 
# Chatters on the Tide

Robert Mitchell

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012

Thank you for downloading this free eBook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form, with the exception of quotes used in reviews.

Your support and respect for the property of this author is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.

See what Robert Mitchell is up to by visiting his virtual office at:

http://808hack.wordpress.com

*****

# CHATTERS ON THE TIDE

*****

# Chapter 1

Stepping off the shuttle at Newport News/Williamsburg International Airport, Monty cursed the heat and shuffled off to find his ride. As far as he was concerned, Virginia's July heat was no better than Yucatan's equatorial swelter, and the right name for this place was Patrick Henry Airport. That's what they used to call it when he was kid, and history mattered.

Even at night the humidity was oppressive. But it wasn't the heat Monty was worried about, it was the darkness. Every four or five steps he turned and walked backwards to make sure there was nothing following, his boots making scuffing sounds on the concrete.

_Frickin' airlines ought to be run like the frickin' railroad. Oughta buy 'em all pocket watches,_ he thought, irritable from the heat. If it hadn't been for the missed connection, he would have been in Virginia before nightfall. Monty never went out after dark for nobody and nothing. He had only his black leather backpack with the Harley wings on the side, and he was thankful for the light load as he picked up the pace. He headed in the direction of his ride in long-term parking.

There wasn't a star in the sky, and no moon. Even in in the middle of a limbo of asphalt mosquitoes began to work on the back of his neck. He smacked at one, and jumped at the sound it made. He stopped and looked behind again. He could see to the back of the lot, where beyond the chain-link fence there was only dark pines and silence. Turning back in the direction of the garage he almost ran.

The pinkish-lavender lights in front of the building made him feel a little better. He pulled open the glass door and went into the cavern of gray cement and scanned for his '76 Harley FLH Hard-tail. It was always this way, never remembering where he parked the bike, but he had his methods. He pulled a rumpled parking stub out of his front pocket and looked at the slot number he had scrawled on it almost a month ago. A35. The number on the concrete pillar said F.

"Beans-and-rice," he said. Monty couldn't wait to get behind the 45° rake of those chopper forks and tear up I-64. He hadn't seen a soul since getting off the shuttle bus, and the lot was nowhere near half full with few cars to hide behind, yet he still felt he was being watched. He thought about the last time he had been out after dark, and he began to run.

Passing by the elevators on his way to Row 'A,' he saw the clock over the red doors. The big hand was almost on the twelve, the little hand on the seven. He had twenty-five minutes to get on the road, almost half an hour to build up speed. At 75 or 80 mph, things in the dark would all be a blur, and that's all he'd be to them. An uncatchable blur. Being out after dark was unacceptable, but standing still at midnight made him want to claw his face and wail.

There was the bike standing alone. Sure, it needed some cosmetic work, but it was his chariot, and he got a shot of courage looking at it leaning sexily in A35. He put the backpack on the seat and strapped it to the sissy bar, put on his half-helmet, and got ready to start working. Times like these he wished he had electronic ignition because he knew bikes this old do not take well to long sitting spells. But like all aficionados of old Harleys he was part mechanic.

He gave her two half-hearted stomps just to get things moving around down there, then opened up the choke and got ready to give her a real go.

"Didn't your momma tell you not to run with fast bitches?"

"Jesus!" Monty jerked around but the barrel of a pistol blocked his chin and pushed it back to straight ahead position.

"You shouldn't be ridin' fast bitches. You could get a disease," the woman behind him said.

"Thank God," Monty said.

"I never pointed a gun at a man and had him say 'Thank God' before."

"That's because you never pulled a gun on a guy who's running from what I'm running from," Monty said. "Take everything, it ain't nothing. I got a couple hundred cash on me, and the backpack, that's it, but it's all yours."

"We don't want coin," she said thumbing the hammer back on her .38. "We want the rings. Gimme, without turning around."

"Aw shit," he said, thinking back to two days before when he had sat across from Jordan at the _Portico Merida_ in Mexico, just a couple of hours from Cancun. After everything he had been through, to part with them this way was torture.

He remembered how the jade rings had rested in his hand, looking such a comely shade of green in the sun. They were so worn and ancient he could hardly make out the designs. One was clearly a feathered snake biting its tail, the wings barely visible. The other looked like a chain of ants in single file, but he wasn't sure. He stared at them, and for a minute he wasn't dusty, or hot, or scared to death, he was in awe.

"Happy?" Jordan said.

"Twitterpated," Monty said, stuffing the rings in his pocket. He took a pull on his lukewarm _micheleda_. "What the heck do you guys put in your beer anyway?"

"Lime, salt, red pepper sauce, a little bit of everything. You get used to it."

"I couldn't be here long enough," Monty said. "Look, it's getting on toward dark, so let's wrap this up. I'm satisfied, but are you?"

"It will be three hours before dark, relax."

Across the table Jordan ran his hands through his hair and then flipped through the envelope in his lap. The cantina was starting to fill up with tourists and Monty squirmed. This deal was almost done and he knew he had to stay calm and stop looking like a thief, but he couldn't stop crossing and uncrossing his legs, drumming on the tabletop. All he wanted to do was get back to the hotel before dark and catch his bus to Cancun in the morning.

"Perfect," Jordan said. "I almost wish I was flying back with you. It's been a long time since I was in the states."

"Miss it?" Monty asked.

"Oh yeah."

"Me too. So why don't you?"

"Fifteen years in the Yucatan and I still haven't gotten close to seeing everything there is to see. It's a land of mystery. If I went back to Cleveland I'd be bored in a week. Maybe I'll visit soon. Maybe I'll come to Virginia and look you up. We can have a beer together, without all the shit in it."

"No offense," Monty said, "but I wouldn't give you my address if you put a viper in my chaps."

"I don't blame you," Jordan said. "I'm a mess aren't I?"

Monty looked at Jordan and thought he looked like he was fifty instead of thirty, his Caucasian face tanned into a Mayan mask.

"Yeah, you look like I feel," Monty said. "Seen too much you wished you hadn't, and wishing you could stop wanting to see more. Look partner, all B.S. aside, I really want to say thanks for what you did."

"Hey, my pleasure. Glad to help, glad to see them in caring hands instead of on some fake shaman's dirty little charlatan fingers."

Monty let the man keep his pride. Jordan might have started out dealing in occult objects for belief, but at this point, it had become largely for the beer money. Monty wasn't about to rub the man's face in it.

"I hear ya, I hear ya. Well, adios," Monty said, shaking Jordan's hand. "See you on the other side."

"Be cool," Jordan said.

Scooting out of the cantina Monty went down the street to the Internet bar, ordering a coffee and waiting his turn behind the tourists, and artists, and teenagers. Through the glass he watched vendors selling monkeys and hash pipes to the tourists, hucksters pushing Wal-Mart blankets as being genuine foot-loomed by native Mayans. He ordered a shot of tequila while he waited, and the coffee washed it down fine.

When it was his turn he typed out an email.

**From:** Monty1point6

**To:** jigsaw1965

**Sent:** Friday July 16, 2004 5:29 PM

**Subject:** Got 'em

Flight leaves tomorrow. I'll be back before dark, so clear the road and let my thunder pass! See you soon,

\--Montenegro

He caught a taxi to the hotel and holed up there waiting for morning. He kept himself busy, digging through a Ziploc bag containing a collection of hard rubber gaskets. Pulling out two that fit tight around the outside of the rings, he popped them into the nearly quarter-sized holes in his earlobes. He figured there was no way he'd get caught in Customs with them stowed there. In the mirror over the hotel sink he admired his primitive good looks, just knowing he was home free.

But when he came back to the present he was pretty far from home free, and the gun barrel poking behind his ear pointed it out in a manner far from subtle. He came to himself feeling more sick than angry, returning to Virginia from the Yucatan for the second time in one day.

"Are you okay? I said we don't want your cash, we want the rings," she said again, more forcefully this time. "Did you drift off to sleep or something?"

Sagging in the saddle, Monty reached up, pulled the rings out of his ears, and handed them over his left shoulder.

"Who's 'we'?" he asked.

"The D.O.D, that's who."

"Department of Defense?" Monty asked without sarcasm.

"Up yours," she said. "You know who we are. Don't turn around while I check this out." Monty waited, thinking that he just wanted this to be over so that he could get moving.

"Okay, we're done here," she said. "But don't turn around until you've counted to a hundred or I'll start shooting. Got it?"

"Got it," Monty said.

"You don't seem too scared," she said.

"I've been jacked at gunpoint before. Besides, I'm relieved you weren't something else."

"Fine professor, start counting. Out loud."

"One, two, three, four..."

"Start over -- Louder!"

When he got to twenty-nine he heard the sound of a Harley starting up and he knew nobody could easily point a gun and speed off on a two-wheeler. He looked around and saw it sputtering off and caught the plate, "DUN TIM."

Monty gave his '76 a big and hard but loving romp. "Got me a fast bitch that won't roll over," he said.

# Chapter 2

_Legion of Kronos M.C._ was emblazoned on the man's t-shirt, right over the shoulder blades. He reached into his mailbox to find an envelope belonging to his next-door neighbor. Hesitating for a moment, he decided to just go stick it in Greg's box. He ambled that way. He was standing there with his hand on the rural-type mailbox's door when Greg pulled up in his ice blue Acura. Lucas turned around and looked, waited for his neighbor to come up.

"Howdy _Harold_ ," said Lucas, looking down at the letter in his hand. "I mean Greg. Got a piece of your mail in my box today." He held it up so that Harold could see the addressee was Harold G. Mooney.

"Don't call me Harold. It's Greg."

"Says Harold here... _Harold_." Lucas noticed the letter was from Q. E. Parkinson, Esq.

"Thanks," Harold said, snatching the envelope and skirting Lucas out onto the grass.

"You know, if a word gets on your nerves," Lucas said with sincerity, "Just say it over and over and over, and it becomes meaningless and non-offensive. Try it. Harold, Harold, Harold. Eventually you won't even be able to spell it right."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I'm getting ready to cut my grass. Want me to hit yours for ya?" Lucas asked.

"No thanks," Harold said without turning, putting his key into the doorknob. "I'll take care of it later."

"It's no problem..." Lucas was cut off by the slamming of his neighbor's door.

A painfully thin woman appeared in front of Lucas' house with a ramshackle gas-powered push mower, called out, "Here's the mower honey-bun."

Lucas crossed the crab-grassy sward to meet her. "I'm gonna to be awhile Baby. I'm gonna cut his grass for him, at least the front anyway. He ain't lookin' too good."

"Hustle up," she said. "You're gonna want to shower before the meetin'. Cantrell already called to make sure you'd be there."

"That's his job sweetie, that's his job. Make me a sandwich and I'll be inside in an hour-and-a-half or so," he said.

From his position under Harold's house, Gator scratched his bearded cheek and peered through out through a foundation vent watching Lucas talk to Harold and then Bonnie. Bonnie left and Lucas started on the grass. Even in the heat of the summer it was shady and cool under Harold's house, and he was comfortable there in his quilted flannel shirt, looking out of the darkness into the bright yard. The mower stirred dust, seeds, and clippings. He watched them float and spiral behind Lucas in the late afternoon sun. They jetted out the side of the mower moving fast, then slowed. Some went to the ground immediately, others circled and began to take flight, passing through and over the picket fence as if it were gauze, then like miniature kites, moved up until they disappeared in the western glare of the sun.

Feeling relaxed and sleepy, he nodded some, finally napped, then eventually sank into a dreamless slumber. When he woke, Lucas was all done, the yard was dark and still, and nobody was around. He stretched like a dog in the musty dark and turned his attention to the world above.

Every time Harold took a step on the floor, Gator tracked it with his senses. When he moved from carpet to hardwood, then to rug, the sound changed, and in Gator's mind he envisioned the consistency of the footing, flattened pile, narrow oak boards, threadbare oriental. At the back of the house, the sound of a bottle falling, a thump, a squeaking mattress weighted then lightened, a settling rustle on the floor. The sun would be coming up soon.

On all fours Gator went out the crawlspace door to the puddle beneath the spigot and drank, drawing off the top with his lips, his hair hanging around his head like a lampshade. He moved off and pissed in the high grass by a tree in the rear of the yard. The eastern sky was dark purple, the moon long ago set.

He went back underneath the house, shutting the door behind him, and made his way over the lumps of broken concrete and chunks of two-by-four to find the exact spot where Harold had missed the bed and lay on the floor. The ground here was damp. Torn and crumpled plastic sheeting had let the moisture rise from the earth. Scraps of fallen paper and reflective foil insulation lay about and hung from the joists. No insulation covered the spot he regarded. Gator got up on his knees and placed his hand against the sub floor directly beneath Harold's cheek on the other side.

Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to the span of life? he thought. Sleep well Harold Gregory.

He went back to the spot where he had been sleeping for the past month, a dry and dusty depression in a corner of the foundation where a family dog long dead had wisely chosen to sleep decades before. Shrugging his navy and yellow checked jacket to his ears, Gator curled up and shut his eyes.

# Chapter 3

Harold took another pull on his bottle of Wild Turkey 101 and lay back on the sofa. Taking the remote in his free hand he nudged up the volume to drown out the lawnmower, the sound of it alternating between ear shattering and just plain loud as it made passes by the front window. Finally he got up and peered out between the curtains and mumbled to himself.

"Idiot. Why would you cut somebody's grass you don't even know anyway? Holy Crud. I told you not to bother." He had to admit to himself that there was something about Lucas that he liked. His neighbor was the kind of guy that after he's gone people describe as over six feet tall, handsome, and muscular. In reality he wasn't quite six feet, he was past his prime, and he had the square kind of gut men have who can kick your ass. His brown and gray beard matched the braided pony tail that divided the meat-packing plant he used for a back, almost reaching down to the place where he should have had a butt. Harold would not have opened the door and called him an idiot for all the beer in Busch Gardens.

Back on the sofa he tried to focus on the T.V., but he was growing too drunk. He drank and drifted a little, dragged himself to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed but slipped off and fell to the floor. His body was on the rug but his cheek was on the cool hardwood floor, and it felt really good. He slept.

He jumped when the phone rang. It took eight rings for him to get up and find it buried in the sofa cushions back in the living room. He looked fuzzily at the screen of the cell phone, recognized the number and answered.

"Hi," he said.

"Greg, it's Bonnie."

"I know who the hell it is."

"Greg, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"As long as you keep it light, okay? Nothing too heavy. I'm having a party."

"You are? Who's there?" she asked.

"Some turkey, you wouldn't know him."

"Okay...Greg, I know how you feel, how really hard it is. You misunderstood me when we fought before. I want you to know that everything is okay with me. None of that stuff matters. You can come home any time."

"I can? Gee thanks. I can come home to my own house. Great."

"Don't do that," she said.

"Do what?" he asked.

"Start the macho thing. That's not you."

"I hate being like this, it sucks, really it does. But this is the way it is. Until I get a job and get back to...to what I do best, I won't be myself. I can't be..."

"Honey, your job isn't who you are. It's just something you do. All that matters is..."

"Hort-manure, _horse_ -manure," he stumbled, "it is me. I can't come back there. Ever. I don't like it there anymore. Maybe when I get a new job and get this place fixed up you can come here and we can talk, but I can't come there."

"Greg, come on. Don't be crazy. This is our house. That's your grandparent's house."

"No, now that's your house," he said. "You can have it. And this is my house. You can come and visit sometime."

"Why does it always have to be mine or yours? Why can't it be ours? Everything I have is yours, how come everything you have isn't mine?"

Harold's face crumpled like tinfoil, and he threw the phone across the room into the sofa's matching easy chair.

"Kill me with kindness why don't you!" he yelled, and lay back onto the couch.

Later, when the bottle of 101 was empty and the sun was down, Harold got his car keys and went out the front door leaving it open. The old wooden screen door peppered with holes banged shut behind him. He made his way down to the Acura and got inside making off for nowhere.

At the 7-11 he picked up a six-pack of beer. The young clerk, a girl in braces, had second thoughts but decided not to challenge him. After all, he was a grown man in a suit and he had his ID ready. He slid back into the driver's seat, openly having a beer and tearing up the road. He drove a long time, downing the beers.

Finally he came to a stop before the bridge, pulled off the shoulder just short of it. He staggered off, the last beer of the six in hand. He hit the remote locking the car and setting the alarm. Walking out onto the bridge he looked to one side up the river, noting the lights of the houses along side it. On the other side was the bay, chocked full of fish and oysters, a couple of lonely boats far away. It was a long way down to the brackish water from the top of the bridge.

His feet were cold, but his head was beaded with sweat. Looking down he realized he didn't have on any shoes. The cement was cold and damp like the wind. He was not too drunk to feel his feet, just too drunk to care, and when he realized that he was too drunk to care, he wondered if that was good or bad because it was a long way down to the brackish water from the bridge.

He missed Bonnie, but knew if he were back with her it would only be on her terms. He wouldn't be a real man with her, wouldn't be able to take charge, and it would be just like before. She wouldn't let him. She'd tell him he wasn't sensitive enough, tell him he wasn't the man she married, all of that stuff. But then, building a life without her would be impossible too. He loved her and hated her all at once, and did not know how to conceive of a life without her in it.

And where could he live with no job? His grandparent's house wasn't going to be his for much longer. When it went to auction to pay their medical bills, he would have his choice of going back to Bonnie or living out of the Acura.

"Guess I'll be in the Acura," he said to himself, "because I'll be damned if I'm going to let her castrate me again."

His bravado surged as it did when he was alone and unchallenged by faces. Faces made his courage fail, the faces of people who depended on him at work, the faces of loved ones like Bonnie's, or even his own face in the mirror. The water was too far down for him to see his reflection. If he jumped, he wondered if he would see it just before he hit.

On the span over the water he looked out and saw that he had no job, very little money, and soon he would have no place to live. He imagined people's faces when he described how he had gone from V.P. Of Human Resources for a major corporation to living out of his car, how they would look at him when they asked him about Bonnie and he answered that they weren't together anymore. He tried to imagine what would he say.

"Oh, we broke up," he whispered. "She wouldn't let me be a man. I wasn't sweet and sensitive enough for her."

Although he wanted to be with her so much that it hurt, he knew going back was pointless. She didn't want him to be himself, she wanted him to be something else. The time he had spent with Bonnie, the time on the job, it had all been a waste, and he was too tired to start over somewhere else.

What would people say if they found him in a few weeks, snagged in the brush near the shore, bloated and stinking like a dead puffer-fish?

"That company that laid him off, that wife of his, they killed that poor bastard, they might as well have pushed him off," Harold mouthed.

Like a child whose tower of blocks has been knocked down, he looked off the bridge and down to the water, too heartbroken to see past the disaster and too tired to build again. Bonnie would miss him much more if he jumped and died than if he stayed alive and lived out of his car. Her heart would forget all the negative and only recall the positive. She'd want him back then, unchanged.

He used to say himself that the best revenge was living well, but now he was beginning to see things in the reverse.

"You want to control me? Then fine. Control me to death, suffocate me, drown me why don't you? How will that make you feel..."

Harold threw the empty can over the rail, and without a sound, leaped after it. There was no sensation of falling in the deepness of the dark. He hit the water and was stunned. Unaware of up or down, feeling no pain, he was unafraid for a moment. Then he took a breath and choked.

His body reacted to the threat of death and his mind quickly followed. His reasons for jumping were far away now, much less important than not having any air in his lungs. Thrashing and clawing he fought for the surface but did not know where the surface was. His tears became one with the waves and were washed away. Guilt and sadness gone, now he was alive and wanted to keep it that way, but it was too late. Half a minute later he could no longer thrash or claw and there was no air. Eyes open, the mystical lids covering the light of his spirit began to relax and fall. He moved into a neutral place where he neither wanted to die nor wanted to live.

Hands were on him in the dark water, but they were hesitant, their grip light and yielding. He could sense their presence. _Why aren't they pulling me out?_ he wondered. _Who would hesitate to save a man drowning?_ Without urgency, with detachment, he suspected he might die soon if they didn't so something soon. Dying and not dying were as immaterial, as rooted in perspective, as right and left. Neither was good or bad, they were just opposite sides of the same coin. The hands still rested on him, not pulling him out, not holding him down.

The difference between life and death was only Bonnie. In the choice he saw two worlds, one with her and one without, and he felt a stirring of the need to live. His thought on the bridge about Bonnie's guilt had been right, she would blame herself and she would suffer. He imagined her suffering and he felt the suffering himself and it was the only real thing he felt in months. He wanted to live. The void no longer seemed relaxing or benign. Now the absence of sound, light, and sensation became bizarre and ominous.

At last the hands delivered him to shore. He coughed and hacked, blinded by mud and spasms. When he could breathe and look around nobody was there. Soaking wet and nearly sober, he stared up at the moon, shocked at his own actions, thankful to be alive. He felt his feet and examined them in the dimness. They were muddy but uncut. He was expecting to find them bloody from the trash and oyster shells of the bay bottom.

Harold got up, convinced himself that the unseen hands had been a trick of his mind while he was deprived of oxygen, and went back to the car. The keys were still in his pocket. He got in and drove off, shaking from the cold and wet, far from being at his best but nonetheless better off than he had been when he jumped. He turned the heater on high and made it back to the old home place. Once inside he stripped naked and lay down on the sofa, totally spent. He pulled the folded blanket from the back of the couch looked at the ancient VCR in the entertainment center. Its clock read 11:31 PM.

"First time in months I've gone to sleep instead of passing out," he said to himself, and closed his eyes.

# Chapter 4

Dressed in shorts and muscle shirt, both heather gray, the wind outside the 24-hour gym was cool and good on her wet body. She was running hot, gym bag swinging in her hand. Brenda turned right toward the strip mall that closed hours ago. There was hunk of grass between the lots and she crossed it in three strides. Not a single car in the lot at this hour.

There was a matched set of three payphones on the brick wall outside the CVS. She put her bright blue and electric yellow NAPA bag down on the cement next to the soft drink stains and cigarette butts and fished out two quarters from the side pocket.

"You're late calling."

"I'm sorry, I just finished working out..."

"You should've called before you went in. Where are you?"

"I'm at the CVS next to the gym," Brenda said, putting her back to the bricks and pulling the metal cord attached to the receiver to its limit.

"CVS is closed."

"I'm at the payphone outside."

"Oh. What are going to do now?"

"I'm gonna do it," Brenda answered.

"Do you remember, the box is in the china closet behind the green glass?"

"Not in the top part," Brenda said, "in the bottom part, the part with the solid doors."

"That's right. Don't get spotted..."

"I'll park a few blocks over and walk in."

"Don't interrupt me."

"I'm sorry," Brenda said.

"It's not a big deal, it's just that you know I hate to be interrupted."

"I'm sorry," Brenda said.

"Don't make a big deal out of it, just don't do it," the voice on the phone said. "It's like you do these things I keep asking you not to do, and it just shows how much you disrespect me..."

Tuning her out she rolled her head over to the side and in the smoked gray plastic of the payphone's cowl Brenda saw her reflection. She loved it. It made her want to puke. She stared, admiring her jaw line, nose, and forehead, the perfect eyebrows, all perfect. The poor quality of the reflection almost hid the purple pigmentation that ran across her cheek and wrecked it all. It was impossible not to stare, and she understood why people did.

"Okay?" she said.

"Okay," Brenda agreed.

"Good. I'll see you when you get here. Don't get caught."

"I won't. Bye."

"Okay. Bye."

She hung up the phone and picked up her bag, trudged back across the spit of grass to the El Camino parked in front of the gym. Throwing her barrel bag in the short bed she got behind the wheel and cranked the motor. Two parking spaces over a red Prelude pulled in. Brenda instinctively obscured her face by tucking her chin behind her shoulder, looked over out of the corner of her eye to give away only her profile.

A young man got out of the Prelude and began to strut toward the gym.

Go work out Pretty-pretty, I could take you, Brenda thought. That's right, look away. I could take you apart.

The faded blue El Camino pulled away, and Brenda looked out through the windshield at the pocked streets with broken stripes, the scarred curbs, the telephone poles covered in hides of staples. As she drove, from time to time she looked left and regarded herself in the reflection of the driver's side window.

You're one scary number, ain't you? She said to herself.

In a dark spot beneath old trees she parked the car and slipped on a dark blue long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of charcoal Dickies. Deep trouser pockets held her .38 revolver, the screwdrivers, and the expired credit card she always used for good luck. The bank had pulled her credit line long ago, but it was still money to her. A black Baltimore Ravens ball cap contained her blonde hair.

It was two blocks over and four down to the house she wanted. She locked up the El Camino and headed that way. There was nobody on the street, and the bars wouldn't make last call for another hour and a half, so it was all good. Old oaks near the street lumped and split the sidewalk, and in places where there were no streetlights she had to be careful not to trip.

As she had planned it, she spotted the brick house with the American flag mailbox and went up the front walk like she owned the place, but this was not the house. Turning right and going around the side, she crossed the back yard and hopped the fence. Now she was in the back yard of the old cape cod whose back yard abutted the brick one. She went to the back door and put on a pair of brown jersey work gloves.

Inside in less than a minute, she could smell White Shoulders, Noxzema, and stale cigarettes, and she could hear the old bag breathing. _She won't wake up,_ she thought. _They never do. But if she does, and she gets a look at this face, somebody's going to get the shock of their life. Don't wake up Old Bag, I don't want to hurt you._

Brenda found the china press in the dining room and pulled out the matching set of green glasses blocking removal of the box. It turned out to be more of a small safe than a box, and surprised by the weight, she almost let the heavy, tan fireproof monstrosity slip. It weighed thirty pounds even though it was small, and she knew it would be impossible to hide under her shirt or carry inconspicuously. One glance from a cop and she'd be in cuffs.

There was a loud snort and the creaking of a mattress. _Maybe she just rolled over. Old Bag, don't you get up. Stay in bed._ There was a scratching sound, fine and far away that she could not identify, and not knowing what it was made Brenda wince and rush to put the antique glasses back in place. As she shut the doors there was the tinkling of a bell that grew closer. _A dog? Lovey-dovey didn't say nothin' about no dog._ _A dog that makes a bed creak is a big dog. Why didn't you bark when I carded the door? Go kick rocks mutt. You old hag, you've got a big-ass, deaf, soon-to-be-dead, dog._

Brenda did not move or breathe. She waited, squatting on the balls of her feet in the space between the dining room table and the china cabinet. Facing the kitchen door with the box in front of her she listened to the sound approaching. The tinkling stopped.

Lousy mutt. Wake up Granny and it's on. I ain't pulling the Big Bitch for either of you.

When the cat hopped onto the table she flinched; her butt hit the china cabinet turning every piece of glass inside it into a chime. To her it seemed loud enough to signal a hundred yard dash, but she waited and the heavy breathing did not stop. The cat, looking like a little tiger in the dark, soon grew bored of staring at her and bounced away.

She got out quickly, sure that it would be several days or more before the old lady went for the box and found it gone. She's filthy rich, she'll never miss it. Besides, you don't want your stuff stolen, lock up your stuff better, it's that simple.

After a nervous walk back to the El Camino she stuck the box in the passenger seat and headed home. She had worked out hard at the gym earlier, and then gone on to score a nice little payday with the fire-safe. Her face was warm from the tension of how it had gone down. By her count she had earned two beers.

A couple of beers won't destroy my waistline, she thought. It's Miller Time.

# Chapter 5

The clock on the VCR read 7:58 PM when he woke up. Harold got up and pissed, splashed his face with water, and went out the door in a hurry. His dress shoes were still in the floorboards of the Acura. He tugged them on as he drove.

He got to his attorney's office in minutes. There was a light on in an upstairs window. He knocked on the front door, but nobody answered. He went to the back door and knocked again. When he returned to the front, Parkinson was there waiting, shirttail untucked, tie hanging loose.

"What do you want Greg? Couldn't it wait until tomorrow?"

"No, it can't. I want to work something out. Give me some hoops to jump through. What can I do?"

"Look Greg," Parkinson said, "it's way after office hours. Can't you just come by tomorrow and we can talk about it? Honestly, there's no point; we've been through it a million times. But I'm willing to re-address it tomorrow, okay?"

"That's fine Mr. Parkinson, but I was thinking," Harold said, "that if I filed bankruptcy, I would get to keep a house, right? Why couldn't I keep my grandparent's house? You get to keep one house right? And a car? I read that somewhere."

"That's true, when you file Chapter 7 you _may_ get to keep a house. But the house you want to save is your grandparent's house, not yours, and debts you want to forestall aren't yours either. You see, the problem is, in the eyes of the law, you might not be truly bankrupt. You aren't legally divorced. Your wife is working and paying your mortgage. You own cars and furniture, the two of you have lots of assets – some IRAs and so on. Now if your wife would agree to apply for a loan..."

"Leave her out of it," Harold said.

"Then the house has to be sold to pay off your grandparent's debts, unless you can write a check for them. You're not living in that house are you?"

"No," Harold said.

"That's funny. The letter I mailed to you there didn't come back."

"It wouldn't, there's no forwarding order. Besides, I get the mail there once a week or so," Harold said.

"If you're living there, get the heck out as soon as possible. That house will be listed on the market very soon, and there will be repercussions. I'm the executor Greg, this is all my job. I know it has been hard with everything else that has been going on with you. We've both wracked our brains to come up with an answer. You know how many times I sat at that kitchen table and ate your grandma's cooking? You know I want to help, but you have to help yourself. If you and Catherine can't unite and get a loan, or agree to liquidate some assets, your grandparent's home will be sold to pay the debts. If there's anything left over after everything's paid, that's what you'll get. And that's that. Now, no offense Greg, but if there's nothing else, I'd like to get back onto the couch with wife and finish the movie I was watching."

"Sure Mr. Parkinson, sure," Harold said. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"I'm not trying to be harsh Greg, it's just that everybody has a limit, you know?"

"No, it's okay, I understand," Harold said. "If I come up with anything, I'll come and see you about it during your regular hours."

Parkinson shut the door, and Harold left. He flopped into his car and sat there for a minute. He grew edgy in the dark, turned on the interior lights and sat thinking about what his attorney had said. He also thought about the hands in the bay, about the water and the hands. In the dream he had bought beer and driven out to the bridge. Just before he jumped, he had thrown over an empty beer can. He reached in his pocket and dug out a couple scraps of paper. Examining them he found that one of them was a 7-11 receipt for beer stamped 8:49 PM. He dropped it as if it was a snake, turned off the interior light, and fished out a cigarette from the glove box. There were empty beer cans in the floorboards.

Okay, maybe it wasn't a dream, he thought. I smell like the bay and I'm covered with mud. Holy shit, I got stinking drunk and jumped off a bridge. I need to have a smoke and figure this all out. You can't stop me from smoking now Bonnie.

