts and the children."<br /><br />Bill saw monkeys in the trees. They swung from tails to hands to feet from branch to branch. They wore business suits and ties. One of them sat on a branch with its hands down its pants. The crotch of the black silk slacks pounced up and down up and down up and down. Bill looked away just in time to see another monkey fling poo at its neighbor. They cried out and howled and laughed. A small monkey sat and stroked the fur beneath its chin while taking the occasional drag from a cigar that was held tight in its prehensile tail.<br /><br />The voice calling from the darkness grew louder. "Jesus said we should come to him as little children. With the faith of children. We should be innocent and pure and trusting."<br /><br />Bill bent down and wrapped his arms around the children closest to him. He wanted to hold them all, to cover their ears, to protect them.<br /><br />The older children on the outside looked in towards Bill. Their eyes grew dull and lost all trace of luster. Their young faces no longer resembled children. They grayed and aged.<br /><br />It grew quiet again. Even the monkeys in suits sat still. No shrieks, no cries, nothing.<br /><br />Then the forest erupted. Trees shot up everywhere and shadows drowned out the light of the sun. Bill lost the children surrounding him in the young greenery, new vines, new trees, and fresh forest. The shadows darkened as the canopy of leaves overhead solidified till it blocked all light.<br /><br />Bill thrashed in the darkness, found himself tangled in vines, and cried out to God, a God he knew to be very different from that one the voice in the darkness prayed to, a God who chooses to love and not persecute, a God who wants only to forgive and be loved in return.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Bill woke up sweating. The sheets clung to his body. He pushed them off, sat up, and tried to alternately shake the dream from his mind while analyzing it. The monkeys in business suits were easy enough to decipher. Some of the lonely business men occupying these lonely hotel rooms acted like caged monkeys. That made sense in its own way, but he wondered about the voice in the darkness? It was familiar somehow. Perhaps a radio preacher? Maybe someone on television? It was a deep voice, recognizable, familiar, almost comforting despite the dread he experienced in the dream.<br /><br />Bill sighed, reached over to the night table and pulled out a cheap sheet of stationary and a pen that was almost out of ink. He scribbled some notes, just a vague outline, and a word that he thought might even be a name of some significance: Green. He wrote until the pen completely ran out of ink and then tossed the pen into the garbage can. It clattered against the metal sides of the can and Benny stirred and even stopped snoring for a brief moment before resuming his nasal vibrato symphony.<br /><br />Visions of lonely businessmen once again infiltrated Bill's head through his exposed skin touching the bed. He stood up and walked to a small, uncomfortable chair next to a cheap round table. He curled up into a fetal position in that chair and leaned himself at an angle against the back and an arm rest. He knew he would have a crick in his neck in the morning but did not care. Visions of business men typing up spreadsheets while eating cheap take-out meals might just be dull enough to help him find a dreamless sleep.<br /><br />He stretched out his neck and cursed his own skin. </span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-66489328737053045282011-03-17T18:43:00.000-07:002011-03-17T19:02:33.919-07:00Chapter XI: A Loving Embrace<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">"What do you mean you saw angels?" Gloria looked down on Bill. Her mouth was set and hard.<br /><br />Bill threw his hands up in the air. "Angels. You know, wings and song and eternity. I saw it. The sky was really red and rained down. It was blood. It's... I know it sounds fucking ridiculous, but I saw what I saw."<br /><br />Gloria nodded her head. Benny sipped a soda and sat behind Gloria at a little table in the corner of the hotel room. Bill sat on an unmade bed. Gloria paced in front of a muted television showing a twenty-four hour news station. Bill stared at the talking heads and the news highlights rolling by at the bottom of the screen without anything really registering. The daily constant stream of news seemed every bit as unreal as his visions, but he was sure those stories were no less true. There was truth everywhere, in everything, in every story.<br /><br />"Angels? Crap, Bill, I thought you were going to help us catch this creep."<br /><br />Bill shrugged. "I never made any promises, but I want to help if I can."<br /><br />Gloria nodded. She turned back to Benny. "You tell him about the feathers?"<br /><br />Benny shook his head.<br /><br />She turned back to Bill and bit at her thumbnail. "Well, you saw plenty of feathers in those photos I'm sure. All the same, that's not something we've released to the press. We weren't sure if it was even relevant. But it was odd to find feathers at every single crime scene, even in that orange grove where they found you. Swans don't usually hang around in the middle of orange groves miles away from a pond or lake or any significant body of water besides the odd irrigation ditch, after all. Still, I thought maybe the feathers could have fallen down. So, you're sure the feathers are connected?"<br /><br />"I'm not sure of anything Gloria." Bill put his head in his hands. Gloria's hotel room was shouting out the story of the murder that had happened there. "But I feel it strongly. Just like I feel what happened in this room. Still, it was different. It was so real, but it can't be. Can it?"<br /><br />Gloria rolled her eyes. "You know I've never been one to go in for that hocus pocus opiate of the masses bull crap."<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. "I saw what I saw, though. I saw angels."<br /><br />Benny cleared his throat. "You know, G, it's more than hocus pocus bull crap. God's real, I think. I was raised in churches, being dragged along to all sorts of revivals and Holiness churches. My aunt and uncle prayed in tongues. One time, I came back while in college, and – I kid you not – I swear, my uncle was praying in Latin. Perfect Latin. I know because I was taking it at the time. I asked him how he knew Latin, and he just looked at me funny. You see, my uncle didn't have anything beyond a seventh grade education and a GED he got in his forties. He never really cared for books or anything like that, just cars. He knew how to sell lots of cars."<br /><br />"What are you saying, Benny? You saying you think we're looking for some messed-up angel like in a bad horror movie or something?"<br /><br />Benny shrugged and took a sip of his soda. "No. I'm just saying the world's a stranger place than you give it credit for. Look at Bill over there. He touches things and they tell him stories. It's real. He knew about my tiger and my past. I believe him."<br /><br />Gloria sighed. "Whatever. So we're chasing angels?"<br /><br />Bill looked down at his feet. He looked over to the little cellophane wrapper that contained the feather. "I don't know. I don't think so. I hope those weren't angels. It was a nightmare. An absolute nightmare." He took in a breath of air and turned his attention to the ceiling. "Maybe whoever did this is chasing the angels? Or making them?"<br /><br />He told the agents about visions of blood and bone and gristle and twine and needles and feathers and steel. He discussed a workshop for the dead.<br /><br />"He's making angels?" Benny asked.<br /><br />"Maybe? Maybe not. All the same, our guy seems to think so. Or maybe not making angels but making them host bodies. That's what the angel asked of me."<br /><br />Gloria eyed Bill. "An angel asked you to kill for it? To give it a body?"<br />Bill nodded his head.<br /><br />"Well? What'd you tell it?"<br /><br />Bill laughed. It was an uneasy sound. More of a wheeze. His lungs and throat burned with an unaccustomed discomfort from the morning's coarse tobacco smoke. "It was an offer I found incredibly easy to refuse."<br /><br />Gloria nodded her head. "But our guy took it gladly, you think?"<br /><br />Bill nodded his head.<br /><br />"Sick. Pretty damn sick." Benny stood up, walked over to the night table and picked out the Gideon's Bible from the drawer. He thumbed it open and began reading. "God doesn't want the murder of children."<br /><br />"Depends on who or what you think God is. I remember some stuff in the Old Testament about killing every woman, man, and child, even the livestock in villages being sacked by the Hebrews on God's orders." Gloria said. She bit her lower lip and sat down on the bed next to Bill. She turned to him and examined his face. "You're sure you're okay? Benny said you were frothing at the mouth and had a stroke or something."<br /><br />Bill smiled. "I'm as fine as I've been since this whole mess started."<br />"How were you before this mess started?"<br /><br />"A fucking wreck." Bill found himself looking at the phone. He thought about how easy it would be to dial a few numbers, to say hello, to check in, to apologize to his wife and his children. "I'm a fucking wreck." Bill put his face in his hands and cried.<br /><br />Gloria reached her arm across his shoulders and he leaned into her. He smelled her and felt her isolation. He found some small comfort knowing that this touch was as beneficial for her as it was for him. She patted him on the back of the head, and he remembered how she did that before when they were together. When his grandmother died, she had been there. She had accompanied him to the funeral. She had helped him break away from his family, and once alone, she had allowed him to grieve openly, unashamedly, and he knew, from her touch, that she remembered that bittersweet day fondly, too. She remembered it right then. Bill felt her warmth behind the cool marble wall of her exterior lack of emotions, and it scared him. It was almost too familiar, too comforting, and Bill pulled away, thought of his wife, and was surprised by a flashing burst of shame.<br /><br />Bill looked over to Benny. Benny had put down the Bible. The look Benny gave Bill was hard to read. The big man's aura grew murky. There was an odd mixture of pity, rage, regret, jealousy, and compassion. Those feelings swirled into a suspicious mess of near disaffection.<br /><br />Bill stood up. "I'm thirsty. I'm going to go down to the lobby and get a cup of coffee, okay?"<br /><br />Gloria stood up next to him. "I'll go with you."<br /><br />Bill shook his head. "No, I'm fine. I don't need any help and could actually use a moment alone, okay?"<br /><br />"You sure?" The look in Gloria's eyes was confused. The feel of the charged air surrounding her told Bill that she wanted to go with him, and that was the last thing he wanted. He just wanted to leave, to give Benny a chance to talk to Gloria. Bill knew the big guy wanted to, but part of Bill understood there was really nothing to say.<br /><br />Love had slapped Bill in the face and surprised him with its tenderness. Gloria's wide eyes gave her away even more than her aura. He had not felt any love since leaving home. It was maddening and encouraging and confusing.<br /><br />Bill turned his back, walked out of the hotel room, and closed the door behind him. He looked behind his shoulder once as he walked down the hall, and was somehow both glad and distraught to find the hallway remained empty.</span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-28816558865639704922011-03-10T15:40:00.000-08:002011-03-10T15:59:40.340-08:00Chapter X: Swans<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The angels raised their wings so that their feathered tips touched. There were too many to count. They descended in circles inside of circles inside of circles ad infinitum, an endless tower of living beings rising up above Bill into the infinity of sky. The angels raised the arms holding their swords and cried out in perfect time with one another. Their wings fluttered and they ascended a moment and thrust their swords upward before beginning their slow descent once again. The red sky began to rain blood as if they broke through a membrane of some sort. A metallic scent with a hint of a pleasing foreign incense filled Bill’s nose. He stared up with his eyes open wide with wonder.<br /><br />The angels came closer. He was able to make out their features. Their bodies were coated with gossamer fur that shone in the dim light in hues of metallic pink and purple and a pearly white. Their bodies were lean and well-muscled. They were naked and exposed and completely androgynous. The hair on their heads flowed outwards on unseen currents as if they were underwater. Bill was awestruck by their faces. Each of them was completely and indescribably beautiful. Some had the faces of people while others wore the faces of strange beasts: lions and lambs. Even the beastly faces were beautiful. Their eyes shone and they all looked up at the sky as they stabbed and stabbed again. They began to cut one another. Serene smiles lit their faces. They glowed as they sang. The blood continued to pour. The angels’ blood mingled with the blood from the sky. A few of the weaker angels fell to the ground and collapsed. They moaned with pleasure and smiled contentedly. All of them writhed in ecstasy.<br /><br />Bill looked around. There was blood everywhere, on everything, and he smiled to himself, knowing the blood would cleanse. Blood washes everything away. All the dirt and grime and filth of sin stinking up the world was coated by the angelic baptism. The metallic scent of the blood softened into the smell of fresh blooming roses.<br /><br />Bill looked down and saw the feather in his hand. It vibrated. The tiny hairs sticking out of the quill writhed like tiny snakes and caressed the flesh of his hand. They sank in and combined with his flesh. A single solitary angel with the face and features of a beautiful androgynous child flew down towards Bill. It reached out its hand and Bill took it.<br /><br />It was like grabbing a silk pillow, but there was a hidden strength.<br /><br />“Free us,” the Angel said. “Give us form. Let us live among you so that we might save you.”<br /><br />Bill closed his eyes. “I can’t.”<br /><br />“Let us help you.”<br /><br />“I can’t. I’m not good enough.”<br /><br />“None of you are good enough, yet you still share eternity with us. None of you are good. You are all evil. You are all corrupt. Our brother, The Lost One, seduces you all and your flesh listens. What choice does it have? The flesh dies because you gave in long ago. You share the same heritage, Children of Adam. We can free you once again. We are freeing you. We are helping you, but you must allow us to enter. We must share the same flesh. We must have perfect vessels. Uncorrupted, or at least as uncorrupted as your flesh can be. Will you help?”<br /><br />Bill saw knives puncture skin. Life fled from young faces as eyes grew dull and hollow. Hacksaws struggled through splintering bones. Ribs broke apart. Organs were discarded in empty fields. Blood seeped into weeds, and tall grasses swayed with the breeze. Teeth pulled out of jaws. Jaws pulled from skulls. Skulls pulled from spines. Everything tied back together, fused with metal and steel. Flesh draped over everything. Feathers sewed into drying skin. The discarded and lifeless corpses of black swans and white swans bled into the dust beneath his feet. The room smelled vaguely of raw and rancid poultry. Some of the decapitated swans still walked in clumsy circles. They danced, their headless necks intertwining and spraying a shower of blood that tasted of milk and honey.