Dividing Earth: A Novel of Dark Fantasy (11 page)

Chapter Fifteen: Where’s Veronica?

1

Two weeks after Veronica left, Robert had yet to hear from her. He’d filed for divorce, and he knew she’d been served: she’d signed for the papers at the bank. But she hadn’t called. It wasn’t that he yearned for conversation, but he knew Jennifer needed an explanation. She still needed her mother.

Tonight, Robert couldn’t sleep. He was hot, uncovered except by his shorts, and he stared at the ceiling, trying to put the dream into some kind of order. He couldn’t figure out how long it had been going on, what exactly it all meant, but it had been more powerful, clearer, since Veronica had left. What he knew for sure was that waking up had become a drag—the dream thrilled him with exotic images, but more it filled him with a strange sense of meaning that he couldn’t quite name.

Robert had frequently been bored with life. Not simply his own, but life in general. Clinically, this might be termed depression, but America’s great excuse, the diagnosed life, seemed a cop-out. Still, American life seemed endlessly banal—how much should one strive to own, to eat, to drink, to earn, to fuck, in a single lifetime?

He went to check on Jenn. At first, he thought she was sleeping. She was still facing the wall when she called him. He jumped at her voice. “Thought you were sleeping, honey.”

She rolled over and sat on the edge of her bed. She offered her hand and he took it. Her face was open as a harvest moon. “Scared?” he asked, though he knew the answer. Her round eyes reminded him of her mother’s—so round, so open, almost awaiting revelation.

“Are you?”

“Yeah, honey. Sure, I’m scared. It’s okay to be.”

His daughter leaned up, grabbed onto the back of his neck, pressed their foreheads together. “I think everything will be okay. We gotta stick together.”

“Do you miss her?”

Jenn nodded her head against his. She sniffled.

“I don’t know everything’s she’s going through, but I know it has nothing to do with you.” Robert paused, thinking it over. Then he said, “Have you ever had a problem only you knew about?”

Jenn hesitated. “I talk too much to the dolls.” She leaned toward him. “They’re not real, you know.”

“Do they talk back?”

Jenn paused. “Sometimes they tell me to run away. Sometimes they tell me that you and Mommy don’t love each other. I tell them you do, but you get mad sometimes.”

He’d forgotten how real a child’s imagination was. This wasn’t a psychotic episode, or the onset of a disorder, but the child’s ability to answer her own questions.

“Where is she, Daddy?”

“She’s taking a break from me.”

“What about me?”

“Not you. Me.”

Jenn leaned in, kissed his cheek, and her soft, wet face brushed against his.

Robert held on. And wept.

* * * * *

The next morning he saw Jenn to her bus. Because of his eyes, he took a taxi to work. He paid his fare and got out, faced the English building.

The man in the Rob Zombie T-shirt was standing on the steps. This time, Robert was close enough to see his eyes—they were black and dead set on him. He froze, looked around for witnesses, but students ebbed and flowed around him without seeming to notice anything amiss.

The man took his hand from his pocket. He held a small, gleaming object, and he slowly raised it until it was above his head. He was still. His beard streamed in the wind. The blade was motionless.

Robert froze. He’d seen this man somewhere else, he knew it, not just here at the school, but somewhere else. He cocked his head like a curious mutt, watching the blade glide across the air like something wet. For a moment, he imagined the man was in his dreams, and he supposed he might have been, but that wasn’t where he remembered the face, the beard, the stillness brimming with violence and lust. No, he’d seen this man somewhere else, sometime else, he just couldn’t place it.

Robert glanced around, hoping to find someone else watching the man, too. To his left, a group of kids sat around a stone table beside the campus bookstore. In the courtyard behind the English Department students milled about. Nobody seemed to notice the knife-wielding bum on the steps. He turned back.

The man was gone.

Robert whirled, searching the campus again and again, but he had either missed the escape or the man had disappeared.