Admitting to himself that the dream was real made his memory of it solidify. Harold thought of his wife and recalled the image of her that had flashed through his mind while in the water, the one of her suffering after his suicide. It made him sick with emotion. He put his head on the steering wheel and tried to get clear.

The sensation of being stared at stiffened him, and he stiffened. He looked around at the dusky street. Nobody seemed to be out, nobody was staring at him, but even so he made sure the doors were locked and pulled away. At the corner of Parkinson's place he thought he saw someone standing, a silhouette cut in half by the corner, but he didn't brake. Perspective changed when the Acura moved down the block, and the shape moved behind the house.

At a stoplight he lit another cigarette and looked in his rear view mirror. There was nothing there. He dragged hard on the smoke making it crackle and burn hot and it made him dizzy and a little sick. He could not stop looking in his mirrors. At the next stoplight he checked the back seat and again found nothing.

Pulling up in front of the house, he locked the car and set the alarm, then went inside.

His first stop was the bathroom where he threw up; his second was the living room coffee table where he poured himself a drink. The Wild Turkey was gone. All that was left was a pint of Jack Daniels, and he splashed some of it into the forty-year-old Flintstone's jelly jar he had been using since he moved in. Settling into the sofa with the remote, flicked around for a while, thankful that Grandpa had loved his cable TV. Two hundred channels and some Jack Daniels would blanket everything. He would sort it out tomorrow.

Around ten o'clock, during a daylight car chase on the tube that lit up the room, he thought he saw movement outside the front window. Getting up he peered between the curtains and saw a figure disappear around the side of the house heading toward the rear. Harold sat the jelly jar on one of Grandma's lace doilies and ran to lock the doors and windows. Out the bedroom window he saw a shadow swoosh by. At the back door he thought he heard the sound of the knob being tried. Running back to the living room, he looked out the front curtains again, saw nothing.

He froze for second and listened. Footfalls on the back porch. Hurtling out the front door, he ran to Lucas' house and pounded on the front door. He put his back to it nervously and scanned the yards waiting for the stranger to appear.

"Hey neighbor, what's up?" Lucas said, standing there in his A-shirt and boxers.

Harold whirled around and almost yelled. "Can I come in? There are some prowlers outside my house, and..."

"Sure!" Lucas held the door for Harold and shut it quickly behind him. "Come on in and we'll call the police."

"No police," Harold said. "No police."

"No police? How come? Do you know the guys?" Lucas asked.

"No; I think I might be going nuts."

"Could be, could be. Look, have a seat. Opal!" Lucas cried. "Put some clothes on Baby!"

They went through the front room into the cramped den and settled into worn, unstylish, very comfortable chairs. The only light was the Discovery Channel beaming from the T.V.

"Would you like a drink or something?" Lucas asked.

"Whiskey," Harold said, "would be great."

"I was thinking along the lines of caffeine-free Diet Coke."

Opal appeared out of nowhere in a dime-store Chinese robe. "Diet Coke, Sprite, and I think we have some Dr. Pepper, but it might be flat. It's in a two-liter. But we got ice."

"Sprite's good," Harold said. Opal brought him an ice-cold can of simulated Sprite, the store brand, and gave it to him with a hand that sported a rose tattoo spiraling to her wrist.

"We gave up alcohol a long time ago, I'm sorry," she said. "But I can still remember what it was like when I really wanted a drink sweetheart."

"Harold," Lucas said, "This is my wife Opal. Opal, this is Harold."

"Please, call me Greg," Harold said, shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you Opal."

"Nice to meet you Greg," Opal said.

"You know," Lucas said, "you should really go by Harold. Your parents named you Harold for a reason. Calling yourself Greg is no different than calling yourself _Rip_ , or _Rock_ , or _Chuck_. Hell, why not just call yourself _Rick Danger_ and get it over with."

"Cut him some slack," Opal said.

"Then _Rick Danger_ it is," Harold said with a half-hearted grin.

"Greg's a jerk," Lucas said. "But I bet Harold's a helluva nice guy."

"You'll never know," Harold said, "Because there's no Harold here. Just Greg, who's scared out of his mind."

"Well, tell us what the heck happened," Lucas said. "Looks like you've had a few drinks tonight, and you smell like a Labrodor..."

"Lucas!" Opal scolded.

"...and them clothes look pretty much slept in."

"It's okay," Harold said. "It's okay. I'm the one who barged in here like a schoolgirl on Halloween." He took another sip of ersatz Sprite. "I fell down in the yard when I was running from the prowlers."

"What a crock of B.S.," Lucas laughed. "Look, why don't you sleep here tonight and you can tell us your story in the morning when you've showered and had some breakfast."

"No, I don't think so..." Harold began.

"Look. You won't let me call the police and you won't let me put you up for the night. What the heck did you come over here for anyway? To have a Sprite and stink up my favorite chair?"

"Well..."

"Opal, would you draw the boy a bath while I go next door and make sure his place is all locked up?"

"Sure thing Honey," she answered.

# Chapter 6

After cold cereal at the picnic table in Lucas' dining room, Harold threw up, then managed to keep down some coffee and relayed his story. He told them about everything starting with his leap into the bay and ending with the prowlers around his house. His hosts listened intently but gave no feedback other than encouragement that everything would be fine, everything would work out.

He surprised himself by being so frank about what had gone on with him recently and as they sat in silence he considered what it was that had made him open up. They were about the same age he guessed, about twenty years his senior, and they both looked like they had lived some hard years. They had the easy manner of people whose wants are few and who are used to accepting whatever blessings and curses the tides of life washed up on their shores. There was something in the way that Opal touched him with her small thin hands, feminine but with nails clipped like a man's, that reminded him of Grandmother. Her face, weathered and free of makeup, was uncontaminated by secrecy, malice, or judgment. Everything about her made him relax. And everything about Lucas made him feel safe. His long wavy biker beard, half gray and half light brown, gave him a wise and powerful aspect. The tanned forehead above his bushy eyebrows was heavily creased and lined, a map to the places he had been and the things he had seen. Although there was nothing in his words or actions hinting of anger or violence, Harold felt that this was man who was capable of doing whatever was required to keep the people he cared about safe, warm, and fed. To Harold it seemed that he had landed in the eye of a hurricane, a place beyond time and troubles.

In fact they had been so kind and open with him that it made him feel guilty that he had not told them all of the details about what happened when he hit the muddy water. Just as he was about to open his mouth his cell-phone began to chirp on the coffee table back in the den. He rushed back and picked it up.

"This is Greg. Hi Bonnie. Yeah. No, I'm fine. I know what you said, you've said it a hundred times." There was a long pause. "Look, I'm sober and I'm staying with some friends, I'm trying to get my head on straight. There's a lot going on. I know it's hard...okay, look, I'll call you later, gotta go. Bye."

"Bonnie your kid?" Lucas asked when Harold came back in.

"Wife."

"Take it from me," Lucas said holding Opal's hand. "Enjoy your family while you can; you never know what tomorrow is going to bring. Someday you might be looking down from the hereafter wishing you had more time."

"Look, I gotta go lay down, I don't feel so good," Harold said. Opal led him back to the spare bedroom like a child and laid her hand on the small of his back as he climbed in the big high bed, an antique that almost made him look for a stepstool.

"What the hell's wrong with me? I know I've been drinking a lot lately, but I'm not a drunk," he said, looking up at her.

"No, you ain't a drunk," Opal said. She put a cool hand on his cheek. "But you're coming down in a lesser way I guess. Keep it up though, and you will be, sooner or later. Take it from one who knows. Sleep, and keep sippin' water and Gatorade. You'll be rolling in clover before long, you'll see."

Harold said nothing. He smiled, and on a high bed made in the days when folks feared sleeping near drafty floors would bring the grip, Harold dozed away the afternoon on top of the covers. There was no danger of illness bearing drafts now. The air coming in was as pleasant as the breeze across a plate of peaches. It swirled through the screen, in the window, across his chest, and up to the ceiling nine feet high.

In his dream he was behind the wheel of a child's pedal-car shaped like a rocket. Beside him was his friend Alex, and in the sacred silence of the slumber world they were being pushed about in the little rocket-shaped car by his grandfather. The grass was close-mowed with a push-mower, and looking back he could see a white handkerchief on Granddad's head to soak up sweat, tied comically at the corners with little knots. Some friends were over and he could see the men with their cans of Schlitz and Pabst, sweating like mad and playing Yard Darts, the kind with real points. It was one of those days when everybody drank but nobody got drunk, the coleslaw was homemade not store bought, and the laughter went on until the fireflies came out. Alex was making faces, and the more he laughed the more Harold laughed, and it went on until their cheeks were sore.

He woke up hard and disoriented. He had fallen out of bed and was on his side looking underneath the bed. His sticky eyes and lagging brain could not sort what was real and what was dream. Under the bed there appeared to be parked the little read rocket-shaped car.

There was a bang from the back bedroom. Lucas and Opal hustled back to see what had caused the sound.

"I hope he didn't throw up again," Lucas said on the way.

They went into the bedroom and saw that Harold was sitting on the floor running his hands over a shiny new peddle-powered car straight out of the 1950's, a fire-engine red four-wheeled missile with a tandem cockpit and silver lightning bolts on the side. Lucas sat on the side of the bed. "Where that come from?" he asked.

"I was having a dream," Harold said. "My Granddad was pushing me around in my little red car, me and another kid, and we were laughing like crazy. Pretty cruddy waking up, to tell you the truth. I fell out of bed, and I could see it under there, so I rolled it out."

"Harold..." Opal said.

"Why did you do this?" Harold asked.

"I didn't do it," Lucas said. "Neither did Opal."

"Then who did? Who did?" He began to pull away from it, got on the bed and pulled his feet up.

"I don't know," Lucas said. He went to the open window and looked out, but saw no one to blame for slipping in the car. "I don't see nobody," Lucas said.

"Bizarre," Opal added thinly.

"We couldn't have known you had a car like this when you were a kid," Lucas said. "And even if we did, how could we know that you'd come over here looking for help, take a nap, and dream about it." He said.

"It was them," Harold said, louder than he needed to. "It was them, the ones from the water..." He jumped up and ran into the bathroom, shut and locked the door. It was dark in there, and he did not bother to turn on the light. He plopped down on the terry-cloth toilet seat cover and covered his face with his hands. "First they follow me home, now they're trying to freak me out, and it's really working, it's really working..."

Outside the door Lucas said quietly, "Doesn't make sense buddy. Why save your life, then track you, then plant a little car, you know?"

"You think I'm nuts," Harold said. "Damn, what if I _am_ nuts?"

"You ain't nuts," Opal said. "It'll all make sense sooner or later. Just hold it together honey, it'll all make sense in time, I just know it."

"Don't be a pussy, come on out," Lucas said. "I'll whip you up some grub since you didn't hold the last batch down. How's your stomach feeling?"

"Better," Harold said. "But I'm still not that hungry."

"I'll make you whatever you want. How about some pancakes?" Opal asked.

"Lucas?" Harold began.

"Yeah?"

Harold opened the door and came out. "Will you go look out by the shed and tell me if my little red car is there? I want to know if this car here is the same one all fixed up, or if it just looks a lot like it. I haven't been out in the back yard in months, but the last time I was out there, it was rusting out there under the awning beside the shed."

"Come to the window and see for yourself. It's still light out, you should be able to see from here," Lucas said.

Parting the white eyelet curtains, Harold looked out into his yard next door. The spot where the car used to be was empty.

"It's impossible," Harold said. "Nobody could have...I want you to put it back. Put it back where it came from, okay? It's too weird looking at it."

"Roger. Then breakfast-dinner. Pancakes, bacon, eggs, the whole nine," Lucas offered.

"I love breakfast dinner," Harold said. "I do that whenever Bonnie doesn't cook because it's all I know how to make."

"I'll start the sausage, it takes longer," Opal said, trying to pretend like she wasn't too freaked out while heading for the kitchen.

Lucas disappeared with the car while Harold watched from the window. He heard the back door's screen slam shut and seconds later saw Lucas cross the lawn and pass through the picketed gate. When he saw that the car was back where it belonged, Harold shut the window and turned the latch.

# Chapter 7

"Thanks for the walkman," Harold said. "I'll give it back when I'm done with the CD." He repositioned the aluminum legs of his chair so it wouldn't rock on the lumpy grass struggling for life in the shadow of Lucas' sweet gum tree.

Lucas shook his head. "No, that's a gift. Besides, you won't finish it any time soon. There's twenty hours of music on that thing."

"Huh?"

"It plays regular CDs and it also plays audio files from disks. That one has most of the Blue Oyster Cult's mainstream catalogue on it. I figure we're getting to know you pretty good. Now you can get to know us."

"You guys are big fans?"

Opal smiled. "You could say that. We're in a fan club of sorts. The music is real dear to us."

"Well cool," Harold said. "I'll let you know what I think. Thanks again."

"Don't mention it," Lucas said.

Slumping in the nylon-webbed lawn chair, Harold looked over the mildewed light gray pickets into his grandparent's backyard. When his eyes began to wander toward the little red car, he turned away and focused on Lucas and Opal sitting opposite him in the shade.

"It's weird," he said, "sitting here looking over there. It's like a world away, like some stranger's yard. Maybe it's the thing with the car, I don't know, but that yard doesn't seem so innocent and homey anymore."

"Don't let it freak you out so much," Lucas said. "Give it time to make sense."

"You smoked too much weed in the 70's. You're permanently stoned. Nothing fazes you."

"Not Lucas," Opal said. "That was me. Weed, speed, liquor, you name it. Lucas was high on power back in the day, weren't you honey?"

Lucas smiled with his mouth but his eyes looked serious. "Sad, yeah, but it's pretty true. I liked the money I made selling junk, and the control. I liked feeling like I had power over the people I supplied. Power to evade the cops. I was a big man inside my head. Folks are just plain scared of drug dealers man, they've been educated by _Adam-12_ , you know? So I didn't have to do that much to scare the piss out of junkies and hoods, although there were a couple things I did I wish I could take back. I was on a real power trip. But I pulled up before I crashed."

"Thanks to me," Opal said, and patted his arm.

"What did you do to snap him out of it?"

"I got toxic drunk and high and almost died. Lucas realized he cared, and that saved him," she said.

"And they lived happily ever after?" Harold asked.

"In a pig's eye," Lucas said. "That was fate gettin' even with me. I got on the straight and narrow once I saw I loved her. But she didn't give me the time of day. She went right back to her old ways, and since I wasn't a supplier anymore, I was old news. A couple of years later, after she decided to get straight, we finally got together for real, finally. That was a long time ago."

"It's still a neat story," Harold said.

"So write your own," Opal said, "with _your_ wife."

Harold deliberately overlooked the comment. Someone was coming through Lucas' side gate into the back yard.

"Harold, this is Gator. Gator, Harold."

Harold was riveted. Gator sat on the grass next to Opal's chair and accepted a glass of iced tea with lemon, covering the top with his opposite hand when offered sugar. His hair was one length, down to the elbows, brown, wavy, and oily. He was wearing a black t-shirt faded at the seams and creases to the point of matching his khaki pants. For shoes he wore all-terrain sandals. In the July heat, overtop it all, he had on a flannel Carhardt jacket, navy and yellow checked, with a quilted lining that would have kept him warm in January. Sandy dirt caked his feet.

"Gator's a mute," Lucas said. "He don't talk."

"Yes he does," Opal said. "Just doesn't use words, that's all." She let her hand rest on Gator's head, stroked his hair as if he was a child, although Harold reckoned him to be in his early thirties. He looked up at her without smiling, but it was clear he enjoyed the attention.

"Nice to meet you."

For an answer Gator looked at him and nodded. It was the look of a dog, an expression so blank that Harold didn't know if Gator wanted to bite him or lick him all over the face. There was no tail to check for a wag, so Harold looked at Lucas to escape Gator's eyes.

"I don't think there's a darned thing wrong with his voice box. I just don't think he's got anything to say," Lucas offered.

"Lucas, sometimes I don't believe the mess you say!" Opal said.

"That's okay. It's so hot out here it takes your breath," Harold said.

"I heard _that_ ," Lucas agreed.

When the tea was done, Gator jerked a thumb in the direction of the house, and Opal gave him a wink and a nod. He hopped up and took off his shirt and jacket, then crossed the yard to the water hose, proceeding to drink and bathe without soap.

"He's off-the-wall, but he's good people," Lucas said. "He's been a good friend to me and Opal. But he comes and goes like a stray dog."

"Why do you call him Gator?"

"That's a funny story," Opal said. "We were down in Florida at a concert some years ago, and he just kind of attached himself to our club. Just like a stray dog. He was hanging around us at the campsite, staying near us at the concert and stuff, you know? And when it was over, when we came out into the parking lot, he was sitting on one of the bikes. It was creepy. It was like almost midnight, and the parking lot was really a grass field with woods all around. We were near the last to leave. There he was, sitting on Billy's bike, on the back..."

"You gotta know Billy to get it," Lucas said. "Billy looks like the love child of Charles Manson and Vampirella. He's a scary guy. He's got tattoos on this neck, he's as big as the box your car came in, you know? And he comes walking out and sees this character on his bike. He says, 'get the eff off my bike before I turn you into an effing lampshade.' And Gator just looked back, pointed at the empty seat in front and made a stomping motion, like he was saying 'get on, shut up and let's go.' After that..."

"Yeah, after that he was pretty much in the club," Opal finished. "We called him Gator because we picked him up in Florida. God only knows who he is, his name, and what-not."

"Billy will tell you he doesn't like Gator, but he does. He respects him because he can't intimidate him." Lucas said. "You should ride two-to-a-bike sometime. You gotta trust each other, work together, and you can't be shy about touching together some. It's a little like making love, you gotta have some trust in there."

"There's a symbolism in it," Opal agreed. "Something sweet."

"I'm surprised your friend let him," Harold said.

"We were too," Lucas said. "But Gator's got a way about him. Some kind of way he manages to win people over, plain and simple. He helped me get this house in shape when we moved in. He's a good worker."

"That's right, you guys moved in right after I did didn't you?" Harold asked.

"Yep," Opal said. "It's a fixer-upper. There was tons to do, yard work, painting, and what-not."

"The owner's letting us work off most of the rent," Lucas added. "It's a sweet deal all around. He never could've rented it as it was. But when we leave, he'll be able to rent it our for sure."

"It must be hard though, holding down a job during the week and then fixing up this place on the weekends," Harold said.

"Naw, not really," Lucas said. "Don't have a job right now. Nest egg's running a little low, so I'll probably get one next month, you know, work until I get some cash laid by."

"You're kidding. What about health insurance?"

Opal smiled and looked at Lucas while she answered Harold. "We don't need health insurance. We do without things and pay for the things we really need. Honey, don't kid yourself, your grandparents never had health insurance, and I bet they lived to a ripe old age, didn't they? But see, they didn't have to pay for cable, and Internet, and stereos, and CDs, credit cards, and fancy clothes, and whatnot. Neither do we."

"Actually, my grandfather got really sick after granny died, and he ran up a lot of medical bills. They didn't have a safety net, so the house there has to be sold to pay off the debts. I'm sick about it."

"I don't need no safety net," Lucas said. "I put myself on solid ground instead of floating around in the clouds. Your grandfather didn't need one either."

"But the house..."

"But the house is just a house. Sticks and mortar. All the worry and fighting, where's that getting you? Let it go."

"I can't. It's where I spent so many summers, and I have so many memories there." Harold looked over at the yard, his eyes drawn once again to the little red car under the shed's big awning.

"The memories aren't over there in that yard," Lucas said. "There right there," Lucas said, pointing at Harold's head.

"Shut your eyes," Opal said. "Now which one is the most real to you; the house or the memories? Nobody can steal your memories and experiences and what-not. Hold onto those and let the rest go."

"Opal's right," Lucas said. "Hold onto the important stuff and let the other stuff go."

Harold looked over at Gator, who was laying on the concrete stoop in front of the back door on his back, soaking up the sun without a care in the world. While they had been talking he had rinsed out his t-shirt and jacket, and they were hanging on the clothesline, held in place with clothespins.

"He looks comfy," Harold said.

"Don't he?" Lucas said.

"You know, it's bright sunshine," Harold said, "the middle of the day, and I feel like I'm being watched. I can't get my head together. I want a..."

"You ain't getting' no drink," Lucas said.

"...cigarette," Harold said.

"Sorry."

"It's okay," Harold said. "You know, they say quitting smoking is harder than quitting drugs."

"It is," Opal said. "Take it from me. Who do you think is watching you sweetie?"

"I don't know. I've had the feeling ever since I was at my lawyer's office, but the only thing I saw was that person sneaking around my house the other night. My skin's crawling."

"That's the alcohol leavin' you, that's all," Opal said. "But you ain't no real drunk. It takes more than a few months of hard drinkin' to make a real, card-carryin', twelve-step drunk. But you will feel it leaving you dearie, you will feel it."

"Could be right. But have you ever had the feeling somebody was harvesting you with their eyes?" Harold asked.

"What did you say?" Lucas said.

"Did you ever have the feeling that somebody was just hard staring at you, totally taking you in?"

"Interesting turn of phrase," Lucas said, shaking his head. "Ain't it Opal?"

"Bizarre," Opal said.

"You know what I meant though, right?" Harold said. "How sometimes a person stares at you like they're going to cut you down? Does that make sense?"

"Oh, I know what you mean," Lucas said. "But it blows my mind that you put it that way. The same words are in one of the songs in that player there. Different arrangement, different meaning, but same words."

"I must not have gotten to it yet. Huh...that's a neat coincidence," Harold said.

"Okay, well I'll play it for you then. Let's go pop a CD in the player and get out of this heat and in front of a cool fan, what say? Ain't nobody gonna be staring at you in there," Lucas said.

"Cool is cool," Harold agreed.

"Tonya might be coming by later," Lucas said. "She reads the Tarot cards for our club. I'll tip her a twenty and she can tell what's in the cards for you."

# Chapter 8

"Greg, it's Bonnie again. Look, I don't know where you are, you're not answering the cell, so I just hope you'll get this eventually. I really still miss you and I want you to come home.

"I know I'm probably just making it worse by calling you. That's what people say isn't it, that if you chase a man he's sure to run? But I can't help it. I don't know why you think it's all about the job and the money. It's really not, it's about you and me.

"I was thinking today about the time that we sat in our old apartment that whole weekend and read that book together. It was that cheesy thing about the immigrant woman, remember that? I don't remember the name of it. Anyway, we sat around taking turns reading it out loud, and we never got dressed the whole weekend. Wasn't it great? I miss that stuff, that stuff we used to do that was just _stupid_. Stupid stuff that we did together.

"I wish that we..."

The answering machine beeped and cut her off. She considered calling right back but decided it was pointless and hung up the phone as if she was putting her hand on his head, very softly. She didn't even know if he checked the messages on his grandparents old machine.

In the back bedroom that had been Greg's office she searched the shelves and found the book. _I Come to America_ by Lisa Podber. She went back to the den and sat on the sofa with her legs folded and opened it up. She didn't read in earnest, she just skimmed, refreshing her memory of the weekend she had recalled.

It came back in focus. She remembered how he had fried bacon and eggs for dinner because all he knew how to cook was breakfast food while she read out loud. After they ate, they had gone out on the balcony to smoke, still wearing pajamas. Afterward they had come back inside and curled up in the bed to get warm. Once there, he held the book while they both read in silence. He read slower; she had to wait for him to turn the pages. Once, to pass the time while waiting, she had touched his stomach with her nails. He put the book on the nightstand and kissed her, and an hour later they had been back to the book again.

The book itself had not been that great, but the weekend had been one of her favorite memories. She thought about how it was always that way. You remember that a movie was really great, but if you sit down and watch it again, it's never as good as it was he first time. Who you were with, where you were, the mood you were in, they made it special. A romantic dinner could be drive-thru fast food eaten at a picnic table beside a divided highway. No candlelight required, no wine, no flowers. Bonnie figured that romance never really happens. It takes place in the secret spaces between all of events you can describe in your journal or jot in with shorthand in your calendar's free places.

She knew early on that Greg felt the same way. That weekend, and other times like it, she was certain he understood, that his definition of love and romance were the same as hers. Not the same, but rather the male side of the same heart. As close as you could get in this world. She knew that he was the same Greg today and that he still felt the way had before. It had taken him five years to get where he was now, and there had been good times.

The blame wasn't all Greg's. She had watched him get organized and goal-oriented, watched him go from surviving the work week and sliding into the weekend to tapping his foot on Sunday nights in anticipation of getting back to work the next morning. She had enabled this sickness, advanced the infection by getting dinner on the table, keeping quiet, and by making life at home less stressful. That was Greg's thing to say, that he had a stressful job and he didn't need any stress at home. What he was really saying was that he had chosen to be in this stressful place, which used up all of his energy, and he was too exhausted to really participate at home. Bonnie saw now that Greg had been both the source and the object of the stress, and she had made it easy for him.

She asked herself if she would have let him wander off in the desert to die, or let him drown in a lake, or let him get lost in the mountains. If any of those things had happened, wouldn't she have gone after him?

She went into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, still searching for the answer to the question of why she had enabled him. Out on the back patio, the sun still low enough to keep it in shade, she enjoyed her coffee and lit a cigarette. She saw the irony and smirked at herself. When he wanted to make his job his priority she had gone along. Yet she had fought him bitterly about smoking, and now she was doing it herself.

Spending the money he had earned hadn't bothered her too much, and she cursed herself for her shopping trips and spending sprees. Looking at herself from the outside, talking to herself the way an angry friend would, it seemed that she had objected to him smoking because it endangered the wage earnings. To hell with the relationship, just keep those paychecks and bonuses coming in. That wasn't true, and as she broke through the sarcastic conversation she was having with herself, she saw that they had both bought into the roles they had been taught were right. The hard working husband, the silent wife.

Greg wasn't hardworking by nature any more than she was naturally silent. He had always been a people person with lots of friends, the kind of guy who never worked hard at anything except seeing the best in people. He was like scotch tape, sticking to everyone and blending in. As a Human Resource Director, he had taken his nature to the extreme, amplified it until it was an enlargement of a magnification of a facsimile. She was the hardworking and studious one, the one with focus. Who would have thought she'd end up being content with her title of Administrative Assistant, while Harold was striving for the next accolade and a higher salary bracket.

She liked her job, especially how it required her skills of organization and energy. It was fun to be the unseen brains behind management's successes. Before they were married, Harold had been in sales, enjoying the perks and the occasional trip, having fun and getting by, and living for the weekends. She, on the other hand, had been steadily given more responsibility, and had set her sights on Office Manager, toying with the idea of someday gaining the VP of Operations position. Only twelve more credit hours and she would earn her professional M.B.A.

She dropped her cigarette butt into the empty flowerpot she had been using since Greg left. Getting up, she felt that the best way to be happy and reunited with Greg would be for each to go back to their original selves, before they had changed. She could be the driven one and Greg could be the happy-go-lucky one. But that didn't seem to make sense either. Something had happened to them and she wasn't sure if it could be undone. She didn't want a career of the kind Greg had gotten himself into, even though she knew she could become anything she wanted in that world if she really wanted.

Bonnie went back to the living room and dropped into the precise spot she had been before, only this time, she sat down on something hard. She reached under butt and drew out CD, brand new in the shrink. She knew she hadn't bought it, and knew it hadn't been there when she went outside to smoke.

"Who did this?" she said out loud, stood up and looked around. "Is somebody there? Greg, are you in here somewhere?"

She ran to the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the butcher block, proceeded to go about the house calling out. No one answered. Once she had checked all of the good hiding places, all of the spots she had thought of while watching horror movies late at night, the locked the doors and went back to the den.

Instead of using it as a weapon, Bonnie cut open the CD she had found. The cover featured a black and white photo of a house that resembled the one from 'Psycho.' It was called 'Imaginos' and it was by Blue Öyster Cult.

This was just the kind of crazy thing Greg would've done when they were in college. If he wanted her to listen to the CD, she would. She smiled, sure that he had left it for her to listen to, thinking that there must be some message in the music or the liner notes.

She stuck the CD into the stereo and hit play, plopped back onto the sofa. She liked it, relaxed and shut her eyes enjoying the music. There was a booklet inside the CD cover. She opened it to the first page:

IMAGINOS: A RANDOM ACCESS MYTH

She read on. A short introduction to the concept album told the story of a man born in the 1800s, a legendary character named Imaginos possessed of shadowy powers who is able to make his dreams become real. It told of his quest to find a mysterious black mirror, which when finally found and taken to Europe, somehow resulted in the First World War.

Bonnie wondered if Greg liked this CD because he saw something of himself in the Imaginos character the CD revolved around. He was a human resource manager, which she could see as "mastery of faces and names," a characteristic Imaginos was said to have. She filed that away for the moment, really enjoying the mysterious message Greg had sent her. It wasn't as good as having him with her, but it was a connection and it occupied her mind, appealed to her sense of mystery and adventure.

"Greg knows I love puzzles," she said to herself.

When Track 8 began to play she sat straight up listened more intently. It was the best song on the CD so far, and when it was done, she played it again. The music was excellent, the lyrics haunting and surreal. It was hard to figure out what it was really about; but the first person story seemed to be from the perspective of the character Imaginos. He had been abandoned by the sea, died, and been brought back to life by the band, or at least that's what she gleaned. In her mind it seemed that it was an allegory about the restorative power of music, but she wasn't at all sure.

Bonnie finished the CD. When the last trick was done she backed up to Track 8 again, hit the repeat button so that it would play over and over again. It was a good CD. She liked it, but it wasn't clear to her why Greg would want her to listen to it, or what message he was trying to send through it. Before this CD, the only song Bonnie had heard by the band was "Don't Fear the Reaper," and Greg hadn't mentioned that he was a fan of the band.

"Sweetie, this is like when we used to sit around and try to do the New York Times crossword," she said. "Vanna, can I buy a vowel?"

Settling in for the long haul, she got up and fetched a pad, a pen, and a glass of wine, and reclaimed her spot on the floor.

Greg = Imaginos

Discovery

Dreams are realized

Once she put the pen to the paper, it only took a few strokes to see Greg's message clearly. He saw himself as Imaginos, an epic character who could realize anything he could conceive. He was turning himself around, finding himself. He wasn't ready to come home yet, but he was beginning to see that imagining what he wanted to become was the first step to being the person he wanted to be. She poured another glass of wine, feeling warm and content, very confident that she had deciphered Greg's message perfectly. It was only a matter of time before he would be ready to come home.

Smoking inside seemed like a recipe for a stinky house, so she went out onto the patio into the late afternoon heat. She lit up and dragged deeply, enjoying the polite buzz of her wine and the rush of the cigarette. The heat didn't bother her in the slightest. The sun's rays were warm and good, coming down on her in slices divvied up by the privacy fence. Bonnie looked in the direction of the sun and smiled to herself.