<br /><br />Nausea, fear, and revulsion coursed through Bill. “I can’t do that.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I can’t do that.”<br /><br />Bill opened his eyes. The song of the angels rose to a crescendo. They turned their swords downward towards him. He screamed as they descended. The points of their swords ripped into his flesh, into his very soul, and he cried out as he suffered a seemingly endless eternity of unendurable pain. Flames licked his feet as the ground swallowed him. The impossible weight of infinite angels pushed him down. The angel with the form of a child’s face stretched outward into a horrible unworldly distortion. A muscled arm reared back and swung. A flaming sword glided through Bill’s neck.<br /><br />***<br /><br />“Bill! Bill! Shit. Wake up, man!”<br /><br />Bill groaned and tried to open his eyes. They fluttered. Stars seemed to be flowing outward from somewhere deep inside his skull and played tricks with his vision. An ache ran down his spine, and a vise grip tightened against his temples.<br /><br />The world grew a little more focused as Bill blinked. He jumped and fell to his side. Strong hands grabbed him and held him steady.<br />“Whoa there, fellow. You’ve been out for a while. Just take it easy.”<br /><br />Bill looked to the voice and recognized it. The voice belonged to Benny. At first his features were warped, a man without skin; blood vessels, tendons, and muscles worked as Benny spoke. His eyes looked too large as if they were without any eyelids. Then the skin appeared, just a ghost at first, and then solidified. Bill recognized him as Benny. Bill looked up to the sky and blood red faded to blue. The blood slowed its drip from above until the fluid clarified into nothing. Morning sunlight lit the surface of the pond, and Bill noted the reflection of the sun dancing across the ripples.<br /><br />Bill controlled his breathing. He took in a breath through his nose, held it in for a few seconds, and then let out the air through his mouth. He remembered the pack of cigarettes in his pocket and reached for it.<br /><br />“What are you doing, man? You just had a stroke or some shit.” Benny held Bill’s hand down.<br /><br />“I’m okay now. Really.”<br /><br />“You sure as hell don’t look okay. Half your face is slack. Some lady called an ambulance for us. They should be here soon.”<br /><br />Bill shook his head, squinted, and pulled up the cheeks on the left side of his face. He twitched away what felt like a heavy dose of Novocain. He smiled tentatively. It hurt for a moment like the skin on that side of his face was asleep, but the pins and needles quickly receded.<br /><br />“There, is that better?” He turned back to Benny.<br /><br />Benny shook his head. “What the fuck, man? I still say we need to get you to a hospital. Get you a scan or something.”<br /><br />Bill sighed. “Don’t worry about me, all right? This sort of thing happens to me all the time. At least the physical things. But that time was different. I saw something. Do you believe in God?”<br /><br />Benny slammed his hand to his forehead. “What are you talking about now?”<br /><br />“What about angels?”<br /><br />“Look, I don’t know. I guess so.”<br /><br />“Well, someone does.”<br /><br />Benny laughed. “Lots of people do, man. Most people.”<br /><br />“But not everyone sees His angels.”<br /><br />“What are you talking about, Billy Boy?”<br /><br />Bill looked down and saw the feather fluttering in the breeze. He fought back an urge to grab it again.<br /><br />“I saw into another world, Benny. It was as beautiful as it was terrifying and felt very real. I know it wasn’t in my head. I know it can’t be. Do you think God is vengeful?” Bill stopped talking and looked at Benny. He saw the man’s face and knew he was losing him. “Listen, man, I’m not nuts, but I saw something.” Bill pointed down to the feather. “What do you know about swans.”<br /><br />“What did you ask me?”<br /><br />“Swans, man. What can you tell me about them?”<br /><br />Benny eyed Bill suspiciously. “What do you mean? You want to know about the birds?”<br /><br />“Don’t play dumb. I saw something. Something that could be helpful. There were feathers in some of those pictures you showed me in that interview room. What kind of feathers were they, Benny?”<br /><br />Benny sighed. “You’ve got good eyes. That’s part of the M.O. for this guy: swan feathers.”<br /><br />Bill pointed down to the feather. “I touched that. I saw something. Pick it up for evidence or something.”<br /><br />“Evidence of what?”<br /><br />“I think your guy’s been here.” Bill pointed out the lone black swan swimming in the center of the concrete pond beneath the spray of the fountain. “I bet that swan over there is missing a mate. Ask around.”<br /><br />Bill noticed one of the women in yoga pants nearby. He called out: “Excuse me, ma'am, did there used to be two swans out here?”<br /><br />She stopped talking on her cell phone and looked at him. She looked at Benny. “Is he okay?”<br /><br />Benny shrugged. “A little crazy, but okay enough. I think. Answer the guy’s question for him if you don’t mind. Are there usually two swans out here?”<br /><br />She nodded. “Yes, until a couple weeks or so ago. I’ve only seen the one swan for a while now.”<br /><br />Benny nodded. He reached into his pocket and whipped out the crumpled cellophane wrapper from his breakfast Danish. He turned it inside out so the sticky parts were on the outside and grabbed for the feather with the clean part. “Thanks, ma’am. I think my boy here’s going to be okay.” Benny turned to Bill. “Are you going to be okay?”<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. “I’m fine. Really.”<br /><br />Benny turned back to the woman. “Hey, listen, when the ambulance shows up let them know we’ll get him checked out later.”<br /><br />The lady scratched at her arm. “Doesn’t he need to get checked out now?”<br /><br />Bill stood up, lit a cigarette, and nodded to the lady. “I’m okay. Really. Thank you all the same. It’s good to know that people care.” Bill looked over at Benny who was still trying to wrap up the wet feather in a dirty piece of plastic while kneeling on the sidewalk.<br /><br />Benny stood up and looked at Bill. “You can finish your smoke in the car. Let’s get back with G and tell her about this. I want you to tell me everything you saw while we drive okay?”<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. “I’ll tell you as much as I can remember. It’s already fading, kind of like a dream. More like a nightmare, really.”<br /><br />Bill took in a lungful of smoke, looked up, and saw something glisten in the sky. He thought about flaming swords and raining blood and shuddered. </span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-6867985073015685572011-03-03T18:39:00.000-08:002011-03-03T18:43:43.176-08:00Chapter IX: Coffee and Cigarettes<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill and Benny rode together in silence. Benny’s bloodshot eyes struggled to remain open. He sighed from time to time and held a hand up to his head.<br /><br />“Where are we going, Benny?”<br /><br />“Out. For coffee.”<br /><br />“But they had coffee back at the hotel. Free continental breakfast and everything.”<br /><br />“That crap ain’t coffee. Besides, I wanted a moment, just you and me, before Gloria could interrupt. I didn’t want her along for the ride. It’s just us guys out here, and I have some things I have to know.”<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. “Okay, shoot, what’s your question?”<br /><br />Benny sighed. “Not, yet. Let me get some coffee first. This place has the best coffee in the world.” He turned on his blinker.<br /><br />“There?”<br /><br />“Yeah. There.”<br /><br />Benny turned into the parking lot of a gas station with a Shop-n-Snack. “You want anything? My treat.”<br /><br />“Sure, I guess I’ll have what you’re having.”<br /><br />Benny left the ignition on as he left the car and walked into the convenience store. Bill pulled his hands into the sleeves of his long-sleeved t-shirt. He turned on the car radio. He moved the dial and found about sixty country station, some station playing some crazy badly produced rock with horrible sound quality -- he was sure this must be a local college station -- and the rest was either preaching or talk radio. He settled on a talk radio station and listened to some conservative loud mouth berate the local mayor for a proposed municipal tax hike on cigarettes and alcohol. He said it was really a tax on the lower classes. The talk show host was crude and rude in his approach, but Bill conceded the man made some sense.<br /><br />Bill looked up and saw Benny holding two cups of coffee and a bundle of junk food in his looped arms. The big guy was in line and stood still with his eyes closed. Bill knew Benny had to be feeling like crap this morning. He hoped this wouldn’t sour Benny's mood all day, and Bill grew anxious wondering what kinds of questions Benny might ask. Bill was not sure if he should tell Benny anything. It was his history, sure, but it was Gloria’s, too. If the questions were about that, Bill was not so sure he even wanted to talk. He decided he’d be open and honest. That was the best option. He wasn’t sure he could trust Benny, not entirely, but he had felt the man’s past, and knew he was not all bad. In fact, Benny seemed okay from what Bill could tell, with the obvious exception of a slight alcohol problem.<br /><br />The talk show went to weather, then to traffic, then to news. Bill turned up the dial.<br /><br />“…another murder. According to sources, the body of Ginny Frazier has been recovered. Frazier has been missing since February 10th of this year. Details are still pending, but all signs indicate this was another murder by the Amputee Killer based on the numerous crime scenes associated with the recovery of this body. More details will be provided as this story develops…”<br /><br />Bill jumped as the car door opened. He reached out and fumbled with the knob of the radio through his shirtsleeve. He turned it up instead of down.<br /><br />“Rocking out, huh? Didn’t mean to scare you. Here’s your coffee,” Benny said as he slid into the driver’s seat.<br /><br />Bill pushed the dial to turn off the radio and then took the cup. “Thanks.” He looked inside the Styrofoam container. The coffee was black. He hated black coffee. “This is the best coffee in the world, huh?”<br /><br />Benny sipped from his cup. The bitter burnt chicory scent of cheap coffee filled the car. “I think so, anyway. This is the coffee I got hooked on. I know they say Starbucks has the best or those little independent coffee shops. But I think that’s crap. This is the real stuff. The stuff America runs on.”<br /><br />Bill laughed. “I thought that was Dunkin.”<br /><br />“Oh, those guys have good coffee, too. Better than Starbucks, anyway.”<br /><br />Benny tossed Bill a bag full of junk food: beef jerky, a cellophane wrapped cream Danish of some sort, a chocolate bar, and a pack of off-brand cigarettes. “Breakfast of champions, huh?”<br /><br />Benny smiled and looked over to Bill. He turned around and looked over his shoulder as he backed out of their parking spot. “That’s right, man. Breakfast of champions. It got me through high school and college, anyway.”<br /><br />They turned onto the highway, traveled a half mile and stopped at an office building. The building had a little concrete reservoir out front circled by a sidewalk and concrete benches and picnic tables. Canada Geese, mallards, and a single black swan swam beneath the spray of a fountain in the center of the manmade pond.<br /><br />“Want to eat outside?”<br /><br />“You’re the boss, Benny.”<br /><br />Benny smiled. “Look, Bill, you aren’t our prisoner, okay?”<br /><br />“Whatever you say.”<br /><br />“If you want to go, you can go.”<br /><br />“What would Gloria say?”<br /><br />Benny turned his eyes up to the roof of the car. “Hey, man, I’m getting out for a smoke. If you want, you can join me. If you don’t, you’re free to go."<br /><br />Bill opened his door. “Where would I go?”<br /><br />Benny shrugged. “Not my business.”<br /><br />They walked together to a concrete picnic table beside the pond. Bill carefully found a spot to sit that was not completely covered with goose poops. He sipped his coffee and snacked on the Danish. These mass-manufactured food items provided dull stories. This was okay. He took odd comfort in their mundane stories of stainless steel rendering plants, forklifts, and cardboard boxes. He took another small sip of coffee and breathed in the scent. The coffee smelled better than it tasted. To his mouth, it tasted horrible, but the warmth was nice in the morning chill. After finishing the Danish he opened the pack of cigarettes. He had not smoked in fifteen years. Not since right before he and Shelby had gotten married. It was an old habit by that point, however, and he found himself packing them and lighting one up easily. The first pull of smoke went straight to his head.<br /><br />The cigarette told a mundane story as well. The tobacco’s story was pleasant enough, not all that different from tea, but then there was the addition of chemicals and additives. So many additives. Bill looked at the burning end of his cigarette and marveled at its construction. It was the epitome of modern consumerism: mass produced for mass consumption and mass addiction.<br /><br />“I don’t usually smoke,” Benny said. “The feds kind of frown on it these days. In fact, they pretty much force you to quit. But sometimes, I like to have one. Reminds me of being younger.”<br /><br />“And dumber,” Bill said as he exhaled a plume of smoke from his nostrils.<br /><br />“Exactly.” Benny watched a goose fly by overhead and land in the water with a splash. “But perhaps more innocent, too.”<br /><br />“Damn, you’re pretty philosophical when you’re hung-over, too, huh?”<br /><br />Benny smiled. “I’m glad I don’t smoke all the time these days. These packs were nearly five bucks a piece. Can you believe that shit?” Benny lit his cigarette. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. The smile from just a moment ago faded into a frown. He sighed and smoke escaped from the sides of his down-turned mouth. “All right, what’s the story with you and G?”<br /><br />Bill sighed. “I knew this was coming.” He sucked in another draught of smoke. He held it in a moment before letting it out. His head swam with nicotine. A powerful and not entirely unpleasant buzz crept in. “We knew each other in high school.”<br /><br />“That’s what you said the other day. My question is: How well did the two of you know each other?”<br /><br />Bill looked at the tip of his cigarette. A wisp of grey smoke snaked up into the warming morning air. “Pretty well.”<br /><br />Benny sighed. “I kind of thought so. You were more than just friends, weren’t you?”<br /><br />Bill shrugged his shoulders. “I thought so. I think so. Still, I don’t entirely know, to be honest. We were together for a while, for over a year, but it wasn’t really official with her, or at least it never felt that way. We were close, but she never introduced me to her parents or anything. I tried to get her to meet mine a few times, but she didn’t want to. I told her I loved her. I even asked her to marry me once but played it off as a joke when she became upset. She wanted to be an FBI agent, said she didn’t want to grow too attached.”<br /><br />“So you loved her, then?”<br /><br />“Yes, Benny. I loved her. I think she might have even loved me, too.”