In his office, he called campus security and reported it, but the guard hadn’t heard anything. The conversation left him feeling dazed. His mother’s condition had caused hallucinations, but her tumor had been in the brain. His was everywhere but. Still, could his sickness leave him with similar symptoms?

Minutes later, someone knocked on his door. “Mister Lieber?”

“Come in.”

A thin man in a suit entered, extended his hand. “We’ve met, but a long time ago. I work with Veronica. Worked, actually.”

“George? How you been?”

George, his smile as thin as he was, said, “Not so hot.”

“Sorry to hear it.” You’d think differently if I told you how I was.

George sat down, ran a hand over his tie. His hands were womanly, the fingernails ornate. “This is about your wife and my daughter, Mister Lieber.”

Robert shifted uncomfortably. “How’s that? I mean, how is it about both of them?”

“My daughter hasn’t been able to . . . adjust to college life. She’s coming home.”

Robert nodded, waiting.

“Anyway, I’d like her to continue school here. Can you ensure she’ll be able to take on a full load even though the semester’s underway?”

“Sure, but you’re getting the inside scoop when you don’t need it. Enrolling late is no problem when the semester’s young.”

“What I’m saying is this,” said George, hunched over his knees. “My daughter’s gotten into some trouble. When she begins here, I’d like you to keep an eye on her.”

“Oh,” said Robert. “Sure.”

George fell back into the chair. “Now, about Veronica. There’s a problem.”

“There’re so many.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I haven’t seen her in two weeks. But you knew that.”

George nodded. “I’ve had to call the police. She disappeared yesterday with a large sum of money.”

Robert closed his eyes tiredly. “Of course she did,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

“What do you mean?”

“Money. It’s her issue.”

“May I ask why you parted?”

“Let’s just say her fidelity in all things.”

George paused. “Last week I loaned her money. Your home was up for foreclosure.”

“What a bombshell.”

“She’ll be arrested when they find her, Mister Lieber. I’m sorry.” George McDylan rose. “I’m really sorry.”

“Me too, George,” Robert said, looking up. “Me too.”

Chapter Sixteen: The Weirdest Feeling

1

Mary and Grady packed. They took periodic breaks to bat around plans for the baby, for school, for themselves, as if these things were separate issues. Grady could not contain her ebullience over leaving a state that was, in her mind, just one big small town. Mary tried to keep up for a while, then gave up and just listened.

Initially, Freddie had borne up poorly under the news. Once Grady had given the phone to Mary, her mother had called her a naïve bitch and hung up, but she’d phoned back minutes later, in tears, hyperventilating and ashamed, and she’d asked Mary to please, please come home. Mary told her she’d think it over, then had called back around midnight. This time she spoke to both parents, told them she’d return on one condition—Grady was coming with her. To Mary’s surprise they readily agreed.

“This is going to be fun, Mary.”

“Yeah?” She was folding shirts, laying them neatly in the suitcase.

“It’s gonna be great.”

She tried to smile, but failed.
Pack your bags, girls. We’re going on a guilt trip.

* * * * *

They decided to leave that night. It was a long drive, and the idea of waiting simply to get a couple of hours of bad sleep didn’t wash.

Grady had trained Mary on the stick-shift over the past two weeks, but decided to get behind the wheel first. They stopped at an all-night fast food joint and got on the road around two. The interstate was deserted, so Grady floored the Toyota until the needle reached ninety. She talked and talked. Mary interjected something now and again, but she loved listening.

After more than an hour, the conversation dwindled, and Mary’s eyes felt heavy. She nodded off.

* * * * *

The sky is close to the land. The sand shines and burns. In the engorged sky beasts swim amidst the clouds on wings gilded by bone, their red eyes painted into their heads.

* * * * *

The car stopped and Mary stirred.

“You okay?” asked Grady.

“Hunh?”

“You were talking in your sleep.”

Mary pressed a lever; she and her seat returned to their upright positions. She looked around. “Where are we?”

“South Carolina.”