"I knew I'd figure it out," she said.

From the other side of the privacy fence, to the left of the gate, she heard the _bwow-wow_ sound of a plastic trashcan lid hitting the ground, and wondered if a dog or a cat was trying to get into the trash. Picking up bits of soggy paper towel, chicken bones, coffee grounds and filters, and tatters of white plastic bag would be a drag. Bonnie went to the gate and peered out through the half-inch gap between the boards.

A man in a blue and yellow checked jacket had pulled a red, white, and blue polka-dotted bag containing one slice of bread and two heels from the trash and was lazily picking up the lid and replacing it with care. She watched quietly.

The man, barely two feet away, looked up at her with light blue eyes set in a face as tanned as oak. He did not smile, but looked at her without fear or malice or surprise or any other emotion she would have expected. It was the kind of look that a police sketch artist could not have captured if given a lifetime. Only the Dutch masters could have given it a reasonable shot.

Bonnie's cigarette smoldered between her fingers as the man walked away down the sidewalk bread in hand.

# Chapter 9

He watched them pull away, Lucas driving the big bike with Opal on the back, her arms tight around her man's waist.

"We'll be back by dark!" she called out.

Harold waved, shut the door and locked it. Alone for the first time in three days, he couldn't relax and sit still in Lucas' strange, half-empty house. He went from one room to the next, looked in the fridge but took nothing out. Eventually he just flopped on the couch in the den. Next to the remote sat his brief case. He popped it open looking for some cigarettes, but the pack inside was empty. His hand fell on a folded piece of paper. He spread it out on the table, a short shopping list Bonnie had given him weeks before. Bread, milk, potatoes, Pepsi.

Memories came pouring in, and he couldn't stand it. He threw the paper back into the briefcase and shut it tight. Leaning back he turned on the TV, a mindless movie to take is mind off of the memories, to keep him from thinking. He half-dozed, not enjoying it, not hating it either. The phone rang and he went into the kitchen to answer it.

"Hello."

"It's Lucas. Sorry sport, but this damn hog's broke down. I'm puttin' the wrenches to it. Me and Opal are gonna be a little late. Might be a little after dark, but not by much. You doin' okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Look, will you bring me a freakin' pack of cigarettes? I can do without the liquor, I'm no drunk, I was just drinking because I didn't know what else to do. But if I don't have a cigarette, I'm going to chew my fingernails down to the first knuckle."

"You bet. See ya in an hour to two, maybe less."

"Thanks Lucas. Not just for the cigarettes, for everything. You and Opal have been, I don't know, just really cool."

"Our pleasure. Lemme get back to that bike so we can cruise our butts home."

"Sure thing. See ya in a bit."

"Later," Lucas said and hung up.

He hadn't been alone after dark since the night at the bay, and he was fidgeting. After he checked to make sure all of the doors were locked, he got into Lucas' easy chair and put on the headphones. Hitting the play button summoned up more BOC, and he relaxed a little. He was in a bank of songs that were clearly older. Most of the songs were hard to peg in terms of which decade they came from unless there were things like 70's style organ riffs to give it away. This one did, and he thought it could have been a lost _Yardbirds_ song.

Without nicotine or alcohol his brain couldn't stay in one place, rattling in his head like a Mexican jumping bean. Harold put the CD player in his pocket and rooted around in the kitchen until he found some real coffee and made a pot, figuring that with some of that in him he might be able to focus. There wasn't much in the way of snack food either, but he stumbled across some popcorn flavored rice cakes and downed a few while the coffee dripped.

Cup of coffee in his fist he went back to the easy chair to have a sip and listen. The next song on the CD that came up gave him chills; he skipped back and pumped up the volume to listen to it again, trying to figure out some the lyrics that he couldn't catch.

The volume was up yet he was sure he heard a sound. He pulled the earphones around his neck and paused the CD. All he could hear was the buzz of insects outside the window, the whir of a fan and swish of the curtain against the sill.

Feeling jumpy he un-paused the disk, stood up, and put the earphones back on. He paced the floor with the CD player in his pocket. Certain he was just being stupid, went and warmed up his coffee with a dash from the pot. The song was good, but creepy, and it reminded him of what had happened to him at the bay.

Footsteps this time. He yanked out the earbuds. The sound of footfalls led his eyes to the little door on the interior wall not far from the front entry and he turned to face it. He had assumed it was a coat closet, not a door to the attic, but he thought it had to be, because there were the sounds of footsteps coming from above and behind it, and each icy little tap shrieked into his ears. His body reacted as if touched by a rigored hand, with automatic recoil, not wanting to see what was going to come through the door. He ran through the kitchen to the back door and out into the dark.

He kept running, not knowing where he was going, glancing back, seeing nothing but not slowing down. A few cars passed him on the road. Harold ignored them and ran on. On the right side of the road he saw a thick stand of bushes designed to cover a power substation. Behind the shrubs and beyond the fence there were bright lights. He headed for them, the only bright spot in sight. He wanted to be near the light. Circling the chain-link enclosure, he went to the far side and huddled against a small brick building. The metal door was locked with a deadbolt. He sat down in the gravel next to the door and leaned into the corner where the wall met the chain-link. Pulling up his knees and crossing his forearms on them, he rested his chin on his arms and stared out, rocking in the blue-white light.

A man came around the side of the building and stood staring at him with a heavy fishing knife in his right hand. Harold screamed and scrunched back into the corner with nowhere to run.

"This is a real honor," the man said, sheathing the knife and showing his open palms. He was thirty-ish and sandy-haired, wearing blue jeans and a white short-sleeved dress shirt, but worn from a thousand washings but impeccably clean, his chest heaving from running.

"Come with me," the man said, looking around almost as nervously as Harold had been before. "There are some people who want to meet you real bad, and we can keep you safe. And as for them bikers, they're leading you astray. And you're aren't safe as long as you stay with 'em."

# Chapter 10

It was a short walk to the stranger's battered red F150 pickup. Harold climbed into the passenger seat and bumped down the black country roads.

"I'm Ben," he said. "It's good to meet you Harold."

"Good to meet you too. Where are we going exactly?"

"Our farm, it's not that far, over the line into Southhampton County. My brother and sister are waiting, and I bet Mother will put together a special meal for you. You'll love it there. I wish you could see it in the daylight."

"How do you know my name?"

"The whole congregation knows your name," Ben said. "But it's not my place to tell you the stories, that's Kilby's place. Kilby's my older brother. It's funny."

"What's funny?" Harold said.

"That you have all this power, but you don't know anything about it, that you have all this potential and you can't feel it in you."

"I don't feel anything that's like power, not at all, that's for sure."

"You will, pretty soon I guess," Ben said.

_Okay, does that mean I'm going to be feeling my power, or does that mean I'm going to feel_ your _power?_ Harold wondered. He spent the rest of the ride silently, thinking that he might have made a snap decision coming with this stranger. But the dashboard lights put a youthful sheen on Ben's face that softened it like a Vaselined camera lens. In this light Ben could have been twenty-five or forty-five he couldn't tell, but he didn't seem ominous or scary. He decided to relax and pretend he was on a Greyhound, just ride until it stops. Nothing could be worse than staying at the Lucas' place alone. Anyway, he wanted to hear what Ben had to say about Lucas and Opal's motorcycle club.

They pulled up in front of a farmhouse that looked like it had not changed much since it was built, and Harold guessed that had been more than a century ago. They got out of the truck and passed between boxwoods as old and round as powder kegs, Harold going in front of Ben after a sweeping gesture of the farmer's hand.

There was a deep porch that circled it around, ladder-back chairs and a table to the left of the double front doors. The green-black porch rail and white newels were milled so intricately that not even a dozen coats of paint could cover the beauty of their craft.

"Go on in," Ben said.

Unlike Harold's home place and Lucas' house, which had both been built in the '20s, Ben's farmhouse had the low ceilings and simple floor plan of a civil war house. Coming in the doors into the front room, there was an archway straight ahead into a kitchen, and beyond that, in a beeline, was the back door. On the right wall stood an upright piano. A leather easy chair with a knitted afghan draped over it, a brass lamp on a stand, a blanket rack, a loveseat. It reminded him of his Grandparent's house, except that it felt more ancient, and more austere.

"Go on back to the kitchen," Ben said smiling.

As Harold passed the piano he saw there was sheet music on the rack.

_Nothing but the Blood_ by Robert Lowry

Ben urged him on into the kitchen and offered him a chair, but Harold stood in front of it, feeling awkward.

"Mother, Sister, this is Harold."

The two women came over. Mother shook his hand and clapped him on the shoulder as a man would have done, but Sister put her arms around him and gave him a slow and generous hug. Her body was hot and very soft, and the smell coming from her hair was a flowery and far away, distracting in a way that made him want to touch it. He was unaware that his face showed what he sensed with his nostrils and his skin.

"It's rosewater," she said, "that's what you smell."

He blushed for the first time since he was sixteen and let them seat him at the big kitchen table.

"In 1925 my grandfather took a horse and wagon to Richmond and bought this stove for a hundred and twenty-five dollars," Ben said. "You can burn coal, you can burn wood, it doesn't matter. You can cook a whole cornbread on one stick of wood, once it's going good. Look at the details, the craftsmanship, it's amazing to think about. Almost eighty years later, and look at it. It's the best, still going strong. In the summer we usually just use the hotplate because it heats up the kitchen so much. But with you here, for company, we had too much to cook. Got the windows open and fans going, so it's not s'bad. It's warm though."

Harold looked back at him for the first time in the light, and saw a one-time farm boy run-down by forty years of farm labor and meals of beans, biscuits, and gravy. He looked strong, but his face was red and the whites of his eyes seemed yellow.

"It's a beauty Ben."

"Thanks," Ben said. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes. I have a chore or two to finish up before we eat."

"Chores this late?"

"There's always chores on a farm. You could work around the clock," Ben said. "When I come back, I'll bring my brother Kilby with me. Hope you got an appetite." He disappeared out the back door.

Harold watched the two ladies cooking. Mother's hands and arms played the tools of the cooking trade like a variety show plate-spinner, veins covering their surface like kudzu on power lines. Her skin was all over thin and brown, sandpapered to a brittle brown veneer. She did not smile or speak. A gray oval on her linen apron covered her groin, her hands returning to that spot again and again, dropping off a splatter of this, picking up apiece of that.

Ben's brown-haired sister moved in a slow and deliberate manner, each action calculated, careful, glacial. Her eyes were black and round, pupiled nocturnally. Most of the time they were planted on Harold instead of on her work as if she wanted to him to watch her movements. She blinked slowly, large eyes never fully open, never fully closed. When she walked, Harold's persistence of vision scribed imaginary streamers in her wake, patterns in the air made by the dimples over her behind, visible above her low-slung jeans. She had the body of an animal; small waist, exaggerated breasts and buttocks, a soft belly larger than the ones men usually claim that they prefer, the kind of belly they like to touch. If she had been covered with fur men would have stood in line to curry her down.

"Honestly, I'm not really hungry," he said.

"We're always hungry around here," Sister said. "It's the work. It puts an appetite on you."

"You'll eat," Mother said, "when it's put before you." They were the first words Mother had spoken since their introductions and they startled him. He couldn't tell if this last comment was a threat or a prediction, so he just smiled back and changed the subject.

"So this farm's been in your family for a long time, huh?"

"Since the Civil War," Mother said. "The ones that had it were killed, and then some robbers took it over. My grand daddy ran off them what stole it and made it his own. My husband and I, and my brother-in-law Arlo, made it what it is today though. Put it back in the hands of southern blood for good. We got some pictures you can look at. Sister'll show 'em to you. Go ahead Sister, show 'im."

Eyes on Harold as always, Sister wiped her hands on Mother's apron. As she left the kitchen she ran her hand along Harold's arm and nodded toward the living room.

Harold got up from the kitchen table and followed. They sat together on an antique wine-colored loveseat and turned the pages of a scrapbook. It smelled like earth, the scent rising from the pages as they fanned.

During one brief moment when her eyes were on the book instead of him, Harold looked over and tried to get a read on her. She seemed to be in her early or mid-twenties. She wore no makeup and no jewelry in her ears, and on the surface there was nothing remarkable about her other than her dark eyes. She seemed to him a type, a girl one might find on any farm in any town anywhere, a girl it would be very hard to describe to a sketch artist. Yet there was something there that was magnetic and primal. On the circle of innocence and worldliness, she was at the point where the extremes met, at once as innocent and as worldly as a bitch dog. At this range, in addition to rosewater, Sister smelled like sweet sweat and honeysuckle. Harold imagined her soft tanned arms around his torso and felt guilty.

"This is my Uncle Arlo. He had a million different jobs and traveled all over before he moved here to help Daddy work the farm," she said. "He was funny. But he always got his work done."

"What happened to your Dad?"

"I'll let Ben and them tell you about that. They said you weren't ready to hear some of the stuff yet. Is that okay?"

"Sure," Harold agreed. "I guess so."

"You're going to like it here. This is clean living."

The screen door banged at the other end of the house. Sister rose and led Harold down the ancient wall-papered hall, past sepia pictures in tarnished silver frames dusted white-glove clean, over to the kitchen table for dinner. Ben and Kilby were already in their seats, hands folded in their laps waiting for the starting gun to dig in.

Kilby looked like Ben with ten years added on, except that his eyes were hazel, and held a firey urgency absent from his younger brother's. It was a look Harold had seen before in the faces of older men who sat across from him in the Human Resource Office to interview for jobs doing manual labor. Men who don't have many able-bodied years left to work and a lot left to pay for. Men who hurt every day when they get up; who aren't desperate yet, but who know that desperate days are coming.

Mother was the last to sit, and she did so like a man, dragging her chair up to the table across the linoleum in grates and bumps, chin high and lips yanked tight like the opening of a laundry bag.

"Let us pray," Kilby said. Harold's head was angled downward, but not enough to prevent him from looking at Sister as the older brother spoke.

"Dear Lord, we thank you for blessing our toil which hath brought forth nourishment for our bodies that we might do your will and work. Thank for delivering unto us a prophet, whereby your will be known and greater works be undertaken in your name. Give us strength as we give you our faith and servitude. Thy will be done. Amen."

Everybody but Harold said, "Amen."

"Good to finally meet you Harold. Do you like to be called Harold, or Greg?" Kilby asked.

"Greg, actually. Thanks for asking. And good to meet you too."

"Greg, it's an honor to have you at our table. Thank you for coming," Kilby said.

"No, thank you for saving me. I don't know what from, but it wasn't good, that's for sure. I have to say, I'm really in the dark, literally. It's good to know that I'm not imagining things."

"You ain't," Ben said. "You ain't."

"Please, whatever you can tell me would be great. It's all I can do to sit still and try to behave like a normal person. I want to pace the floor and ask a thousand questions..."

"Kilby, talk to the boy," Mother ordered.

"Yes Mother," he said, ladling out some mashed potatoes onto his plate. He talked over the clanking of silverware on plates. Harold's sat there empty. "The ones that are after you are demon-possessed. They are doing Lucifer's work on Earth. You see, Lucifer knows you're going to do God's work, and his minions are out to put an end to you."

"We can't let that happen," Ben said.

"So what does that make me?" Harold asked. "An angel or something? I don't feel like an angel. I'm not a religious person. You seem like god-fearing folks. If you knew my feelings on the subject of religion, I'm sure you'd have a stroke."

"You're no angel. You are a prophet. And whatever thoughts you have about The Lord don't matter a hill o' beans. You're marked by the heavenly host. You'll come around," Kilby said.

Harold shook his head, smiled. "Okay, so, the other day I woke up from a nap and found a little red toy car by the bed. Did the demons do that, put the car there? How did they do that, huh? And why?"

"I bet you had a dream about it, didn't you?" Sister asked.

"Yeah, I did. How did you know?"

"Because," Kilby said. "That's your mark. Whatever you dream becomes real. Them demons didn't put that there. You did, with your power. And you're going to do more too. You're going to save the world."

"Right," Harold said, trailing off. He took a biscuit off the platter but didn't take a bite.

"We have to keep you safe," Ben said. "So you can do the Lord's work. Brother, tell him about the four forces."

"Well," Kilby said, "There are four forces at work in these parts. There's the motorcycle club, the Legion of Kronos, those chopper-ridin' hippies who took you in; then there's the demon-possessed ones who call themselves the Disciples of Demeter; there's the Congregation, which is us; and then there's everybody else, the non-aligned, the people who don't know nothing and don't care to know. But the Congregation is small but strong, and we will keep you safe."

"Thanks," Harold said. "So who was after me at the house earlier tonight?"

"The Disciples of Demeter," Ben said. "Filthy demons."

"Watch your mouth!" Mama said. "If you can't say nothing nice, don't say nothing a' tall. Besides, it wasn't the Disciples of Demeter, that was Death hisself. He was just looking around the corner at ya."

"Death?" Harold asked.

"You haven't heard that before?" Mama said. "It's an old saying. Sometimes when you're tired, dog tired, and you feel like you can't get up or do another thing a' tall and all you want to do is just sleep and rest, you say 'Death's looking around the corner at you.' It's an old saying is all."

"Never heard that before, but thanks, it makes feel so much better," Harold said. "Seriously, I like the idea of it being the Disciples of Demeter, whoever they are, much better. They sound a lot less dangerous than Death."

"They ain't," Ben said. "All respect Mama, I know you don't believe in the Disciples, but Kilby does, and so do I."

"I do," Kilby admitted. "You're going to ask anyway, so I might as well tell you who they are. Nobody's ever met one of them, which is why Mama doesn't believe they're real, but from time to time the name comes up. They're idolaters and heathens, and they interfere in Man's relationship with Jesus."

"Were they the ones who rescued me from the bay?"

Sister spoke up. "No, that was your baptism by the angels as it was foretold. They asked if you would be saved, and you accepted the Holy Spirit into your heart. That's how you got the gift."

# Chapter 11

"Are you in the car or not?" Brenda asked.

Willie could hear her just fine over the sounds of the diner, but he was paying way too much attention to his coffee cup.

"Well?" she said. "Are you or aren't you?"

"You can trust me," Willy said finally, lighting another cigarette, "but the game's a little too rich for me, know what I mean?"

"Quit blowing that smoke in my face," Brenda said, "And up my ass. My plane'll be here soon, and I'll be unloadin'. I can't be sitting around with shit I can't move. I need to know I have an outlet."

The waitress came over and poured more coffee into Willie's cup with one hand and then poured more water into Brenda's glass with the other. Neither spoke until she was gone.

"I understand," Willie said. "Chill. You won't get caught holding product, don't worry. I'll give you half on delivery and we'll split the retail. You ain't starvin' are ya?"

Brenda noticed that Willie still wasn't looking at her, he was looking down at his coffee one minute and tapping the fire of his cigarette against the bottom of the ashtray the next. Willie turned his deck of Marlboro Lights over and over on the tabletop with his free hand. _You can't even look at me. Look at me jailbird,_ Brenda thought.

"Naw, I ain't starving. That's fine, that'll work."

"Alright, atta-girl, that's my B.T.," Willie said shifting down into a whisper. "I took care of you on the last load didn't I? And I helped you get into that pissy little fire-proof box, didn't I?"

"Sure you did."

"Don't you know it. I'm your boy. Look, I gotta put it in the wind. "

"It's cool. We're done here," Brenda said. "See ya soon. And look, I'm sorry I was such a bitch.."

"Ain't no thang B.T. Catch you later."

They matched fists knuckle to knuckle and Willie tossed two singles onto the table before leaving. Brenda sat there for a minute, thinking.

The wall was mirrored, and on it was painted green grapevines and magenta grapes. She guessed at some point this place must have been an Italian joint. It was a corner booth and she was sitting with her back to the door. Her reflection was dead ahead and she stared at it, a disembodied head that was resting on the back of the seat across from her. _The waitress looked at me, even though she probably wanted to puke. Why couldn't Willie?_ she thought. _Are you lying to me Willie, or is it all_ _about my face? I'm not lazy, I stay in shape, I'm tall, I'm smart. If it wasn't for this face I could have been a CEO or something instead of this. But when we get the money, I won't have to deal with guys like you anymore Willie. It'll be easy street._ She could not turn away from her reflection in the mirrored wall. _Why did I sit with my back to the door? That was just stupid, for so many reasons._

The more she thought about Willie and how he acted, the more Brenda began to feel as though she needed to keep shopping. In her mind she ran down the list of people she had done business with in the past and started crossing off the ones who were out of commission, would not take cold calls, wouldn't be thrilled to hear from her, and so on.

She was surprised when the waitress came back.

"More water ma'am?" The waitress asked. As she had before, she looked Brenda straight in the face without turning away.

"No thanks, not right now," Brenda said, focusing her eyes on the tablecloth and keeping them there. "Look, I changed my mind, is that okay?"

"Sure. More water coming up."

"No I meant about eating. Can I have a third-pound burger, all the way, and fries?"

"Of course. Anything else?"

"No thanks, that's it. I'm sorry. Decided to go on a shopping trip, so I'm going to need some fuel."

"It's no problem, really it's not." the waitress said.

"Good, thanks," Brenda said. She looked up at the waitress. Her face was plump, round, open, young. Nothing special, Brenda thought, except that she can look at me as if I'm just like everybody else. And she fills out a pink t-shirt pretty well.

"Coming right up."

_Wherever I go, it's going to be a ride. Ain't nobody in this po-dunk town._ She continued to go down the list of prospective dealers that could move something big. About the time she came up with a name her burger came. The waitress put it before her along with plastic bottles of mustard and ketchup and tiny crock of mayo. The bun was laid open and awaiting the condiments, one side toasted on the grill with butter, the other side brightly adorned by vibrant green lettuce and blood red tomato. The fries were still hissing. Brenda dug into her plate and rehearsed the sales pitch she would use on her next buyer.

When it was gone she went outside to the payphone and dropped in two quarters.

"Hello?"

"It's me," Brenda said.

"What's up?"

"I gotta go somewhere else. Willie's smokin' me right now, he's..."

"Listen here Brenda Taylor, don't screw this up..."

"I won't, I'm not! There's a guy I did business with once before in Billy'sburg. I'm taking a ride."

"Okay, I trust you. Now, remember what I told you. You've got power and you're special. Don't let us down."

"I won't," Brenda said. "I won't."

"I know you won't. You can do it."

"I'm sorry," Brenda said. "I'll find another retailer, I promise."

"I know you will. Now go to it."

"Okay. See you."

"Kisses. See you."

She always knows what to say to get me on track, Brenda thought. Just when I'm starting to feel down, she gives me the shot in the arm I need. She's so hot, so fine...

She got on her two-wheeler and headed north on Route 17 toward Hampton. On the way she passed nice cars with preppy drivers, camoed soldiers from Fort Eustis, teenagers in convertibles, and soccer moms in SUVs. She wondered what it would be like to have a face that matched your insides, a face that didn't frighten or repulse, a face that you could take to kindergarten, to the dance, or to a job interview.

# Chapter 12

"We here open the six-hundred and fourteenth meeting of the Legion of Kronos Motorcycle Club," Lucas said. "Thanks for coming."

"Everyone's here except Monty," Cantrell said.

Lucas paced back and forth in front of the group, his boots crunching in the kitty litter Jigsaw had put down to absorb the oil of the garage floor.

"Thank you, Master of Ring and Key. Does anybody have any old business? I hope not, I have some news." Nobody spoke immediately, so Lucas jumped into the opening. "I want you all to know..."

"Hold on a sec," Billy said. "It's hot as a prison laundry in here. Can we flip up that door?"

"I'll turn on the window fan," Jigsaw said. The ceiling of the garage was high so that he had to stand on his cot just to reach the chain. He put a greasy boot print on the blue U-Haul blanket that was draped over it, and when he got down looked at that with a frown. The old fan began to suck air in through the window on the opposite wall.

"Hope mamma ain't watchin' T.V. That fan puts squigglies onto it," Jigsaw said.

"Saints preserve us, I'm about to bust open," Lucas said. "Can't I get this out?"

"Sorry," Billy said.

"Sorry," Jigsaw said.

"Harold's taken the plunge and he's back at my place. We were pretty sure he was the one before that happened, but now it's for sure."

The group's no swearing rule was broken as each spoke an exclamation of excitement, or clapped, or whistled. Lucas didn't try to contain them. He understood how they felt and let them get it out for a minute, not interrupting until the hoots faded into banter.

"To order, to order," he said. "I know you're excited, but let's get it together you heathens. This ain't the Summer of Love people. It's going to take time for him to understand his new role. Right now he's really confused, but he'll come around I reckon. He's taking in the catalogue and learning the background..."

"Any manifestations?" Cantrell asked.

"Only one. He had a dream about this little toy peddle car from when he was a kid, and it disappear from his back yard and reappeared in his bedroom – totally refurbished. Textbook. It's a small thing, but it's a start."

He had to take another break for them to settle down. Cantrell said, "When are you going to tell him?"

"I don't know," Lucas said slowly. "I don't think he's ready yet. I want to get the catalogue into him first. By the way, thanks for the CDR player and the disk Jigsaw. I gave it to him and he's sucking up the material like a champ. He's a natural. Loves the boys."

"What ya talking about? " Ed asked.

"I got a CDR player to give to whoever turned out to be the one," Jigsaw said. "It plays files off a disk. Instead of eighty minutes of music on one CD, you can get like 20 hours. I made a disk with the essential tunes on it."

"Nice," Ed said. "Pretty slick."

"Thanks," Jigsaw said.

"So what now?" Billy asked. "Just wait for him to save the world, or what?"

Lucas started pacing again. Even with the fan going it was hot in Jigsaw's mother's garage, hot and musty. The air was hazy, and the air was pregnant with the smell of cardboard boxes in the eaves, comic books aging to perfection in an olive drab filing cabinet, paper bags of newspapers, and wig boxes stuffed with photographs. It was silverfish heaven, where old dreams go to be eaten by insects and new dreams go to be born.

"Nope," he said. "While we're waiting, and helping Harold come around, we have to keep The Congregation away from him and the Disciples of Demeter away from the rings. Jigsaw, any word from Monty?"

"Got an email awhile back, he said he thought they might be in some museum out there. He promised to let me know as soon as he checked it out."

"Good. If he can do it legally, I want him to get those rings before the DOD can scarf 'em up. Everybody else, please keep your ears to the ground. You hear anything about the DOD or The Congregation, don't wait for a meeting. Call me right straight," Lucas said.

"It's going to be hard to keep the Disciples from getting the rings," Tonya said. "One reading they get the rings, the next they don't. It may be in the cards that they get them, I can't be sure."

"Maybe that means the future is unwritten as far as the rings go. Let's hope so," Lucas said.

When they were done talking over the situation and everyone's questions were answered, Lucas had them circle their chairs and he led group. Everyone felt good about how they'd done since the last group session except Ed, who had downed a few beers, more than a few, the previous weekend. They had for the most part identified the how and why of it but weren't quite done when Lucas looked up and saw that it was going to be dark soon.

"Look, I'm real sorry but I'm losing daylight like anything and I gotta get back to Harold. Cantrell, can you take over here? God I'm sorry Ed."

"Harold's more important than me, go on," Ed said. "Don't feel bad."

"He's not more important, he's just more helpless right now, that's all. Thanks for understanding you old cuss. C'mon Opal, let's burn rubber."

They rushed out and got on the bike, but it wouldn't catch.

"Hand me that cell Jigsaw, and get your tool box. Gotta call Harold and let him know I'm gonna be few."

# Chapter 13

Standing behind the plywood screen erected behind the musicians on the bandstand, Harold shuffled back in forth in the mud. He stopped and leaned against a tent pole, noticed that it had a sticker which said "property of Jos. B. Halligan Funeral Home." It was a huge green affair, and had been patched a number of times, so that the rain was making it through in a dozen places.

He looked around the side of the screen at a crowd he estimated at almost fifty. They were in folding chairs, holding children, programs, fans, bibles, anything to keep their hands occupied, their feet in the muddy grass. The mud took him back to the night at the bay. They were just like him, caught up in the mud and looking for a way out. He had taken the deal, had let the ghostly figures in the bay lift him out of the mud and water on to the shore. These people, he thought, were looking for their own kind of deal, for a way out of the mud they were trapped in.

The band was playing an up-tempo version of a hymn he couldn't name but that he could almost hum along with if he concentrated. But concentration was impossible. Kilby had told him not worry, that something to say would come to him as soon as he got in front of The Congregation. Kilby was wrong. Concentration was not coming. He wanted a shot of bourbon followed by a pot of coffee and a half a pack of cigarettes.

Sister walked up to him, wearing a skirt and blouse that would have been in style in 1985, her hair pulled back into a bun. The hairdo made her lips stand out even more, and her full skirt, tight at the waist and down to her ankles, did the same thing for her hips.

"You look hot."

"Beg pardon Prophet, should you speak so? This is a house of the Lord," she said.

"I meant sweaty hot."

"I'm sorry," she said, her words deferential but her body language flirtatious. "It's warm in spite of the rain." She ran her hand along his arm. "The farm's been good for your body and your face. Now your flesh is as strong and beautiful as your spirit."

"Thanks, but I'm nervous. I don't know what to say to these people. I know they are going to be hanging on every word I say. It's hard."

"You are a prophet. Be yourself. You can't say anything wrong."

"Easy for you to say," Harold said.

"Look here," she said, and pulled him over to peek around the screen.

From this angle Harold could see that on the crowd's side the screen was painted with a mural of The Last Supper. The four sections of the massive thing, each panel a full sheet of half-inch plyboard with two-by-fours along the back for stability, were connected with hinges. It struck Harold that Jesus, in this version standing behind the table in the center of the scene, had a hinge in his groin.

"Brothers and Sisters," Kilby was bellowing into the microphone, "I know you are all aware of who we have in our midst this evening."

The applause was loud. Kilby had to wait for it to die in order to begin again.

"He is here to speak to you. As honored as you all are to have him here, imagine my joy at having the Prophet in my home these last two weeks. He is a still a newborn, humble with the acceptance of his new role, and my family and I are equally humble as we teach him the truths of the flesh, and he shows us the truths of the Holy Spirit. It is a joy beyond measure to now hand the microphone to our prophet, the Prophet, Harold Greg Mooney. Give him your praise."

Harold went up on the platform, which looked like someone had removed a deck from the back of their doublewide trailer and donated it to The Congregation. The clapping and the amens died down, and Harold could hear the rain hitting the tent and the faint squishing of feet in the mud. The smell of sweat and hay and earth was strong, but he could make out the aroma of soap and Old Spice coming off of Kilby's hand as he took the mike. The bright lights around the platform made the air hotter, staler, and more humid than it had been behind the screen.

"Thank you for coming out on this awful evening. If heat-stroke doesn't get you, the mosquitoes will," Harold said.

They stared back. A fellow in the second row smacked at something on his arm.