<br /><br />“I think I know what you mean.”<br /><br />Bill tossed the butt of his cigarette to the ground and smothered the burning embers with his shoe. He looked up to Benny and raised his eyebrows. “You and Gloria?”<br /><br />Benny looked away. “Shit, man, I don’t know. I really don’t know. There was one night, just a few nights before we picked you up, but it’s like she’s acted like it never happened ever since. In the morning, she was gone. Any time I try to bring it up she gets all--”<br /><br />“Funny.” Bill said. “She kind of stares off into the distance like she’s slipping into a coma or something.”<br /><br />“Yeah. It’s just weird. She did that back then, too?”<br /><br />Bill nodded.<br /><br />A silence grew between them. The moment stretched on and became awkward. Bill lit another cigarette. “I’m going to take a walk around the pond, okay?”<br /><br />Benny nodded. He had lit another cigarette himself. He did not smoke it. He just sat there and watched it burn. He had the look of a man lost inside his own head.<br /><br />Bill walked around the pond. He looked around. There were a few men in business suits walking the sidewalk circle with cell phones plastered to their ears or typing with their thumbs on Blackberries. A pair of women were power walking in yoga pants. They laughed and talked, but as Bill walked by, they grew silent and eyed him suspiciously. They walked as far on the opposite side of the sidewalk as possible.<br /><br />Bill stopped to look at his reflection in the pond. He would have avoided himself, too. His face was gaunt, sunburned, and peeling. The hair on his head looked unnaturally thin. He thought he should see about taking some vitamin supplements. His diet on the road had not exactly been the most healthy or well-rounded.<br /><br />Wind gusted. A single white feather floated towards him on the surface of the pond. Bill eyed the feather. He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt and reached down. The movement was impulsive. He had to grab it. His hands touched the fine hairs of the wet feather. Cold water splashed around his grasping hand. The ripples distorted the reflection of the sky. Clouds melted, the sky grew red, and angels descended waving flaming swords.</span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-76634723905897670512011-02-24T17:48:00.000-08:002011-02-24T18:43:38.053-08:00Chapter VIII: The Economy Suite<div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill regarded himself in an economy suite's mirror. His hair had been trimmed. His beard, shaved away. His tongue still felt swollen and sore from where he bit it earlier in the day, but it worked more or less normally. He moved his tongue around between his lips and gums. He smiled and noted the lines creasing his face. Even with a smile, he did not look happy. Worry lines gave him away.<br /><br />A crisp polo shirt hung from his bony shoulders. Once he would have filled the shirt out. He may have even required a larger size, but now he could not even fill out a small. He turned to the side and peeled off a transparent sticker with the size written on it in vertical repetition: S, S, S, S. His chest puffed out with an inhalation of air, but it was no use. He still could not fill out his shirt.<br /><br />"What the hell happened to you?" he asked his own reflection. The chill of the marble countertop shot up his arm. He looked down and realized he had leaned over and grabbed the counter without thinking about it. He quickly realized his mistake. "Aw shit."<br /><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">***<br /></span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">A stranger examined himself in the mirror. The thin young man had a pair of tweezers in his hand. He plucked at his eyebrows. They were styled into clean crescents that were perhaps a touch too high up on his forehead. There was something feminine about the arch. The young man smiled and hummed. A second man entered the bathroom wearing only a robe. The man plucking his eyebrows shouted and pushed the other man out.<br /><br />"I'm not ready yet, bitch. Just wait till I'm beautiful. I promise it'll be worth it."<br /><br />The other man smiled and walked out of the bathroom. He slapped the young guy on the butt on the way out.<br /><br />The man who had been plucking his eyebrows smiled at himself. He reached down and grabbed a furry thing off the counter. The furry thing was a bright pink wig.<br /><br />"You look beautiful." He puckered out his lips and began applying neon green lipstick.<br /><br />Outside the bathroom, the front door opened with a whump.<br /><br />A muffled shout through the bathroom door: "Where is that asshole!"<br /><br />Another muffled shout answered: "Who the hell are you? You can't just come barging into my room. Do you know who I am?"<br /><br />"I don't need permission. That little queen owes me two hundred bucks. Where is he?"<br /><br />The man in the bathroom quit humming. He closed up his lipstick and stuck it into a tiny little purse hanging from a chain on his shoulder. He looked around.<br /><br />There was more shouting through the door.<br /><br />The man in the bathroom looked around the bathroom frantically. He cursed under his breath and stepped into the shower. He closed the shower curtain behind him.<br /><br />A second later the bathroom door shot open and a large man walked inside.<br /><br />"Jackie-O, where are you honey? Don't hide. Daddy just wants his money."<br /><br />The big man looked towards the shower curtain. He turned towards the mirror, looked at himself in reflection, and rolled his eyes. "Give me a break. There's only one place you can be. You always were a stupid fuck." He pulled back the shower curtain.<br /><br />The man in the wig screamed.<br /><br />The big man raised his arm and brought it down against the smaller man in the shower. There was a slap, then another slap, then another slap. Sometimes the fist was closed; sometimes it was open. The person in the wig never cried out. He only released muffled grunts as if by holding in as much sound as possible he might keep out the pain.<br /><br />The other man in the robe rushed in. He grabbed the big man's arm with his both of his hands. The big guy twirled around and brought a fist. The fist connected to the man in the robe's jaw, and he cried out. The man in the robe pulled his hand towards his jaw. A froth of blood and saliva spilled through his fingers. He rushed out the door. "Help!" he said through his fingers. "Help!" It was a garbled echo down the hallway.<br /><br />The big man turned to watch the man in the robe run away. Behind the big man, the man in the wig stood. His face was puffy. On the right side of his face, beneath his recently groomed brow, the upper eyelid was puffed out and turning blue. A tiny cut just below his temple dripped a trail of blood. He smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. Blood dribbled out the side of his mouth.<br /><br />"That's it bitch! I've had enough!" he swung his dainty little purse. The chain wrapped around the big guy's throat.<br /><br />Caught off guard, the big man lost his balance and staggered backwards, hitting his head against the countertop. The little man in the wig leaped on top of him and screamed. He tugged on the chain around the big man's throat.<br /><br />"I don't owe you anything!" the man in the wig said. "You owe me everything you sick fucking bastard!"<br /><br />The big guy wasn't listening. He gasped for air. Wide open eyes stared at the ceiling without focusing. Bill knew the man lying on his back was unconscious.<br />The little man either was not aware or did not care. He tugged on the little chain purse until the man below him stopped fighting for air and lay silent and still on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Eventually, the man in the wig's screams and yells turned into tears. He let go of the chain. He slammed the floor with his open palm.<br /><br />"Why couldn't you just leave me alone?"<br /><br />The man on the floor lay silent and staring.<br /><br />"Why couldn't you just leave me alone?"<br /><br />The man on the floor made no movement, no response.<br /><br />Time passed and two new men walked into the bathroom. They wore dark uniforms and their badges shone under the cheap vanity lights. They read the man in the wig his rights, placed him in handcuffs, each of the two men picked him up by an arm, and carried him away.<br /><br />While being carried away, the man in the wig kept repeating the same refrain over and over again.<br /><br />"Why couldn't you just leave me alone?"<br /><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">***<br /><br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill lifted his hands from the countertop. He looked at them. He looked to the floor where the big man lay lifeless in another time that overlapped the way that all time overlaps. He wondered again why no one else could feel these things. The impressions were so obvious, especially when the feelings were so raw.<br /><br />There was a knock on the bathroom door.<br /><br />Bill jumped.<br /><br />"You okay in there?" Gloria asked. "You didn't fall in did you?"<br /><br />Bill smiled. "I'm okay. I think I'd like to ask for a change of rooms though." He opened the door.<br /><br />Gloria lifted her eyebrow. "Felt it, huh?"<br /><br />"Felt what?"<br /><br />"You tell me what? Why do you want another room?"<br /><br />"I saw something, okay? A guy got murdered, but it was really just self-defense. Mostly, I guess."<br /><br />"That's what the jury said, too."<br /><br />"So it did happen?" Bill asked.<br /><br />Gloria nodded. "I think so. Just out of curiosity, what did the murderer look like?"<br /><br />"He had finely trimmed eyebrows, green lipstick, and a pink wig."<br /><br />"Damn, you're good. Too bad the D.A. can't take you to court as a witness. No jury'd ever believe you, but, shit, you corroborate everything perfectly, Bill."<br /><br />"You knew about this room? What was this? Another test?"<br /><br />Gloria flashed a smile.<br /><br />Bill couldn't help but smile back. "Out of curiosity, what happened to the guy in the wig? He really was defending himself, more or less. I only saw part of the picture, but imagine there was a lot of abuse going on for a guy to snap like that."<br /><br />Gloria's smile faded. "They let him off, more or less, but the judge ordered some inpatient counseling based on the charges. Determined it was all self-defense. It was a horrible story. No point into going into it all now, but the guy had been beat up pretty hard for a pretty long time. Medical examiner said there were signs of years of broken bones on x-rays. He had fractures that had been left untreated and never properly set in his ribs and dents in his skull. Really horrible stuff. Worst part is – the dude who was abusing him, the guy he murdered – that was his father."<br /><br />"That was his father?"<br /><br />Gloria looked down to the floor. "Not all parents are good."<br /><br />Bill thought about his own children. He had deserted them. A pang of guilt kicked<br />him in the gut, and he thought he might be sick.<br /><br />"Here." Gloria dangled a cardkey. "Take my room. I'll sleep in here. It creeps me out a little, but at least I don't have to worry about seeing a murder scene every time I touch a surface."<br /><br />"Don't be silly. You know what happened in here. You can't possibly be comfortable knowing that. I guess we could share a room."<br /><br />Gloria laughed. "Are you hitting on me, Bill?"<br /><br />Bill blushed. "No, but that way you could keep an eye on me."<br /><br />She pointed to the door. "I'll be fine. I've dealt with plenty of murder scenes, most of them fresh. This one's seen a cleaning unlike any other room in this whole flea bag place I bet. Besides, I think I've seen enough of you for one day. Get out of here. Be sure not to touch anything unless you have to. As far as I know there have been no murders in room 112, but who knows what kind of crazy stuff you'll find if you go feeling around? Besides, Benny's in there to keep you company. You guys'll work better as roommates, anyway. I need some privacy and a hot bath. It's been a messed up couple of days. Benny's not always so easy to rest around. You'll see what I mean. He's the life of the party. I could really use a quiet night to myself."<br /><br />Bill nodded. "Goodnight, Gloria." He fought a strange urge to reach out and touch her cheek. There was something about her tonight, the way that she looked at him. She looked more like herself, like the girl he remembered.<br /><br />"Goodnight, Bill." A half-smile crept across her face and she tilted her head.<br /><br />They looked at one another in silence a moment until Bill awkwardly cleared his throat and turned away.<br /><br />A hint of her aura touched the back of Bill's neck as he turned away. She had missed him, after all. He thought of all the lonely nights after high school when he had wanted to call and wondered what might have happened if he had only made one more effort? Perhaps then she wouldn't have rejected him like he feared? Perhaps then she would have admitted what they shared had been real? Perhaps there would have even been another life? He wasn't sure what that last part meant, but felt it to be true. Could there have been another life? What was that other life he felt anyway? It was gone now, but it had been real. A memory? He wondered how much would be different if they had never moved on, moved out of town, and gone off to separate colleges in separate states.<br /><br />But the past receded behind him as Bill walked down the hall. He swiped the cardkey in the door of his room and walked inside.<br /><br />"What's up, Roomie?" Benny said with a slur. He had a little bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand and was sipping it. The tiny bottle looked ridiculous in his large, meaty hand. Benny resembled Gulliver in the land of Lilliput. "There's a mini-bar!"<br /><br />Bill walked past Benny and noticed how the large man stumbled behind him. "I see that. Is there anything left?"<br /><br />Benny looked at the little bottle in his hand with one eye open. He tilted it up, knocked it with his finger, and stuck out his tongue. A drop fell from the bottle: the last drop. "Not much. I think there's some Kahlua or some shit. You could make a mudslide."<br /><br />"I thought you Feds were supposed to stay sober, like be teetotalers or something?"<br /><br />Benny's one open eye narrowed. "And I thought you were a stinker face baby killer." Benny waved the bottle in the air dramatically during a brief pause. He began to wobble. A hand was placed on the wall to hold himself steady. He belched. "But I was wrong. We're not all what we seem to be."<br /><br />"Profound."<br /><br />Benny smiled, and then his wide face grew green. "Excuse me, sir."<br /><br />Benny stumbled into the bathroom. Through the open door, Bill heard Benny wretch.<br /><br />Bill shook his head. He was in no mood to party. The image of the foot and the leg coursed through his mind. He thought about the abused young man pimped out and beaten relentlessly by his own father. He thought of his own children. He thought of Shelby. He thought of Gloria. These things ran circles inside his head. They vied for his attention. They fought to preoccupy his mind.