 
## Behind the Horned Mask

### Complete Edition

A Novel by Jeff Vrolyks

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Jeff Vrolyks

### Prologue

Let me begin by stating that I am not a writer—a conclusion you'd have arrived at on your own soon enough. I know no tricks of narrative nor do I have an extensive vocabulary, but I do know an editor (wink). I once lost a spelling bee trying to spell vakation. Writing isn't my thing. Policing is. But when Norrah and I debated which of us should put this thing into words, her persistency in it being me won her the day. We haven't put much thought into what might become of these pages, if anything, but we both agreed the events of late needed to be put on paper, and we'll let fate or destiny take it from there. I should add that I have spoken with a couple others, and they agreed to write some things regarding this ordeal as well. To what extent I'm unsure of at this moment. So it looks like this is going to be a collective effort. I have the honor of leading off. And probably wrapping it up.

You probably don't know me, so let me introduce myself as Jay Davis. Having been in the Marines before becoming a cop, I have long been accustomed to being called Davis, not Jay. Cops and military folks insist on calling people by their surnames, and I'd love to know why. For a while they were calling me J.D., but it didn't stick, didn't grow roots. Norrah calls me Jay unless she's feeling particularly feisty or when I've gotten into some kind of shit.

If within the last year you've watched the news or listened to the radio, or have friends to chew the shit with about current events, you know who my girlfriend Norrah is. Norrah Petersen with an E, she's Danish. She's the one who's given interview after interview on any number of news channels, news magazines, newspapers. I'd bet dollars to donuts that most of you have made up your minds that Norrah is a lunatic. Or insane—I'm not sure if the two are the same thing. How could someone so sane-looking and pretty be so batty? I can tell you sincerely that she is completely sane, and has never told a lie that I know of. Everything you've heard her say is the truth. What was alleged to have happened at her house indeed happened. I was there that day, was one of the first cops to arrive on scene. That was the day I met Norrah. It was that first week of the news-frenzy that Norrah and I began dating. Well, I say dating but it wasn't dating. As you can imagine dating wasn't something she was suitable to engage herself in during that time, but we were something. Come to think of it, maybe we were nothing more than new friends, but we had a kind of intuition that hinted that we had found someone more than a friend, it just needed time to blossom, and blossom it did. Did I mention that I'm not a writer? I apologize in advance for running off on various tangents during the narrative, I don't know any better. I'm also ruthlessly apologetic. I learned that trick back when I was a teenager working some customer service gig at Sears: apologize and apologize often, it works.

I suppose I should start at the beginning and assume you have no knowledge of Norrah and the shit that happened a year ago. Some of the details I learned second-hand from Norrah, so keep that in mind as you're reading personal details of her history and recent experiences, as I wasn't a part of her life until the day that the twenty-three people went missing. Funny thing about that, the number twenty-three almost begs to have the word _the_ before it. Without _the_ it's just a number; with it becomes the greatest unsolved mystery of our generation. The twenty-three who went missing.

Lake Arrowhead is a mountain town of ten-thousand or so people, located in the San Bernardino mountains in southern California. The elevation is around five-thousand feet, and it snows a few months out of the year. People unfamiliar to this region might find it hard to believe that folks shovel snow a few months out of the year right here in southern California. But it does snow, and it was snowing on that fateful February 14th, Valentine's Day. And on top of that, it had been colder than a whore's heart for the week leading up to it. Being a cop I see a lot more work when it's sub-freezing, as a lot of dumbasses drive the speed limit on roads with black ice, and I inevitably wind up having to fill out paperwork because of it. Fun fact: there are ten times more fender benders up here in the winter than there are in the summer. Ten times!

Norrah's house isn't on the lake, but she has a great view of it. It's a grand old three-story house at the end of a cul-de-sac, no neighbors too near, fairly remote, and is great if privacy is your thing. There are no houses behind her for a quarter mile, just untamed pines and underbrush and a steep hillside declining from it, eventually reaching the deep-blue lake.