"See there? That's what I'm talking about. Little demons will drain you dry out here."

The rain, the tent, the plain round faces staring back at him, it was all around his head like the humidity and the bugs and the heat, making his skin weep tears of fear and unease.

"But you didn't need a prophet to tell you that, did you? No, you didn't. Truth is, I don't feel much like a prophet. I've only been with Kilby and his family for a few days, but they've treated me with as much or more care and respect as anybody ever has, so when Kilby said I should get up before you and say a few words, I felt I had to. He said I should say whatever I feel like, because a prophet can't misspeak, after all, he's a prophet. So here goes nothing.

"Like I said, I don't feel like one, I feel like a man who's trying to feel his way through a dark field at night, and who keeps stumbling over things in the dark. We have that in common. You people are trying to find your way too, and sometimes you stumble. But you get up, and you keep going, doing the best you can, trying to do the right thing. This is the part where Kilby would throw in a reference to scripture to back up his point, but I can't do that, because I don't know the scripture. He says that doesn't matter because a good tree can't bear bad fruit, and I hope he's right. I don't want to lead you all astray. I want to tell you that I'm the worst kind of sinner, that I'm lazy and shiftless, and selfish, and my good works are few..."

"We are humble before the Lord!" someone called out, and there were a half dozen echoes of "Amen!" close behind.

"...but I am here, for whatever that's worth. Teach me what I need to know to be your prophet. I want to learn, I want to know, I want to have faith..."

"Teach us Lord!"

"...I want be more than a piece of flesh..."

"The flesh is weak!"

The cadence of the call and response buoyed Harold, and he could feel the current lifting him. When it was over, he couldn't even remember what he had said, but he felt good, felt cleansed and wide awake. He had been hot miserable, and lethargic, but now he was burning alive, sweating like a fresh plow-horse just hitting a stride he could keep up all day.

Sister stood at the back of the center aisle like a bride, and held out her hand. Harold came down off the stage and walked between the two halves of The Congregation, shaking hands and allowing them to reach out and touch him as he walked down the aisle to Sister. The band had begun to play again, and the crowd was clapping with the rhythm.

She handed him a towel and took his hand, leading him out into the rain, through the mud, over to the waiting truck. Sister opened the passenger door for him, but he gestured for her to sit down.

"I want to drive," he said.

"Sure," she said getting in.

He got behind the wheel. The keys were in. He fired up the truck and put it in gear.

"Kilby and them will be home later. They have to clean up and all."

"Next time I'm staying to help with that," Harold said. "I have to set an example for them. It's just that right now I want to get back home and do some thinking while my head is clear. I haven't felt this good in, well, it seems like years."

"I won't bother you," Sister said. "You won't even know I'm there."

They went down the dirt road. Mud splashed up, but the rain washed it away. He looked over at her. Her body moved in the seat with each bump they hit, made her shape come alive in his imagination. He looked back to the windshield and as he did, he felt her touching his hair and stroking the nape of his neck.

"Is that bothering you?" she asked,

"No, it's nice. But you know I'm married, right?"

"What do you mean? I'm just being sisterly. It's a sisterly touch."

"Be honest. You've been making eyes at me since I got here, right?"

"I was being honest. I'm touching you like a sister now, but I could touch you like a friend, or I could touch you like a wife. Like a daughter, or a sister. Any way you like."

He kept his eyes on the tricky roadway, trying to focus on the sloppy clay dirt and gravel in front of the truck. She kept touching him, slid over beside him with one leg on either side of the stick shift. His jaw was working at the temples as he chewed on the situation. It would not break down and slide down to digestion, but instead sat there in his mouth so that he could not breathe or speak around its cud.

She stopped stroking the nape of his neck and put her head against his shoulder. He could smell her hair. The fragrance was of roses.

He turned off the dirt onto the main road, an unmarked one-and-a-half lane aggregate strip winding off into nowhere. The ride was smoother now, and there was a lull in the rain. He rolled down the window a crack and turned on the vent for air, beginning to relax, but his jaw was still working. Chest and arm muscles were burning from his prolonged and stressful grip on the steering wheel. He let them rest, opening his hands, riffling his fingers, and consciously propping up his posture.

Leaning against his shoulder and chest, Sister felt with her cheek the lessening of his tension. She reached down and began to touch his thigh. He looked over at her to tell her to stop with his eyes, but hers were down.

He opened his mouth to speak. The cud was still there. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. Resignation, tension, and all possibility of speech went with it, slid down into the oblivion of his guts. Without warning he pulled the truck off the road beside a field of soybeans, killing the headlights.

Harold didn't kiss her but went straight for her throat, pushing her back into the passenger side glass, sucking and biting. She looked away, exposing more neck. Her hand came up to the side of his face. Harold pulled it away and pinned it to the door, his free hand struggling to feel every inch of her at once. In the tight space he could smell her rose hair, and their sweat. She put her free hand behind his head and pulled him into a series of kisses that made his breath hiss in his nostrils. Kissing her was like chasing butter cream, fluid, elusive, and rich. Her skirt was taught in the vee of her legs and interfering in the press of his body against her. She raised her leg and her muddy pump smeared a wet stripe on the pants leg of Harold's jeans.

It was cold. Harold looked down, startled by the sensation.

"Just mud," she whispered.

"Mud?"

Mud and hands in the dark water, Bonnie, a drink, a cigarette, his Acura parked by the long bridge over the stagnant bay. It all came back to him: the far away lights, the smell of oyster shells and barnacles on bridge posts, algae and nettles streaming and cloying at his face, the reek and rot of the bay, the threat of things unseen among the reeds.

He sat up and pulled on the headlights. Turning the ignition, the starter made a grinding sound. The motor was still idling. He had never killed it. He got back on the road, riding along quietly on separate ends of the bench seat. After a few minutes, he stuck out his right hand and she took it politely in her left.

The rain had picked up again when they pulled up in front of the farmhouse. Harold didn't wait for a break in the downpour. Letting go her hand, he smiled uncomfortably at her and jerked his head in the direction of the house. When he opened the door and ran for the porch Sister ran too. They stood on the porch together soaked.

"I feel nasty," Harold said.

"It's nice," Sister said. "I like the rain. It makes the crops grow, and I like the feeling. The mood."

"Not me," he said. "I'm gonna take a bath."

"A bath?"

"Well, a shower anyway," he said. "You know what I mean."

"So you're gonna get out of this shower and go stand in another one? That's funny," she said giggling.

Harold rolled his eyes and went inside, leaving the boots he had gotten on loan from Ben on the porch by the front door. Through the front room, past the old upright piano, down the hall to the right past the old photographs in their oval frames under ancient convex glass. At the end of the hall Mother's bedroom door was open and he could make out her quilt-covered bed and pink flowered pillows. The bathroom was halfway down on the right. He entered, shut the door, and tried to turn the old key, but it had been painted in place half a century ago and wouldn't budge. He shrugged and started the water so it could warm while he undressed, draping his wet clothes across the radiator. His feet left prints on the green linoleum flecked with little gold and black flecks. There was no shower stall, just a hoop to support an almond shower curtain over the claw-footed tub. Like everything else in the house, it was older than he was but it was clean. He stepped in and tried to relax in the hot water.

The steam was so thick he could barely breathe, and once he started to relax, he felt he was too hot. He backed off the heat and let it run tepid, looked up into the brass sunflower of water and shut his eyes. He stood that way for a long while.

"Better not hang out in here too long," he whispered out loud. "Sister'll be sneaking in to join me. Hell. Maybe that ain't a bad thing." For the first time since he had come to stay with them he considered getting her out of his system by himself while he was alone. But the door wouldn't lock, and he didn't' feel completely comfortable. The truth was the he had not felt comfortable, in any meaningful way, since he had separated from Bonnie. He shut off the water and got out, taking a towel off the wooden butler standing beside the tub.

As he stood on the bathmat drying himself he thought he heard footsteps in the hall.

"Sister, is that you? Don't come in here, I'm naked!"

There was no answer. He froze so he could hear every sound. A creak. Another. The delay between them seemed like someone trying not to be heard. He imagined what could have happened while the shower's sounds made it impossible for him to hear anything, remembered Kilby's warnings to keep the house locked up tight even during the day when they were at home.

"Quit fartin' around," he said. "I can hear you out there."

He put on the towel like a skirt, lapped it over and tucked it in under his belly button. He went to the door and stood there unable to decide if he should open it slowly, yank it open, or hold it shut. Harold froze there in indecision, listening for another footstep. Someone had to be outside door where the last creak had sounded. He put his shoulder against the door and took the knob in both hands.

A crack that shook the house and made him jump back from the door rattled the blue glass over the living room mantle and knocked a photo off the hallway wall. Harold heard the frame hit the floor and the glass shatter, sounding like it was a mile away coming after the bang that dulled his ears. Sister began to scream over and over again, refilling her lungs and emitting the same shriek again and again. She could have been anywhere, could have been in the next county, in the yard, or just down the hall, he couldn't tell. Harold banged the door shut out of instinct, then regrouped and jerked it open.

To the left, at the edge of the living room carpet where the hall ended, Sister was standing with her hands in fists by her temples, screaming and screaming and screaming, her eyes staring at something. Harold jerked his head to the right following her eyes. Ben was on the floor, face down in the hallway with his shotgun beside him, almost at the corner where the hall turned left to go the guest room.

Past Ben, through the door straight ahead, he could see right into Mother's room. A flashlight had fallen in the open doorway, the only light there. He could see the window on the wall opposite the door, one curtain hanging straight down, the other pushed out into the rain coming down in courses. Standing in the middle of Mother's bed was a goat, black and bulge-bellied, with a patch of white on its throat. One horn was curled and came down along the jaw, the other arched up and back as it should. It was dripping wet and shiny and tossed it's head as if shaking off a yoke.

Harold stepped out of the bathroom doorway and knelt beside Ben, rolling him over. He couldn't tell where the blood was coming from, but his hair was wet with it and every crease of his man-boy face was irrigated with red. He was breathing though, and his eyes were open a little.

Sister was still shrieking. She reached a pitch that was impossible for her voice to create of its free will, feet prancing, her open hands now waving in the direction of Mother's room. He looked at her then back toward the goat, which had hopped off the bed and begun to come down the hall. Harold let go of Ben and picked up the shotgun. He raised and pointed.

The goat reacted by turning about, hopping back onto Mother's bed, and lunging for the window. Only it's front feet made it out, belly slamming the sill, legs and hooves banging and splashing water on the faded wallpaper beneath the window. Its head was outside. As it flailed, the straight horn came back and broke a pane. It struggled there for a moment then fell jaggedly out of the window into the storm.

"Oh my god oh my god oh my god," Sister said. Her screams finally done, she ran to join Harold and Ben. Together they got Ben into a sitting position. Harold pulled off his towel and wiped Ben's face and hairline, unconcerned about his nakedness. He found a lump topped with a gash over Ben's left ear. He held the towel there hard.

"He ran," Ben said. "Ran him off out the window."

"The goat's gone," Harold said.

"The man," Ben said, "the man, not the goat..."

"Lock the windows!" Sister said.

Harold let her take the towel, stood up and began to run around the house shutting the windows, which were all open a few inches to let in air. He stopped in the guest room and pulled on a pair of pants without bothering with underwear. By the time he was done, Ben and Sister were at the kitchen table and Ben was holding a fresh cloth to his head with a Ziploc bag of fresh frozen limas from the freezer. The shotgun was on the table by his elbow.

"What happened?" Harold asked.

"I came up to the house," Ben said, "and the front door was standing open. When I came in, Sister was standing in the front room, and she said there was somebody rummaging around in Mama's room." Ben's hand was shaking the frozen beans like a rattle. "So I grabbed the shotgun out of the front closet there, and went down the hall..."

"It was dark down there, I couldn't see Ben or the guy who was down there..." Sister said.

"I couldn't either. I was sneaking down, and I was going to peek around the corner into Mama's room, but when I got to the corner, he hit me and the shotgun went off. I guess it scared me so much, I wasn't expecting it, but the shotgun barrel came up and hit me in the head, or either he banged it up and made it hit me in the head, I don't know for sure. It was fast and it was dark, so I don't know."

"When it happened," Sister said, "the man dropped his flashlight, and it came on and rolled into the spare bedroom..."

"That was my flashlight," Ben said. "If fell out of my pocket, not his."

"Oh," Sister said.

"Where did he go?" Harold said.

"He must've gone out of the spare bedroom window," Ben said.

"What did he want? Did he take anything, or say anything? And where did the goat come from?" Harold asked.

They didn't answer, and Harold stood there feeling strange.

"Did you even see him? I mean clearly?"

"He was after you," Ben yelled. "He was going to take you and leave the goat in trade!"

Harold turned around again. Ben's eyes were down.

"What?"

"It's the Disciples of Demeter," Ben said. "A black goat is the symbol of The Devil. They would've taken our prophet and replaced him with the sign of Ol' Scratch."

# Chapter 14

"We here open the six-hundred and fifteenth meeting of the Legion of Kronos Motorcycle Club. Welcome brothers and sisters," Lucas said. "Master of Ring and Key! Is everyone here or accounted for?"

"Aye," Cantrell said. "Gator will be here in a minute. He got delayed by some road kill on the way in. Monty's on the way back from Yucatan. Everybody else is here."

"Well spoken Master Cantrell, and well-met brothers and sisters. Is there any old business?"

Lucas looked out across the half-empty two-stall garage at the little crowd, counting heads. One fluorescent tube provided light. Including his own there were twelve. He waited a moment, and momentarily Gator crept in by the side door and hopped onto a high tool bench at the back of the room, squatting silently like a gargoyle in the dusky rear amid the wrenches. That made thirteen, plus the absent Monty completed the count of fourteen.

"Okay, so there's no old business. So what are we going to talk about tonight people?" Lucas said.

"Wanna catch us up on ol' Monty?" Billy asked.

"Yeah, I'd like to know too. Master of Starry Wisdom, you want to handle that? Billy wants an update over here."

Jigsaw stood up. "Aye. I got an email from him he sent from an Internet bar last week. The whole thing with the museum turned out to be a hoax. But then he got to tracking down a local legend about the rings, and hooked up with a guy named Jordan. This guy Jordan's going to deliver the rings in a couple of days."

"How is Jordan going to get 'em?" Lucas asked.

"He didn't say," Jigsaw said. "He was a little light on green, so I wired a few thousand out of the account to pay this Jordan guy. He said he was doing okay, but he was missing home some. "

"He's just spending out the account for nothing," Billy mumbled. "Partying it up. He won't get the rings."

"How much partying can he do?" Lucas said. "Paranoid little prick won't even go outside at night."

Everybody laughed except Opal. "Would you?" she asked.

"Hell no," Cantrell said. "Not if I saw what he saw..."

"Hey guys, let's steer away from talking about, you know... _that_. We might call down some really negative karma, okay?" Tonya said.

"Good point," Billy acknowledged. "I was just messin' around."

"Well at least it looks like we're going to get the rings now. And there's no way the Disciples of Demeter can counteract Harold's powers without them. Right?" Lucas asked.

"I don't think they can," Tonya said. "The cards don't say anything else that I can pick up."

"Maybe you'll be able to pick up more when you can actually hold the rings in your hands. Okay you jokers, now that we got the parliamentary crud out of the way, let's get down to it. Harold's missing. Damn bike broke down last night, we didn't get back until after dark, and he was gone. Any ideas?"

"Probably went out for drink," Billy said. "He'll come staggering back before long."

"Alright, that's enough of the funny stuff. This is serious. There wasn't no evidence of a fight. Not much to go on here," Lucas said.

"Send The Gator after him," Cantrell suggested.

"Gator's sniffer makes a bloodhound blush," Billy said.

Lucas looked down and spoke slowly. "That's the obvious thing to do, and we probably will. But what if he just wanted to go out? What if nothing's wrong? Don't seem right tracking him down like a dog."

"Right or wrong, we have to do it," Cantrell replied.

"Ask the Gator," Jigsaw said.

"Gator?"

Every bit of side-chatter stopped, and from their lawn chairs and piles of tires they craned their necks and looked back at Gator on his perch among the wrenches. He slid from the bench like a serpent and went out the side door. Lucas followed him, stopped and looked back at the group with his hand on the knob. "Billy, he's sittin' on the back of your bike. I guess that means he's ready. If the two of you find him..."

"Gator _will_ find him." Billy stated.

"...call me from your cell. Do not let Harold know you are following him. The rest of you, it's time to get to work. How did everybody do this week?"

"I had rough spot," Missy said. "I ran into a friend at the laundry mat, he and I used to get high together, and it was a trigger, you know?"

"Did you slip, or just fall?" Lucas asked.

"I didn't use, but I wanted to."

"How did you stop yourself?"

"Step 8," she said. "I thought about little Pluto, and didn't want to have add another thing to the list of things I've done that hurt him."

"That's great. Group, what do you think about Missy's experience?" Lucas asked.

"I think she shoulda gone back to the start and admitted to herself that there's a greater power that can help her," Ed said. "I do that every day.

# Chapter 15

Bonnie looked out through the peephole.

"Can I help you?"

"Hi, I'm Opal, I'm your husband's neighbor."

Bonnie opened the door.

"What's wrong?" Bonnie asked.

"Nothing Honey. I just want to talk to you for a minute is all. Can I come in?"

"Sure," Bonnie said. "Come on back and have a seat."

She let Opal in the door and walked back to the den, which was really supposed to be the dining room, but she and Greg had put the sofa, TV, and stereo there for convenience. Opal followed her back and had a seat next to her on the sofa.

"Would you like some coffee?" Bonnie asked.

"No thank you, I'm mainly caffeine free, but that's real nice of you to offer."

"Something else then? I have some..."

"No, no, thank you."

Opal was painfully thin and pale, the kind of person who looks frail from a distance but not up close. Her hair had once been blonde but now primarily white and gray. It had the yellowish look of plowed snow left by the roadside to melt. The pouches under her eyes made it appear as though she was peering out of two mud puddles.

"He said he was staying with friends. Is it that you? Is Greg okay?"

"Yeah, he's staying with me and my old man Lucas. We live next door," Opal said. "I reckon he's fine, but we don't know for sure because he's gone off and we don't know where. Lucas and me are worried about him, and that's why I came, was to find out if you had any idea where he might have gone to."

"I don't know," Bonnie said. "I don't know. He never returns my calls anymore. I don't know what's gotten into him."

"He's a good man," Opal said. "I bet he'll come around. Are you two close?"

"We used to be. But over the years he's gotten more and more distant."

"I understand Honey," Opal said. "Believe you me, I had my share of problems with Lucas. I gave up Lucas's child for adoption because I was sick and confused, and that hurt us both bad. But we worked through it, it's all worth it in the end, if you stay with it. Most people, they give up before they even really get to know their better half. Don't you give up on him. No matter what."

"Oh I won't," Bonnie said.

"I want you to have this. It's his cell phone. He left it at the house. If he was to call on it, I'd want you to be able to talk to him."

"Thanks, that's a great idea," Bonnie said.

"Did he tell you anything that's going on with him?" Opal asked.

"No... is there something going on?"

"Oh Honey, I'm sorry, I thought maybe he told you. I'm sorry I have to be the one to tell you," Opal said. "He got real drunk one night and he took a leap off of the bridge, but he just got real wet and what not, he wudn't hurt. He was shook up though, and that's when he come by the house all wet and wore out. He's been with us about a week, that is until he took off last night."

"Oh God, I didn't know he was suffering so much..."

"Easy now, it ain't that bad. He'd been drinking so hard for some months I guess, but it only took him a few days to sweat it out, and he was coming along great until last night. Something must've spooked him, so he took off is all. He'll be back. He really loves you, and I think he's going to be okay."

"But where is he?"

"I don't know sweetie," Opal said. "Lucas and some of the guys are out looking for him. But I'm tellin' you, I'm sure he's going to be okay."

"What makes you so sure?" Bonnie asked.

"Well, this is going to be real hard, maybe harder than hearing he took that jump. But see, he's blessed and touched. When he survived that, he came out with a special gift."

"What are you talking about?"

Opal took Bonnie's hands in hers. Bonnie noticed that they were as clean, cold, and dry as a snake's. "He was destined to survive and to get the gift. Your husband has the power to make his dreams real."

"What is this, some kind of cult?" Bonnie said, pulling back her hands. "That's the same load of bull that was on the CD that Greg left for me. Did you people put this into his head?"

"CD? What CD?"

Bonnie got it off the end table and showed it to her.

"Greg snuck in and left it for me."

"Your husband didn't leave that here," Opal said. "Gator must've done that. Harold was with us twenty-four-seven until he disappeared. Have you seen a long-haired fellow around here in a yellow-checked jacket?"

"Yeah, I saw him pulling through my trash can."

"That's Gator. He's the one who showed us how to find Harold in the first place. We call your Greg by Harold."

"Get out," Bonnie said.

"Don't be that way sweetie. Listen now, Gator didn't mean any harm. He's a mute, so I bet he was givin' you a message the only way he knew how, leaving you that CD. We haven't done nothing to your man. Gator led us to Harold right after he jumped. He let us know that Harold was the one that was comin.' We're trying to help your man, not hurt 'im."

Bonnie stood and went back to the door and held it open. Opal rose and followed, and as she walked planned her final statement. When she was halfway out, Opal turned and said, "If I was trying to keep him in a cult, why would I come by and bring you his phone, and why would I try to get your help to find him? I care about you both sweetie, believe me, I really do."

"Well, thanks then," Bonnie said. "I know where to find you."

Bonne closed the door and stood there thinking about the sincerity in Opal's face and the strength in her thin cold hands.

# Chapter 16

The three of them stomped the mud from their feet on the back porch. Ben popped off his unlaced boots toe-to-heel and barged through the screen door. Harold and Kilby sat on the bench outside, a four-legged log cut in half longways, to remove their own.

"Hungry?" Kilby asked.

"I could eat a horse," Harold said.

"Don't think you'll have to. But you might get a pork chop or two, by the smell of it."

Now that Kilby mentioned it, Harold was getting the signals now, breaded and fried with a ton of black pepper. Turnip greens. Hot biscuits. It was all there on the wind. He rose and followed Kilby inside in his sock feet.

The kitchen was in its usual state, worn and cluttered but clean as a whistle. Harold was moving like a pro now, although his first week he had come in for supper like an eighty-year-old, creaking at every joint, muscles burning. He bounded up to the table. Last in the door but first at the table.

"Aim to make sure you get seconds tonight?" Ben asked.

"Darn tootin'," Harold said. "I'm gonna start acting like you two before I starve to death. Manners are just another word for going hungry."

"Horsefeathers," Mother said. "Go wash your filthy hands. And not in my kitchen!"

Ben and Kilby chuckled and punched Harold playfully as he rose from the table and went down the hall to the bathroom.

When he returned to the kitchen everyone was seated around the table. Kilby didn't speak, he just smiled from his place at the head. There were no assigned seats, but a certain pattern had settled in as the norm. Kilby at the head, Mother on the other short end opposite; Harold and Ben on one side, Harold near Kilby, Ben next to Mother; Sister across from Harold; and next to Sister the empty chair. Mother always put a place setting there, napkin and all.

Kilby's grace was the call to get on your marks, the chorus of 'Amen' the starting gun. They all began to serve themselves, passing whatever they picked up to their left after they had scooped out or forked off a portion. There was another unwritten law by which Harold abided. Everyone took one serving of each dish on the table, and did not take seconds until their first plate was cleaned.

He noticed that he was the only one who sipped his drink during the meal, whether it be milk, water, or tea. The rest of them waited until they were totally done eating before they took even a sip.

"Ma'am, these chops are perfect," Harold said.

"Thank you Harold," she said.

"Can I ask you guys one question? I'm curious, how come y'all don't drink while your eating?" Harold asked. "A sip or two every few bites keeps everything flowing the right way."

"When you sip, sip, sip, your mouth doesn't make as much spit, and what it does make, it dudn't mix good with your food. Hurts your digestion and makes you weak. Also takes up space for food," Mother said.

"Makes sense," Harold said. "Never thought of it that way."

He noticed that Sister was smiling, realized that his first plate was almost done and he was just now noticing her.

"What's for dessert Mama?" she asked.

"Cherry pie. Didn't you see it?" Mother said.

"No Ma'am."

"Open up your eyes then little girl," Mother said.

"Yes Ma'am."

Sister was speaking to Mother but her eyes were stuck on Harold's. He tried not to stare back, but it was difficult. No matter where you were in the room she seemed to always be looking at you, and right now she was looking at Harold as if he was baked in a crust and covered in cherries.

"I love pie," she said. "Harold, do you like pie?"

"Love it. Had the taste for it lately too."

Kilby stood up suddenly and said in a businesslike manner, "Get your gun Ben, and come on."

"What's up?" Ben asked.

"There's a buck and five does standing in the fallow over there, I can see 'em from here."

"I want me some venison!" Ben said.

"I'll get down to the shed," Mother said, referring to the place where they butchered meat from time to time. "Be there in a minute."

"You coming?" Ben asked Harold.

"I'm not much for hunting," Harold said, "or butchering. I'm more of a cherry pie kind of guy. Another time, when there's plenty of daylight and no hurry, and you can show me the ropes."

"Alright then," Ben said, and he went out with Kilby. As Sister sliced Harold a piece of pie, Mother followed without a word.

"I haven't even finished my dinner yet," Harold said, looking down at his dessert.

"It's okay, you'll have room. Dessert goes in a different place, like they say."

She took her seat across from him and they continued the meal. Harold ate deliberately, but as he tasted the food in his mouth his palate was recalling the taste of her neck that night in the truck. As creamy and as salty as the potatoes were, they were as plain and dry as the kindling beside the stove in comparison. She was chewing with the same slowness with which she undertook everything. Softness and relaxation was in her pores, coming off of her in a way that Harold could smell and taste. Without saying a word she was telling him that he could have anything that he wanted, and that it was good, easy, salty and sweet.

She reached out with her fork and broke off a taste of the slice she had cut for him.

"Hold on, that's mine!" Harold said, and took her jokingly by the wrist. "You haven't finished your supper yet anyway."

"Just a taste?" she said.

"Mine," Harold said. He pulled her hand, fork, pie, and all, up to his mouth and stole the bite.

"Good," he remarked.

"Thief," she said.

"Thief? You're the thief, trying to steal my pie."

"Fine, I'll get my own," she said. Sister pulled away and walked over to the counter. Harold watched her from behind as she sliced another piece in slow motion.

He stood up sharply and his chair tipped over. Startled by the sound she turned, but he was already on top of her. He put his hands on her waist and sat her on the countertop so that his eyes were level with the hollow of her throat where her crystal cross hung from its silver chain. He began to bite and kiss her neck without thinking, finding it even better than he had remembered. She pulled up his face and kissed him on the lips. He could taste the pie she had sampled a minute before, and it was good.

Sister pulled off her t-shirt and dropped it, and Harold sank into himself, washed over by the commands his body gave his mind. His spirit gasped once and then descended. He pulled her off the counter and sat her down, walking her awkwardly out of the kitchen toward the guestroom he had made his own. On his second step he heard a crack and felt something underfoot.

He stopped and looked down. Sister's crystal cross, which had come off along with her t-shirt, was shattered under his foot. He stared at it, and as he did, he began to come back to the surface. The shattered cross's pieces formed a portentous design, one he had seen before. Each bar of the cross had snapped from the center, the west, north, and east portions intact, the southern section broken into pieces and loosely arranged in a hook. The same symbol he had seen on the record albums at Lucas' house, a symbol they called the cross-and-claw.

She was still kissing his face but she could tell he was no longer immersed in the same waters in which she was drifting. Harold untangled himself from her and dropped into a squat to pick up the pieces of the necklace, but as he grew closer to the formation of broken pieces, he could not bring himself to touch them. The arrangement was so uncanny it pierced him. He could only stare. His mind was at the opposite place it had been seconds before; he had gone from the bottom of his emotional oceans to the top of the stratosphere, detached and looking down at himself from ten miles up. He was breathless. There was no oxygen in either place. He had done it again. Just as he had jumped into the bay that night two weeks before, he had jumped into a situation with Sister. A different kind of death, but suicide just the same.

Standing crookedly Harold almost ran to the bedroom and grabbed his CD player. He brushed by Sister and stumbled out the back door. He got his boots on, laces tucked inside, and almost fell off the porch. Sister was saying something that he couldn't hear. It was as if he was seeing Sister and himself for the first time, from a height, and he could not see where he was walking or hear what he was leaving behind.

***

Half asleep under a tree, Billy sensed a change in Gator and sat up. Gator was staring at something through the brush, so he crawled over and looked over the mute's shoulder. Harold was wandering down the road toward town. Billy watched until he was sure Harold was out of earshot, then got out his cell.

"It's me. He's on the move, headed into town...naw, don't know where he's headed to. Bonnie's maybe? I'll let you know. Call you shortly," he said.

# Chapter 17

The card file gave off a chalky, earthy smell as she turned through them, each punched on the bottom margin with two holes, two parallel metal rods running through all of the cards in the drawer so they could not be removed. Bonnie was looking for a book, and she could not remember the title. There were hundreds of drawers in the library, and she was part way through perhaps the fiftieth one in her search.

Beside the wooden card file rack, on a small table, sat a pile of books that she had found, but none of them contained the information she was searching for. Wine colored spines and pages the color of bones were piled there. She looked over at the stack. She had been through them all for nothing, but she wasn't bitter, she was committed. She would never stop until she found what she was looking for.

The library was silent, the ceiling so low that she mentally stooped although there was no danger of hitting her head. The next card in the drawer was pinched between her fingers, as dry and rough as the tree it had come from. She paused her search and looked around. The library was empty except for her. There were no windows to reveal if it was day or night.

She sat up straight, frustrated at the interruption, and hoped she could get rid of whoever was knocking at the door so that she could get back to her search. She was standing before it hit her that the library was a dream.

"Who is it?"

"It's Greg."

She opened the door and stepped back, wanting to grab him and gush childish feelings, but she did not.

"Greg? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "I know it's late..."

"Honestly Honey, I have no idea what time it is. It doesn't matter. What is it?"

"I want to talk," he said.

"Okay," she said. The walked back to the sofa and sat down. "What about?"

"Well, about us," he said. "I want to come home."

'I want that too, but what happened? Why now? I've been begging for you to come home for months," she said, rubbing her eyes. He looked good, his face troubled but tanned, better than she had seen him in months.

"Some stuff happened that I need to tell you about, some pretty weird stuff. I don't know how you're gonna take it but..."

"Before you even start, I talked to Opal. She came by and told me some things, and I was pretty upset. I hope part of the reason you want to come home is that you figured out that these people are all looney," she said.

"Opal came by? What did she say?"

"She told me...told me that, uh, you were some kind of prophet or something. It was really strange, really out there to be honest."