<br /><br />Bill rubbed his eyes, sighed, and lay down on the bed. He tried to block out the stories shouting at him through the sheets. In the end, he could not block them all out. Instead Bill tried to focus his mind quickly, from one thought to another to another until the scenes became a kind of white noise as he fell into a troubled and restless sleep. He tossed and turned. His clothes rode up on his body. Bare skin touched the hotel's sheets. He dreamed of lonely overweight businessmen watching porn with their hands down their boxer shorts. It was not a good night. </span></div>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-5984036209288915342011-02-17T18:54:00.000-08:002011-02-17T18:56:56.453-08:00Chapter VII: The Leg<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill struggled to walk beneath the hot sun. Rays of heat beat against him through a clearing in the woods above a small pond. Insects trilled in the bushes and tall grasses lining either side of the rutted and muddy road. Humidity weighted heavily upon his clothes. The air felt sticky. Perspiration dotted his forehead, and his armpits grew wet. Spanish moss drooped over branches and trailed in the crystal clear water.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Floating about five yards out from the shore was a leg. It was bloated and far too white. It looked unnatural as it turned in a slow, lazy circle. Tiny darters swam around it and shimmered sunlight from their scales. Soggy feathers of black and white floated around the severed limb.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">There were a couple vans parked in a clearing nearby with people wearing what appeared to be scrubs. They nodded at Gloria and Benny as they passed by.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“We instructed our people not to touch anything. We didn’t want their touch tainting yours,” Benny explained. “Not that I think it matters.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill felt Benny's outward cynicism, but Benny’s underlying belief was a more powerful force in his aura.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill nodded. “That’s probably for the best. I know what I’m looking for: a face, a name, anything identifying, right?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“That’s right, Bill, anything,” Gloria agreed.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Well, the less touch involved the better, then.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">A snake squirreled over the surface of the water on the opposite side of the pond. A fish jumped near it leaving a circle of ripples. A wave of nausea rolled through Bill as Gloria handed him a pair of thick rubber waders from the trunk of the rental car.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Don’t make me do this,” Bill said it quietly. His cheeks burned with shame. He wanted to act like a spoiled child and curl into a ball while screaming "I don't wanna! I don't wanna! I don't wanna!" but he knew this was not an option.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Benny acted like he didn’t hear Bill.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Gloria shook her head as she slipped into her own pair of waders. “Let’s go.” She stepped out into the pond.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The water in the pond seemed even hotter than the humid air. It offered no cooling respite. Bill trudged through the mud, the treaded boots on his waders sticking in a half foot of mud. He heard a sucking, squelching sound with every forced step.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The sun seemed too bright. He saw stars and thought he was going to pass out.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Gloria wrapped her hand around his upper arm and held him steady. He felt her touch and felt her courage, and it filled him. The scene around him clarified. His vision grew a little more focused, and he shook the cobwebs from his mind. Her touch was familiar, and in that familiarity, he found comfort.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The leg was directly in front of him. It was severed just below the hip and above the ankle. It was just a leg. There was no foot, no body. Bill took off his glove and reached his hand out.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">He hesitated.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Go ahead, Bill. Do your thing,” Gloria whispered near his ear.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Her aura pulsed with determination and this fed his resolve.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">He reached out and wrapped his fingers around a little knee.<br /></span><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">***<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">A starburst of pain filled Bill’s head. The sun remained overhead, but it grew dark. Nighttime descended over reality. Stars dotted the sky. A silver crescent moon sat in the clearing over the pond. The moon’s reflection danced across the rippled surface.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The sounds were different. There was a single lonely hoot of an owl, the screech of crickets, and the trilling songs of night birds.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">There was also a little girl screaming.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill saw her fighting. She was being pulled by her hair. Her thin arms and legs waved about in the air, and she struggled to get a handhold on the dirt road. Her nails scraped against the rough soil.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">She fought a good fight, and Bill felt her desperation and, worst of all, the glimmer of hope that everything would be okay. He knew it would not be. He already knew how this story ended. Like all lives, it would end in tragedy. This young life would be snuffed out and gone forever.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill struggled to focus his attention on the figure pulling the little girl. It was a blur. The figure wore black. A black track suit, maybe? He couldn’t be sure. The face shook back and forth at such a quick speed he could make out no discernable features. It was just a blur. Yet, in the blur, he saw the sparkle of teeth and a sick, sick smile.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">In the hand not dragging the girl, the figure held a felling ax. He dropped her to the ground and lifted the ax above his head with the butt end pointing down. The figure swung the ax handle down with a grunt. The wood connected with her temple. The girl stopped screaming. She lay silent and still. It would appear she was peaceful and sleeping if not for a pool of blood crowning outwards from her head.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The figure pulled the ax back into the air, twirled the handle with a flourish, and then brought the blade down with precision at the point where leg met hip. The leg fell free from the body and the girl bled. She would never cry again. Bill thought there might be some comfort in that, at least.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill had seen enough. His body shook with uncontrollable tremors, and he knew elsewhere, where the sun shined and agents stood milling about watching him, he was retching and vomiting. He could taste it on the back of his throat, but it was very faint and far away.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill tried again to see the face, but nothing was there, just a blur of indistinguishable features and a Cheshire Cat grin of gleaming white teeth. Something like wings erupted from his back and fluttered. Feathers rained down.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill focused on the direction that the figure had come from when carrying the screaming child. Down the rutted dirt road, he saw eight bright lights glowing: a pair of headlights and four spotlights atop a roll bar. It was a jeep, maybe, or a truck. He could not be sure. The darkness hid it too well. All he could see were the spotlights, and they were blinding.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The pain in his head rose. A buzzing filtered through his head and grew louder. The world wavered, and he felt himself fall into the water. A pair of arms – small but strong – grabbed him, and he knew he was being pulled to shore.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">He had done his job. He had seen all he could see, but it was not enough. He worried it would never be enough.<br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">*** </span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Bill? Bill? Are you okay?”<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Sunlight filtered orange through his closed eyelids. He stirred and tried to open his eyes. The light was too bright. He had to shut his eyes once again. There was a soft hand, a familiar hand, running fingers through his hair.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“What is it? Is he okay?”<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">He heard the voice. He knew the voice. He wondered who she was talking to? He wondered where they were? Did their parents know they had skipped school? But that wasn’t right. That was long ago and far away now.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">And then he remembered: He knew what he had seen was her memory, from her eyes, not his. It was a different perspective. It was good to know that Gloria thought about him sometimes, too.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">He opened his eyes again and let the world come back into focus. His head was in Gloria’s lap. A young man wearing scrubs stood over him and was checking him out with a pen light. He ran the pen light back and forth across his face.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Can you follow the light with your eyes, sir?”<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill did as he was told.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“He seems to be all right.” The young man turned his face to Gloria. “But you should probably get him to a doctor as soon as you can. I’d suggest an MRI. I don’t know for sure – as you know I don’t really treat the living that often these days – but I think your guy here may have had a stroke.”<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill felt something wet on the side of his face. He reached his hand up and touched himself. He pulled his hand away and looked at it beneath the bright sun. A crimson streak stained the skin. He could taste blood in his mouth.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“I ink I bic my ong,” Bill said as best as he could.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Gloria nodded his head. “Yes, you bit your tongue. You started shaking out there and then just… fell over. You were spazzing out. Does that always happen?”<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill shook his head. “I donno.” He squinted his eyes as he tried to remember. “I pass ou whe I saw a foo.”<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“That’s right. You passed out when you saw the foot. But does this happen every time? Was that the first time you ever passed out?”<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill nodded his head.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Benny stood over him and blocked the sun. “You think you can stand up?” He reached down with a meaty hand.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill nodded his head and took the big man’s hand. He felt compassion there and it comforted him. He felt strength in that hand, and it was enough to help him get back to the car. Once there, he closed the door behind him, put on his seatbelt, rested his head against the cool glass of the window, closed his eyes, and fell back asleep.<br /></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">In his dreams, he heard the echoes of little girls crying out to him for help. </span></div>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-33551385327251428442011-02-10T18:38:00.000-08:002011-02-10T18:59:33.149-08:00Chapter VI: Ripples<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill ignored the stories in the handcuffs to the best of his ability. When they rubbed against the bare skin of his wrists, he felt glimpses of pain, of guilt, and of outright anger. The cuffs were cold and hard and cruel against his skin.<br /><br />He walked behind Gloria and followed her into a small room. Inside the room was a man he had felt before: a tall man in a cowboy hat, Metallica shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. This was the man who had banged a kid's head in the interrogation room. Bill knew the sheriff on sight. The sheriff stared at Bill with narrow, black, pinprick eyes. The glare carried feelings of mistrust and resentment.<br /><br />There were three other people in the room: an older dark-skinned woman he assumed was a judge based on her robe, a pudgy balding man in a pair of khakis and a stained white dress shirt, and a young Asian man wearing a tailored black suit. The woman introduced herself as Judge Reneshia Dryer. The pudgy fellow was the prosecuting attorney, a man by the name of Chris Billings. The young man introduced himself as Thomas Lu, and explained that he was to be Bill’s lawyer.<br /><br />Bill hardly noticed another man, a court reporter who sat in a shadowy corner until the slim little man cracked his knuckles.<br /><br />“Why are we doing this in here, your honor,” the sheriff whined.<br /><br />“To avoid a media circus, Sheriff Francis.” The judge sounded calm and bored. “Don’t be a dumbass.”<br /><br />Sheriff Francis huffed, crossed a pair of thick hairy arms across his chest, and leaned back on the back two legs of his chair.<br /><br />Thomas Lu stood up and patted Bill on the back as Bill slid into an empty chair. Bill felt the young man exude confidence, good-humor, and hopefulness. Bill smiled. It was nice to feel the touch of someone who the world had not yet completely tainted. Bill wondered how long the young man had been a lawyer.<br /><br />Thomas whispered in Bill's ear, “Just relax. This is all a formality. Do what I tell you, and you’ll get to spend the afternoon at the beach with Gloria okay?”<br /><br />Bill nodded and sat down. He listened to the people talk among themselves, but his mind travelled elsewhere. It kept returning to the severed foot and the little girl. He saw her struggling in his mind’s eye, and felt a dark shadow of despair filter through his mind. It all seemed pointless. A little girl was dead. What was going on could never bring her back.<br /><br />Thomas Lu smiled as he spoke to the judge. The judge sighed as Thomas took some papers out of his briefcase. “My client is being held on purely circumstantial and flimsy evidence, and we’re just about to go past the allotted time for holding a suspect without formal charges. According to the FBI agents, just this morning, another child was murdered. How could my client have committed this crime if he was behind bars?”<br /><br />“Maybe it was a copycat,” the prosecutor countered.<br /><br />“That’s pure speculation at this point. At this point, all evidence still points to a single killer. There were certain … uhm … signatures left at the scene of the crime that have not been released to the media. A copycat would not know of those details, so that theory is impossible.”<br /><br />Gloria nodded her head. “It’s true, your honor. This suspect cannot possibly be the killer.”<br /><br />“Unless there’s more than one killer out there, Judge. Maybe he has a partner out there, you know?” The prosecutor looked over to Bill and cocked his head to one side. “Maybe they work as a team?”<br /><br />“Speculation again. We can’t hold him indefinitely without charging him, and you can’t charge him without any evidence, your honor.”