The rest stop was lit by street lights, most of which were dim or out. Soda and junk food dispensers rested behind gates wide enough for a hand. Padlocks lined the gates. A single building was at the end of the sidewalk. Next to the restrooms, half a dozen semis sat dark and silent. Theirs was the only car.

Grady opened her door. “Gotta pee,” she said, jogging away.

Mary was still a moment, then got out to stretch her legs. She passed the humming vending machines, glancing instinctively at their shadows, and strolled to the end of the sidewalk. The moon bathed a series of stone picnic tables. On the nearest, an abandoned gossamer stretched from the pebbled seat to the chalky top; a breeze worried it, but failed to sail it. Past the tall grass, black woods curled over its secrets. Cricket song and a hysterical owl rose from the center of the darkness.

Mary jumped back, seeing a flash of movement at the farthest picnic table. It was a man. He hunched over, took his feet. She backed up as he faced her; his hand moved. She prepared to run for it, but the man only stroked his beard. He wore a long T-shirt, and the likeness of a bearded man in sunglasses was half-covered by his own beard. His paint-smeared blue jeans pooled at his boots; but for a few strings of denim, a hole nearly showed his left knee.

“Mary!”

Mary took a last look at him.

“Come on!”

She backed up.

The man waved.

* * * * *

A few miles down the road, Mary asked, “You didn’t see that guy?”

“What guy?”

“The guy next to the picnic table.”

“I was only looking for you. That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a guy, just that I didn’t see him.”

“He was creepy,” said Mary, staring at the white-lined rushing road.

“Bums are.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I had the weirdest feeling, though, looking at him.”

Chapter Seventeen: Baptism

1

They had come for her.

Shortly after sun-up there was a banging on the door, a pause, then another round of hammering, and this time it was accompanied by a voice, unmistakably Durham’s, telling them to bring out the girl.

Montague hadn’t yet slept—he’d sat next to her for what had seemed on one hand an eternity and on the other no longer than a single stretched out moment, stroking her hair, telling her all would be set right, and when she’d occasionally snuck her hand inside his, he’d been almost unable to remain seated for his excitement. He’d left her room not more than an hour ago.

Now, he crept from his bed and jarred the door, stared out the opening. His parents burst out of theirs, and his father flung open the girl’s door. She screamed—the first sound Montague had heard her make—and it was all he could do to stay put. He wanted to confront Father, stand before him with clenched fists. He wanted to free the girl. But Father spoke to her in a soft voice, and soon he appeared in her doorway, and she was cradled in his arms. Montague flushed. Her arms were around his father’s neck, her face buried in her chest, and he thought,
I could carry her.

2

Joseph Greer kicked open the door and stepped outside, the girl in his arms. Several men, all of whom he’d known for years, stood before him, dressed in the familiar all-white baptismal robes. All but one wore glum, almost blank expressions. All but the preacher.

“If you’re going to go through with this, I’m taking her.”

The preacher’s eyes danced in the morning light.

* * * * *

The twelve men in white formed a gauntlet between the girl and river.

Joseph set her feet into the dirt, kept his hand on her a moment, then backed up. She stood unsteadily, eyeing the men before her. “It’s alright, honey,” he told her. “I’ll be right here if you need me.” She turned, and her eyes seemed larger than they had yesterday. They were filled with questions, but he had no answers, so he did all he could and pointed toward the men. She took a deep breath, and for a second he thought she was about to speak. Instead, she stepped forward. The line wavered. No doubt they’d heard about yesterday’s strange events. He wasn’t sure he could believe it all, but many of downtown’s buildings had been damaged, at least that much was true.

She didn’t look in either direction as she processed between them, and the men didn’t look at her.
They’re spooked
, thought Joseph. Then he caught sight of the preacher, who was knee deep in the water and beckoning, and he circled, creeping under a cypress that reached over a river, making his way along the bank until he found a vantage point. He wasn’t sure he liked this girl—and was damn sure he didn’t like where she was staying—but, whatever her nature, no child deserved to be caught in the sights of a demon like Nathaniel Durham.