"I don't get that," Harold said. "Lucas and Opal never said they knew anything about that. They acted like they didn't know anything more than what I knew, like they were just as confused as I was by all of this stuff," he said.

"What stuff? Never mind, it's not important right now."

"Yes it is," Harold said. "It's really important. I don't know how to say this."

"Just spit it out," she said.

"Some people say that I can dream things into reality, make my dreams become solid. I haven't been sleeping well, really fitful, ever since I dreamed this toy car back into mint condition at Lucas and Opal's."

"Honey, that's crazy, you have to know that," Bonnie said.

"Well, that's just it, I'm not sure that it's that crazy, but then I'm not sure that it isn't crazy either." He stood up and started pacing while he talked.

"I want to come home and try to sort this out. If more dreams become real, I want you here so you can see. An independent observer. And most important, I want our dreams to be the ones that I dream up, you know?"

Bonnie looked at him, glad he was pacing and not staring at her dead on. She did not want her face to give away the pity and fear written there.

"What _are_ our dreams? Exactly? I mean assuming you have this power, what would you dream up?" she said.

"I don't know, not exactly, it's not that concrete. It's more like a feeling or a set of circumstances than a solid thing like the car. Maybe that's why nothing else has happened, because I don't have any focus."

"Go ahead, describe it, the feelings, the circumstances."

"Well, I'd want to have a good job, and not to have to worry about where the money's coming from. I'd want us to get married for real, you know, a real ceremony. I'd like to get you a new car so you don't have to drive the Cressida around. It's got like a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it or something. I'd like for us to do some sight-seeing..."

He felt a shift in her attention and stopped his pacing to look at her. Her eyes were down and her shoulders were slumped.

"What's wrong?" Harold asked.

"Nothing's changed," she said. "It's the same old story."

"What do you mean?"

"It's just the same as before. All you can talk about is the work and the stuff and the money. I'm sorry Honey, but somehow it figures that when you get brainwashed into thinking that you have a magical power, you imagine all the money and stuff you'd get with it."

"That's not true," Harold said. "I feel better than I have in a long time. I've been hanging out, loosening up, really experiencing my life for the first time in years. I feel good, just still confused about what all this means, that's all. It's not about the stuff..."

"I'm sorry Honey, but I don't want you to come home like this. I don't want you to come home thinking that you dream up the same power trip that made you crash in the first place. Unless you would agree to seeing someone. That I would agree to, if you moved in and starting seeing someone."

"Seeing someone? You mean, like a shrink or something?" he said.

"Yeah, a counselor or psychiatrist. I think it would help you."

"I'm not crazy Bonnie," he said. "I'm just not. I'm confused and upset, and I have to work through some things, but I'm not crazy. That car that I dreamed was real. And all of the people I've met make me think that I just might be something more than I thought before."

"But Honey, you jumped off a bridge. Don't you think you should see someone about that? You could be clinically depressed, there might be a medication that would help stabilize you..."

"Stabilize me? Now I'm unstable? I jumped off that bridge because I was drunk and feeling sorry for myself. I don't feel that way anymore. I'm ready to get my life back," he said.

Bonnie stood up and walked over to him. "What life? Which life? The one where all you did was work sixty hours a week, and the rest of the time watch TV? The one without room for me, or a child, or anything but your career? Or the one we had before all that took over? What do you want to do now, replace your career fantasies with your fantasies about magical powers? "

"None of that's true. Let me come home," he said.

"See there," she said, her voice rising in volume and her spirit in step with it, "that's proof you're in a dream-world. Just asking to come back is proof. My Greg, the one I love, wouldn't ask. If he knew it was the right thing to do, he'd just come back, period.

"It hurt when you left, but it would hurt even worse if you came back and you were the same workaholic Greg who ignored me and stayed sour all the time. And really worse if you were obsessed about dreaming meaningless bull into reality. So no, screw off, come back when you're the old Greg, not the asshole Greg, or the magical powers Greg, or whatever it is you are now."

She started crying openly, with her eyes and her face, her whole body. She ran back to the bedroom and shut the door.

Harold stood there, looking blankly off into nothing. He didn't start crying himself until he was over a mile away, walking on the right shoulder of the road into nowhere. As usual, as it had been for the months, talking to Bonnie hadn't gone the way he had imagined it would by a long shot.

The miles stretched away behind him as he let himself cry it out. Wouldn't take me back, kicked me out, there's a surprise he thought. Who can understand a woman? If she knew what I walked away from, would she still have kicked me out? Why did I say the stupid stuff I said? What was I thinking? That's not how I feel...

He recalled the song he had heard at Lucas' the night he had ran, the one he liked the best on the disk Lucas gave him. He turned on the bulky disc player in his pocket and stuck in the earbuds. It was impossible to think, to get his bearings. _Screw it, I'll just walk until something makes sense._ It was getting dark, but there was nowhere to go _._

A motorcycle pulled up on Harold's left side as he walked down the road on the right shoulder.

"Get on," Billy said from under his half-helmet. "I'm a friend of Lucas' from the club."

Harold jumped, then saw that the rider was turning his shoulders to show him the Legion of Kronos Motorcycle Club emblem on the back.

"Can't a guy go for a walk these days? Leave me alone," Harold said.

"You're walking down the wrong side of the road you know. You could get side-swiped and knocked in the ditch and left for dead."

Harold stopped and stared. "Is that a threat?"

"Oh hell no. Just looking out for your safety's all."

"I'll be fine," Harold said, and kept walking.

"You trying to get me in trouble?"

"What do you mean?" Harold asked.

"If I go back and tell them I saw you by the side of the road and didn't come back with you, Lucas is gonna be real sore at me. And I am not exactly the most popular wolf at the carcass, if you know what I mean," Billy said.

"I bet you're the biggest though."

"Not if you put any three of 'em in a sack," Billy said with a laugh in his voice.

"Cracking yourself up ain't you? But not me. Get lost."

Billy didn't know what to say, but while he was waiting for it come to him, he put out his size thirteens and putt-putted along nest to Harold, who began to march stiff-legged and fast, so that Billy had to struggle to catch up without overshooting.

"No sense being cute," Billy said. "I been following you. I know where you been and what you've been doing, we all do. I know you're having a real tough time, but you gotta know that the club gives a rat's ass, you know? If you were just another frickin' loser who showed up at the door looking to join, which you ain't, we'd still give a shit. Now come on and git on here and ride back. You won't regret it. Besides, matching pace with you is real tiresome. Real tiresome."

Stopping suddenly so that Billy shot past, Harold crossed the street and began to walk on the left without saying a word. Billy sped up, went half a block down the street, then pulled a u-turn in the two-lane toad and came at Harold head-on. When he got close, Billy braked hard and skidded up sideways to block Harold's way. This time he popped the kickstand and jumped off.

"Okay Burger King, have it your way," Billy said, and took both of Harold's wrists. Despite the swearing and yelling, Billy lifted Harold's arms and swung him around to his back like a baby. Harold dangled and kicked awkwardly as Billy crossed his captive's arms, holding them together. Harold wriggled and yelled helplessly. Billy put one leg over the chopper, let go with one hand, and fired it up. Still struggling, Harold was only on the seat halfway and hanging partly into the street.

"You want to ride like that it's your funeral," Billy said, and unsteadily put the bike in motion. Harold panicked, got his leg over and his butt onto the seat.

"Attaboy," Billy yelled, and tore off. "Helmet's on the sissy bar, better put it on pronto!"

They rode stiff and quiet to Lucas' house, and as soon as they pulled up in front, Harold hopped off and removed his helmet, tossing it angrily at Billy.

"What's that for?" Billy asked. "That how you thank somebody for a ride?"

"Would've been better if you had used both wheels the whole time."

"What? You mean I was going too fast?" Billy said.

"Why do you have to be such an ass?"

"I'm damaged, and I like it," Billy said.

"Huh?"

"Nevermind," Billy replied. "Hey, nobody's here yet. Let's go around back and hang out in them lawn chairs until somebody shows."

They went around and sat. It was getting dark but it was still hot, and the mosquitoes were out. The smell of pokeberries and honeysuckle was as heavy as syrup. There was very little breeze at all, but when it did stir up, both men took deep breaths and sighed.

"So, what's your favorite movie?" Harold asked.

"Where is that coming from?"

"Just trying to make conversation that's all. You can tell a lot about somebody by what kinds of movies they like."

"That's a hard question," Billy said, "but I'd have to say that my two favorites are _As Good As It Gets_ and _Billy Jack_."

"So, let's see, you like movies about egotistical jerks? That's really heavy stuff."

"Thanks," Billy said, showing his teeth.

"No. Really. Both those movies are about these assholes who are really well-meaning on the inside even though they're jerks on the outside," Harold said.

"Never thought of it that way. Are you psychoanalyzing me?" Billy said.

"Nuh-uh, I ain't got the skills or the time for that kind of project," Harold goaded.

"Good, because I been there and done that. It's real dry."

"I don't believe that. I bet your head is filled all kind of wet and slimy stuff."

"I ought to gut you and see if Tonya could read 'em like tea leaves," Billy said.

"You don't scare me Billy. See, now I know that you're only a jerk on the outside."

"Oh I scare you alright. I can smell it."

Harold made a conscious effort to keep his eyes locked on Billy's, pasted a smile on his face, and said, "Not a bit. Actually I kind of like you. You're my favorite kidnapper of all the ones I ever had."

"Same to you," Billy said. "You're my favorite victim. Hugs and kisses all around."

They sat quietly for a while. A few blocks over a chainsaw was ripping. The smell of burning grass clippings was on the air.

"So what's yours?" Billy asked.

"My what?"

"Your favorite movie," Billy asked.

"That's easy. Driving Miss Daisy."

"Never saw it," Billy said. "What's it about?"

"Well it's about this cranky old broad who's prejudiced and basically falls in love with her black chauffeur. It's really good. Won all kinds of awards. You wouldn't like it."

"What do ya mean I wouldn't like it? What are ya tryin' to say?" Billy asked.

"Just judging by your two favorites," Harold said, "it doesn't seem like your kind of movie."

"Why do you like it so much?"

"I don't know," Harold said. "It's just really good, realistic, you know. It seems like something that could have really happened. And since they never, you know, consummate their relationship, it stays honest and true, if you know what I mean."

"Sounds real sweet."

"Told you it ain't your kind of movie," Harold said.

"Naw, it prob'ly ain't, but I trust your judgment."

Lucas came through the side gate and walked over to them, a frown of sweat on his t-shirt over his gut. His face was a red backdrop for his grey mustache and goatee.

"Howdy boys," Lucas said. "Sorry I'm late."

"Real late," Harold said. "How come you didn't tell me what was going on?"

"Hold on a second Harold, keep your shirt on..."

"So you weren't being a nice neighbor, you were just keeping an eye on the Prophet, right?"

"That's B.S. and you know it," Lucas said. "If you couldn't tell me and Opal cared about you more than that, you're dumber than I thought."

"He's way dumber than you thought," Billy said. "His favorite movie is _Driving Miss Daisy_."

"Aw Heck Harold," Lucas said. "Couldn't you at least have said _Caddyshack_ or _The Blues Brothers_? I mean, jiminy-christmas."

"Yeah, those are good," Billy said.

"Shut up Igor," Harold said.

"Let him talk," Lucas said.

"Thanks. Now listen, The Congregation told me everything. They said that...they told me that..."

"Go ahead, spit it out," Lucas said.

"...that if I had stayed with you, you would have told me a load of crud that isn't true so that you could control me and my powers," Harold said. "I feel so stupid saying 'my powers' as if I'm one of the Super Friends or something."

"You got it all wrong, backwards in fact," Lucas said. "Remember when I told you I was the Regent of our motorcycle club? Do you know what a Regent is?"

"Yeah; isn't that somebody who holds a position while they're waiting for the real person to come back, or grow up, or whatever?"

"Correctamundo," Lucas said. "I'm your Regent. We've been waiting for you."

"What are you talking about? You said your club was a Blue Oyster Cult fan club. Why did you lie?" Harold asked.

"We didn't lie, you gotta let me explain. You aren't one of the Super Friends, but you do have powers, real powers. This is real, partner. You can change the world."

"See, it's like more like you're the superhero and we're the Super Friends," Billy said.

"So that's why you sent him to spy on me and kidnap me? Is that how you treat your leader? And why didn't you tell me what was going on?" Harold said.

"You weren't ready yet," Lucas said. "You wouldn't have believed us. I'm sorry you had to hear it all wrong from the Congregation. They don't exactly have a, what do you call, secular point of view when it comes to you."

"I gathered that," Harold said.

"Angels didn't rescue you from the bay," Lucas said. "They were extra-terrestrials."

"Not so fast. Back to what you said about the club. First you said you were a Blue Öyster Cult fan club, then you said you were some other kind of group waiting on me to lead you, then you said you weren't lying at first – I don't get it," Harold said.

"We're both," Lucas said. "We're fans of Blue Oyster Cult because their music because it's good and because it foretells your existence. It's all in the songs, in the lyrics. Think about it. Look at the evidence."

Harold dropped back into a lawn chair and put his chin onto his fists and his elbows on his knees. Billy and Lucas looked at each other not knowing what to say or what to do.

"Come on inside," Lucas said. "Opal's got the attic fan cranking and there's a pitcher of iced tea in there with our name on it. You can't think straight out here in the heat and bugs."

"I think he needs a beer..." Billy began, but Lucas looked at him sharply and he put a clamp on it, smiling but at last silent. They waited for Harold to get up, followed him up the back stairs and into the kitchen where Opal was standing at the counter making tuna fish.

"I'm making sandwiches," she said. "You guys hungry?"

"In a minute sweetheart," Lucas said. His eyes said that they needed a minute or two, and Opal got the message.

The men went to the den and settled on the sofa. When Billy reached for the TV remote, Lucas made him put it down with a glare. It was cooler here, the curtains blowing inward as the air from outside was pulled in, down the hall, and up through the attic. Back in the kitchen they could hear Opal putting dirty dishes in the sink and condiments back in the fridge.

"These older homes were made to stay cool without air conditioning," Harold said. "It's how they're laid out, so that the air moves."

"Yep, houses nowadays won't draft right," Lucas said. "Without AC they're hot-boxes."

Harold put the nape of his neck back onto the sofa cushions and stared up at the ceiling. The pattern on the heavy, almost burlap fabric was brown ships wheels on a field of rusty orange. The ceiling was cream-colored rippled plaster, nine feet up instead of eight.

"So that's why you wanted me to listen to the CDs," Harold finally said. "That's your scripture, is that it?"

"No, that ain't it," Lucas said.

Opal could hear that things weren't going well, and she came in from the kitchen drying off an old-fashioned can opener with a green and white checked cloth.

"The band doesn't know their songs have prophecies in 'em," she said. "They named themselves after the real Blue Oyster Cult, the ones that rescued you from the bay. It's inspired, but it ain't God. This ain't got nothing to do with God, spite of what that Congregation told you. This has to do with the extraterrestrials who watch The World and sometimes interfere with it. We're God-fearing people Harold. It ain't about angels and what-not, it's got to do with _aliens_."

"This is so messed up," Harold said. "Do you guys realize how messed up this is? How really whacko this all sounds?"

"Yep," Billy said. "What can I say? But you're starting to believe it, or you wouldn't have gone to Bonnie."

Opal came over and sat by Harold and put a thin cold hand on his. When Harold looked into her face it was like looking at the sweet spirit of a child trapped in a body that should have been sporting a toe-tag.

"Honey, listen," she said. "Didn't we move here right after you did? Well that's because Gator led us to you, and we moved in to be near you and keep you safe. If you weren't the one foretold, how come you jumped into the bay? And how come you lived? And how did you dream that red car back to new? You've listened to the music and read the liner notes to the records, and studied on the lyrics. Now, how could all this be a coincidence? Accept it, honey."

"I don't know what to think," Harold said. "Hold on, how do you know why I went to Bonnie's, or what I said?"

"You went to your old lady and tried to dream up your perfect little suburban lifestyle," Billy said.

Harold's eyes went from the ceiling to the bridge of Billy's nose.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"You heard me," Billy said.

"You were eavesdropping on me?"

"Damn straight. I'm a regular G. Gordon Liddy," Billy said.

"Is that true?" Opal asked. "Did you do that? What happened?"

"She didn't want what I want," Harold said. "She wanted...something else."

"I coulda told you that," Opal said. "All she wants is you."

"She's trying to control me. Just like the Congregation was trying to control me, and just like you're trying to control me. Everybody wants me to be what they want me to be," Harold said.

"What a crock," Billy said. "You ain't comfortable in your own skin. You're feeling that way 'cause you don't know _what_ you want. If you weren't such a twit, you'd see that people want you to lead them, they don't want to lead you."

"Billy!" Opal said.

"It's true," Lucas said.

"You two are animals," Opal said.

Billy replied by flicking his tongue at her like a snake. She winced at his face as if hearing feedback.

"Let's leave this alone for awhile," Opal said. "The sandwiches are ready to go. Sit tight and I'll bring 'em in. Harold, you want sweet tea or un-sweet?"

"Sweet please."

"Lemon?"

"Please," Harold said, and let his head fall back on the wagon wheels.

"I gotta take a piss," Lucas said and disappeared.

"So what did you try and kill yourself for?" Billy asked.

"I don't know, and what does that have to do with anything? I was drunk and depressed I guess."

"You must not have tried too hard," Billy said. "You're still here ain't ya?"

"What are you getting at?" Harold said, still not taking his eyes off the ceiling.

"I'm trying to get at why you jumped in the drink, but you aren't helping me much."

"What do you want me to say?"

"The truth would be nice," Billy said. "I think you were just another 'look at me!' jumper who wanted some attention and to make everybody in his life feel guilty. You took a checked swing. You didn't try to hit it out of the park, but you didn't exactly try to miss it neither."

"Thanks for the insight," Harold said.

"That's still no kind o' answer. Do you still want to die? Cause if you do, I could help you out with that. Nothing to it."

"No, I don't want to die Billy."

"Well, why not? Nothing's changed. Ain't everything pretty much the same as it was when you jumped? Huh?" Billy asked.

"Why don't you just leave me alone?"

"Oh hell yeah! Now we're gettin' down to it! He says he wants me to leave him alone! The maggots just ate past the dead meat and got down to the quick," Billy said.

"Go screw yourself," Harold said.

Billy laughed loudly and showed his big teeth. "Now I really know I'm getting somewhere. Don't be like that, don't turn away from your own innards. Look at 'em Harold. What do you see?"

Harold's head came back slowly to level and he stared at Billy. Billy stared back. Neither spoke or moved. Billy was looking for honesty, waiting for the skin peel back so he could see the honest pain beneath. Harold was looking through Billy, his eyes turned inward. Billy could have been a lamp, or a book, or a crucifix, it didn't matter, he was using Billy's outsized face as an anchor for his eyes to keep from getting lost in thought.

"Okay, I admit it. I wanted to make Bonnie feel guilty, and my employer for letting me go. And plus, I was feeling too lazy to start over rebuilding my life. I didn't want to die as much as I didn't think I had anything to live for."

"Was that so frickin' hard?" Billy said.

"No," Harold said.

"Need a drink?"

"God I hate you," Harold said.

"Join the club."

Opal came back with a tray that held a platter of tuna sandwiches, a clear plastic pitcher of tea with yellow daisies on it, and a stack of tumblers. Lucas returned from the bathroom and put a CD on the stereo.

"Wow," Harold said, turning one of the pastel aluminum cups in his hand. "I haven't seen one of these in years."

"Found 'em under the sink when we moved in," she said. "I thought they were cool, kind of retro. But with ice, they sweat something fierce."

"Just like we do," Lucas said.

"Back to the subject," Harold said. "You guys have been great and all, but I'm pissed you kept me in the dark. You should have told me what you knew about me. About Gator. All of it."

Lucas hit play on the stereo and _Career of Evil_ started to play.

"It's my fault," he said. "As Regent it was my call, so blame me not them. I didn't think you were ready. Honestly, what would you have done if I had come over right after me and Opal moved in and said, 'howdy neighbor, you're going to save the world and we're here to help you do it?' "

"I would've run you off and never spoke to you again," Harold said. "But still. It doesn't exactly instill trust you know."

"I'm sorry," Lucas said.

"Fine," Harold said. "But I still don't see how I can save the world. My powers are about as potent as Miss America's wish for world peace."

"They hafta grow," Opal said. "You hafta work on 'em and what-not. 'Ventually they'll take root and grow like wildfire."

"Unless," Lucas said, "The Disciples of Demeter get the rings. There's two rings floating around somewhere in Yucatan and we've got a man down there trying to get them before the Disciples of Demeter do. The legend is that if they get the rings, they can offset or negate your powers."

"What evidence do you have that any of this is true, huh? None. Look, this is a great sandwich Opal, and I appreciate the hospitality, but..."

Lucas interrupted, talking through a bite.

"Let me tell you a story," he said. "Back in '77, this was way after me and Opal got out of the drug scene and got paired up, we were in a little commune deal out in Winchester. There were about fifty of us in the group, and we were all folks who wanted to get back to nature and get out of the rat race.

"There was this one guy, he was my best friend at the time, and he was the Prez as much as anybody was, his name was Arlo. We got along great. Problem was that..."

"You aren't helping things," Harold said. "Is this going to be evidence or what?"

Lucas was as serious as he ever got. "I know you're mad about me not being honest with you, so I'm going to tell you something before you find out on your own and you get even more pissed. And if you sit still, after I'm done, I'll give you some details on that evidence you're looking for."

"Okay, fine, I'm sorry. Go ahead."

"Right, well, as I was saying, my friend Arlo and I saw most things eye-to-eye. We were starting to analyze music for hidden messages at that time, like the one in _Helter Skelter_ everybody knows about, and some other ones too. Believe it or not, there's some heavy stuff in some of _The Monkees_ albums. Anyway, one day the whole Blue Oyster Cult message came up. The _Imaginos_ record wasn't out yet, but most of the songs on it had been released already, but the message was out there if you were listening. The song that's on right now, it's basically the same as...well anyway, to stay on the subject, we got into the BÖC mythology.

"By then we were down to about twenty-five members, and the whole commune scene was just about a decade-and-a-half past its prime. Nobody was smoking weed or doing LSD in the group anymore, and with a clear head, the messages in music start to look less mystical. But we stuck with it.

"Arlo was so religious that he just had to see everything in terms of that. And when I tried to tell him that the messages we were looking for weren't related to religion, he blew up. He said that everything was related to religion, period. He took about half of the group with him to a farm that his brother owned down the road a piece, moved in with his brother and his sister-in-law and their kids Ben, and Kilby."

"Holy Crud..." Harold said.

"Let me finish," Lucas said. "Eat another sandwich and listen. I led the rest of the group, but after a while we couldn't manage the commune, and the group more or less broke up. The only original members are Opal and Cantrell. We were all bikers with heavy pasts. We renamed ourselves the Legion of Kronos on account of the fact we didn't like the religious sound of 'The Congregation' and we didn't want to be confused up with them. The whole mythology, to us, is apart from religion, not related at all..."

"So you're all basically the same group," Harold said. "Two heads of the same lie. You know what I think?" Harold said standing up. "You're no better than they are, and they're no better than you. Neither one of you told me the truth, that is, assuming you're telling me the truth right now. Maybe I do have a power, but I'll be damned if either one of you is going to be in control of me. Starting now, leave me the hell alone."

Harold left, walking down the road the way he always did when he wanted to cut a conversation short and have the last word. Billy wanted to follow but Lucas wouldn't let him. They watched him go.

Lucas stood and watched the road even after Harold was out of sight.

# Chapter 18

In the attic Opal had found a heavy curtain, made of wine and sea-foam green brocade and once part of a set of formal drapes, to use as a tablecloth. Now it was laying over the picnic table in the dining room. She and Lucas were on one side, Tonya and Billy on the other. Opal had turned off every light in the house and lit a half dozen mismatched candles on a plate in the center.

Tonya was shuffling The Tarot with her eyes only half open, the cards making a chunk-chunk sound each time she dropped half of the deck into the other half. With the attic fan off and the candles burning the room was sweaty and confining.

"Don't you think..."

"Hush Billy," Opal said. "She's concentrating."

"It's okay," Tonya said. "Go ahead Billy. I can walk and chew gum at the same time."

"I get what we're doing, but don't you think we should send a couple of guys to meet Monty, just in case?"

"Nuh-uh," Lucas said. "You prepare for a confrontation and sooner or later you'll have one. That's the reason for the no weapons policy. You have a weapon, sooner or later you'll use it."

"Aw come on..."

"That's enough," Opal said, "Lucas is right honey. We're going to keep on using our heads not our muscles. To heck with the cost."

Billy settled down some, but couldn't help adding, "Okay, but he's already on the way now, it's too late to do anything to help anyway."

"That's not necessarily true," Tonya said. "Thanks for giving me the chance to help."

"Thanks for offering," Lucas said. "It's a great idea."

"Glad you think so. Now. Let's get started," she said.

Tonya selected the Page of Pentacles to represent Monty and placed the card on the table. She began laying out nine more cards in the pattern known as the Celtic Cross; one card across the first, one at each point of the compass, and four in a row to the right.

"Lucas, you have asked what can be seen of Monty and the rings," Tonya said. "Those subtle things beyond our ken, these cards foretell the how and when. The Page of Pentacles signifies his reflective nature and bookishness. Pentacles often mean money, but they can also mean knowledge or craftiness." She turned the card lying across Monty. "This crosses him. The Ten of Cups reversed."

In her heart she knew the card meant criminality and anger when reversed, or in this case, loss of fortune. But it was a pretty card with a family and a rainbow, so she said, "He's doing well, what a great card to see here," she lied. "So far so good.

"Next we see what is beneath him. The Queen of Cups reversed. This means selfishness. I feel he's been worried about himself, really worried about his own ass, you know?"

"I don't blame him," Billy said.

"Shhh," Opal said.

"The Page of Cups crowns him," Tonya went on. "It's responsibility that's pushing him on. That's a good sign. What's behind him is the Judgment card. This is his escape from danger and his success. It's been a hard way to go, but he's survived and been judged a success. Now, what's before him is," she said, turning over The Sun, "is a promising future, happy reunions, and health. It's cool to see two of the Major Arcana in his reading, one before and one behind. That's great, really great."

"This makes me feel better," Opal said. "Not as worried."

"Me too," Billy said. "But shhh..."

"Shhh yourself," Opal said smiling.

"Okay, now his fears," Tonya said. "The Seven of Pentacles, reversed. This means indebtedness. Perhaps he fears being in debt for the rings, owes somebody a favor, or maybe he has some guilt about how he got them. It could also me money, obviously. I'll have to give this some thought.

"His family opinion is the Eight of Pentacles reversed, that's destruction. People who care about him fear for his life. I think that's on target, really on target, don't you?"

"In threes," Lucas said. "keep going. I want to see the final card."

"Two more," Tonya said. "His hopes...the Two of Pentacles. He is hoping that new troubles won't begin, that he won't have to go on another trip, that everything has played out to the end and that his cycle is done, that wandering and searching are behind him.

"Now, the final outcome," she said, and when she turned the card over she found the Knight of Cups reversed.

"Well, hmmm," she said, knowing that the card means a liar, a treachery or betrayal, the cup upside down having poured it all out on the ground. The others stared at her, waiting for her words, thinking that they were going to hear something important and true.

"This means departures. His fears are founded. He will be leaving again on another mission. Judging by the amount of Pentacles in the reading, I'd say he'll be leaving the first of the year, in winter, maybe headed east, but I can't be sure."

"Any further east and he'll be underwater," Billy said. "This stinks. It don't add up."

"I don't like it either," Lucas said.

***

_They were right not to like it too_ , Tonya thought, coming back to the here and now, reclining on the sofa drinking an RC Cola with Jack Daniels. T _oo late now,_ she thought. _The rings are cash. It's in the past._

The cards were on the end table wrapped in a chiffon scarf of teal and aqua. She stared at them. There had been a time when she believed the cards didn't lie, when she was a teenager and read for fun. She wondered at exactly what point she had changed her mind. Probably somewhere between the thousands of readings she had done, maybe at a flea market, or at a bar room booth sticky with beer, maybe in a crappy trailer like this one. For sure it was long before the reading at the old lady's house with the little firebox full of cash hidden by a green glass collection.

And then that reading at Lucas' place had to come along, it just had to be true, as dead on as a reading gets. It made her feel like a teenager staying up half the night sneaking cigarettes and playing with an Ouija board at church camp. She told herself to stick to the plan, to ignore that one freaky reading. That's why she had joined the club in the first place. As soon as she heard about the Legion of Kronos she had known it was a garden full of suckers ripe for the picking, and she had been right. _Don't cool off now, keep that fire burning. Brenda's coming, time to flip the last card._

She heard the bike pull up out front, and she starting getting ready.

When Brenda came in, she redirected her eyes from the deck. It was an expression Brenda hadn't seen before. Normally Tonya's eyes were gray paving stones broken by chunks of brown, reminding her of aggregate rock or concrete. As Brenda approached and knelt on her knees in front of Tonya, they seemed more like washers of rusted steel, and they were leaking lubricant.

"What's up?"

"Aw honey," she said, putting her fingers in Brenda's hair, "the police were here earlier. They were asking about the rings.."

"You gotta be shittin' me," Brenda said. "That's too damn fast. I can't believe those idiot bikers called the cops. You know damned well they didn't come by those rings legal."

"I don't know who called them, but they came," Tonya said.

"What do they think they know?" Brenda asked.

"I don't know honey, but they have your name."

"What...what did they say? What did they want to know?"

"Well, "Tonya said, "They wanted to know where you were, and I told them that you were working a temp job in town and you'd be there until tomorrow afternoon. I said you were staying with friends there because it was such a long drive and all."

"What'd they say?"

"They asked for a phone number," Tonya said, "and when I told them I didn't have one for you, they said they were going to come by tomorrow. What are we gonna do?"

"I don't know what we're gonna do yet. I need to know more. What else did they say?"

"Hold on, let me think," she said. "I'm so nervous, it's not like me, but I'm shaking..."

Brenda took her hand and said, "Chill out. If they knew everything they would've come by with a warrant. Relax. Think."

Tonya finished her drink and sat up straight on the sofa. "They wanted to know where you were that night, and I said you were here with me. Of course they got my name and everything. They asked me what hours I work, where I work, a ton of questions about me that made me a wreck. Lots of questions about us, like how long I've known you, how long I've been living here, our relationship, crap like that..."

"Perfect," Brenda said. "They were fishing. They don't have anything. Some C.I. dropped a little verbal vomit and they're picking through it, that's all. But we gotta take precautions."

"Like what?" she asked.