From the driveway you enter the second floor—the bottom floor can almost be termed a basement. Being that the home is on a hillside, the front of the bottom floor is underground while the back isn't and has windows affording a view of the lake, and even has remote access. The top story is Norrah's bedroom, a pair of guest bedrooms, and a bathroom. The second floor is a large living room with its back wall a series of large windowpanes, a deck where you can sit and sip wine while admiring the beauty of Lake Arrowhead. Norrah could suntan on that deck naked with no chance of being seen, other than by me. I keep trying to get her to do just that because she's both pasty and looks marvelous naked. I'm sure Norrah will just love to know I wrote that.

Let me give you a brief history of how Norrah came to live in this house and why Paul was a tenant therein—Paul Klein is another name you've been inundated with on the news. The house was bought by Norrah's grandparents Jack and Dolores back in the 80's, a kind of retirement home, and when her grandpa passed away ten years ago it was too much house for just her grandmother (2,600 square feet). Norrah's parents had been living in Denver by then and had no interest in moving back to southern Cal. So when Dolores decided to move into an old-folks community, she let Norrah live there. The house isn't quite paid off yet, but it was bought at a time that real estate was laughably cheap, a mortgage of under a grand, so it was a sweet deal for Norrah. When Dolores dies, the house will become her granddaughter Norrah's.

When Norrah first moved in she was working at the only grocery store in Lake Arrowhead, Stater Brothers—there was Jansen's Market as well, but it was small. She rang up groceries. She's thirty now, so that would make her around twenty at the time. After so many years of being a checker I guess she came to the grim realization that if she didn't get an education she'd be doing that shit for the rest of her life. Six years ago she began taking night classes at a community college down the mountain in Yucaipa, about a forty minute drive from her house. Only taking two classes at a time, it would take her nine or ten years to get that vaunted bachelor's degree, and as I write this she is still a couple years away from attaining that goal. Because she was taking classes she worked less hours, though not much less. Her expenditures were higher because of the insane prices at the gas pump, and tuition and books. She lived alone in a large house, so it seemed like a good idea to find a roommate to share the expenses with. The house is ideal for such an arrangement, being that the bottom floor can be accessed without stepping foot into Norrah's living area. It is somewhat of a basement, though I don't know of too many basements in which there is remote access; keep in mind houses up on the mountain are on slopes, so while the bottom floor is underground at the front of the house, they are typically above ground in the back—did I mention that already? There is a hatch that can be lowered over the portal of the stairs leading down to the bottom floor, and when Paul moved in that's what she did. It gave the façade of the bottom floor being an apartment, separate from the upper stories. There is a bathroom down there, but no kitchenette. Just a hot-plate and a microwave on a dresser, a little mini-fridge. The bottom floor is a studio apartment; the only door other than the backdoor is that of the bathroom. Norrah charged him four-hundred a month, just under half of her mortgage payment. He had been living there for three months when the event this story is engendered from took place.

I judge Paul Klein to be about twenty or twenty-one years old (I can't say that with any degree of certainty). When he interviewed with Norrah to take residency in her house, he had said he was going to college at the University of Redlands, or U of R. That was a lie. He also said he was working part-time at Papagayo's, a Mexican restaurant. That was also a lie. Turns out much of what Paul said was bullshit. Paul is a big mystery in most aspects. He's a good looking kid, the kind of smile that girls are eager to revisit, the kind of charming witticisms that makes girls giggle, and exceedingly well-spoken for a kid so young. The damned thing about Paul Klein is that when detectives began investigating his history following the disappearance of the twenty-three, they found nothing. Not jack shit. It was as though he didn't exist prior to moving into Norrah's. And other than the registration and insurance papers on his Dodge Ram, and his Wells Fargo bank account, there are no records of his existence, not even a social security number. Being that he wasn't a suspect of foul play against the missing people (I'll elaborate on that later), he got by without having to prove much of his past. I don't like Paul, disliked him from the moment I met him, and can't put a finger on why exactly that is. Maybe it's because his smile looks phony to me. Something doesn't jibe with him. I'm not the only one who feels that way about him, though most don't. Most gobble up his bullshit wholesale. Norrah didn't feel the same way about him or she wouldn't have let him in her house, but I suspect she was lured in by his good looks, though she won't admit it. When I pester her about it she blushes and changes the subject, so you be the judge.

