For two weeks they kept him at the hospital, in a private examination room under constant sedation and surveillance. The doctors discussed a variety of ailments with the parents: epilepsy, schizophrenia, severe chemical imbalances in the brain. Tests were run: EEG’s, X-Rays, Lumbar Taps.
Everything appeared to be normal.
Soon thereafter, and quite unexplainably, Allieb returned to a normal state. Calm, and composed. They quickly weaned him off the drugs. Counseled him and ultimately found a tired young man who, through tears of remorse, pleaded to go home. Although baffled with this sudden turnaround, the doctors and his parents accepted this startling recovery with open arms. Their final analysis:
Your son is seeking attention in very extreme ways. He wants something, and will go to any lengths to obtain it. There’s nothing wrong with him that requires any additional medical attention. We’re prescribing Ritalin for him. It’s a stimulant to help counteract his apparent depression, and his hyperkinetic behavior. Remember, he’s been through a great deal of trauma during these early years. The move from one country to another. You mentioned that his parents were killed in war. We really don’t know for certain all the atrocities he’s encountered. Now, he’s paying the price, and unfortunately, you are too. Take him home. Love him. And allow the medication to take effect. In three weeks we suspect that he’ll be the loving little boy you’ve always hoped for
.
Three weeks later, Allieb killed his mother.
~ * ~
The man wiped his tears, opened the nightstand drawer, removed the silver cross and kissed it, then placed it in his pocket for protection. “Jesus, help me,” he muttered to himself.
And paced from the room to answer “God’s” call.
“Dead...” Bev answered, feeling unsteady.
“He drowned in the pool.” Rebecca’s voice: weak, staggering.
Bev bit down on the mouthpiece, fear, pain, confusion controlling his actions.
Jake dead? No!
“This can’t be, Rebecca.” His voice was a harsh whisper.
“It is...and Bev, we were the last people to see him alive.” She sobbed, grief fracturing her voice. “He was bombed, and he was stumbling. But he was also passed out, right? He was passed out! So how? How could this have happened?” Rebecca: desperately searching for rationale.
Bev sensed the terror in her voice. The phone trembled in his hand. Rebecca’s anxious breaths shot into his ear like hisses from a steam engine. “Where’d you hear this, Rebecca?”
“From the police.”
“The police?”
“They were here today.”
“There? At your place? Jesus...why?”
“You remember the priest from the party?”
“Father Danto.”
“He was staying at Jake’s house. The cops showed up at my place around one this afternoon and told me that after performing mass this morning, he went back to the house and found Jake floating face down in the pool. He called them and I guess he told them the names of some the people he’d met at the party. Bev...I had to tell them about us.”
“So, what did you tell them?”
“The truth. That we put Jake to sleep. In the living room. On the sofa. And then...slept together, at the house, and that you left in the morning, about thirty minutes before I did. I told them the truth, I had to...” She wept.
“Rebecca...you did the right thing.” He wanted to tell her to relax, but knew it to be a lofty command, given the rise of surrounding events—events she knew hardly anything about. “I’m sure the cops will want to speak with me too, and I’ll tell them exactly what happened. We did nothing wrong, Rebecca. Saw nothing. It was just a terrible, unfortunate accident. He probably woke up in the middle of the night and just stumbled outside. He was completely drunk when we last saw him.”
Jake’s dead...My God
.
Bev’s dream filtered back to him, slowly, like freeze frames in a movie: the Jake-demon on the shoreline,
drowning in the shallow lava
... He shivered, a cold pervasive draft suddenly surrounding him.
“I just can’t believe it,” Rebecca said.
I can’t either...and I can’t believe the cops are questioning us. There’s got to be more to this
. He gazed at his hands, at the wounds somehow obtained in the middle of the night—wounds that had nearly healed over in a matter of hours.
How did I get these?
he wondered, and then,
how are they healing so fast?
, dismay and utter confusion dissecting his lucidity. He recalled the dream and the wires that had jutted up from the lava, and in this moment of conspicuous defeat, lowered the phone and gazed around the room, at the strange books, at Julianne’s diary strewn on the floor, wondering why, all of a sudden, his world appeared to be falling apart.
Crumbling
...
He raised the phone back to his ear.
“Rebecca?”
A wave of interference interrupted the once clear signal. In seconds, it returned, and Rebecca was gone.
In her place, a different voice:
Bev
...
Sharp. Clear. Unmistakable.
Julianne.
Body trembling. Heart slamming. Breath, short and stagnant. His voice, trapped behind a horrendous lump of dread. Tears, sprouting tensely from his eyes.
He tried to stand; his legs wouldn’t let him. Finally, on his knees, “Hello?”
Interference, and then, another voice.
“
Come play with me,
Bevant
.”
Deep, with an accent.