"Well, I can't disappear, that'll just fire 'em up," Brenda said. "I'm sorry sweet thing, but you're going to have to go away for awhile, but not until after tomorrow..."

"What?"

"Just listen. When they come by, tell them you lied about my alibi, I was a no show and you're sick of it, and you're leaving me. When they hear that, they are going to stake out this place, maybe even get a search warrant. I will get all of the attention, and you'll be out of it."

"What about you?" she asked. "I know I'm a bitch most of the time, but I don't want to be away from you..."

"Hold on, hold on," Brenda said. "You leave and take the money. They'll figure if you had been involved you wouldn't have stayed. If they come back with a warrant they won't find squat, because you have all the cash."

"That'll work?" Tonya asked.

"Look," she said, "you're a tough cookie and all, but I been in this place lots of times. No big deal to me. Go stay with Linda. I'll call you there."

"Aw crap!" Tonya said. "What if they're watching the place right now?"

"Naw, that's you watching too much Cagney & Lacy. They got case loads, rapists and killers to catch. It's just a theft, not a piece of work, you know? They won't stake nothing out until they're sure. But just in case, I'm going to leave so they'll think you were honest with 'em about where I was."

"I know I'm hard on you sometimes," Tonya said, reaching out and touching Brenda's face, "but times like these I wish I wasn't. You make me feel so safe."

Brenda tensed, turned her cheek away from the caress, conscious of the birthmark there and not wanting to be. She looked down, and Tonya pulled her face into her breast bone, combing her hair with long, natural nails. Brenda relaxed finally, enjoying the hug, the warmth, and the taste of Tonya's perfume.

The hug gave birth to a kiss, and the kiss begat touches and more kisses. This was not like Tonya. She was the most controlling person Brenda had ever met, and even though Tonya had never seen the inside of a prison, her skills would have made Brenda's most hardened bunkmates shiver. Second guesses and doubts contrasted with honest love, shadows of guilt sewn to the feet of her feelings.

"I love you," Brenda said, and it was so quiet she wasn't sure she had been heard until Tonya echoed it back. Brenda had been here before, had made partners of all kinds, in bed, in business, in backrooms and basements, and sooner or later they all disappeared when the sun moved its course. Even though she wanted to see Tonya's face, she kissed her over and over with her eyes shut so that she couldn't see the reflection of her own face in Tonya's eyes. With lids clamped down, Brenda could imagine that her face carried no mark, that the sun would stand straight overhead and stay there, casting no shadows.

# Chapter 19

The road was a tunnel the wind ran down unobstructed, and it came on strong and headed toward the sun. It felt good on his face. There were no sounds aside from his own footfalls and the fluttering of the soybeans across the ditches on either side. Harold kept moving forward without caring where he was going to end up, just wanting some time to think in silence.

I may not know what's the truth, but I do know that I want a drink and a cigarette. No, not a drink, a beer. Just one beer and a cigarette would be great.

Billy was probably following him. If he stayed on the roads between the soybean fields Billy'd be able to pick him up in no time; they were too low to hide his profile. If he was going to have five minutes peace he'd have to make a turn-off. He branched into a cornfield, walking past a sign that carried the genetic marker for the breed of corn growing there.

Everything's gotta have a mark, even the corn. At least these ears aren't smart enough to know they're marked. I wish I wasn't either. I just want to go to work, come home, watch a little TV, get laid once in a while, maybe party a little on the weekends. Is that so much to ask?

The sound of corn in the hot breath of the Eastern Shore's heat was white noise. Harold couldn't see over them either. He was in isolation. If he cried out, his words would be eaten by a million ears. It was darker in the corn rows. The sky was getting pink.

Emerging from the rows onto a rutted clay dirt farm road, he looked left and right. To the left, nothing; to the right, choppy clouds with curling tongues of peach and orange over the not yet lidded eye of the sun. He guessed he had an hour or two more of light left.

Aw hell, I'm not getting anything done out here, been gone long enough, he thought, and decided to go back to the old home place for the moment at least. Maybe that lying Lucas will leave me alone there and I can get my head together.

He turned left on the clay dirt road, but in a mile or so it curved into a loop like the eye of a needle, a turnaround point, and ended. In the center of the cul de sac was a pile of fencing wire and some split rails shot through with weeds. He was sure he was heading the right way. He had cooled off and now he just wanted to be back at the house. He couldn't go back the way he came because it would impossible to get back before dark. A path led up into the woods in the direction the road would've gone had it not turned upon itself. Certain the path would again become a road on the other side, he went up the pine-taggy path into the trees.

In there it seemed the sun had already set. Ferns brushed his ankles as he walked. On the right, the trees seemed dead and mossy, on the left clean and strong. He turned and looked back. The spot where he had entered was an orange archway of light. Deeper in there was no light on the other side. The pathway was heading downward.

"Great. I'm lost."

He smacked at a horse fly that had landed on the back of his neck, missed, let out a curse. Mosquitoes were coming out, and he smacked at them too with an equal amount of success.

"At least out there the breeze kept the bugs off."

There were several branches in the path, and each time he took the one straight ahead.

"Watch me step on a cottonmouth and die."

The path ended at a creek. He stood there on a swatch of chartreuse moss and looked around. The banks of the creek were high and the water was too wide to hop. He decided to head back the way he came thinking that when he emerged from the woods he'd be able to see lights in the distance somewhere.

Thinking about the footsteps he had heard on the attic stairs at Lucas'place, Harold doubled back and headed out of the woods fast. The darkness had gotten so thick that he would not see which way to go when he came to the forks he had encountered on his way in.

"Aw naw, this can't be happening," he said out loud. "This is a nightmare."

Off the path he saw a lightening in the hooded cloak of the trees and headed for that. It was tough going with briars to get through and decaying logs to get over, but in a few minutes he was standing in a little clearing and looking up at an oval of dark blue. Some early stars were out. It looked like it was going to be a clear night, maybe unseasonably cool.

"No, no, no, this can't be happening. This sucks, it sucks!"

"You're problem isn't being lost, your problem is wanting to know where you are," someone said.

Harold spasmed and looked around but he couldn't see anyone.

"Billy? Keep the heck away from me you sicko."

"It's Gator, you remember me, right, from Lucas's place?" He walked into the oval clearing of lighter blackness and stopped a few feet in front of Harold.

"Gator? What are you doing here? Can you get me out of here?"

"Why? You got somewhere to go?"

"They said you were a mute," Harold said backing away, "that you don't talk."

"I don't," he said flatly.

"Don't kill me. I just want to go home."

"Give me a break. I won't kill you," Gator said. "But this time of year the ticks will. We're both probably covered with them. We need to get somewhere and get 'em off. Come on."

"Geez," Harold said, and scratched automatically.

Gator lead the way to pile of rocks in an even larger clearing a few minutes farther on. When they got closer, Harold could tell that it was actually bricks, the remains of a fireplace, the cabin around it long gone. Gator piled up some wood and debris in the sooty square hole and put a lighter to it, and soon there was fire. He squatted in front of it and blew to get it going strong.

"Just lead me out of here," Harold said. "C'mon, you know the way, right?"

"Relax," Gator said. "That's your problem. You want to be in control all the time, always in a hurry to do something, but you don't have any idea exactly what you want to do. You tell me where you want to go and I'll think about leading you out of here."

"I don't want...look, how come you're talking to me but you don't talk to Lucas or Opal? They're your friends, not me."

"I'll tell you while we get this done. Come here."

"What for?" Harold asked.

"I'm going to get those ticks off of you, and then you're going to get them off of me. C'mon. Sit. You want Lyme disease?" He pointed to the vee between his legs on the ground before the fire.

Harold came over, felling uncomfortable, moving like a scarecrow. He sat there in the dirt, and Gator began to run his hands over Harold's neck and head.

"Why do you think I don't talk to Lucas or Opal?"

"I don't know. Because...you don't like them?"

"You know that's a lie. Think," Gator said.

"Because...I don't know."

"Okay, why do you think I talk to you then?"

"I don't know. Look, you had to be following me. Why were you following me?" Harold asked.

"Why do you think I was following you?"

"I don't know, because you wanted to feel me up for ticks."

"At least you have a sense of humor," Gator said laughing. "It's because there's so many people trying to influence and control you. I don't want you to be what they want you to be. I want you to be what you want to be."

"That's great, but I don't know what I want to be."

"That's a good start. Do you want to be the prophet of the Congregation?" Gator said.

"No."

"Then why were you staying there?"

"I don't know," Harold replied.

"Take off your shirt. How did they make you feel?"

"Important. Respected," Harold said, pulling his shirt off over his head.

"And that's how people who care treat people they care about."

"Sure," Harold said.

"How do you treat people you want to sell something?" Gator asked.

"You tell them how great something is, you act friendly, and...okay, I see what you mean. But that doesn't mean anything."

"What do you say to people you really care about?" Gator asked.

"That depends. Sometimes you tell them what you're afraid of, what you're afraid is going to happen to them. You ask what's on their minds, how their day was. Sometimes you just don't need to say anything at all, you're just together."

"Which is one of the reasons I don't talk to my friends in the motorcycle club. It's the highest complement," Gator said. "What kinds of things did The Congregation talk to you about? What did they ask you?"

"They didn't ask me much. They talked to me about what they wanted, but they never really asked me how I felt I guess. Which, now that you ask, makes them seem pretty uncaring."

"You have to do your own crotch. Pull down you pants and I'll do your legs."

"I can do my own legs," Harold said, standing up. "Don't look, it's creepy. And don't ask me why I think it's creepy."

"I was going to ask you that, I really was," Gator said laughing.

"I know you were," Harold said. "I have an idea, while I'm doing this, you do your legs and crotch so I know you're busy doing something instead of staring at me, and plus, I won't have to look away later when you're doing it."

"Okay," Gator said standing up.

When they were done, Gator said, "We're going to need a few things. Help me find them."

"What?"

"I said we're going to need a few things if we're going to spend a pleasant night out here," Gator said. "I'm going to need some wire, like a coat hanger or something, and a couple of sturdy sticks or poles. And we're going to need something to boil water in, and something to drink out of. Nothing with rust. Glass bottles, or those tin cans with the white lining will do."

"Yes Sir," Harold said.

They hunted around the remains of the cabin for what they needed. Gator warned Harold to look out for snakes, to move slowly and allow them time to run away. In a few minutes they had an old rake handle, a stick, and a yard of green two-by-four inch wire fencing. Harold found a gallon pickle jar and a can with the white lining. Gator started a fire in the remains of the hearth, and while it died down to coals, they went to the creek to rinse and fill the pickle jar and the can. Once that was done, Gator placed three bricks in the coals and rested the jar of water there.

"That will take a while to boil clean, and still more time to settle out the trash. While we're waiting, get yourself a flat rock and sand the rust off of that wire mesh as much as you can."

"Alrighty Rambo," Harold said.

"Good, that's it," Gator said. "I guess we can talk a little while we work." He put another stick of dead wood on the fire. "Do you know the story of Samson?"

"Yeah, the guy who lost his strength because he cut his hair."

"Well, I'm kind of like Samson," Gator said. "I feel like if I talk too much, my words will lose their power. That's another reason I don't talk. This is harder for me than I'm making it seem."

"See, that's what I don't get," Harold said. "You're talking right now."

"I know, I know. But talking to you is different. Talking to you is like talking to myself."

"How do you mean?"

"You don't feel it?" Gator asked.

"Feel what? I mean, you are pretty easy to talk to, and I have to admit you seem, I don't know, kind of familiar."

"That's what I meant," Gator said.

"Hey – you aren't gay are you?"

"No. You aren't homophobic are you?"

"No. Okay this is weird. Let's change the subject."

"Alright," Gator agreed.

He took the wire from Harold and sat close to fire for light. He got out his multi-tool and used the nippers on the plier jaws to cut out a square section of the wire mesh that looked like a tic-tac-toe board. He wrapped it around the end of the rake handle and using the pliers, tied up the ends like twist –ties to hold it in place. Three spurs of the fencing stuck past the end of the handle like a big fork. He handed it to Harold.

"That's a frog gig. Tonight you eat Parisian cuisine." He began to make another one out of the other stick and the rest of the fencing wire. "Did you see any more tin cans in that burn pile over there?"

"There were a couple," Harold said.

"Okay, get us a couple, as big as you can find, but they have to be the same size around. Rust doesn't matter for this."

"What are they for?"

"Breakfast," Gator said.

With the second gig done and a selection of cans by the fire, they worked their way down to the creek-side in the moonlight. To Harold's surprise Gator produced a small flashlight. They walked slowly along the edge of the water. Harold soon learned that there were no frogs where the creek was deep and narrow, that his prey was found where the water was still and there was grass within hopping distance.

"Listen for the croaking, track in on the sounds," Gator said.

"This is pissing me off."

"You being pissed off will not make any frogs hop into your pocket. Patience might though."

A few yards away he could hear the splash of Gator's gig every few minutes, but he couldn't tell if he had gotten any. Harold could not concentrate. He worried about what was crawling on him in the dark, the possibility of snakes, the miserable wetness of his boots, and the pressure to be successful. He struck a few times without luck. On his final miss his spear stuck in the mud, and when he pulled it out, the fence-wire head was left behind in the muck.

"Let's go," Gator called.

"Coming."

As they walked up the path toward the fire something moved across the path, and Harold jumped at it, came up with a fat frog in both hands.

"Got one!"

"Good work. Did you get any with your gig?"

"Nope, this is the only one I got."

"I would've been surprised if you had. It's a lot tougher than it looks to gig a frog. That one's a little small. Put him in your pocket. We can use him for something else."

"You realize I'm never going to eat any of these frogs or drink any of that nasty water," Harold said.

"Sure you will."

Up at the fire, Gator pulled his coat sleeves down over his hands for oven mitts and set the water aside to settle out while he spitted the frogs over the fire.

"Skin and all?" Harold asked.

"Skin sloughs just like baked chicken when they're cooked, and it helps the meat hold together." He put the skewered animals almost directly on the red coals. Harold noted that his partner had landed almost a dozen small frogs to his one.

"You're not going to gut 'em?"

"Nope, why bother? You ain't gonna eat that part anyway."

"I really don't think I can..."

"Just shut up and be patient."

Gator reached into a pocket and got out a baggie of tea bags and handed them to Harold.

"Blueberry herbal tea. Throw a couple in that water. You like tea?"

"It's okay."

"I love tea," Gator said.

When the frogs were done, Gator pulled off some legs and peeled the skins off, handed them to Harold.

"They look like little buffalo wings," he said. "But..."

"Just eat one," Gator said.

He tried one and it was good, not as fatty as a real buffalo wing, but tastier than he thought it would be.

"Could use some hot sauce, but not bad."

"Can't help you there," Gator said. "Okay, I promised to tell you more over dinner. Let me tell you a story."

"Go for it," Harold said.

"Okay, I was at this concert some years ago..."

"I know this story," Harold interrupted. "Lucas and Opal told me."

"Different story," Gator said. "This was long before I got into Lucas' club. I was at this rock concert with some buddies of mine that I used to work with at the garage, and we were drinking beer and having a blast. We were pretty torn up, you know, getting rowdy and stuff. There was this chick that was probably as old as my Aunt Marge, but she was looking pretty hot, and like she'd give me a go, and were dancing up by the stage. She was grinding on me and I was grinding on her, but I was thinking that this was really stupid."

"Stupid?" Harold asked.

"Yeah, well we did the concert thing pretty often, and had a few beers real often. I was working at an auto shop at the time, and the guys were pretty tight, on and off the job, you know. Pretty typical guys. Life was about drinking beers, hitting the titty bars, going to concerts, eating greasy food, and scoring with the baby dolls. And I was thinking, you know, that this whole scene was getting pretty boring all in all. But what was making me see this was this older lady, because I was thinking that she was probably doing the same thing thirty years ago that she was doing right now, and I saw myself as an old guy with a bald head in blue work shirt with my name inside a white oval in red letters, holding a can of Budweiser. You know what I mean?"

"Uh huh," Harold said.

"But before I could really act on my realization, some guy in a leather vest stomped on my foot with a jack boot, and when I looked down, he hit me in the face and it was all she wrote. It was a free-for-all. My buddies were in there, that biker and his buddies were in there, it was a mess. The next thing I know, I'm handcuffed to this cop car's bumper. You know, the two guards they have on the front bumper so they can push and ram without tearing up the paint job?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean."

"They must've put me there because the back seats were full. Anyway, I was drunk and beat up and I passed out. When I woke up they were stuffing me into a paddy-wagon."

"Then what happened?"

"That's not the point of the story," Gator said. "It's what happened while I was passed out. I had a dream."

"A dream?" Harold said. "Must've been some dream for you to remember it this long."

"It was. Actually, it was more of a vision than a dream."

"So it was short?" Harold asked. "When you think of a vision, you think of The Virgin Mary's face appearing in the clouds, stuff like that."

"No it wasn't like that. I guess it was dream then. But anyway, it was really long and involved, very realistic, and I can remember it in great detail to this day," Gator said.

"Tell it to me."

"It started with the birth of this man. See, in the dream, I was him, and it was all happening to me. I was born, and things happened to me, and nothing was left out. You know how in a dream, things are all disjointed and mixed up, and most of the time they don't make sense?" Gator asked.

"Yeah. They're like Alice in Wonderland."

"Not this one," Gator said. "It was all in focus, this guy's life. There were no fast forwards or cut scenes like a movie or a dream or whatever. Every second was there. Every diaper change, every lost toy, every harsh word uttered by someone, every bath, every scary moment. Did you every have your life flash before your eyes?"

"No, uh-uh."

"Well, it's a real thing, not just something that people say like 'that truck almost ran me over and I saw my life flash before my eyes.' When I was a kid I almost drowned in a public pool and while I was under water my life flashed before my eyes. It's like every memory of your life hits you at one time and you experience the whole of your life in one big whoosh. Well that's how my dream was. I was unconscious on that bumper what, five or ten minutes, and I experienced an entire lifetime of events from birth to death, with perfect clarity and infinite detail."

"That's weird," Harold said. "I mean it, I'm not just saying that to be a good listener. Who was he? Did he have a name?"

"In the dream there was no sound. It was all feelings and pictures and events, raw emotions and stuff, so I didn't get any names, just faces and how the guy felt. It's funny, but the things people think of as milestones weren't milestones to this guy. Like your first steps, your first bicycle ride without training wheels, first kiss, that kind of thing, wasn't all that big for him. I mean, they were all there, I saw them, but they weren't all that earth-shattering to him."

"What was?" Harold asked. "Hey, listen to us, we're talking about him like he's not a figment of your drunk brain after it got kicked around by redneck bikers."

"Things like the first time he lied and got caught, and his mother didn't trust him completely anymore. That really got him. It was a loss of innocence that really made him sad, made me sad to relive it too. And..."

"That's not so strange," Harold said. "I remember when something like that happened to me. It was scary. I can see why that was memorable for him."

"...and there was the first time he got beaten up in a fist-fight. That really hurt him. Things like that. He was very sensitive to the changes he had to go through in order to be a part of society. Having to do schoolwork, having to learn things that he wasn't supposed to question, having to say what people expected to hear him say, having to be two-faced, having to be on guard. Having to lie. There was this one part of the dream where he was with some other kids after school and he had to jazz up a story he was telling in order to keep the other kids interested in what he had to say, and he was very let down afterward. He felt dirty, like he had done something wrong. And then it hit him that everybody did that, embellished or outright lied, and he was so let down and depressed that it was such a dirty world he lived in. It made him feel lonely to think that the only person he could trust completely was himself, and not even then, because he could see that he remembered things about himself in an unrealistic way also."

"That's really sad," Harold said. "I felt that way when I was a kid. I think everybody feels that way, but they forget it when they're older. Was the whole thing sad?"

"Not at all," Gator said. "It was just like a real life, some sad, some happy, and a ton of the mundane and boring. That's the way life is."

"Tell me a good part, something not sad," Harold said, taking a sip from one of the white-lined tin cans. "By the way, this tea isn't so bad after all."

"Thirst makes most liquids taste decent. Something not sad? Okay. There was this one part when I was in love with a great girl who loved me back, and we were so happy together. We used to do such stupid stuff together, it didn't matter what we did, it was always fun. She was really smart and funny, but not as carefree as I was. I was the kooky one, the life of the party. We had so many friends to hang out with, but we spent a lot time alone together too.

"In the dream we spent this one whole weekend reading a book to each other. We never got dressed the whole weekend. She would read while I cooked, I would read while she cleaned up..."

"Bonnie and I did that one time," Harold said. "It was really fun," he said. "It's funny you dreamed that."

"Yeah, it is, isn't it? Anyway, we were really in love. And the sex? Wow."

"You dreamed that too? You didn't tell me it as an X-rated dream."

"It wasn't X-rated," Gator said. "Not any more than life is X-rated. Sex is part of life. You don't get it. I dreamed this guy's whole life, every millisecond of it, from birth to death."

"What happened to you and the girl, to the guy and the girl I mean," Harold asked.

"Things went along great for a long time. But then I – I keep saying I but I mean he. Oh well, I give up. I started to put my faith in my job, and I started to get my sense of self from work. It was as if all the praise that I got from work replaced all of the praise I got from her. I craved that approval more than anything. Instead of wanting to be successful at being her husband I wanted to be successful at the job. Possessions got to be more important than people. Then I lost my job, lost her, lost everything. See, when I lost my job, I had lost the source of all praise and support. I had gotten so dependent on it that when it was gone I had nothing. The dream got really dark and sad. I tried to kill myself."

Harold's face became mud, his expression washing away in Gator's stream of words.

"Shut up," Harold said. "That's enough, just shut up."

"Why? I wasn't successful, like I said. I didn't kill myself. I lived..."

"I don't want to hear anymore," Harold said. He stood up and began to pace. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"Does it sound familiar?" Gator said.

"You're freaking me out. Please shut up..."

"I know this has got to be hard," Gator said. "And hard to believe. But I'm not lying. Remember the blue and white milk cartons at your elementary school, and how the milk was always frozen, and how you hated that? They froze it so it wouldn't go bad, and when you got it, the date was always a week old. Remember the girl you had a crush on in college first year, the one you couldn't save? She only liked the bad boys. She used to hang out and smoke pot with them, and you wanted her to like you. You wanted to make her respect herself, but you couldn't."

"Please shut the hell up. If you don't shut up I'll die."

"It was so funny," Gator said, "the way you used to fuss over your clothes when you were a little kid. Your Mom would fold your pants so they lay flat, and when you put them on, you thought you looked like the sailor on the Crackerjack box. You used to re-fold them so that when you put them on they belled out the other way, front to back instead. Too funny," Gator said. "You had that one pair of polyester pants that were navy and cream checks. They were god-awful, but you wore them until they wouldn't button around your waist."

"Shut the..."

"Okay, Okay, I'll shut up. I'll let you stew in that for awhile," Gator said.

He picked up the matching coffee cans Harold had found. Crimping the edge of one of them with the pliers of his Leatherman, he stuck it inside the other and tamped them together with a brick bat so that friction held them in place tightly making a big metal tube closed at both ends. The can opener attachment made an 'X' in one end. He pushed the triangles of jagged metal inward to make an opening and threw in some of the frog bones.

"What is that thing for?" Harold asked, still shaking but hiding it as much as he could.

"It's a trap. Critters come after the bait and they can't get out. I'm going to take it down to the creek, drop it in the water, and in the morning it'll be full of crawdads. Bingo. Breakfast," Gator said.

"Yummy," Harold said. "Won't it attract bears?"

"It would, if anybody had seen a bear in these parts since 1970. But they haven't, so I think we're okay. Be back in a second."

Harold got quiet, thinking about what Gator had told him, and wondering how it was possible this stranger had dreamt his past, present, and future. As much as he wanted to see an explanation that wasn't supernatural he could not find one, and the more he thought about it, the creepier Gator's story seemed.

Gator returned and began talking again.

"After I had that vision," he said, "it took me years to find Lucas and the gang, and to sniff you out. I couldn't bring myself to talk to you. You have to understand, I haven't talked to anybody but myself in years. But when Lucas said that you had taken that jump, well, I put two and two together for the good of everybody."

"I told you I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Okay, I won't push you. Let me know when you're ready."

"I'll never be ready," Harold said.

Gator let it ride, put another piece of wood on the fire and enjoyed the night. They sat there in a not uncomfortable silence for a long time, watching the fire and listening to the sounds of the Virginia woods after dark. A screech owl cried. To Gator it was all twinkling mysterious beauty, but to Harold it was a maze filled with dangerous things he could not see. No walls and no roof meant no safety, no rest.

When Gator began to doze, Harold stared at him and although he attributed it to deja vu or some other trick of his mind he thought there was something familiar about the face. It was hard to see details through dirt and beard in the poor light. He stared more, but Gator didn't move or twitch or open his eyes. Maybe, Harold thought, this was the person who had been watching him at Parkinson's office the night after he crawled out of the bay. He couldn't be sure. He considered the possibility that the familiarity of Gator's face was because they really were somehow connected by their respective dreams – Gator's prophetic one and his own reality-creating ones.

He woke up with a jerk and looked around trying to get his bearings. It was not yet light but it was coming on, the sky a medium shade of blue and moon long gone from the sky. Gator was adding a few sticks to the crackling flames in the fireplace. Harold came nearer, feeling cold and damp from dew..

"Good morning," Gator said.

Harold scuffled up into a sitting position with his knees bent, thankful that he had awakened.

"Didn't mean to go to sleep, did you?" Gator said.

"Heck no," Harold said. "No offense. Good morning."

"Once this fire's going good," Gator said, "I'm leaving you out here on your own..."

"Hold on, I thought you were going to lead me out of here..."

"I never said that. You said that, I never said that."

"You can't leave me out here! The Disciples of Demeter are after me, or at least somebody is. You can't make me stay..."

"You couldn't tell me where you wanted to go, which means you don't know where to go, which in turn means that you don't need to go anywhere," Gator answered.

"You're scared to kill me, so you're leaving me for dead," Harold said. "Or you're leaving me for somebody else to finish off."

"Maybe," Gator said. "But that means I wasted a ton of time showing you how to get something to eat and drink and talking to you. Once you figure out where you want to go, you'll figure out a way to get there."

"And if I can't?" Harold asked.

"Then you'll die here, a few hours walk from civilization." Gator handed him a plastic cigarette lighter. "Take this in case your fire goes out. Keep it dry. It's gonna rain soon, maybe tonight."

"I'm not staying. I'll follow you..."

"Oh, you'll stay alright," Gator said slowly. "You'll stay because you know you need to, for your own good. Stay long enough and maybe you'll figure out why I had a vision of your life while I was cuffed to that trooper's car bumper. Breakfast is in the can," he said. Harold took it from him and looked inside. A half dozen bright red crayfish were steaming inside.

Harold watched Gator walk away into the damp morning light. Birds were chirping for dawn and the picture should have been cheerful, but Harold could only think of the whomever or whatever was after him. He thought of the peeping tom in the shadows around Lucas' house, and the one who left a goat at the farmhouse. Not seeing them made it worse. He did not want to be alone in these woods.

Putting the lighter in his pocket he looked in semicircles around himself like a sentry and waited for the sun to come up fully. He passed the time worrying and thinking, reliving everything that had gone wrong. He picked and the ate the crawfish tails and put the leavings back into the trap. When the sun finally did come up the heat came with it, and he wished he could have the coolness of night without the darkness. With Gator gone he was left with only the heat, his hunger, and the thoughts he had sweltering in his head.

He had to move out of the clearing, the sun was just too hot, but neither did he want to get himself covered with ticks again. The deer path led down to the creek one way stretched out toward who-knew-what the opposite way. He decided to go in the direction he had not yet been, and took the path away from the creek.

I occurred to him that in the bright light he might be able to find his way back to the main road, but just in case he was wrong, he elected to stick with the path until it ended, thinking that perhaps it led to something familiar.

There was a little incline followed by a drop, and looking back he could only see the top of the ruined chimney at his camp even though he was less than a hundred yards away. Harold went on. The path forked and he took the right-hand branch, making a mental note of that. He looked for anything that could be a clue about his location but there was nothing. No signs, no trail markers, no fences, no roads. A sweet gum tree had fallen over the road, he guessed a couple of years a go, and it was suspended three feet over the trail by a crooked sapling and another fallen tree. He ducked under it and kept moving.

The trail became gradually more overgrown. Briars tugged at his pant-legs, and the soil felt damp and spongy under his feet. The air was humid, musty, and stale. The path ended in a thicket of heavy brush, but on the other side was a steep bank about ten feet high, and on top of it he could see the path continued on. Considering for a moment first, he picked his way into the scratchy stuff and began to climb the bank. It was so steep that he had to lean forward and dig in his toes. If he slipped he'd fall into the prickly brush. He made it up with care and stood on the top of the high mound. The path curved out and wound back in a circular way, and although it didn't head straight back the way he had come, he suspected that at some point it might. The woods had become more piney and open. Over his head there was a clear patch, and a bright ray of sun fell on him like a brand. The air here was fresher than it had been before.

"No sense stopping now," he said, and kept moving.

After a half hour more of hiking he saw that the path was not going to lead back to camp after all. It was laid out in huge sweeping 'S' shapes, curving first one way then the next. There was a mud puddle in his way, and he went around it, but as he did, he saw dirt-bike tracks leading in and out. He couldn't tell how old they were, but he suspected that if he stayed on the path he would eventually find his way to a farm or a road.

Intermittently along the way he spotted the tracks again until finally he came to a peculiar row of trees. He looked around, a little confused, and realized that there were many rows of them. Between the rows there was heavy underbrush, and other kinds of trees had cropped up here and there, but it was obvious that this had been an orchard. There was an apple tree in the grandparents' yard, and these looked like that one.

Harold was excited and ran from tree to tree looking for fruit. The orchard had been abandoned for a reason, but finally he found one tree with a half dozen small mottled apples on board and many more on the ground. He ate the ones on the tree first, then went at the ones on the ground next, eating around the rotten parts. For awhile he was unaware of the heat, outside himself with the joy of his find. He was stuffed.

Certain he heard footsteps, he spun around but saw nobody. He froze and held his breath. Nothing moved. He tossed the last core into the woods and headed back to the path.

The footsteps came back, this time off to the left, so again he stood still and listened, looked for any movement at all. He saw nothing.

He felt stupid and paranoid, but he picked up a heavy stick the size of a shovel handle and used it as a walking stick, just in case. For a little while he didn't hear it, but he kept the stick in his hand just the same.

Ahead he could see a bright archway in the trees, and it seemed he was about to emerge into a clearing. He sped up, walking fast, and heard a bark that echoed off the trees so that he couldn't tell where it came from. He sprinted for the clearing up ahead, carrying his stick like a spear, heading toward the light. Against the bright white he could see the silhouettes of three dogs. One barked, one bayed, and the third stayed silent, but all three busted off toward him at a dead run.