<br /><br />“Mr. Lu’s right.” The judge put on a pair of reading glasses and read over the paperwork given to her by Bill’s young lawyer. She nodded her head. “This all looks in order. Seems fair.” She took the lid off a fountain pen and started signing papers. She looked up over her reading glasses to Bill. “You’re a free man, but you aren’t to go anywhere, you hear me? Don’t leave town. I see here you have no current, permanent address. Fix that.”<br /><br />“Don’t worry, your honor. We have plans to keep a close eye on him.” Gloria looked over to Bill with a tight smile on her face.<br /><br />He thought he knew what she meant and shuddered.<br /><br /></span><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">***<br /></span></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Sunlight angled down through the car window. It was warm and nice on Bill’s face. He looked out the window of the rental car and watched the Florida landscape pass by. Tall palms rose up out of the thick brush and swayed with unseen breezes as the unremarkable grey sedan rolled over the pockmarked and isolated road. Bill looked through the tangled wild on either side of the cracking cement and wondered what secrets and stories might be hiding in that wilderness.<br /><br />“Bill, are you even listening to me?”<br /><br />Bill shook his head and then looked forward to Gloria. She was turned around in the front passenger seat. Benny sat silent next to her in the driver’s seat. His large sunglasses reflected the road ahead.<br /><br />She sighed, and a hint of a smile crossed her face. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”<br /><br />Bill managed to make a weak smile himself. “I’m sorry. I’ve always been a bit of a drifter. At least in my thoughts, anyway.”<br /><br />The fabric of the car rubbed against his skin and he felt nothing but cool professionalism there. This was a rental car, and the stories it told were routine and mundane: businessmen making appointments, that sort of thing. It was cold and cool and rather dull. The calm juxtaposed the heat of the day outside the car, and the new car scent contrasted sharply with the wild air coming in from outside through the air vents in the front of the car.<br /><br />Gloria felt a lot like the car: cool, professional, a little boring. She had always wanted to be an agent. Bill had asked her to marry him once long ago. She had refused, said she wanted to make it through the academy first.<br /><br />She made it, she had her dream, but Bill wondered to himself if she found it worth the reward? She was so professional now, so uptight. She was not the girl he remembered though she shared the same skin and bones and structure.<br /><br />Gloria turned back around in her seat. “We’re about there. I’m sure once you see it you’ll fill in the blanks pretty quickly. Especially if your … uhm … talent is real.”<br /><br />Bill reached forward and touched her forearm lightly with just the tip of his finger. The ridges of his fingerprint flirted against the fine blonde hairs on her forearm. The touch itself was almost immeasurable but still strong enough. He saw their break up from a different perspective (he always suspected he might have been a jerk), he saw her struggle through college and then the academy, saw her lonely nights, saw her spend her time in books and gyms and firing halls, he felt her awkwardness in informal conversations and blind dates set up by well-meaning acquaintances (she had few, if any, real friends), he saw much more but respected her enough not to bring those things up, not unless he had to. “Do you want me to prove it to you?” Bill asked.<br /><br />Gloria pulled her arm away and shook her head. “It’s okay.” Her voice sounded shaken.<br /><br />Benny slowed the car, turned the wheel to the left, and the cab lurched from side to side as they rolled down an unpaved dirt road that was little more than a trail. Mud splashed. Rocks scraped the exposed undercarriage as they moved slowly through the encroaching wilderness. A couple white-tailed deer darted across the road in front of them and were gone just as quickly, lost behind a veil of intertwining branches.<br /><br />“We’re here,” Benny announced.<br /><br />Even before stepping out of the car, Bill felt the impression of what he was about to see. The strength of the event was contained in the particles of air surrounding him. He knew he was nearing ground zero of a psychological blast. He knew it would be like the orange grove. If not worse.<br /><br />Whatever happened here was more recent, and the vibrations from that event expanded outward as a ripple that had not yet had the time necessary to smooth itself out again.<br /><br />Bill grew anxious as the agents exited the parked car. His heart raced. A dull ache formed just behind his temples. His stomach twisted into a sour knot. “Don’t make me touch it! Please! I'm going to be sick.” Bill reached down and grabbed the seat with white-knuckled hands.<br /><br />“Don’t make me make Benny carry you,” Gloria warned.<br /><br />Bill knew she wasn’t bluffing and released his death grip on the seat. He stepped out of the car on weak legs as the world wavered with ripples of pain.</span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-60009565062272281372011-02-03T17:37:00.000-08:002011-02-03T17:39:12.375-08:00Chapter V: A Turkey Sandwich<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The pair of thin latex gloves offered Bill little protection from the impressions of feelings in the room. Even with the gloves, he remained careful not to touch anything unless he absolutely had no other choice. There were too many stories wrapped up in the confines of his holding cell, and none of them were very happy.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">At lunchtime, the same grizzled officer came by and dropped off a tray which held a turkey sandwich, an apple, and a Styrofoam cup of iced tea. “Eat up, pal, and make it quick. You got an appointment with the judge in less than an hour.” He laughed. “I see you got your gloves.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill nodded his head. “Yeah, I did.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“You’re one crazy shit, you know that?” An aura of condescension, malice, and revulsion surrounded the young man. <br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill tried not to react to the negative energy. “Maybe I am, man.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The young guy scoffed. He stared into Bill’s eyes a moment before turning away. “I hope they give you Old Sparky.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill thought about that a moment. He thought about having his hair shaved and his body wrapped in that leather and metal. He imagined the stories that the electric chair would tell him and shuddered at the thought. He thought that if his skin just happened to graze that chair, after feeling the stories it would tell, death might become the least of his worries. In fact, death might come as some relief.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill heard the young man’s footsteps recede into the distance. He felt alone.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Despite his normal avoidance of meat, Bill found that he was starving. He ate the sandwich and tasted the turkey on his tongue. As expected, the story was ugly, but not too bad overall. It was a life of confinement, but also of false confidence and safety. The turkey never knew what was coming. It ate its feed – unaware of what the future would bring – and gobbled happily during its short life, but in the end, it was still a sad story, kind of lonely.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill looked around at the cage he found himself in now and identified with the turkey. He put the sandwich down and left it unfinished after eating about three-fourths of it. He could not take another bite. The confined life is secure in its way, but Bill did not want that life. He wanted to remain free to run away from the butcher at the end of his own story. He knew that a butcher came for them all in the end, but Bill did not want to wait around in a cage. He wanted to make the butcher chase after him a little first.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill picked up the apple. He knew that its story would be more pleasant – a story of fragrant blossoms and soaked sunlight and cool summer rains. He was not disappointed. Bite after delicious bite, he felt the seasons as lived by the tree and found some comfort in the cycle of life it revealed. <br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The tea was also nice – an apparently endless green field billowed by a warm breeze.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">After eating, he decided to clean himself up a little for the judge. He walked over to the mirror and studied his reflection. He could benefit from a nice shave and haircut, but understood this would not be possible at the moment. He worked the faucet on using his clothed elbow. He did not want to risk touching any surface; he worried his latex gloves were too thin.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">He placed his head under the faucet and allowed the lukewarm water to flow through his tangled locks. He ran his fingers through his wet hair and, aided by a fresh bar of hand soap, worked out kinks and tangles. Once he was done he grabbed his longish hair in bunches and squeezed out as much excess water as possible. Using his fingers as a comb, he styled the hair by giving it a part on the top and pushing it back and over his ears. It was not a good look for him. He knew that once it dried it would curl and wave into a messy thick mop’s head once again, but for now it would have to do.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">He nodded at his reflection and tried to smile. It was not easy. He did not feel like he had anything to smile about, but he had been a salesmen once upon a time in his former life and knew the power of a smile. He knew, with such damning circumstantial evidence against him, he would have to give one hell of a sales pitch to get out of this mess.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">He turned his mind to the photographs that had lined the table in the interview room. He recognized the foot, but the rest of the photographs were completely new to him. There were hands, arms, legs, fingers, and toes. There was a head and a torso. The head had been the worst photograph in the room. The dead eyes stared outward, the mouth slack and open, and he knew that the picture revealed a child who would never laugh again, and he grieved for that child and empathized with the pain her parents must feel.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">All the body parts had been small. Had all the victims been children? He thought so. He did not really keep up with current events, but thought he remembered seeing a recent headline in a discarded newspaper talking about a child killer. At the time he didn’t really think anything of it, of course. There were plenty of child killers out there, after all. There was always at least one awful headline about a child killer or serial killer at any given point in time somewhere in the cold, cruel world.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill understood why the police and F.B.I. held him suspect. He would have done the same had he been in their shoes. It only made sense. He was an aimless drifter found in a field with a severed foot from a child. What else could they make out of that scene?<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill sat on the cot, stared at the wall, and tried not to think too much about things. He tried to just focus on his breathing – it felt too fast – and keep calm. The world no longer made sense, and he cursed his hands and his touch.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Eventually, he heard footsteps. It was a light clipping noise, lighter than the clomp of the prison guard’s spit-shined loafers.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Gloria walked up to the door. A pair of handcuffs dangled from her finger. “You ready?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Her lips moved into a different expression. It was not a smile. It was not a frown. It was something else, something that Bill could not read. “Hey magic man, you think you should put these on yourself?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Yeah. I guess I better. Unless you don’t believe me?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">She sighed. “How can I believe you?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“After what happened in the interview room, how can you not? You saw it with your own eyes. Seeing is believing you know.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Sometimes. But I’ve also seen people get sawed in half at shows in Vegas. The eyes can’t always be trusted.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“I know. But you can trust touch.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“I don’t know. I remember my feelings lying to me in the past.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill knew exactly what she was talking about, or thought he did anyway. “I don’t know anything about that. I can tell you that everything I feel has been real, as far as I know.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“As far as you know,” she repeated. “Well, as far as I know you’re a psychopath and a serial killer.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“But don’t you feel something else? I think I can feel that surrounding you. You have doubts and fears just like the rest of us. You aren’t as different today as you think you are. Remember, I know you.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">She smiled then. It was a weak smile, but it was real. “Let’s just keep that between us for now, okay? If you know what’s good for you.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “I have a plan. It’s unconventional and most likely won’t pan out, but if what you said is true you might be able to help me out. You’re not off the hook. Not entirely. But let’s just say I have certain reasons to doubt your involvement. Just do what your lawyer tells you to do, okay?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“My lawyer? I haven’t even asked for one yet.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">She opened the door, walked inside, and tossed Bill the handcuffs. She lowered her voice even further and whispered. “Oh yes you did ask for a lawyer.” She looked at Bill and arched her eyebrows. “Okay?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill nodded his head. He had no clue what she was talking about, but knew it would be best to go along with her in his current situation.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“You have a lawyer. A good one. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were released in just a little while.”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> “So I’d be free to go?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Her smile grew wider and more mischievous. “I don’t know about that. After all this time I think we have some catching up to do, don’t you?”</span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-15863448132281381062011-01-27T19:02:00.000-08:002011-01-27T19:14:03.956-08:00Chapter IV: The Green Tiger<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The silence threatened to grow stagnant until the big guy spoke out. “There’s some history between you two, huh?”