A sudden strength rose in him, induced by fear of the unknown. He stood, head reeling, knees unsteady. “Who is this?” he demanded. He recalled the voice in his head, just prior to visiting the doctor.
It’s the same voice
.
The voice remained silent. He could hear a raspy breathing coming through the line.
“What do you want with me?” he shouted.
Low laughter. Then, the line went dead.
“Hello? Hello?
Fuck!
” he screamed, slamming the phone on the desk. He stood motionless, listening to the resonating echo of his voice as it faded away into the eerie silence of the afternoon—an afternoon that had become gray with intimidating storm clouds, imminent thundershowers, and the ghosts of days present and past.
Finally, he staggered from Kristin’s office, leaving the tainted evidence of his newfound past behind. In the kitchen he located a glass and drank some water from the sink, swallowing past the dry lump in his throat—past the shocking truth of his former life, now an open wound to agonize over; the remembrance of Jake Ritchie, who had instantly become a fixture of the past: a lonely, still, dark recollection lumped into a mysterious retrospection of evils that could very well pale in comparison to those the future had in store.
He began to cry.
The scratching, the voice, the out-of-control feeling, the insects, the dark man, the invitation, the face in the mirror, 6:00, being followed, Father Danto, Rebecca
Haviland
, Julianne’s voice, Jake...oh poor Jake...
It’s too much...too much
.
He fled outside into the darkening afternoon.
Leaving his cell phone behind on Kristin’s desk.
4:45. Bev arrived back home. He pulled his car into the detached garage. Shut the ignition, thankful for no episodes. He took a deep breath, held it, then blew it out. He was home.
Thank God
. Safe. For now.
He trembled uncontrollably as he staggered from the car, stepping across the graveled driveway, assuming watchful eyes upon him.
This is what having a nervous breakdown feels like...that’s it, I’m having a goddamned nervous breakdown. None of those things were real. The voices in the phone, the face in the mirror, the fingers in my head. Not real, not real
...
He peered down the length of the driveway, toward the street. Concerned. Frightened. If things played out as promised—
threatened
—a limo would be here in an hour and fifteen minutes to pick him up.
Something else to worry about.
He turned.
Fifteen feet away, at the bottom of the steps, stood a man.
The dark man, here to deliver another message
...
Under normal circumstances, Bev might’ve assumed this to be a fan. One of the older crowd, trying desperately to hang on to his youthful years, hunting down his
fave
celeb’s address and parking out front with hope of catching a real-live glimpse; it wouldn’t have been the first time. But, as Bev made his approach, he saw that this man was too far ahead in years to be reaching for times gone by. He was pushing sixty, clothes apropos for a man of this age who’d possessed no common fashion-sense: baggy slacks; a glen-plaid blazer hanging loosely upon his slender frame. Cheeks: gaunt, sallow and spiritless. Thinning hair,
wispfully
combed over. Moustache, coarse, gray, and nicotine-stained.
Not a fan.
The press?
I ain’t
that
famous
.
The man extended his hand tiredly, spoke in a harsh, asthmatic tone. “Why do rock stars all seem to age beyond their years, despite their riches?”
“I’m not rich,” Bev answered pensively, taking his hand. “Just look at my digs.”
“Not overly impressive, I suppose. But not too shabby, either.”
“Who are you?” Bev folded his arms defensively across his chest.
“Please forgive my sense of humor. It has earned me some in trouble in the past.”
“If you’re looking for trouble,” Bev replied playfully, “then you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“Oh, no, of course I’m not.” The man waved away the thought as though refusing another drink. He reached into his shirt pocket and revealed a business card, which he handed to Bev. Bev scanned it casually. On it, typeset in bland
Times New Roman
font, was a name: Frederick Grover. And beneath, his title: Detective of Homicide. A phone number and address were printed in opposing lower corners. He gazed back up at the detective, trying not to appear suspicious. Impossible, given his jaded appearance.
“What can I do for you?”
The detective grinned. “I do hope I’m not inconveniencing you, Mr.
Mathers
. I rang the doorbell, and no one answered. I was on my way out when I saw you drive up, so I thought I’d wait.”
“Where’s your car?” Bev asked, looking around.
“Parked at a distance. Part of the procedure, I suppose.”
“This is about Jake Ritchie, isn’t it?”
The detective’s demeanor changed, his posture stiffening into a more serious pose. “I’m very sorry about your friend,” he offered, eyes narrowed sorrowfully.
“I’m a bit confused...I’d heard he drowned.”
The detective grinned solemnly. “Information does travel fast, doesn’t it?” He hesitated, grinned blankly, then added, “Being the bearer of such terrible news is not one of the perks of my occupation.”
Can it get any worse?
Bev thought, again. “Well, I already know all about it, so it saves you the displeasure this time around.”
The detective breathed out, closed his eyes and shook his head. “Actually, there’s something you don’t know, Mr.
Mathers
.”