"Damn it!"

He turned and ran back the way he came. Glancing back he saw that his lead of about a hundred yards was down to fifty in a twinkling. The lead dog, a mixed breed hound would not stop baying. It was the ringing of bell, clear and bright in the forest, the kind of sound that gives hunters joy and prey the need to run until they are caught.

He made it to the abandoned orchard, dropped his worthless stick, and grabbed a branch. He swung himself up, fear turning him into a monkey. The three dogs barked and howled, jumped and paced underneath him. The silent one, who looked to have more than a splash of rottweiler in his lineage, stood quietly with his forepaws on the trunk breathing like a steam engine.

Finally the rottie and the other dog, a small white and black spaniel mutt, gave up and lay down on the leaves, but the hound stood at attention right beneath Harold and kept up the racket.

"Treed me like a damn coon, didn't you. You ol' son," Harold said. He hocked up a wad of spit and blasted it at the hound, who didn't care one way or the other that he had spit on his hindquarters, just kept up the racket.

It might have been around noon, Harold couldn't be sure. In a couple of hours, maybe sooner, he should be heading back to camp if he wanted to get there before dark, have water and maybe reset the crawfish trap. Unless of course he opted to try the trail and see what was in the clearing the dogs had blocked him from. He didn't know what to do besides wait and see if the dogs would go away, so he did that. He made himself as comfortable as he could by sitting on a fat limb with his back leaning against the trunk.

Changing positions from time to time worked for awhile, but eventually he could not get comfortable. The hound, who had gotten intermittently quiet, would start up again each time he moved, and about the time Harold got stiff again, the hound would quiet; Harold would resituate himself and the hound would start the cycle again. The situation was driving both of them mad.

He noticed a three hard green apples on the tree a little higher up. Harold stood on his perch and picked one, and he was just about the take a bite, when he saw another option.

"One for each of ya, " he said, "come here!"

Steadying himself with his left hand holding a limb, he threw the apple as hard as he could at the hound. He missed. The second one scored but the hound only barked and backed up ten feet or so, then came right back. "One more shot," he said. He targeted the white spaniel, but missed, striking the rottie in the side. She yelped and ran off.

Soon the other two had wandered off to join the rottie. Harold waited until he couldn't hear or see the dogs, then climbed down, scooped up his stick, and headed back to camp. He needed water and familiar ground. Perhaps Gator would come back and check on him.

He had not been walking long when he realized that it was later than he thought. He increased his speed, sweating like mad, to make sure he got back to the broken down chimney by dark.

Sliding back down the briary slope he had climbed that morning, he noticed the patch was thick with blackberries. He did not want to waste time, but he had to pick some. He filled his pockets with them, getting a few shallow, itchy scratches on his knuckles and fingers. The berries were of varying ripeness, some green and small, some large and bursting with juice. The juicy ones he ate right away so they wouldn't make a mess in his pockets. They were tart but delicious. Though there were more, he had to go.

Somewhere far away, he could not tell the direction, he heard the hound baying again, and began to trot. It was more exercise than he had had in a year.

Camp was silent. No sign of Gator or anything else. He put his hand over the soot and debris in the fireplace and felt a little warmth. First he threw on some twigs and dry leaves, and when it started to smolder, he added two pieces of larger wood. He didn't want to trust his chances of starting a fire with the lighter Gator had left him. Better to keep it in reserve.

There was some water left in the pickle jar which he drank down to the dregs, pouring out the last inch of gritty water on the ground.

From the creek he filled the jar again and put it on the fire to boil, emptied his pockets of the apples and berries he had gathered on his walk. Since some of them were green, he figured he'd better cook them up, so he put the berries into the largest can he had, and spitted the apples onto sticks. They would have to wait until his water had been boiled. While he waited for the water to boil, he got down to the business of making a shelter. Gator had warned him that it would rain soon, and though it seemed clear right now, he didn't want to get stuck with no escape from a downpour.

As he gathered some long limbs to use as supports, he couldn't get over how he felt. He didn't know what it was, but he felt better than he had felt in years despite the heat and the bugs.

"You'll feel different later on tonight when the skeeters come out," he said to himself.

It felt good to sweat, and walk, and run. Just one day and he could tell he was shedding pounds.

"The Gator Diet. A new book from the publisher's of the Adkins Diet. Eat all the frogs and berries you can scrounge up and still lose weight."

He knew that it was an excuse to stay inside himself and avoid Bonnie, Lucas and his gang, and the Congregation, but it was great just to busy himself with simple tasks, to just walk and see what was around the next bend. A few hours ago he was keen to find his way out. But after his trip and the thing with the dogs, he felt relaxed and happy, comfortable in his little camp. Compared to his work-a-day life at the job he used to have, this was the Mayo Clinic. He could not believe that a few weeks ago he had actually jumped off a bridge.

A bridge, he thought, is a way to get from one place to another, a way to cross over. Jumping off of it seemed like copping out and giving up. Not just giving up on life, but giving up on the crossing over, giving up on the journey. Losing his job, breaking up with Bonnie, they were just parts of the bridge, or maybe obstructions in the path leading to the bridge.

He was by no means Davy Crockett, but he mustered enough common sense to put together a lean-to. Two steps from the fireplace he made a tripod of tall sticks. He snapped off armloads of low-hanging pine brances and leaned them against his frame to make a primitive wigwam with an open side facing the fire. He heaped and piled brush on top of it as tightly as he could, adding leaves and anything else he could find, even a green garbage bags he found crumpled nearby.

By the time he was done the water was at a boil. He went over and took off his shirt to use as oven mitts, setting it aside to make room over the fire for his can of berries. Putting them not too close to the coals to simmer, he thought that it might be nice to have some rain. He might even let it wash over him to cool off. A break in the heat maybe. He propped his apples up on the other side of the fire and let them cook while took the coffee can trap down to water, baited with the leftovers from his crawfish breakfast, and dropped in a different pool.

A kind of quarter-till eight glow came into the summer air, not real dusk, but the first pinkish-orange warning that night wasn't far off.

He hadn't thought about the jump much before Billy had asked, but he guessed that was because Billy had been right. If he had been deeply disturbed, clinically, the desire to die would have been pervasive, and he would have obsessed on the subject and tried again. He jumped off the bridge out of boredom more than anything else, because without Bonnie or a job he didn't think he had anything left. Once things started happening, once he started meeting people, getting pursued, and all the rest, he hadn't given his high dive a second thought. Right now he knew he hadn't been destitute. This was life. Cooking a meal. Making your bed. Breathing in and out. Tending a fire.

"Bonnie knew that, why didn't I?" he said out loud, and it was true.

He had finally gone to her, after weeks of waffling back and forth between not knowing how to go to her or what to say, not wanting to go to her, and not having the courage. When he got there all he could do was blubber about buying her a damn car, as if life was about buying cars. Alone in the woods and embarrassment was forcing hot blood into his face just thinking about it. He wanted her to taste these berries and eat these apples. To curl up with him in his tee-pee if it rained.

By the time the apples were baked done and the berries were cooked down to a sweet and sticky mash, it was full on dark. He ate the apples first since they were in danger of sliding off the sticks, put his berries aside to cool. Down by the water he could hear the frogs calling for mates. He got his gig ready, thought about trying to bag some meat a little later.

"Thanks to all this fruit, I ain't near hungry enough to go trying to catch frogs," he said out loud. He was sure Gator would be back tomorrow, and even if he didn't show, Harold was certain that if he started early and followed the path the way he had before, he would be literally out of the woods. He wouldn't starve. When the berries were cool enough he drank them down like a fruit smoothie and wiped his chin and the back of his hand.

He rinsed out the can that held the berries as best he could, drinking the watery juice and setting the can aside. Sleep came to mind. In the space between the fire and his wigwam he reclined on the flagstones that had once been the floor of the cabin. With his head resting on the bicep of his outstretched arm he looked at the fire.

There had to be a right and a wrong in all the things that had happened to him. He was either a prophet or he was not. He weighed the evidence, which was practically nothing except for the weird stuff Gator had told him and the little red car. Not much to base his decision on, he admitted that to himself. The whole idea was crazy anyway. But it couldn't just be dismissed either. Unable to decide he moved on to Bonnie. There had to be a right and a wrong there as well. It was hard to argue with the fact that Bonnie had turned him away after months of trying to get him to come home. That had to be wrong. Yet he admitted to himself he had been a clumsy ass. Right and wrong, true and false, they were as elusive as the wavy heat rising from the coals.

Something touched his hand and he jerked up to a sitting position pulling back. The mottled white spaniel from the orchard encounter pulled back a few feet and sat down staring at him.

"You scared the crud out of me," he said.

Harold knew he should have been scared, but he was not. The dog looked truly harmless, sad, and thin. He looked at the poor thing. The other dogs, the hound and the rottweiler, weren't in sight. Harold patted his chest with his hands and the dog came over and began licking his face and hands, clearing them of the remnants of the berries he had eaten earlier. He felt more secure with the dog near him. He stroked the matted fur until it went to sleep, and before he knew it, he was asleep too. But he dreamed of shadows and hands and disembodied lips that did not speak.

In the middle of the night he woke up feeling disoriented and edgy. This was the quietest place he had ever been. Silence was something that was relative, he saw that now. Once when he was twelve he had been to Luray Caverns. The tour guide had said that even when you think it's dark, there's just a little light. Eventually your eyes adjust, she had said, standing there in her lime green polyester skirt, white blouse, and matching lime scarf. Her blonde hair came down tight to her cheeks, then shot out at the bottom all the way around like the Liberty bell. She was holding the flashlight the way they held it in The Blair Witch Project. She said that your eyes adjust to even the slightest light, and sooner or later you can see just a little. A cavern, one as deep as Luray, she said, contains no light whatsoever. She said that most people have never experienced total darkness, that she had, and she wanted the tour to experience it too. Everybody joined hands, and she hit a button. The darkness was total. He could not see his hand before his face, it was like an opaque plastic bag over his head, and he had felt as if he would suffocate. It must have been no more than sixty seconds or so, no more than a minute of complete darkness. Nobody spoke, but you could hear sniffles, and a baby started to cry. A second longer and Harold would have joined in; but the lights came up and the tour had continued. He had never forgotten total darkness.

The silence in the woods was the same as the dark of Luray. In the city, when he had thought it was quiet, he saw now it had not been. The movement of each blade of grass was audible, and when there was a puff of breeze, he could hear the airy swish of the wind as it rushed around in the convolutions of his ear. A leaf flipping over could have been the honking of a car's horn it was so clear. More and more of them began to flip, turning up their bottoms to accept the rain that it was clear was coming.

Sweating by the smoky fire, eaten up with mosquito bites, he wanted the rain as much as he had ever wanted anything. He wanted the water to drink and he wanted to feel the coolness of it, but most of all he wanted something to fall out of the heavens and wash off the mud so that he could relax and breathe. He wanted something to come and get him clean on the outside so that he could start trying to feel clean on the inside.

He remembered having seen a plastic grocery bag stuck in the branches of a tree earlier in the day. He walked slowly that general direction, giving his eyes a chance to adjust. Just as the tour guide at Luray had promised, his eyes did adjust. There was just a little light coming from the moon and starts behind the clouds, but still he could not spot the bag. He stopped, closed his eyes, and held his breath. Soon he could hear it flapping in the wind. He opened his eyes and went over, stopping every few steps so that he could hear the flapping instead of the crunch of his own steps, then he saw it.

Back by the fire he took off his clothes, rolled them up small, and put them in the bag, which he stowed under his little lean-to. He moved his supply of wood underneath it as well. Then, squatting by the fire, he waited on the rain.

Clouds lit from the rear tracked across the moon in billows of indigo and gray trimmed in lavender. Thunder, more a vibration than a sound, said that the storm was coming closer still, close enough to smell now. Black clouds came in behind the others and the moon was gone. A few large drops of rain came down icy cold. Harold flinched at the first one, but then smiled. Grammy had said only a fool knows no better than to come in out of the rain. He laughed at his memory, smiled again, and kept looking up at the circle of sky afforded by the clearing. The trees at the edge were a swaying chorus, and their sounds were an opera of swishing leaves and rattling stems, black against the slightly less black of the sky. The cool air was a washcloth on Harold's scalding forehead.

The thunder came on more strongly, but it still came from far away. The more heavily the raindrops landed on him the lighter his spirit grew. He could no longer see any detail in the heavens, and his fire began to sputter. He moved away from it, turned his back to its ashy smoke and struggling flames, and looked over his little shelter into the deepest part of the woods

Feeling about he located a pile of bricks which had been part of the house's foundation wall and took a seat. He let the rain wash him clean. He moved his hands through his hair the way he would have if he had been in the shower. He shook himself like a dog. Out of synch from the thunder, faraway lightning, more a phosphorescence rather than a flash, pulsed above the trees at the rim of the heavens. The clouds glowed in the distance.

Time died with the absence of a watch. The rain faded into a drizzle and then stopped, and the dark clouds went away and allowed the moon to come out again. By its light he put some of the driest wood onto the remaining embers of the fire and pulled on his dry clothes. He wasn't cold, had almost dried in the breeze, but it was growing cooler by the minute, and he knew he'd be chilly soon.

Busied with his chores he had taken his eyes off the sky; when he looked up the clouds were like ocean sands after a receding tide, waves and ripples painted in stunning shades of purple, white, and lilac. He was pierced by the sight of it, unable to breathe. All of the oppressions – sweat, dirt, heat, insects – had been washed away. He felt as though he could raise his arms and fly up into the clouds. More than anything he wanted Bonnie to see what he saw, smell what he smelled, feel what he felt.

And he saw that she could have if he had not left her. If he had stayed by her side where he belonged, he wouldn't have to try and describe this experience. He was taking her for granted yet again, assuming that she would want to hear about this moment, assuming that she would be there for him when he got back. The urgency was intense as he began to feel that he might lose her, feeling for the first time that a life without Bonnie was possible, perhaps inevitable if he didn't let her know, right now, how he felt. More than anything else he finally understood the triviality of his previous concerns about jobs and homes and cars.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

# Chapter 20

Selecting 'shut down' from the start menu on her PC, Bonnie watched the screen go dark and picked up her bag to go home.

"G'night, have a great weekend," she said as she marched past the big office on the left on the way out the door.

"You too Bonnie," a voice came back.

The heat outside was full-on. It was only five, with almost four hours of daylight left. She guessed it was at least ninety degrees. The sun reflecting off the cars in the parking lot was so bright it was painful, the assault total. She hopped into her Toyota Cressida and turned it over turning on the AC immediately. Even though the seats were cloth, they were still hot on the backs of legs left bare by a skirt.

She undid the top button of her blouse and let out a sigh. She felt guilty for a second about not working late, since there was nobody to get home to, but then realized there was no point. Everything that needed doing was done. There was no sense becoming like Greg.

It was still shocking to her that Greg had gotten involved in a cult mythology that was the biggest bunch of hokey she had ever stumbled on in her life. They had done a good job of constructing a world that perfectly catered to Greg's need for power and control. Now he wasn't just a corporate big shot, he was the center of a religion, sought after as a prophet and visionary by warring groups. There was a time when he would have laughed at this kind of thing, but now, after years of dehumanizing himself in the pursuit of approval and money, and now that Big Brother had turned its back on him, he was easy pickings. She thought about calling the police, but Greg was an adult. The police couldn't do anything. There was no way she could afford one of those high-priced consultants specializing in cult extractions. Almost missing the highway entrance ramp, she veered right sharply and got on.

Giving up on Greg was not an option, and she felt guilty for allowing the thought to cross her mind. There had to be a way for her to change his perspective. It was like a magic trick, what they had done to Greg, as if he had lost his ability to evaluate what he was seeing. On the surface, everything made sense. But everyone knows that you can't produce a rabbit from a hat.

"Why can't Greg see this stuff?" she thought.

Once she had talked to an amateur magician at a party who explained how magic tricks worked. Bonnie thought about what the forgotten stranger had said. She recalled he had said that the magician controls what the audience knows, and leads them to make inaccurate assumptions.

"The audience thinks they know what's going on, but they don't."

The guy at the party had explained how somebody made the Statue of Liberty disappear one night in New York. She didn't know if the fellow was right, but he had said that the magician, the camera filming the trick, and the entire audience, their seats and all, were on a motorized platform. The lights went off on Lady Liberty which was in the distance behind the magician. He did his shtick, alakazaam, and so on, as a cover for the platform doing a one-eighty. Fireworks went off, loud music played. Nobody noticed the slowly rotating platform. At the magician's signal, the lights come up on a mock-up of the pedestal without the statue. Everyone is certain it's gone, when in reality it is behind their backs.

The AC was starting to blow cold just as she pulled into the driveway. To keep from smoking too much she had left her cigarettes at home that day. She scooted into the house looking forward to a relaxing smoke and a glass of white wine.

There were no messages on the answering machine, and the mail was lackluster. It was very cool and dark in the house. She dropped her purse, keys, and skirt on the stairs and went back to the kitchen. She got out a packet of instant soup from the cabinet and put it on the counter. First things first. She poured a glass of Chablis and sat on the sofa to relax. The phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey nerd, what's goin' on?"

"Oh, it's you," Bonnie said. "Nothing much. Big plans tonight?"

"Uh-uh. I'm doing the eat-comfort-food-and-watch-Lifetime thing. Wanna join me?"

"Thanks Teddie, sounds exciting, but uh, I'm just gonna hang out here tonight," Bonnie said.

"Waiting by the phone for Greg to call? Girl, he is not going to call. He's lost it," Teddie said.

"He came by and saw me a couple of nights ago. But that's not why I want to stay home. He's got my cell phone number, he can call me wherever. I just feel really thin, you know? Not like skinny thin, but thin like lace, like glass, like a loud sound would shatter me in pieces."

"What did he say? How did it go?"

"It's not cool," Bonnie said slowly, "not cool at all. He's...really lost right now, floundering around, you know..."

"Did you guys talk about getting back together?" Teddie asked.

"Nope. We have a ways to go before we can talk about that. We are...in two different realities right now. And to think that before he lost his job, we were talking about finally getting married. Now we're on two different planets. Somehow we're going to have to start seeing things the same way again. Not everything exactly the same, but at least the important stuff somewhat the same. It's so hard..."

"I'm sorry sweetie. Ya know, I used to think he'd realize how perfect you are and come home," Teddie said, "but now I'm not so sure."

"I'll never give up," Bonnie said.

"But what if he's changed? People change you know."

"People don't change," Bonnie said seriously. "Their perspectives change. And when you change someone's perspective, you change everything about them. How they think, what they believe, everything. Certain parts of them get weaker, sleeping parts wake up, but they don't change deep down. What they were is still there. You just need to get their perspective back to the way it was."

"Now you know why I call you 'nerd'," Teddie said. "That's a little too deep for me. If what I see is different, I call it changed, plain and simple. So there's no way I can talk you into coming over here for a few hours of chocolate and mindless TV?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just not in the mood. You wouldn't want me to come over and sit there like a bump, would you?"

"Yeah, that would be great," Teddie said. "C'mon."

"Jerk," Bonnie said.

"Nerd," Teddie said.

"How come you don't have a date? It's Friday night."

"I'm seeing Frankie tomorrow night. Tonight's his Dad's birthday. He asked me to go, but I said no thanks. I'm not ready to meet the parents yet."

"Do you love Frankie?" Bonnie asked.

"I don't know."

"How do you know you don't know?"

"If I did," Teddie said, "I would be sure. That's what my Mom always told me. When you're in love, you'll know. I don't know. But I like him a lot. That's good, right?"

"Yeah, that's good," Bonnie said. "I want to meet him sometime."

"You will, you will," Teddie said. "Look, my phone's about to go dead on me, so let me hang up before I get disconnected. If you get bored, just come by, okay? We can run out for donuts or something. Okay? Promise?"

"Sure, I promise," Bonnie said. "If I get bored I'll call. Bye Jerk."

"Bye Nerd!"

Bonnie dropped the cordless phone on the sofa, her unlit cigarette still in her hand, her wine untouched.

Saying it out loud to Teddie was good, the thing about perspective. It was all about perspective. She lit her cigarette and tasted the wine. Greg's perspective was all screwed up. She wished she could make him see things the way he saw them before. After all, that's all any intervention is, like a family intervention for an addict. Everyone's perspective just comes crashing in, and if it works, the addict has to accept a new way of looking at things.

They had rotated the bandstand on Greg and put the Statue of Liberty behind his back. She admitted it would be hard to punch holes in what Greg had told her. But if she assumed it was indeed like a magic trick, she could assume there had to be a way to explain what Greg had told her.

It was all fabricated or imagined, but she wondered how. She remembered reading that people often felt the presence of others when having near death experiences. As for the toy car, that's a separate magic trick of its own. If magicians can make tigers disappear from cages, surely one could make a toy car appear out of nowhere. Had Lucas done that? That was easy.

Going into the kitchen, she put the packet of soup back into the cabinet and made a pot of coffee instead. She smoked another cigarette and finished her glass of wine while the coffee dripped, filling the house with the smell of determination, study, and wakefulness. She could not stop thinking about making the Statue of Liberty disappear.

"It's behind Greg's back, it's behind my back, and we can't see it. This is not that complicated. C'mon girl, just turn around in your seat, and there's Lady Liberty."

When the coffee was ready she took the pot, a cup, and a pack of cigs out onto the patio and got to work on them. She admitted to herself that she was scared of Gator, scared by the things Greg had said. But by the time she had worked her way halfway down the pot of coffee she knew that she was more scared of losing Greg for good than she was of them.

Bonnie went inside and got into t-shirt, jeans and sneakers. She grabbed her keys and her purse, but before going out the door, she stopped and scheduled an email to go out on Monday if something happened to her, in case something went wrong.

to: tletica991@yahoo.com

from: bonnie_mooney@corrianderprods.net

subject: just in case

Hey Jerk --

Just in case I don't show up on Monday and everybody's looking for me I scheduled this email to go out. If you get this, something's wrong.

I'm going after Greg. He's gotten himself involved in some cult, and it might be dangerous and it might not. Two of the people in the group live in the house next door to the place where Greg grew up, the house on Batchelder St. I don't know their last names, but their first names are Lucas & Opal. And some guy has been snooping around the condo, a homeless person with long hair who pulls through the garbage. He wears a yellow and blue quilted flannel shirt all the time and he's got bizarre looking eyes.

If something has happened to me I'm sure it had to do with the people I just told you about. Give this email to the police and they'll find out what happened to me.

I'm sorry I couldn't come over and hang out with you tonight. If you're reading this email it means we probably won't have any chance of doing it another day. Just want you know that you've been a great friend and I love you. I wish I could type more but I have to get out of here while I still have the courage. You know I could type a phonebook full.

Hugs,

\--Bonnie

She locked up the house and hopped in the Cressida.

Friday night in the height of summer and the streets were full of cruising kids and middle-aged men in convertibles, all looking for the same things. The moisture and the heat were a culture that proliferated all kinds of growth, good and bad. Grass, flowers, dripping willows in the little front yards and medians. Mischievous teens in tank tops and shorts could stay out all night long without a single goose bump. The pink and white streetlight glare of the suburbs steadily passed away as she left it behind and headed out into the country. On a two lane road marked 55 she hit fourth gear for the first time with all the windows down, the sounds of insects so loud in her ears that it could have been playing on the stereo at top volume but it wasn't, it was coming in the windows, a hundred voices per square foot, a million square feet to an acre. She could smell honeysuckle, lavender, and mint, mowed grass, and diesel fuel. Bats and June bugs staggered through her high beams, in, out, gone.

It took all of half an hour to get there. She pulled up in front of the little clapboard redneck Shangri-la and jerked the handbrake, left the car unlocked with the windows open. She marched up to the front door and banged on it three times.

Lucas came to the door and opened it.

"They told me you were pretty, but it didn't do no good. You're so fine it hurts my eyes. You must be Bonnie. Come on in."

"Thanks," Bonnie said. She stepped inside onto the carpet and took in the simple room. It looked and smelled homey and comfortable. "I'm sorry I busted in on you like this. I was actually prepared to be really belligerent and pissed off, but I cooled down a little on the way over."

"Pissed off? About what?" Lucas asked.

"Never mind," she said. "I want to see Greg."

"He ain't here," Lucas said. "But..."

"Okay, I take that back. I didn't cool off on the way over. No messages, no blah-blah-blah, I want to see Greg. Immediately, as in right now..."

"Okay, okay, don't get all bent out o' shape," Lucas said. "Me and Opal were just going to the club meeting. He might turn up there. You follow us over. Just give us a minute to lock up. I guess it's time you met the group anyways."

"I thought he was living with you and Opal?"

"He was. Things have changed."

"Honestly, I really don't want to meet your group. No offense, you seem like nice people, but I just want to talk to Greg. That's all."

"Well, it's like this darlin'," Lucas said. "There's going to be a couple of fellows there whose job it is to make sure that nothing happens to Greg. And if anybody knows where he is, they will. That's the best I can do. Take it or leave it."

"I'll wait in my car," Bonnie said.

She went back out and sat down behind the wheel, turned over the engine and rolled up the windows. This was so much easier than she thought, yet there was a peculiar tension building, and she kept wanting to look behind to see if someone was sneaking up on her. The windows being closed made it better. She turned on the AC. In a few moments Lucas and Opal appeared from around back of the house on board a Harley soft-tail built for cruising. As it came off the gravel onto the tarmac Bonnie eased in behind it and checked to be sure her high beams weren't on. She noted the license plate on Lucas' bike – 'DFTR' – and wondered what it meant, staring at it all the way to their destination.

The pulled onto a long driveway off the unmarked rural route and followed it past a farmhouse, whose windows all were dark, and stopped in front of a free-standing garage. Bonnie got out and followed Lucas and Opal across the packed dirt and gravel to the side door. Light showed around all four edges as well as through cracks in the miters.

Inside there were folding chairs, a crusty sofa, tool benches, and an old riding mower, each one holding a person. They all looked like castaways from a 50's motorcycle drive-in movie. Vests, black t-shirts, leather chaps. But instead of being all in their twenties, Bonnie noticed that they were of all ages. Lucas seemed to be the oldest.

"Hey gang, this is Bonnie, Harold's wife. Bonnie, meet the Legion of Kronos Motorcycle Club."

She decided not to correct him on the fact that they weren't married. She nodded to the group, who were all arranged so they were facing the side door. One lonely metal folding chair was set facing the others. Another one in the crowd sat empty waiting for Opal, who moved over and took it.

"Here Bonnie, you take my seat. Look guys, Bonnie is pretty upset, as I'm sure you can imagine, and she wants to see her man, and we are going to help her out with that. Bonnie, we are glad to help you, and we will. But first, we'd like to introduce ourselves to you, so you get a feel for who we are and what we are all about. Is that alright?"

"Sure," she said. "What the heck, go ahead."

"I'll start. My name's Lucas and I'm 54. I'm the Regent of the club, and I'm here because some years ago I realized that life was about more than money and power and possessions, and I wanted to be part of a group of like-minded people. Now, somebody else go next. Say your name, your age, your title if any, and why you're here."

"I'm 32 years old and I'm Billy," Billy said. "I'm here because I've been channeling a serial killer for about fifteen years, and after being in and out of jail most of my life, I found some people who didn't think I was crazy for seeing the things I see. They don't freak out when I start talking about wicked evil shit. By the way, you look so nice, I think green's your color, Hefty bag green..."

"Thanks Billy," Lucas said. "But remember the rules. Bonnie, we have four rules in this club: No swearing, no hate speech, no drugs or alcohol, and no lies. Billy has a problem with the swearing part. Who's next?"

"I'm Jigsaw and I'm 30. Master of Starry Wisdom. I am the keeper of our book of knowledge. I'm here because I used to think I was crazy because I saw all these connections between the various religious and occult traditions from around the world, and I wanted to find some people who valued what I knew. Thanks for listening."

"Cantrell, Master of Ring and Key. I keep track of membership and finances. I started coming here for the addiction support, but I stayed for the whole picture. Clean and sober thirty years. Thanks for coming."

"I'm Tonya, I read Tarot cards and do palmistry for the group. Blessed be."

"Monty here. I fell in with this bunch of characters when I was a grad student at Mississippi State University debunking occult phenomena. I got an email from Jigsaw and the rest is history. Great to meet you."

"I'm Opal. We've met. You know me already don't you honey?"

"Yes Opal, thank you," Bonnie said, unashamed of the impatience in her voice. The situation was uncomfortable, eerie, and she was not getting any closer to seeing Greg. She was squirming, and she wanted this to stop; and yet, one by one these strange and broken people were standing up and announcing themselves to her with what seemed to be complete honesty and openness.

"I'm Frank, pleased to meet you Bonnie. I had a moto-cross accident, got addicted to painkillers, and came to the group for support. I found it. Thanks for coming."

"I'm Charity, and I'm 22. I'm a recovering sex addict, and I'm here because it's the one place in the world I know that no matter how hard I try to get them to do it to me, nobody will let me down. This is my safe haven."

"I'm 40 and my name is Ed. I'm here because this place is such a dang hoot. I like coming so I can laugh at the crazy doo-doo they come up with every week. Plus they accept me and don't think strange of me even though I can move objects with my mind."

"I'm Ashok. Hi."

"Hi Ashok," Bonnie said.

"Go ahead Ashok," Lucas said.

"I don't want to."

"Why not?" Lucas asked.

"Because I'm going to die and she's going to take my chair, and it's not fair," Ashok said.

"Come on Ashok, don't be that way. You're not going to die. You've said that about every person who's ever come to visit us. Be nice to Bonnie."

"Whatever. I'm 19 and I'm Ashok. I just joined earlier this year. I think I might be borderline autistic, but I'm not sure. I went to a shrink who said I was schizo. I'm not kidding, he really did. I flush the medication and come here instead, it's better. Anyway..."

"Wrap it up," Lucas said.

"Okay, well, Blue Oyster Cult so rocks," Ashok said, and collapsed into a chair like a stringless puppet.

"I'm Missy and this is my son Pluto, it's short for Plutarch. I'm 27 and my boy Pluto is 10. I'm a recovering crack addict, and I'm here for the support. And also because I want my son to have a big family to love him since my boyfriend won't have anything to do with us and I don't have any family left."

"Thank you people," Lucas said. " Now I'd like for you sinners to shut up for a few minutes and let Bonnie talk. Go ahead Bonnie."

Bonnie looked out at the faces staring at her with expectation. The fluorescent lights of the garage made her feel as though she was on stage. These were real people, not the paper dolls she would have imagined in her head back at the house if she had envisioned this circumstance, which she had not. She wished that she had.

"I really don't have anything to say to you people," Bonnie said, then paused. "I'm sorry, I know how that sounds. Whenever you say 'you people' it's like a slap in the face. I don't mean to be rude. All I mean is that I didn't come here to see you as a group, I came to find Greg."