The preacher called to her once she’d reached the end of the line, and she gasped as if she hadn’t seen him until now. She stepped back, but the line closed into a semi-circle. Durham smiled, called her again. Greer stood on the tips of his toes. If they pushed her . . . . But then she was past them, within the preacher’s reach. He grabbed her by the arm; she didn’t struggle. He turned her around so she faced the deacons. He laid one hand on her back, the other firmly on her arm, and began to speak about John the Baptist, telling the same old story about locusts, the wilderness, heads on serving platters, and doves voiced by the Almighty.

The whole thing bored Joseph. Church was a fact of life, and he supposed it did no harm—considering yesterday, he supposed he might need to reconsider this idea—but he would rather be hunched over a set of numbers than listening to Durham explain the mathematics of salvation. He followed The Golden Rule, lived by The Ten Commandments, but didn’t understand the pageantry of meeting. A practical and analytical man was Joseph Greer.

Nathaniel Durham droned on and on. At last, he finished with a rhetorical flourish, something about seeing through a glass darkly, then he paused, as if awaiting applause or adulation, or both. When neither happened he frowned, turned to the little girl, took her by the hand, and led her deeper into the river. The water shuddered around them, bands of shock coursing away to the shore. Suddenly the sand below their feet dropped off and the girl’s head dunked under. The preacher lifted her and began the second stage of the ceremony, asking the men if they would sponsor her new life of sacrifice and obedience to God’s will, to which they all answered they would. He asked a few more questions, then trained his eyes on the girl, announced that the water would wash away all her sins and place her right with God, then he put a hand on her head and forced her under.

Greer didn’t think she’d had a chance to breathe before her submersion, and he stepped forward. The preacher must have seen him—he yelled for the deacons. The oldest, Barry Windsor, owner of the town’s confection store, said, “Stay calm. He needs to keep her under a little longer than normal. Make sure she’s washed clean of the demon.”

Joseph gawked at Barry, pointed toward the river. “She had no warning!” he yelled. “She could drown!” Greer looked over, saw the bubbles popping on the surface of the lake.

Durham smiled, said, “A chance we must take.”

“A chance we— Durham, she lost everything yesterday! Everything!”

“And why do you believe we spared her?”

Joseph said nothing.

Durham shrugged and fought to keep her under.

Just then the cypress began to shake, its long arm bobbing up and down. Joseph spun around in time to see a twig snap off, untouched, and drop into the black water. Then another. A rumbling followed, and at first Greer thought this was coming from the sky, perhaps an approaching storm, but the bellowing seemed to be beneath them, and as he made this realization the earth moved. There was a crack like thunder, but from below, and he saw no lightning. He screamed for Durham to stop, to release her, to which the preacher replied with only a leer as the cypress crackled with movement and its bark split, falling to the ground like bits of dead skin. It leaned over further, its arm dipping into the lake. The roots ripped, tearing free of the earth.

Joseph had seen enough. As he reached the lake the deacons yelled after him. But not one of them followed him in. Durham’s face screwed into a rictus of hate, and the preacher told him to stop if he loved his wife. Not thinking at all now, Joseph Greer struck Durham full in the mouth. The preacher’s head lolled back on the hinge of his neck, and he splashed back, submerged a moment. Then his face resurfaced, his eyes closed.

The girl burst through, gasped a breath, opened her eyes to the sky, and let loose a horrible, grief-stricken scream. Gasping, she stared back at Joseph, and for reasons he couldn’t account for she was smiling.

Behind her the preacher rose up, yelled for the men on shore to arrest Greer. When they didn’t move he shrieked, a powerless whistle of sound, then slammed his fist into the water.

Joseph put his hand on the girl’s shoulder, then reached around her neck and lifted her out of the cold water, starting for shore. The deacons parted, re-formed the gauntlet, and Joseph carried her through them.