“What kind of problems?”
“Anxiety. Depression. Look, he’s a great guy, but as you may already know, he’s had some tragedy in his life.”
Depression. I can relate. But can I really? I still have my wife. My kid. Heck,
Sparke
has a lot more to be depressed about than I do. Maybe I’m just bored at home. Just bored.
“Yes, I’m aware of the death of his baby daughter.”
“That, along with his divorce, and then his mother passing away.”
“When did that happen?”
“A few years ago. But it still pains him greatly. Look, again, he’s a great guy, gentle, kind, and caring. But he’s really wrapped up.”
Leonard collected his thoughts, then after a few seconds, continued. “Ms Bergin, has Richard ever discussed with you his past relationship with his ex-wife Samantha?”
She leaned an elbow on the table and closed her eyes for a moment. “Not really, other than they’d had a tough time together and grew apart after Debra’s death.”
“So...he never told you about the night she was attacked?”
Pam hesitated, blue eyes wide as half-dollars. “No...he didn’t.”
Leonard looked at his watch. 2:48.
Sparke’s
session ended at three. “Ms Bergin, I need to attend to something else right now. If you don’t mind, I’d like for you to call me on my cell phone tonight. There’s a few more things we need to discuss, and I’d be happy to elaborate regarding the incident with his wife, something I think you should be made aware of.”
“Sure, okay.” She grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper from the kitchenette table and scribbled
Moldofsky’s
name and number down. “When’s a good time to reach you?”
“Try me after six. I should be at my desk for most of tonight.” Most of the night, no doubt about that now. Leonard’s inquisitive nature gave him the sudden and overwhelming desire to look into a few more things about Richard
Sparke
, and he knew it would more than likely take him into the late hours.
Janice will love me even less now. Day by day, a little less of her husband and more and more of an empty home that by now seems much more familiar without me. And my son? God knows what he thinks of me these days. I’m up in years, balding. God almighty, listen to me, projecting my own mid-life insecurities on him! He loves me! I’m his father for Christ’s sake! What I should do is forget about
Sparke
, go home and spend the night talking to Greg for a change. Janice too. She’s always been there for me. Maybe now’s the time for me to be there for her?
“Officer?”
Leonard shook away the reverie. “Yes...I...I’m sorry. I was lost in thought for a moment.”
Pamela stood, using her palms to straighten out her jeans. “I’ll phone you this evening then.”
“Yes,” Leonard said. “That would be fine. I’ll wait for your call.”
He tipped his hat and exited the apartment. Before leaving the building he stood in the hallway just outside Pam’s door, keeping an open ear for a moment to see if she made any phone calls; Leonard thought she might warn Richard of their ‘snooping’. When he heard only silence, he left, stepping out into the foyer, and then outside.
Kevin stood on the cement walkway, arms crossed, a smug grin plastered on his face.
“Okay
sneezy
, spill it. What’d you find?”
“Len...have I got something to show you!”
The man in black’s gloved hand gripped Richard’s neck, a repeat performance of two years ago: the same night Richard awoke to find Samantha beside him, nearly beaten to death. Numerous times since then, the dream-intruder had tried to attack Richard, but had never managed to place a damaging hand on him. Still the intruder persevered, coming in and out of the blue light on many occasions, only to shout idle threats and take disorderly swipes at the air as if something physical had held him back. Time and time again
Sparke
thanked his conscience for protecting him from this nighttime adversary--how it ever managed to do so, he did not know.
But here and now, with his ever-reliable conscience dead, he’d lost all knowledge and support for a defense against this unearthly enemy. Somehow the intruder knew that killing
Sparke’s
conscience would be his ticket into
Sparke’s
world. Like tearing down the castle gates in order to pillage the enemy. Just how he accomplished the metaphysical feat was another thing altogether, beyond comprehension.
Half-deafened by the savage scream of the intruder, Richard clawed blindly at the body of weight suppressing him and holding him down. His breath instantly escaped him, a powerful thumb pressing forcefully upon his Adam’s apple, bruising his windpipe, nearly blinding him. He searched for air, now unable to inhale, only whimpers of despair seeping from his trembling lips. In his fading mind’s eye he saw his own face behind the attacker’s mask, peering down at him as he struggled for air and begged for an answer to this violent mystery. And still, amidst the pain and blinding expectations of death, he sought his daughter Debra, now restrained under knife-point in the grappling arms of the intruder, a trickle of blood seeping from her neck as she grimaced in silence, tear-filled eyes in search of her father’s help.
She was gone.
The man in black moved closer to Richard. Richard could feel his warm breaths just inches from his ear, filled with sinister laughs. Richard shivered as he heard his own voice whispering to him,
“Yes indeed,
Sparke
, it’s
showtime
. Are you ready to play?”
Richard gasped and tried to snap his head around but the man in black held on tight, further pressuring his windpipe. Richard felt absolute darkness taking hold of him, a trap-door permanently closing out the hypnotic world.
As if toying with him, like a cat with a bird, the intruder loosened his one-armed grip. Richard fell forward, sucking in long labored breaths, heaving as the world spun crazily around him: darkness giving way to rapid spiraling lights. When the dizziness subsided he saw the knife positioned in the man in black’s other gloved hand. Blood coated the blade.
Debra’s blood?
“Where is she?” Richard demanded. His powerless voice was caustic, grating.
The masked man grinned, murderous eyes radiant, familiar yet unspeakably alien.
Richard saw saliva oozing through the small mouth-hole.
“You mean your delicious little daughter? She’s here with me. But not for long,
Sparke
. Not unless you do as I say.”