<br /><br />Gloria gave the large man a weak smile and cleared her throat. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. We went to high school together.”<br /><br />The big guy nodded his head. His smile slipped downward on the left side of his face. “Were the two of you close?” He looked over to Bill.<br /><br />Bill shrugged his shoulders and carefully took a seat in a cold aluminum folding chair opposite the person who had once been his high school sweetheart. He placed his hands on his thighs and tried not to touch anything. “We knew each other pretty well. Small towns, you know?”<br /><br />The big fellow nodded his head. “Yeah, I come from Peachpit, Georgia. You can’t get much smaller than that.” He sat down next to Gloria. “You going to be okay with this? Or you think we should get someone else in here?"<br /><br />Gloria turned to face the big man. She shook her head, crossed her arms across her chest, and glared at him. “This is my case, Benny.” She lowered her voice to a low whisper. “Besides, we don’t really want you know who–” she meaningfully turned her eyes towards the one-way mirror in the room “—in here again, do we?”<br /><br />“Yeah, I know, I know, but could your old friend here be a conflict of interest?”<br /><br />She rolled her eyes up towards the water-stained tiles of insulation on the ceiling. “We knew each other, okay? We went to school together. That’s all.”<br /><br />Bill did not show it, but the words she spoke hurt. She still would not acknowledge him or what they had shared together, not even after all this time. Bill swallowed his feelings as he sized up his situation. There were pictures of severed body parts splayed across the tables, some of them plastered with white and black feathers. He remembered how the police had found him in the field with the severed foot. There was a picture of that same foot directly in front of him. He was in deep trouble. Gloria showing up at a time like this was unlikely at best, perhaps even a miracle. Who was he to interfere with this most unlikely angel?<br /><br />The air in the interview room was charged with the ghosts of feelings. There was suspicion and doubt. There was guilt and regret and indignation. More strongly and, in the present, he felt Benny’s indecision; he could almost smell it on the big fellow.<br /><br />Gloria, on the other hand, he could not read at all. Bill smelled her perfume in the room. It was a light adult fragrance that did not seem to fit. He remembered her smelling of strawberry shampoo and grape lip gloss that tasted sweet as candy. He remembered her keeping her dirty blonde hair back in a loose ponytail and not ever wearing make-up. He remembered the freckles which bloomed on her cheeks every summer. All of that was hidden now and perhaps gone forever. Her hair was short and dyed a dark red. The make-up was caked on as if she were a reporter on a high definition news channel. The clothes she wore looked conservative and stiff. She was the same person, he could still see an impression of her underneath all of the changes, but she was so different now. Bill wondered what happened? He could not understand her as she was now because she was so different yesterday. Their past together formed a fog in the present he could not see through.<br /><br />Gloria looked to Bill. She hardened her expression so that her face may as well have been a marble bust. “So, Bill, tell me: What were you doing out there in that field?”<br /><br />He felt her thoughts then with a sudden clarity and found them accusing. They hurt. “I don’t know."<br /><br />“Don’t know, huh? You know how many of you guys say that?” Benny looked over to Bill.<br /><br />Bill shook his head.<br /><br />“All of them. Every single one. No one seems to remember anything.”<br /><br />Bill looked over to Gloria. “Should I have a lawyer?”<br /><br />She perked up an eyebrow. Other than that minor alteration, her face remained in a state of stasis. “I don’t know? Should you?”<br /><br />Bill put his hands over his face. He sweated. He could feel the pinkish-orange jumpsuit clinging to his back. “I don’t know. If I told you what I know to be true you'd never believe me.”<br /><br />Benny rolled his eyes. “Okay. Try us.”<br /><br />“Maybe it would be better if I showed you? Would that be okay?” Bill stood up and reached his hand towards Benny. Bill's hand shook. He did not want to do what he was about to do. He did not know what secrets the big guy held, but held no doubt there was pain there. There was pain everywhere, in just about everyone.<br /><br />Benny slid his chair back and his hand reached to the holstered gun inside his brown sport jacket out of reflex. “Whoa there buddy! What're you trying to do?”<br /><br />Bill held his hand up. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to touch you.”<br /><br />“What happened to you, Bill?”<br /><br />Bill looked over to Gloria. Her crystallized face had softened several degrees. She appeared concerned. This made her look more human again and familiar.<br /><br />Bill sat back down and sighed. “You’re not going to believe me. You’ll say it's impossible, but it’s true.”<br /><br />“This guy's nuts. We may have found our man.” Benny smiled and relaxed a little in his seat now that Bill was sitting quietly once again.<br /><br />Bill spoke through his hands. “Everything tells a story. I know you’ve heard people say that every person has at least one good book inside of them. Remember when Mr. Henderson used to say that back in school Gloria?”<br /><br />Gloria nodded her head.<br /><br />“Well, he was right. But it’s not just every person. It's everything. Everything tells a story. You just have to know how to read the book, you see? It is written, like words, like pictures, like both. I really don’t know how to explain it. Anyway, everything has a story imprinted into it, and I can feel that story. Take this desk for example.”<br /><br />Bill slammed his bare hand down onto the table. Stories rocked through his body like an electric current. He pulled his head backwards and his eyes rolled back into his head.<br /><br />“What the hell? I think we should get an ambulance,” Benny stood up and took a step towards Bill.<br /><br />Bill removed his hand from the table and shook his head. His long hair ruffled with the movement. “No! I’m fine. Really.” He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath of air. “It just hurts is all. But let me tell you a story that the table told me.”<br /><br />Benny looked away. “This is nuts.”<br /><br />Gloria leaned onto the table. “What’d you see, Bill?” There was a hint of condescension in her voice but curiosity, too.<br /><br />“I saw a fat white dude slam the head of a Mexican kid into this table. There was a crack and blood and cursing afterwards. Benny held the fat white dude back. The Mexican boy was just a kid, maybe eighteen years old, and he wet his pants.”<br /><br />“Was the fat white guy in uniform?” Gloria asked. She looked up to Benny.<br /><br />The image was still clean in Bill’s mind. “No. Not a uniform. He was dressed in a t-shirt and blue jeans. He wore cowboy boots.”<br /><br />There was a bang and the mirror on the wall shook in its frame.<br /><br />Gloria looked over to the mirror and shook her head. She pointed to the mirror – at whoever might be hiding behind it – and mouthed the words: “Don’t move!” She returned her attention to Bill. “Interesting. Have you ever met Sherriff Francis by any chance?”<br /><br />Bill shook his head. “No. Not that I know of.”<br /><br />She nodded.<br /><br />There was another bang on the glass. This one was not as loud.<br /><br />Benny grunted. “This is fucking ridiculous. You expect me to believe this joker felt what happened during that Perez interview? Impossible.”<br /><br />“I know it is, but let’s hear him out, okay?” Gloria turned to Bill. “You read the papers around here much?”<br /><br />Bill smiled and held up his hands. “I try not to touch too many things these days to tell the truth. Sometimes I see the headlines in the displays, I guess.”<br /><br />“That explains it, then. It was all over the local papers. Joker made the front page news. Hell, he even made The Drudge Report and The Huffington Post.” Benny sat back down. The chair groaned under his weight.<br /><br />“Maybe.” Gloria bit her lip and continued to stare at Bill.<br /><br />While the rest of Gloria had changed, her eyes were remarkably still the same. Bill knew those eyes well. They retained that same curious spark that had first attracted him to her. They were the same eager eyes of the teenage girl he had once spent the night with in an abandoned barn because they had heard rumors it was haunted. Nothing had happened that night, of course. At least, nothing otherworldly. His memories of that night were very worldly and pleasant.<br /><br />“Bill, what were you doing out there with that girl? Did you feel something in her? Something bad? Did what you feel make you angry?”<br /><br />Bill remembered touching the grass in that field and shuddered. “It was terrible. There was a man. At least I have to assume it was a man. I really don’t know. I couldn’t see the person’s face. It was blurred out and shaky, like in a movie you know? He was pulling the girl and she was trying to scream and cry out but she couldn’t because her mouth was covered with duct tape. And that monster killed that little girl. That sweet little girl. She was just a baby.” Bill felt tears roll down his cheeks. He began to shake and cry. “Just a baby! No older than my own kid.” He sniffled and wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve. “I’m sorry.”<br /><br />Benny looked over to Gloria and then looked to Bill. “That’s right. She was just a little girl.” His voice was a low growl. Benny stood up, walked around the table, and leaned over Bill. “And you killed her, didn’t you?” He raised his voice. “You freak! What’d you do with the rest of the body? Can’t you at least show the parents enough respect that they can give their little girl a proper funeral?”<br /><br />“I don’t know what to say. It wasn’t me. I wasn’t really there.”<br /><br />“You were there when the police pulled up. You were there with your little memento. If you weren’t there, how could you know about the duct tape? How do you know all that you know?”<br /><br />“I told you! I can feel things!”<br /><br />“But you can’t feel enough remorse to admit what you did? You can’t fess up to it like a man? What’s the fuck's wrong with you?”<br /><br />“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you!” Bill slid the chair back and stood up. He put his hand on Benny’s arm.<br /><br />Benny pulled away. “Let go of me, you baby killing freak!”<br /><br />Bill stood silent and sat back down. He spoke softly. The tears ebbed. “Oh, I guess that explains it then.”<br /><br />Benny grabbed Bill by his collar and leaned down into his face. “That’s enough nonsense. Confess! I want to get this case over with. There’s lots of scared folks out there these days, and I’ll feel much better once we can go on camera and tell everyone we finally caught you, you sick monster.”<br /><br />“I didn’t know you were looking for me.” Bill smiled. “In fact, I’m not what you’re looking for at all, am I? Not really. Not even this case. You know you can’t bring her back, don’t you?”<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“You did a pretty good job of making sure that wouldn’t happen. Leaving just her foot, you sicko.”<br /><br />“No, not the girl. I’m talking about your mom.”<br /><br />Benny’s face grew red. He fell back into his chair. He was quiet.<br /><br />“Benny? What’s going on?” Gloria stood up and put her petite hand on Benny’s large shoulder.<br /><br />Bill looked to her. “I saw his story, at least part of it. His mom was killed. He never knew why. No one did. Isn’t that right, Benny?”<br /><br />Benny surprised the others in the room by beginning to cry.<br /><br />“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I felt it, and it hurt a lot. I understand you're grief, Benny. I feel it in my heart right now. It’s an unpleasant pressure, like my heart is skipping beats. There a hell of a lot of uncertainty and a hint of fear surrounding these feelings. That must be pure hell to carry around with you day after day, Benny. I’m so sorry."<br /><br />“I think that’s enough for now,” Gloria said. She glared at Bill, but there was a hint of wonder in her eyes, too.<br /><br />Bill could feel her indecision and the crumbling foundation of her disbelief.<br /><br />“No! Wait!” Benny lifted up his face and looked over to Bill. “I never told anyone about that. No one.”<br /><br />Gloria looked at him and then looked at Bill. “It’s all right, Benny. Probably just a lucky guess. If I remember right, he always could read people pretty well.”<br /><br />“Benny, do you still have the green tiger?”<br /><br />Benny’s jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it. He’s telling the truth, G. He has to be.”<br /><br />Gloria’s face drooped. Her mouth slackened, and she suddenly appeared uncomfortable inside the stiff formality of her clothes. “I’m afraid to ask, but what was the green tiger?”<br /><br />“His name is Mr. Snookems--” Benny’s face grew red “--and, yes, I still have him. He lives in a box in my attic, along with Optimus Prime and my G.I. Joes, but he’s still there as far as I know.”<br /><br />Bill looked to Gloria. “Benny used to dream that the tiger could turn real. He would pretend that the tiger was there the night his mother was killed. The tiger would eat his mother’s killer and rescue her, isn’t that right? This was a long time ago. He was really little back then. The details are kind of foggy, but I can see the tiger." Bill looked over to Benny. "The first time you slept with Mr. Snookems you were trying to fall asleep but unable to keep your eyes closed. Your pillow was wet with tears. You were in a dark room. It was a strange room. It felt unlived in. Perhaps a distant relative’s?”<br /><br />“That was my aunt’s place, and yeah, it was strange to me at first. I missed my old room and having my mom in the room right next to mine.” The emotion in Benny’s voice was audible. “That was the night that I realized nothing would ever be the same again. I comforted myself with my stories about Mr. Snookems. I pretended he was a real tiger. I liked to think he could have protected us.”<br /><br />Gloria shook her head. “Benny, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”<br /><br />“It’s all right. You had no way of knowing.” He looked to Bill. His face was angry. He pointed. “As for you, don’t you ever, ever touch me again! Got it?”<br /><br />Bill held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know any other way to get you to believe me.”<br />Benny grunted. “I still don’t believe you.”<br /><br />Bill felt the aura around the large man and knew otherwise.<br /><br />“All right, as I said, I think that’s enough for now.” Gloria rubbed her hands together.<br /><br />“Can I ask a favor?” Bill looked to the agents in the room.<br /><br />Benny gave Bill an incredulous look. “Don’t push your luck, buddy.”<br /><br />Bill held his hands up palm out. “I’d just like some gloves.”<br /><br />Gloria and Benny looked at each other. Gloria shrugged her shoulders. Benny allowed a thin smile to cross his face and looked back to Bill. “I guess that can be arranged.” </span>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-55766625053948692562011-01-20T17:32:00.000-08:002011-01-20T19:21:47.739-08:00Chapter III: This Ain't the Ritz Carlton<div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">“Breakfast is served,” the voice of a young man said.