"We know him as Harold," Lucas said.

"Okay, Harold then. I have lots to say to Harold."

"Tell us," Billy said. "Is it sexy?"

"Billy, please," Lucas said. "Quit trying to freak her out."

"I can talk for myself," Bonnie said to Lucas. "Maybe I do have something to say to this group." She turned back to facing them.

"Billy, I don't think you've been channeling a serial killer, whatever channeling means. I think you're just a sick bastard looking for an excuse to be disgusting. And as for the rest of you, I think you're probably pretty much the same. Not sick bastards, that is, people with problems looking for a reason or a cure or both. And that's okay, whatever works for you. But you dragged Greg into this, and that's what pisses me off. Just tell me where Greg is, and I'll let you get on with your meeting."

Monty couldn't resist speaking up. "I know all this is hard to believe, but there are things in this world that are very, very real that cannot be explained by science. If you had time I'd show you some photos I took at a fairy ring in Southampton County last year that would blow your mind. If you don't know what fairy rings are, they are massive patches of fungi that live underground in huge nearly perfect circles. There seems to be some connection between fairy rings and...nevermind. Anyway, you shouldn't be so dismissive."

"Are you sure you should be discussing this?" Ed interrupted.

"Are you sure I give a shit?" Bonnie said. She had her hands in her back pockets with her elbows stuck out. "You have some scary pictures, and maybe you had some kind of scary experience. So what?" Bonnie said. "Lots of people have strange things happen to them, I see them all the time on the Discovery Channel, but they haven't put fairies in high school science books yet now have they? Now, I'm done being patient. Where's Greg?"

"Well spoken," Lucas said. "But we don't know where he is. We're as worried as you are."

"You're a damned liar."

"That's not what you mean," Lucas said. "Swearing is the refuge of folks who don't care enough to think of the right word."

"Yeah," Billy said. "I'm not a bastard, I'm an anti-social personality. Get it right sweet-cheeks."

"Okay, that's it," Bonnie said.

"Hold on," Lucas said, but she didn't turn around. She was gone.

In the Toyota she decided what she would do. She was still wired, but stopped for cigarettes and a cup of coffee on the way to Lucas' place anyway. Once there, she parked her car down the block and waited for Greg to show up.

# Chapter 21

There was no answer to his knock. Harold went around back, entered the patio through the wooden privacy fence's gate, and got the spare keys from inside the hollow ceramic cherub that was supposed to look like bronze. One key was small and brass and worked the sliding glass door. The other one was a green duplicate for the front door. Back around front he put it in the deadbolt, then undid the knob lock.

Harold went into the townhouse and looked around. Everything was as he remembered. Although it had only been a couple of months, it seemed to him he had been gone longer, and although there was nothing special about the stuff that cluttered it, the place was special. No matter where he ended up, he never wanted to forget the way it was right then. He wished Bonnie had been standing there. He was surprised at himself when he had the thought that this nothing-special townhouse, with exact duplicates on every side, was every bit as special as his grandparent's house in the country.

Just to be sure she wasn't there he went through every room and checked, collecting every wisp of loneliness she had left behind when she went. He was used to being outside, and all of the placed he'd been staying had no air conditioning. The condo was cold and the air was stale from cigarettes. _That would be my fault_ , he thought _. If either of us smokes we both smoke._ He opened the windows as he went and afterward turned off the thermostat.

He realized that she might be home any minute, and decided the smart move would be to not look like a man who had jumped off a bridge, or to smell like a man who lately forgot to bathe and brush his teeth. His toothbrush was still in the stand. He recalled that when he had gone to live at the farmhouse he had left it there and bought a new one. He dabbled on some toothpaste, stuck it in his mouth, and turned on the shower.

With his back to the hot spray he brushed his teeth and tried not to think too much, concentrated on the gunk in the dimples between his teeth and tried to let the stress go. The water was great, and he remembered a song and wished he could recall all of the lyrics but could not. Right or wrong he sang it anyway. At least he had the tune, and he hummed it along until he was ready to get out. There was a towel on the rack and he used it. The mood was gone, the feeling of homecoming, the welcoming, the familiarity. It was very quiet, and his humming was a transistor radio in the Library of Congress.

He stopped humming. A few pairs of pants and a couple of shirts slouched on hangers in the closet for later. There were underwear and socks in the drawer. He put on boxers and for the first time in recent memory he did not flinch and suck in his gut when he passed in front of Bonnie's full-length mirror. He had lost some weight and he looked better, but the difference was that he felt good in his skin.

Exhausted and comfortable in his body, but in his head a million miles from sleepy, Harold reclined on the bed on his back. The streetlights made the window shades and curtains glow aquamarine, the orange stripes in the curtains going up and down like the trunks of trees. The room was a faerie forest, the occasional headlight outside a will o' wisp. A zephyr of air made the ruffles on the rocking chair's trim flutter, and he jumped. Using a trick from childhood he put his forearm over his eyes, imagined the scene that always put him to sleep the fastest.

He was an Eskimo inside a dark igloo, and his family was all about beneath heavy skins to stay warm. The air was crisp and damp, but inside the furs it was snug. Everyone he loved was there and curled up with him, his grandparents behind, Bonnie in front, their little boy between. Someday there would be real child, but for now he imagined playing with his son's hair, imagined how his breath would sound and smell. This was the image that made sleep come the fastest. Tucked beneath the warmest covers imaginable with his loved ones, the wind and snow arching over them all. It did not work this time.

The image of his sanctuary of snow had not worked. He opened his eyes and stared at the window again. The whole room was aquamarine. When his eyes opened he went from igloo to aquarium. Perhaps imagining waves and calm silent water would work. The peach stripes on the wallpaper became coral, the glow from outside the lights of boats passing overhead. It was working until he thought of the bay, and his eyes opened like clams in a pot.

He could hear the humming of the refrigerator's compressor, and very faintly the sounds of insects in the shrubs outside the window. No Friday night partygoers pulled in to the complex, no big trucks rumbled by on the main road. There were no sirens, no stereos, no blaring TV sets.

Into the aquarium of the bedroom came the squeak of floorboards muffled by carpet. The delay between them was too long, as if whoever was coming didn't want to be heard. He almost called out her name, but he was positive it wasn't Bonnie. He stared at the door and didn't know what to do. The door was on the side wall on his left, the hallway running out and away around the corner. The creaking stopped. The thought of someone waiting to jump around the corner, or slowly appear from around the edge of the doorjamb, put a hissing in his ears and a chunking in his chest.

"Come around the corner goddamn you!"

Whoever it was ran down the hall, he could hear the banging over he sound of his heart, and he got up and followed. When he burst into the hall he saw movement without a shape go out the front door. He ran and looked out but they were gone. Harold slammed and locked the front door, put his palms against it and let his head hand down, breathing heavily.

It had been the same way when he was kid. When he had a friend over to play he couldn't stand it when they played hide and seek and he had to slink around the old house or in the yard peeking and searching. Lurking around a corner made the nicest playmate seem sinister. It was too much, the anticipation, the not knowing, he couldn't stand it, never could.

He jerked at the door without thinking, stopped and undid the locks, lurched out onto the stoop in his boxers and called out, "Gator!"

"Gator!" he called, "Gator!"

# Chapter 22

The phone rang and Lucas answered, "Hello?"

"It's Harold."

"Harold? Where the heck have you been?"

"I was sort of camping, but right now I'm at Bonnie's, I mean, at our place, in town, but she's not here."

"Look, about before..."

"Don't worry about it," Harold said. "I understand. I been doing some thinking, and I think I have my head screwed on straight for the first time in about six months, and I have some things I want to do..."

"Hold on a second," Lucas said. "Bonnie isn't there because she's out looking for you. And she's serious about it. She showed up at my place tonight and went to the club meeting with us, hoping you'd turn up."

"Really?"

"Uh huh. But that's not all. Remember the rings I told you about? Monty got back night before last with the rings and he got robbed at the airport. The chick that did it said she was with the Disciples of Demeter. We have to get those rings back. I'm waiting on a call from Jigsaw, he's calling some friends of his who have DMV access so we can go to the address."

"Hold on," Harold said. "Where's Bonnie now?"

"I don't know."

"Well, when you get that address, call me and I'll meet you there."

"Are you serious? You mean you're coming?" Lucas said.

"Oh yeah. I'm in. Call me."

"Will do," Lucas said.

# Chapter 23

Loud music on the boom box covered Brenda's entry. She stood there for a couple of minutes looking at Tonya from behind as she packed a corrugated box and sang the Top 40 lyrics right along.

"What are you doin' honey?" Brenda said.

She whipped around and stared back. "Oh thank God, it's you. You scared the crap out of me!"

"What's up?" Brenda asked.

"I'm packing, like we talked about," Tonya replied.

Brenda reached over and turned off the music. Tonya was still staring at her the way road kill does before it gets dead.

"What's wrong? You're looking at me funny," Brenda asked.

"Nothing honey, nothing. I'm just surprised to see you. I thought I wasn't going to see you until after I got to Linda's."

"Yeah," Brenda said, "that was...the plan, that we talked about. But I was thinking..."

"Yeah?"

"I was thinking I want to find out who the cops were who came by. Can I have the card?"

"What card?" she asked.

"The business card," Brenda said. "Cops always leave a business card and tell you to call them if you think of anything."

"I don't remember a card," she said. "Maybe one of them gave me a card, I don't remember."

"That's funny," Brenda said, "they _always_ leave a card. Do you remember either of their names? I really want to know if these are cops that have dragged me in before. I want to know what I'm up against, you know?"

"One was named Green and other I don't remember. Green did most of the talking."

"And Green didn't give you his card?" Brenda asked.

She shifted her weight onto her left foot and looked at the ceiling and Brenda knew that was the tell. She was lying. She said something, but Brenda didn't pay attention.

"You aren't going to Linda's, you're leaving, with the money, for wherever," Brenda said and pulled her .38 out from under her t-shirt.

Outside there was the sound of somebody on the steps. They both looked up but the curtains were drawn. Brenda pulled one back and looked outside.

Harold walked up the four wooden stairs to the trailer's little stoop and knocked. "This is Harold Mooney; can I talk to you a minute?"

"Sure, hold on a second."

The door opened and he saw a girl in her late twenties he thought he'd seen before. Her face was set, as if its flesh was no longer elastic.

"I remember you, you're the fortune teller from the club, right? What are you doing here?"

"Shhh," she said, "get in here."

Harold came in and Tonya shut the door and locked it.

"What's going on?"

"I did some investigating on my own," she said, "and I used the cards of course. This is where the thief who took the rings used to live. As you can see, she didn't get done packing before she left. I've been searching the place for over an hour and I can't find the rings or any sign of where she took off to. What are you doing here?"

"Same as you, trying to find out what happened to the rings. How come you didn't call Lucas and tell him what you knew?"

"I wasn't sure I was right," Tonya said. "I'm the newest member of the club. Lucas isn't going to trust my hunches, you know."

"And you were hoping against hope," Harold said smiling wide, "that you could prove yourself to the group by bringing back the rings."

"Yeah..."

"You know what," Harold said. "What you did is bad enough, but lying to the club is worse when you think about how they welcomed you in and trusted you."

"What?" Tonya asked.

"Knowing Lucas, if you had just told him what you did, he wouldn't have even kicked you out."

"What did I do?" Tonya asked, her face becoming plastic long enough for her forehead to crack in the middle. "You must be mixed up..."

"No mix up. I might be crappy at self evaluation, but I know how to read people, and you are full of crap. You're a con artist aren't you?"

"That's what you're doin' too," she said, "playing the prophet and taking them for a ride. You're just scared I'm going to wreck your gig. Well I won't. It's cool."

"Actually," Harold said, "It's the other way around. We all kinda got played. Tell whoever's over there to come around the corner. I got a thing about people peeking at me from around corners."

Brenda came in from the hallway pointing her pistol into the space between Harold and Tonya.

"I want to hear this," Brenda said. "I got played. How'd you get played?"

"It's kinda personal," Harold said. "It's a great story if you want to hear it."

"We got time. Go ahead."

Harold said, "Sure. I know you're probably used to talking with a gun in your hand, but I'm not used to talking with one even in the room, much less while having one pointed at me. Do you mind?"

Brenda didn't answer, she just redirected it at Tonya.

"Thanks. How much do you know about the motorcycle club?"

"All of it," Brenda said. "Everything she knows, I know. Pretty much. Except for the lies."

"Okay," Harold said. "It was all a big set up from the beginning. Do you know who Gator is?"

"Not really," Brenda said. "Tonya mentioned him, some bum."

"Well I haven't talked to him since I figured this all out, but..."

"He doesn't talk," Tonya said.

"He talks, but only to me. It's complicated, and I don't one hundred percent understand it myself. But anyway, I haven't talked to him yet to make sure, but it looks like he told the club I was the prophet they were looking for because he wanted me to learn something about myself. I think he thought that I would learn and grow from it. So here I am, everybody thinking I'm some a prophet with powers, and I'm just a guy that got tricked. I don't have any powers, the rings don't have any powers, it's all bullshit."

"Uh huh," Brenda said. "I knew that."

"Except for one thing. And that's how Gator felt about me. He was my friend when we were kids, little kids. His memories of our friendship saved him from a future he didn't want. And he was trying to save me from a future I didn't want. Now that \-- _that_ is special."

"I had a future I wanted," Brenda said to Harold, but while glaring at Tonya. "She screwed it up. I stole for her, after I swore I wasn't doing that anymore. I got the cash for the rings and she was going to take it and run off."

The crash that came made them all jump. The door burst in and caught Harold on the back and shoulder, propelling him him deeper into the living room to land on his side on the dingy carpet. Tonya fell back and tripped on the rug, hitting the floor hard too, and in the middle of them Billy, who hadn't expected the door to give way with such ease.

Aside from backing up a step, Brenda was unshaken. "Stay right there," she said. "All of ya!"

"You mean to tell me this was all _bullshit_!" Billy screamed. He was scrambling over to Harold on all fours. He took Harold by the throat with both hands.

"I trusted Gator and he did this to me? He was always clinging to me, he didn't say nothing, but I thought we were friends, and I trusted you too, and now..."

"Chill out," Brenda ordered. "I said -- chill out!"

Outside in the front yard Lucas was wrestling with Bonnie who was fighting to get inside.

"Greg! Greg!" she screamed. She could see through the doorway that Billy was on top of Harold.

"Don't!" Lucas cried. "Wait here, I'm goin' in, you wanna get shot or something?"

Brenda gave her order again and Billy looked up from his work, loosened his grip. Harold pushed the hands away.

"Damn it Billy...let me talk, get off me..."

"Don't anybody do nothing," Brenda said.

"Look, everybody, this isn't as bad as you think," Harold said. "It's not, but you have to _listen_ to me, all of you."

"Bite me," Billy said. He was baring his teeth, like he did we wanted to be scary, but Harold could tell he was on the verge of tears.

"What's your name?"

"Call me 'Gun', cause that's what matters," Brenda said.

"You're Brenda, right? The one who stole the rings? 'We ran the tag on your bike," Harold said. "Brenda, I know how you feel. Awhile back I thought my wife betrayed me. I thought all she wanted was for me to be successful. I even made a half-assed try at killing myself because of it. But I found out that she was the best thing in my life, and I'm so glad I got my head on straight, thanks to Gator. You don't know if it's true that Tonya was all about the money. Let's talk about it, okay?"

Brenda thought Harold was saran wrap, pretty much transparent, and she'd be able to tell if he was smoking her. "How come you think you know so much about us," she said. "You don't know shit."

"I don't, you're right, just what I heard. I was listening a little before I knocked on the door..."

"It's because..." Brenda said. "It's because of the mark. She decided she couldn't be with me because of the mark."

"What mark?" Harold said.

"Don't screw with me!" Brenda yelled, pulling the hammer back on her revolver. "My face, because of my face!"

And then Harold saw what she was talking about, a purple birthmark on her cheek about the size of a dime. Not much really, not enough spoil her attractiveness.

"Honest, I never noticed it until you just said something."

"Everybody says that," Brenda said. "I got at least one bullet for each of you. You're going to have to do better than that."

"I'm with you sis," Billy said and stood up. "This is a crock of shit and I'm leaving."

"No you ain't," Brenda said. "Sit down."

"Better do it," Tonya said from the floor. "She's done time for cappin' somebody before. My baby's a bad-ass."

"You can all eat me," Billy said, and sat down.

Harold started again. "Listen to me. You have a mark and so do I. This guy Gator pinned it on me, that I was some kind of prophet, you see? And it wasn't true, but when he made me look at myself to figure it all out, I saw that the mark wasn't me at all. Somewhere in there I figured who I was and who I wasn't. You can do that too."

"Do what?"

"Look at yourself," Harold said. "Is that mark part of you? It's on your face, not on your _soul_. You can be whoever you want to be. You don't have to be a killer. You've known love, and so what if Tonya was only about the money..."

"I wasn't," Tonya said.

"...it doesn't matter. There was something pure and trusting in you, without a mark. Think about it," Harold said. "That spot is nothing. _Nothing_."

Harold looked at Brenda, his teeth squeaking dry on the backside of his lips from all the talking and the tension. She was still holding the pistol like she meant business and her face was showing the strain. He took in the other players. Billy was looking out the window with this mouth open. Maybe he was mulling over his own mark and what it meant to him. Tonya's face was as unknowable as it had been along. When she wasn't acting it was a block of unsculpted clay, but still he saw there were tears brimming in her eyes.

"What if there was no money?" Brenda said. "What if I burned it? Would you be with me, the way like it was?"

"I..." Tonya locked up. "I..."

There was a rustle of cloth and Harold looked that way. He saw Bonnie for the first time, still pulling away from Lucas outside.

He smiled and Bonnie could not smile back because she was too afraid, but at the same time she wanted to go inside and throw her body across him to protect him. She had heard it all and she knew that he was himself again, he was the man she had spent all weekend with in the apartment reading a dumb book and making love and cooking on the grill at midnight. All she could do was shake her head left to right wanting him to be out of there and away from that gun.

The bang inside the little trailer was loud.

"Say something!" Brenda yelled, pulling the gun down to level after firing one up into the ceiling.

"I don't know if I can trust you!" Tonya yelled. "I don't know if I can trust anybody, but I guess if I could, it would be you. Yeah, now that I know how you feel, I would rather be with you, money or no money."

Brenda studied Tonya and made her decision. She made the revolver safe and turned it around butt first. She walked up to Tonya and handed her the pistol.

"Then prove it," Brenda said. "You got the gun now. Give the cash to them, it was their rings I stole anyway. That should shut up 'em up, then you and me can hit the road. "

Tonya stood up, slung her cash-heavy purse over her shoulder, and took the gun.

"Dumb-ass," she said, and waiving the .38 at everyone, laughed and gently stepped through the remains of the door. The trailer was silent as they heard her start the El Camino and head out.

"I guess we're all done here," Brenda said, and flopped onto the sofa. "You cats can blow now."

"You know what?" Billy said, "I want you in the club. You got balls."

"Screw your club."

Billy went on. "So, your license plate, 'DUN TIM.' Does that mean you did a guy named Tim, or does that mean you did time?"

"God I wish I hadn't given her my damn gun," Brenda said.

On the other side of the room Bonnie and Harold were hugging. Lucas was looking away and working his jaw to keep anyone from spotting the way his chin was starting to bunch up.

"You were coming to save me," Harold said.

"I got sick of waiting, but I was too late."

"No you weren't, you did save me, you just didn't need to be here to do it," he said.

"I heard what you said."

"About what?" Harold asked.

"About Gator. Tell me what happened."

"Yeah," Harold said, "I should have realized that Gator couldn't have known all those things magically, but when you're into a situation, it's hard to think straight."

Bonnie took him by the hair on the back of his head and gave it a playful shake. "Come on, tell me what made you realize all this?"

"I'll tell you later, all about it. Basically, I figured out that I have the ability to make my dreams come true, just like everybody does, you know? The usual way, not by waving a magic wand, or by having some mystical dream."

"What about Gator?"

"I think he's this kid who used to live on the farm next to us. He had a lot of problems as a kid, and he moved away when I was a teenager. They said he had gone mental, nothing specific, you know back then it wasn't like it is now and people weren't as savvy about stuff. Mental illness was a bigger deal than it is now.

"A few nights ago we were out in the woods, and he told me that he knew everything about me. He said he had had a kind of daydream and saw my whole life flash before him. At the time, I thought it was evidence that all this stuff was real. But then he showed up at the condo. I was there, waiting for you, but you were out looking for me. He snuck in a window or something, and he was hiding around a corner. That made me remember playing hide and seek, and then I realized how he knew all that suff about me. He must've forgotten some of his childhood memories, and then one night he remembered everything in a rush. Maybe he looked me up and followed me around, trying to work up the guts to talk to me."

"What about the toy car?" Lucas asked, cutting in.

"He used to work in a body shop, he mentioned that. He fixed it up while he was living with you, and he put under that tall bed in the spare bedroom where I found it. I bet recovering his memories started his healing..."

"I don't get it," she said. "Back up."

"...it started his healing, you know, remembering everything. He was following me around, and he saw that I was having problems. Hell, he might have even been the one who pulled me out of the bay that night."

Lucas was no longer looking away, he was staring without shame, leaning against the door jamb.

"After I jumped into the bay he saw I was struggling," Harold said. "So he led the group to me. He doesn't speak, so when he pointed me out, you guys made all of the assumptions, that I was the prophet. Maybe he knew that laying that mark on me would make me look in the mirror and help me to see what was real and what wasn't. When I got wrapped up in The Congregation and left the LEGION OF KRONOS, he snapped. It was do-or-die time. He talked to me because he thought if he didn't I might never get back to reality."

"Why do you think that?" Bonnie said.

"The Congregation is very homey and comfortable, very seductive," Harold answered.

"Uh, there's a worm in your ointment," Lucas said.

"What's that?" Harold asked.

"Gator pegged you for the prophet two months before you jumped in the bay. He's why me and Opal moved in next door to your grandparent's place. And he was with the club a year before that."

"Maybe it was my drinking, my move to the old home place that made him decide to make me into a prophet. Either way, it still works," Harold said. "I don't know why he joined the club. That's the one thing I can't figure out."

While Harold was talking Lucas had sat on the stoop's top step with his elbows on his knees. Harold took Bonnie's hand and went outside. She understood when he let go her hand and sat down next to Lucas.

"I'm sorry Lucas," he said.

"It's not your fault. It is what it is. Give it a name and we can all call it somethin' I guess," Lucas said.

Thinking carefully, Harold looked over at the back of Lucas' head with the brown and gray braided pony tail hanging sadly down. Lucas was looking out into the yard. Harold took so long thinking that Lucas spoke again without turning.

"I wanted to believe that there was something at work in the world. I've spent my adult life trying to find a message, you know, something recent and firsthand, some kind of proof that we can receive messages from beyond this dirty world. I guess I was wastin' every minute."

"No," Harold said. "You weren't. You kept the club going, and who knows how many lives you saved just keeping people off drugs and alcohol. Besides, you got your message. I still don't know why Gator did what he did, but I know that there's not much chance of everything shaking out like it did by chance. There's magic in the world, just not the kind you were looking for. It's more...subtle than that."

"Thanks Fred," Lucas said. "Me and Scooby'll meet you back at the Mystery Machine."

"Okay, that was a little corny, but it's true. I can't wait to talk to Gator. I have a million questions," Harold said.

Lucas let out a puff of air from his nose that signaled he did too. He finally took his eyes off the yard and looked at Harold.

"It's been nice knowing you. You're a hell of a guy," Lucas said.

"Where am I going?" Harold asked.

"Well I figured..."

"Figured what? Prophet or no prophet, I'm the new club Prez," Harold said, "and my first order is for you to get off your fat ass, get Billy, and let's get out of here."

Lucas smiled and stood up. "Awright then," he said. "C'mon Billy!" he hollered, and began to haul his gut down the steps. He stopped on the bottom one, and when no one could see, he dragged a thumb through the wrinkles beneath his eyes where the tears had been trapped, snorted hard, and blasted spit into the tree line at the edge of the yard. Somebody was pulling into the driveway. Lucas looked up and saw the El Camino pulling in. Tonya got out, slammed the door and plodded the twenty paces up to Lucas.

"Excuse me," Tonya said looking down to avoid his eyes, trying to squeeze by.

"First gimme that roscoe," Lucas said sticking out his arm to block her way.

"Roscoe?" she asked.

"The gun."

Tonya pulled it out of her bag and put it in his wrinkled, earnest hand. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Shut up and get in there," Lucas said.

She didn't look up, just turned sideways and went by him up the steps and into the trailer, past Bonnie and Harold on the landing, and over to stand in front of Brenda.

"Billy, let's go," Harold said, and the big man responded by getting up to make room.

"This is screwed up," Tonya said. "I can't leave. I know I'm being stupid, stupider than the butt-holes who pay me twenty bucks to read the cards or the lines on their hands. I'm a sucker, just like them, and I'm sorry."

Brenda didn't get up, she just sat there staring, so Tonya knelt on the floor at Brenda's feet.

"Hell yeah!" Billy said.

"Don't even think about making a smart-ass remark," Harold said. "Shut your mouth."

Brenda took Tonya's purse and tossed it at Harold. "There's twenty thousand in there that's yours," She said. "Does that square us?"

"Gotta clear it with the guys," Harold said. "They weren't my rings, they were the property of the club. But I guess no harm no foul. They didn't have any powers anyway."

# Chapter 24

There was a FOR SALE sign in front of Harold's grandparent's old home place, the flourescent letters standing out even in the moonlight. Gator knew that once the house was sold he would only be able to visit on nights like this, when nobody knew he was coming and the light of the moon was only kind to his adjusted eye. He would never again be able to sit in the shade and relive the memories, or be able to step out into the bright shafts of sun and feel the clovered tops of the lawn on his ankles. In the end he knew it was just a place, that with care his memories would stay fresh, but he still felt a soft and sentimental sadness he couldn't deny.

Beyond Harold's place to Lucas' rented house next door, he walked past the Winnebago in the gravel driveway. Lucas' hog was lynched behind it on a trailer. It was full-on dark with only a half moon, and he moved unseen and unheard with silent confidence. He came around back, stopping for a moment to look next door again. Under the shed's rusty awning there was a blank spot where the little red car had been. Turning back to the RV he saw that saw that indeed the toy car was strapped down on the roof. Harold was going to keep the antique, and it made him feel good after all the work he had put into it.

The night was cool. Autumn was coming, and no mosquitoes were out. Through the window beside the back door Gator watched and listened as Harold and Bonnie kept Lucas and Opal company. The older couple was packing their things to go.

"It's amazing how little you really need when you think about it," Harold said. "I think we ended up with about what Honey? Three boxes and two armfuls of clothes each?"

"About that," she said. "If it wasn't for my books it would have been less than that."

Lucas grunted and said, "Me and Opal are used to moving with just what we can carry on the two-wheeler. This is luxury!"

"Yep," Opal said, "This is like traveling on Air Force One alright. I got us a box of plates and cups and what not for the motor home, so we don't have to buy paper. It's over by the door. Don't let me forget it, okay?"

"I won't Baby," Lucas said. "Heck, I'll just take it out here in a minute. Say, did we ever agree on where we're goin' first?" Lucas asked.

"Doesn't matter," Harold said. "We can go to them all. Can't believe what we got for the condo and the cars, plus we have a little more coming from the estate after the medical bills are all paid. Hey, do you think the club will be okay while we're gone?"

"Cantrell's got it all covered," Lucas said. "He's a fine leader and he's tight on the purse strings, so I bet he'll still have most of that twenty thousand when we get back. Besides, we got the cell, he can call us if there's a problem. All you got to worry about is which sights you want to see."

"How 'bout the Grand Canyon first?" Bonnie said.

"Yeah, that's good," Opal said, "The Grand Canyon, and then..."

"And then points West," Lucas finished. "Yellowstone's what I want to see. Grizzlies and big trees. I want ride through there on my bike, if those buggers won't eat me. Heck, they probably won't even let you go through there on a bike..."

Turning away from the window, Gator walked over to the fence and took one last look at the yard where he had learned what friendship was. There was a pile of rotten timbers that had been the picnic table where he had eaten cheese sandwiches with little Greg, learning at once about both charity and humility. His problems, his reputation, his trips to the hospital, they hadn't mattered to the Mooney family at all. There he was always welcome, there was food to share, and games to play until late Sunday afternoons. Actions not words.

He left the driveway and took the narrow shoulder of the road, heading East toward the ocean a couple of days away on foot. As much as he wanted to stay with them and ride with them, he knew he couldn't hack it. He determined to look them up in a year or so when things settled down, if he could find them, if he had found a voice for anyone besides his best friend, if his restlessness had gone away. If he could close his eyes with his head on a real pillow and sleep inside four walls.

Gator felt good overall. Harold and Bonne had been reunited, the Legion of Kronos Motorcycle Club was no longer living in a fantasy world, and he had come a long way toward wholeness himself. Even Brenda and Tonya were living together happily, a nice added bonus. All the years he had shadowed Harold, and all the months he had spent in the club just to make sure Lucas and Opal were decent, trustworthy folks, it had all been worth it. He was satisfied, more or less.

At the end of the block he turned onto the county road with only one real regret. He wondered if Bonnie had yet asked herself why Harold didn't look a thing like his parents or grandparents. She was the brains on the team, he thought. Sooner or later she would figure out her man had been adopted and that he was Lucas and Opal's son. And that was a reunion he was sorry he had to miss.

The END.

# About the Author

Robert Mitchell is a writer, martial arts expert, and occultist from Richmond, VA. His fiction works include the novels Chatters on the Tide and Ghilan, as well as numerous poems, 'zines, comic books, and short pieces. His short-story "Sign of the Times" appears in the Fall 2012 issue of the _Hulltown 360_ Literary Journal.

A martial artist for over twenty-five years, Mr. Mitchell is the founder and First Elder of Cabal Fang, an initiatory martial art marrying practical self-defense techniques with the wonders of the Western Mystery Tradition. In 2011 he was awarded the rank of Master by the Combat Martial Arts Practitioners Association. On the subject of martial arts he has penned The Cabal Fang Martial Arts Manual and the popular pamphlet Self-Defense for Activists.

As co-Chairman of the Richmond League of Occult Research and Education (LORE), his is also active in the occult community. His works in this arena include Wood Witch: A Wilding Workbook, and the unique instructional kit In the Drip of an Eave. Under his alter ego Modred, he is the author of the monthly column _Oak-corns & Apple-thorns_ at www.paganpages.org.

Mr. Mitchell graduated from the University of Virginia in 1983 with a B.A. in English. He and his wife are the proud parents of four children and three grandchildren.