Without his conscience it was difficult to comprehend the exact nature of the moment, and even through the fear and the gross reality of the situation--the smells, the sounds, the
pain
--he still managed to remind himself that he was under Dr Delaney’s suggestion, under hypnosis, in a state not unlike sleeping, yet more powerful, more intense. Now, with the man in black present, he wondered if he were actually sleepwalking, roaming about Delaney’s office while the good doctor took notes, fascinated with Richard’s performance as he acted out some inane task. “This is a dream,” Richard yelled, spittle flying as he gasped for air. “And
you
are a product of my mind...my own fucking imagination...I am aware now, cognizant...this is nothing but a dream. A lucid dream, just like Delaney and I discussed a long time ago.
You must go now!
”
The man in black leaned away from Richard, suddenly still, emotionless through his mask. His eyes were unmoving. Staring beyond Richard. The mouth, unflinching. He was frozen in time.
Richard stared back, whispered mostly to himself, “A dream. And I control
you
.”
He moved to stand, one eye aiding his wobbly legs, the other mindfully regarding the motionless man in black. It proved no use. Like lightning the man in black shot back into action, and with a quick flick of the wrist, grabbed a thick handful of Richard’s hair. He pulled with impressive strength, laughing, dragging Richard a few feet across the room before pushing him to his knees. The pain in Richard’s scalp was incredible, a thousand needles penetrating his skin--hurt and despair exploding from his pores like a volcanic eruption. The man in black laughed in a vile, hateful voice, placing the razor-sharp blade of the knife against Richard’s neck.
“Your mother is with us too, Richard. Along with your daughter. Lovely Julia. You remember her, don’t you,
Sparke
?”
His voice was whispery, each word formed with care in effort to get his dreadful point across.
“My...mother...is...dead,” Richard stressed through clenched teeth. Fiery sweat poured from his face across his stinging lips. He could feel the blood pounding in his jugular where the man in black had thrust his thumb.
Richard tried hard to wrestle himself away, but the man in black strengthened his grip and jabbed the point of the blade into the side of Richard’s throat. The pain ran down his spine like a jolt of electricity, and he could feel the warm trickle of blood rushing down his chest.
“Not in this world she’s not. Your daughter, she’s here too, alive and kicking. You know all about this world, don’t you
Sparke
? That perfect world your mother told you about so many times before...in your dreams. In your motherfucking dreams!”
Although the man in black spoke in Richard’s voice, Richard didn’t find anything remotely familiar about the tone, the manner of speaking. It was driven by sinister forces, something purely evil and utterly foreign of which he possessed no knowledge. The man in black might have been Richard’s double in every
physical
aspect, but psychologically they sat on opposite poles.
“What...do...you...want...from...me?” Richard’s words were forced, sounding almost inhuman through the barrier of pain.
The intruder came close. He twisted Richard’s head around so they faced one another, eye to eye.
“I want your life,
Sparke
.”
Over his nemesis’ shoulder, Richard could see the blue light. It had diminished in size, once taking up nearly half the room, its reach now spanning only a quarter of its original mass. And it was still shrinking, like the conceptual super-nova ready to explode. “Why? Why me?” was all Richard could think to ask, not really a question for the intruder, but more for the senses of the world--a weak attempt at prayer for a man assuming his time had come. Such an unfulfilling conclusion to a life wrought with hardship and misfortune.
The man in black answered him, clearly taking pleasure in their exchange, as if playing a game of semantics.
“Why? Because we love you.”
Richard kept his eyes on the collapsing light, peering up momentarily at the masked man: at his piercing eyes, his slick lips. He asked, “Who are you?”
The man howled with maniacal delight, his ongoing laughter gently weakening his campaign to subdue, and he loosened his grip on Richard’s hair.
“I am you, Richard
Sparke
! I am your essence, all you are, and all you could have been, had you made...different choices in life. Look at you, you sniveling piece of shit. You’re a worm out of earth in search of someplace warm and cozy to bury your dirty wriggling self in shame. A flapping fish out of water. A bawling calf miles from its mother’s teat. You...are...lost. And you disgust me,
Sparke
. You--”
A high pitched whistling noise filled the room, sounding like an emergency broadcast tone on a television with the volume turned way up. It interrupted the man in black from his diatribe, and he spun around, eyes suddenly wide with panic. He screamed at the sight before him: the blue light from where he first emerged, now a mere pinpoint of luminescence, floating like a tiny alien spacecraft in the center of the good doctor’s room. Unmoving, he stared at it for a few moments, then in silence, broke his inaction and dove toward it, arms outstretched in front of him, feet nearly leaving the floor.
He collided with it, and on contact an explosive strobe-like flash filled the room.
Soon thereafter, Richard’s world went black.
“Was I right?” Leonard followed a zealously moving Kevin across the front lawn towards a small residence parking lot on the left side of the Washington building. Every spot was filled with the vehicles showing Presidential Studios permits in the front windshields.
“Hey, give me some credit. It’s not like your hint was all
that
obvious.”
“Okay, then. Good job
sneezy
. But you still haven’t told me anything yet, so I reserve the right to rescind my compliment.”
“That’s because I’d rather show you. More interesting that way. And as far as I’m concerned, you have no rights.”
“Thanks, partner.” Leonard followed a grinning Kevin between two SUV’s, across to the other side of the lot where a white
Sentra
was parked underneath a large oak tree, nose out.
Leonard saw the damage at once. “Well I’ll be a son-of-a-gun.” He walked over and ran his hand along the scratches in the paint and chrome on the front end. Two small dents pocked the middle of the car’s hood, each one about the size of an egg. Although the
Sentra
was white, staggered streaks of cream-colored paint from the crossing gate were easily visible on the glossy finish. Even some splintered wood chips remained, lodged up near the windshield wipers--the telling evidence of Pamela’s aggressive misdeed.