<br /><br />Bill sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. A thin beam of muffled sunlight poured into a room obscured by a dingy window caked with years of unwashed dust. There were bars on that window. Bill looked around and saw the room surrounding him was made of cinderblocks painted an industrial puke green.<br /><br />Bill looked to the source of the voice, towards the door. Through the bars, he saw a pale white face grizzled by several days of unshaved growth. The eyes of the young man were a pale green. The face smiled, but those eyes did not. “Eat up, sir. You have a big day today. Lots of questions. Lots and lots of questions.” This stranger laughed a tiny laugh but did not sound amused.<br /><br />Bill looked at the tray of food which had been pushed through a small rectangular opening in the metal cell door. He shuddered. The plate contained sausage, eggs, and toast. The eggs and toast he knew he would be able to eat. They were harmless enough in their preparation and progress towards his mouth. Their stories were benign. The sausages on the other hand were just about the least appetizing food imaginable. The story they told was one of primal animal fear and grinding gears and organs and the putrid stench of various byproducts. Because of his expanded sense of touch, Bill found it easy to live a vegetarian lifestyle. The story of meat was too sad and painful. To eat meat would mean he would have to envision that horrible trip to the slaughterhouse. Understandably, he chose to stay away from meat.<br /><br />The young prison guard’s smile faltered. He gave away his true feelings though he tried hard to hide them as he turned away. It sounded in Bill’s mind like the young man spoke under his breath. Bill received a clear message: <em>Damn baby killer!</em> The words may not have even been spoken aloud. Bill knew the harsh words were most likely just a thought, but Bill felt those words and the feelings behind them clearly. Bill understood how the prison guard felt about him. Despite their distance and the metal door between them, Bill could still touch the prison guard. The touch of people surrounds them like an unseen aura. This was yet another reason Bill tried to stick to himself and stay alone as much as possible. Even the pain of strangers, filtered through touch, could be too disturbing to face. Luckily, this telepathy – if that’s what it could be called, that’s what Bill knew they would call it in a bad science fiction novel even though it wasn’t telepathy as he understood it, not really – was a fragile link as easily broken as it was forged. Once Bill realized this extended touch was working, he could usually find ways to turn it off.<br /><br />Bill sat up carefully, keeping his hands clenched together in his lap, and tried with all his might not to touch anything. He remembered the jail cell now. He remembered the feeling of the cold tile and concrete, the unyielding touch of steel. He remembered the stories this cell told. There was resentment and anger and depression and degradation and hatred and remorse and guilt and suffering and loneliness and – somehow worst of all – helplessness. The horror stories were everywhere in that cell, on every surface.<br /><br />“Wait!” Bill called after the guard. “Can I get some gloves?”<br /><br />The young grizzled face returned in the tiny window. He was visibly disgruntled and did not even try to hide it. “What is it with you and the gloves, huh? You get a uniform same as anyone else. It ain’t all that cold in there, what you need gloves for?”<br /><br />“I don’t like the way things feel.”<br /><br />The young man’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “You’re in jail, sir. It’s not supposed to be pleasant. I don’t understand why I have to explain this to every new John that does some crazy shit and ends up in here. This ain’t the Ritz Carlton.” He smiled another fake smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patrons who are waiting for their breakfasts.”<br /><br />Bill nodded his head. The sarcasm hit Bill like a punch to the face.<br /><br />The guard nodded back. A hate-filled thought emanated from the young man and smacked Bill's brain: <em>So long as we understand each other, you sick mother fucker.</em> The guard plastered on his best fake smile, let out a surprisingly cheerful whistle, and walked away.<br /><br />Bill stood and tried to ignore the stories screaming at him as they emanated from the cold floor. There was frustration and anger and simmering suicidal thoughts that sometimes were acted out. There was death in this room, and those deaths were mostly self-inflicted and terrible and extremely lonesome. Those stories were written on the floor as clearly as if written on flashing neon letters in a dark room.<br /><br />Bill slipped on a pair of slippers that had been left at the foot of the hard slab of padded concrete which served as a bed in the prison cell, and he was relieved by the feel of cotton threads against his toes. He imagined white puffy blooms unfurled under a lazy and humid afternoon as the sun set over a low ridge of pines. He sighed, grateful for the comfort the cotton slippers offered.<br /><br />Bill walked over to the door and ate from the plate with his fingers, careful not to touch any surface. He knew better than to touch the spoon. It seemed possible such a utensil could have been used as a makeshift shiv in the past, and he did not really want to find out if this was the case or not. It was too risky. Bill used his thin and greasy toast as a utensil to sop up the slippery, wet, undercooked eggs.<br /><br />The guard had been right. This food was not up to the Ritz Carlton’s standards, but compared to what had become his standard diet – rummaging through dumpsters outside restaurants; sneaking up on the empty loading docks of grocery stores to rummage for stale bread, rotten fruit, and aged vegetables – it was as close to a five star meal as anything he had eaten since leaving what had once been his home three months ago. He used the soggy toast to wipe the plate clean except for the sausages. Those greasy links remained untouched, their horrible stories untold.<br /><br />Bill returned to his little cot and sat and stared at the room. Water dripped from a steel faucet into a water-stained sink. The toilet occasionally made a running noise as other toilets in other cells were flushed. There was a small mirror above the sink. Bill saw his reflection. His hair was long. A thick beard flecked with grey covered his face. His eyes looked sunken into his gaunt skull. His reflection appeared saggy and broken and entirely too skinny in his pinkish-orange jump suit. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">He took his eyes away from his reflection and stared down at his open hands. They were pale and much too clean. They offered no protection.<br /><br />He flexed his pale hands and fought to remember the chain of events that led him here. The hard bed beneath him sent shivers of guilt and pangs of remorse and tempests of anger up along his spine. He stood up, tried not to touch anything, closed his eyes, and prayed to remember.<br /></div></span><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">***<br /></span></div><div align="left"><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill remembered the police car in the field, being picked up by officers and tossed into the backseat of the cruiser before being taken to the hospital. He remembered the feel of that vinyl under his back. There were families torn apart, dreams dashed, and lives deserted. These stories were written all over that back seat and the sadness of these tales pained him.<br /><br />Bill remembered the hospital – the sterility, the false sense of calm. He remembered being washed and poked and prodded. With that contact, there arrived the stories of the nurses and doctors who cared for him while he was in the hospital before being transferred to the prison. He remembered the transgressions and hatreds and untold desires of the hospital staff and felt their simmering remorse and guilt. He had been near unconscious at the time, but his skin retained its sense of touch and could remember the ghosts of their life stories.<br /><br />Upon regaining semi-consciousness, Bill had been told he was in shock. He remembered the concerned look on the doctor's face as the man waved a tiny penlight back and forth in front of his eyes. Bill saw through the penlight and saw that the good doctor was not so good. His concern was insincere. Everything about him was insincere, even the outward perfection of his seemingly picture-perfect family life. The doctor was having an affair with a care manager. The care manager, like the doctor, had a separate family and kids. Bill knew there would be long-lasting repercussions: arguments, broken homes, and even a young teenage daughter committing suicide after the double-whammy of the announcement of her parents' divorce and her own ugly break-up with a basketball player from the local community college.<br /><br />The doctor – blissfully unaware of the broken future reverberating outwards from his own inconsiderate actions, only thinking about taking his little case manager from behind in a few sweaty moments of pleasure – smiled. Bill wanted to spit on the man and rose up. Then the world wavered, and Bill fell backwards onto the thin hospital bed.<br /><br />The doctor talked to a nurse in the room. She turned up a drip leading down to his arm, and a sudden fog enveloped Bill. He went to sleep.<br /><br />Then he awoke in a fully conscious state in a jail cell which was not the Ritz-Carlton as his guard had so kindly pointed out.<br /><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">***</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill remembered the vision of the severed foot and shuddered to himself. He wrapped his arms around himself and felt way too cold, way too exposed in the pinkish-orange jump suit. He was here, now, in the cell, and everything around him was cold and hard and all too real.<br /><br />He sat on the thin bed, afraid to lay down, afraid to move, worried that his jumpsuit might ride up on him and expose bare skin. The thought that Bill might inadvertently touch an unfamiliar and painful surface terrified him. Bill sat as still as possible and looked around the room and watched the pale sunlight slant against the floor. He watched the light until he imagined he actually saw the beam move across the floor like the crawl of the slowest slug. He thought about watching paint dry and smiled to himself. That might prove more entertaining.<br /><br />Eventually, there was a clack as the lock of the door moved. The young guard from earlier entered the cell and said, “All right, let’s go. Some folks have some questions for you.”<br /><br /></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">*** </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill was taken to a small room. He looked inside and saw the legs of a woman obscured behind a hulking presence. This presence was a very large man who towered over Bill. The large man had broad shoulders, no neck, and a bloated white face like that of a toad. He was wrapped in a chocolate brown suit a size or two too small. Bill felt tiny and insignificant beneath this large man and his frozen hazel gaze.<br /><br />The big man moved aside, and Bill saw the rest of the room. There was a one-way mirror on the back wall and a well-dressed woman in a folding chair next to a plain metal table. Looking at her, his jaw popped with a subtle twitch. His eyes widened a fraction.<br /><br />“I don’t believe it,” Bill said under his breath. His heart fluttered in his chest and it became difficult to breathe. "Gloria?"<br /><br />The well-dressed woman looked up and recognition crossed her face. She raised an eyebrow. It was a look Bill knew very well. “Oh my Lord… Bill? Is that you?”<br /><br />The hulk of a man grunted. “Well, at least the mystery of this creep’s identity is solved. You know this freak show?”<br /><br />Gloria just shook her head. She looked down to the aluminum table and bit her tongue. She shook her head and tilted it to the side while a puzzled expression stole across her face. </span></div>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-87799918223564456562011-01-13T20:40:00.000-08:002011-01-14T19:48:11.104-08:00Chapter II: The Bloody Orange Grove<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">The future was usually never clear, yet it was contained in all things. If he concentrated, Bill could feel it, but the future was never as coherent as the past. The edges of his mental images of what was to come arrived as a fuzzy and distorted mental assault. The future was almost always a touch out of focus.<br /><br />But not always, at least not with those things whose feel he had known the best. The future taunted him in his former life, so he left it behind, leaving it as far behind and as quickly as possible. That was why he was where he was today. The past, set in stone, had been left behind in favor of an uncertain present. Bill fled the future and all those fears which came along with a foreknowledge of days to come. The future was anything but bright. The darkness ahead tainted even his most pleasant memories.<br /><br /><br /></span><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">***</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">He refused to ever touch Shelby again, not after last time. He saw the legs of his wife wrapped around the legs of another man. He heard her moaning and breathing heavily. She screamed out an ecstatic burst of sound. She bit her smiling lip, and he tried to remember if she had ever done that with him? He could not remember her doing so, but then again, his eyes were often closed. He knew she made sounds, but these sounds were different. They were not the same sounds she made for him. She was not with him. Bill knew the body she entangled herself with was not his own. There were lines around Shelby's eyes, and he knew she was older. This transgression on their marital vows had not happened yet, but it would. He could feel it in her skin. He felt it in her lips when she kissed him, and knew it to be true.<br /><br />Touch can be trusted more than the other senses. The eyes deceive. Audible hallucinations are common, and echoes confuse. Phantom perfumes haunt us in moments of melancholy. Sometimes we can taste the lips of those we love long after our last kiss. But the fingers never lie. Through touch you decipher what is tangible and can separate that from dreams. How do you know you aren't dreaming? What's the old stereotypical gesture? You pinch yourself. Pain is touch, too.<br /><br />With this new understanding in mind, Bill trusted his touch and pulled away from Shelby. What choice did he have? Her future infidelity was all he could see. There were no other thoughts in his head when around her.<br /><br />While silent tears streaked down his face, he walked down the hallway and into his kids’ room. Bill stood between his two children while they slept, softly snoring and unknowing in their beds.<br /><br />From the doorway, watching Bill as he stood over their children, Shelby asked what was wrong. He ignored her. He sat down between the twin beds and reached his hands out. He wanted to feel the comforting touch of his children. He wanted to feel their love and perhaps a hint of loyalty. This seemed especially important at the time after what he had felt with his wife.<br /><br />He felt the softness and warmth of their young skin, and then he felt them. He really felt his children. Through his touch, he felt who they were and what they would become. He saw bruises and tears and heard screaming voices and blood – so much blood – and his son now a man behind bars with blood-stained hands and his daughter in tears yelling and slapping children that looked a little bit like him with their tawny blonde hair and green eyes. It was too much to feel all at once, and he knew in that moment he would never enjoy the touch of his children again. Their futures were unclear, but he had seen enough to know that they would hurt and hurt others as well. That was enough, that was too much, and Bill turned away.<br /><br />"Where are you going? Bill? What’s going on?” Shelby asked.<br /><br />Bill could hear her fighting back frightened tears. He understood her confusion.<br /><br />Bill looked at Shelby, reached out his hand, nearly touched her, and said, “I’m leaving.” He wondered how he could ever explain why he must leave. He reached for her hand. Just before they touched, the image he had seen earlier flared up in his mind. He jerked his hand away. Bill tried to hide his anger and control his voice. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll find someone else.”<br /><br />He wrapped himself in his clothes – as many as he could put on his body, to cover his skin as completely as possible – and left the comfortable suburb he had called home for so long behind and never looked back. He looked forward, always wary of what the future would bring, always ready to dodge the future if needed, and avoided all things and people as much as possible. The less he touched, the less he knew. He didn't want to know anymore, didn't want to feel anymore. His touch hurt too badly. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">*** </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">While travelling, Bill learned it was usually easiest to sleep in natural areas far away from the impressions of people and all their unnatural pains and sins and self-inflicted damages. He had taken some money with him when he left the house, of course, but found it hurt to use that money. There was so much pain hidden inside those seemingly harmless linen bills. It was written all over the dollar, just as clear as Washington’s face. So much pain was stirred by the touch of those dollars, and the feelings and impressions of crimes and betrayals crept through his flesh and pained his very soul.<br /><br />So, refusing to handle money – even just to get a hotel room, not to mention his fear of the pains he might find in hotel rooms – he chose to live off the land. It stayed relatively warm in central Florida. He knew that it would only be during a month or two, just during the peak of winter, that he would need to seek out real shelter and warmth. As long as he found a wooded place offering plenty of shelter from the sudden storms that tend roll across the panhandle, most nights were cool and mild and comfortable. The sound of crickets and distant automobiles as they thrummed down highways lulled him to sleep and sometimes his dreams were good.<br /><br />Most of the time, he slept in the woods that bordered the highways. Woods were comforting. When he touched things, the stories they told were cyclical and generally happy in their own way. He saw life cycles and trees growing. He felt the warmth of green leaves unfurling and soaking up the heat of a warm summer sun. He saw death as a recycler as everything broke down to feed the trees, and these things seemed sane and safe. It made sense. At least it did most of the time.<br /><br />He could sometimes see mice snatched up and screaming in the clenched claws of owls or hawks. He could smell the blood of deer as they lay dying while cougars ate away the life once contained in soft brown fur. Yet these tragedies were tempered by their functionality. Death was a byproduct of life in the forest. The natural world was orderly. When blood was shed, it became food and became life and created beauty out of chaos. To Bill, the natural world and its feelings made sense. It was comfortable and sane.<br /><br />Except when it wasn't. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">**</span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">*</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">A simple orange grove changed everything. Bill lay down expecting to maybe feel worms working the soil or to feel oranges growing and expanding from sweet-scented blossoms. But as soon as he lay back against the earth, the long hairs on the back of his neck stiffened. He froze. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">*** </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">There was a girl. She was tied up with course nylon ropes. Her wrists and ankles bled. Tears fell down her face and she tried to cry out but the weak sound was muffled by duct tape. Her hair was dirty and drenched with what appeared to be clotted blood. She could not have been more than five years old, about the age of his little Chastity, but her eyes were much older. She had seen too much, far too much for a little girl her age. Bruises dotted her bare white skin. Some were fresh – red and puffy and swollen – while others were older – purple, black, and yellow indentations. Bill felt her pain and felt her fear and wet his pants. He saw her lose control of her bowels as something dragged her along by a fistful of dirty blond hair.<br /><br />There was something else there in this mental impression stirred by touch, someone else. He – Bill could only assume it was a he – breathed heavily. Booted feet trudged through mud. A gloved hand clenched a fistful of hair. A monster walked forward, ignoring the sad and frantic pleas of the child. As he walked, the monster panted like a hungry dog awaiting a bowl of kibble.<br /><br />There was a shine of silver. A blade glinted moonlight.<br /><br />Then there was blood. Then there was more blood. The child stopped fighting. The weak cries faded altogether. The child gave up. The child became another victim, and Bill grew sick. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">*** </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill sat up and vomited as the horrible vision began to recede from his mind. He was grateful for the gloves on his hands as he attempted to lift himself up from the tainted ground. Then under the moonlight he saw that there was something pale and white near his gloved hand. He was afraid to look but did so anyway.<br /><br />The foot of a child sat on the ground. It was still and unmoving and, worst of all, unattached. Flies buzzed in the air over the bloody nub of the severed foot and another wave of sickness passed through Bill. The sky wavered overhead and Bill shook and shivered and felt suddenly cold.</span></div>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1535479064083630789.post-10419033164380080212011-01-07T22:23:00.000-08:002011-01-13T20:56:39.806-08:00Chapter I: The Guardrail<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">Bill Wake’s clothes fluttered in the wake of cars and trucks as they sped past. Sometimes drivers honked their horns. The sound beleaguered him for only a moment before trailing off into a droning moan. Occasionally someone shouted out an open window. The muffled syllables drifted down the highway and away from him. Occasionally at intersections people would yell out obscenities and various indignant terms. He heard their voices – usually male and usually only a few octaves past adolescence – call out words such as “rag head” or “terrorist,” but these vacant sounds didn’t faze him; they were just empty syllables and nothing more.<br /><br />He ignored the cars as he walked. He ignored their sounds. He ignored the voices. He tried to ignore everything.<br /><br />But he could not ignore his clothes.<br /><br />He wrapped himself as completely as possible with cloth to hide himself from the world, to protect the nerve endings everywhere along his epidermis. He had heard it said that the skin was the largest organ of the human body. He hated that it was also the organ which gave him the most trouble.<br /><br />Everything he touched told a story. Whether or not he wanted to hear the story was irrelevant.<br /><br />Even the stitching of his clothes – the tiny threads and various fabrics – left their impressions. He saw writhing silkworms or content sheep. He saw cotton stalks waving in large fields under sunny skies. There were tiny hands pushing fabric through machines. There was the raucous noise of factories and voices in other languages. Sometimes needles pricked skin, and sometimes children were not allowed to be children. In the cloth itself he could detect the faintest hint of pain. The pain was there. It was everywhere and in everything. He wondered why it had taken him so long to notice the pain imbedded in all things. He could not understand how other people could not feel it, too. It was so tangible, so real, and so obvious.<br /><br />He stopped on the road to rest and squatted down. He rested his thin arms on his bony knees. He leaned back against a guardrail. It was slick with rain and scarred by innumerable accidents. There was a dent beside him which exposed the shine of fresh steel. Lines of black paint marred the metal surface. There was red paint there, too. The metal was stained by the blood of at least two cars.<br /><br />Too late, he realized there was a hole in the elbow of his shirt. He tried to stand away from the dented scar in the guardrail. As he stood, his skin touched the cool metal. He froze. </span><br /><br /><p align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">***</span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><br /></p></span><p align="left"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">A woman sung along to the radio. It blared out a pop song. Bill had heard it many times. It had been popular when he was younger. He could remember Shelby singing it as she washed the dishes at the home they had once shared together before things went wrong.<br /><br />The woman singing the pop song nodded her head back and forth in the front seat of the car. She was dressed in a conservative grey business suit and a white blouse. A baby sat behind her dressed up in a pale green onesie. A tiny hand reached up towards a mobile. Tigger and Pooh spun around and around and rocked with the movement of the car as it rocked over the shoddily paved highway.<br /><br />Bill remembered that his boy Chase had owned a mobile just like that one. It had been passed on to his little sister Chastity before eventually being given to the Goodwill once his kids were too old for such things. They had grown too old for so many things, and they continued to grow. He could not stop it, could not face it. He had to leave the very feel of his former life behind. There was no other choice. His touch was too strong and too horrible.<br /><br />Something vibrated in the plastic cup holder near the driver’s seat. It was a cell phone. The woman stopped singing and turned off the radio. The pop song was gone, and, for a second, all was quiet except for the soft hums of the wind, of the engine, and of wheels spinning over pavement.<br /><br />The woman reached for her phone and flipped it open. There was a message for her. A big smile demonstrated her pleasure. With her thumb, she started to reply. She hit the send button. A moment later, the phone vibrated again. Her smile widened and her thumb began working the buttons once again.<br /><br />A car honked. The woman looked up, her eyes grew wide, and she twisted the driving wheel. The car swerved. The baby’s mobile flew around in frantic circles. The clasp holding it in place came loose, and it clattered to the floor of the car. The baby cried. Angry little fists defied the forces working against the little baby. It screamed out in anger at the world which had so unfairly taken its toy. The baby was tied down and could never reach the mobile. It would never see the mobile again, and this was unfair.<br /><br />The woman in the driver’s seat breathed deeply. The phone vibrated again.<br /><br />Bill cursed at her and screamed out in his mind, <em>Don’t pick up the phone! Don’t do it! It isn’t worth it!<br /><br /></em>The baby’s cries became louder. It was as if it protested what the mother was doing. It was almost like the baby knew what was coming. Bill conceded that this was in fact possible. There are many ways to perceive the world, after all.<br /><br /><em>Leave it alone!</em> Bill protested in his mind once again. He knew it would do no good.<br /><br />As expected, the woman didn’t acknowledge Bill. She couldn’t. He wasn’t there – not at that physical place, or more accurately, not at that physical time.<br /><br />She cursed under her breath and reached for the phone. She flipped it up and a smile crossed her face. Her thumb began working and then she lurched forward.<br /><br />There was the shattering of glass. The windshield broke apart into tiny little beads and flew outwards.<br /><br />The baby cried louder as steel crunched steel.<br /><br />Little fists flew outward, clenched tight.<br /><br />The woman yelled. Her eyes expanded and revealed a primal fear at the moment of her understanding.<br /><br />And then all grew quiet. The baby no longer cried. The only sound was the dripping of some fluid or another as it dribbled against cold, hard asphalt.<br /><br />For Bill, the silence of the once screaming child was the worst part. The child had given up and given in to the universe working against it. The poor baby never had a chance. It never had control. It was just a passenger. What happened was no fault of the baby. All it had wanted was to play with its mobile. It never even asked to be born. It had never asked to be a victim, but Bill had seen enough to understand that no one ever asks for that. Never. Yet everyone is victimized in one way or another.<br /><br />He had seen enough. He never asked to see this, had never asked to feel this. </span></p><p align="center"><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;">*** </p></span><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;"><p align="left">Bill jerked away from the guardrail and looked at the dented metal scar where the flesh of his elbow had contacted cold steel. He shook his head.<br /><br />Even the guardrail was a victim in its own way. It would live out the rest of its life – if such an existence can be called a life – with this scar. That scar would never go away. The paint may wash away in time, but the dent would remain along with the impression of all that had transpired.<br /><br />Bill could identify with the guardrail. He wore his scars, too. Some of them were physical; if asked, Bill could point them out on his skin. Others were mental. Some of them had not even happened yet, but he knew they would, and that knowledge alone scarred him deeply in its own vicious way. It was a kind of scar that no one could understand – the scars of events yet to transpire.<br /><br />The visible scar of the guardrail was a result of its past. Those kinds of impressions were fairly easy for Bill to read with his touch – sometimes too easy. The past had already happened and its events continued to reverberate into the present. Those indentations and scars and marks on all things would continue to reverberate long into the future: the more powerful the event, the more powerful the recollections and visions.<br /><br />Bill left the past behind and hoped to find ways to avoid a future he feared. </span></p>T.J. McIntyrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04838932103635417150noreply@blogger.com5