February 14th was the day it happened. By February 15th Lake Arrowhead was a town that most American's were knowledgeable of. By February 21st a respectable percentage of the world had heard of Lake Arrowhead. The largest unsolved mystery of all time, many people say, and not just because kids disappeared. That kind of stuff happens. If it was only that, it would merely be a big mystery, and not a mind fuck.

I was patrolling highway 18 when I got the call from dispatch. Never when dispatch calls do you think this is the time that everything changes, that this call is the one that you're going to be writing a damned book about. I took the call indifferently, how was I to know? I was the second officer to arrive; Fred Guthrie the fat ass had just pulled up when I got there. An hour later every cop on the mountain was there. Twenty-three people gone missing under highly unusual circumstances will do that. The F.B.I. didn't arrive till the next day, as people aren't considered to be missing until twenty-four hours have passed. Instead of telling you what we found (or didn't find), I'm going to recite Norrah's story for you, a story which she's told me time and time again. I will make no exaggerations whatsoever and will confer with her often as I write the particulars. I honestly wish she'd write this shit. But I've come to love her, and there is little I wouldn't do for her. So here it goes:

### Part 1:

### Chapter One

A man with red skin, horns, and a tail walks into a pub on Halloween, sits at the bar. Impressed, the bartender whistles and says, "You take your costuming serious, huh?"

" _I do," the man replies._

" _Well it's a special occasion, so why not, eh?"_

" _It is. It's the only day all year I don't have to wear one."_

The weather forecasters had gotten it all wrong, as they often do. I swear, it could be twenty-one degrees out and they'll predict a low of thirty-three. Or they will say eighty percent chance of snow when if they stuck their damned heads outside they'd see that it's already snowing. I digress. The storm that was due to arrive on Monday night, February 15th, had arrived Saturday night, the evening before Valentine's Day. Two feet of snow dumped on the mountain like Jack Frost took a massive icy shit, blanketing the San Bernardino forest with holy whiteness. Cal Trans is great at clearing the roads, and come Sunday morning, cars didn't need chains to traverse the winding mountain roads. That Valentine's Day morning Norrah was getting ready for work at Stater Brothers when her bottom-floor tenant Paul Klein lifted the hatch and entered the living room. It wasn't off-limits to him to be above the basement floor, but it was understood that his place was down there and her place was up there, and there was little-to-no need for him to come up. Occasionally he did come up, but always with a good reason—to pay rent (always on time), to offer to chop some of the logs flanking the side of the house into firewood, to drop off a couple bottles of red wine his friend got for free from work (sample bottles from a wine rep), and the last and most consequential occurrence of his upstairs intrusion was on the morning of Valentine's Day.

Norrah had just shut off the blow-dryer in her bathroom of the third floor when she heard Paul bellow, "Hello-hello!"

Norrah cinched her robe's belt and took a couple steps down the top flight of stairs when she saw him, and stopped. "Hi, Paul," she said with her charming smile—she really is a cute little devil, and that smile makes me fall in love with her all over again every time I see it.

"Morning, Norrah. I was hoping we could talk for a few minutes. I know you're leaving for work soon, but it's kind of important."

"Uh... okay."

She went downstairs and took a seat at the dining room table. Paul sat opposite her. He wore black slacks and a dark blue golf shirt. His black hair was slightly wavy and always looked wet. He looked like he belonged in any number of teen-heartthrob movies. It was easy to smile at him, easy to get a little lost in his hazel eyes. He's the kind of guy that you find yourself telling too-personal things to in hope that he'll reciprocate a juicy nugget of his own. She felt uncomfortable wearing nothing but a bath robe, just a little tug on her cloth-belt away from being nude before this good looking boy, but it wasn't by her design: he came up to see her. She crossed her legs under the table and asked how he was doing.

"Just great, thank you. I'll make this quick, since you have to leave here in," he checked his wristwatch, "what, fifteen minutes?" She nodded. "I have a huge favor to ask you. I know I said I wasn't going to have many people over, and I respect your wish of quietude here"— _quietude, who the hell says quietude?_ —"but something's come up. There are some guys I go to school with, and every year on Valentine's Day there's a party. A masquerade party. It was going to be at Taylor's house this year; he lives just a few miles from here. Something came up and the place is a no-go. We all had our hearts set on having the party up in the mountains; you know, cozy snow, roaring fire, forest; and being that your house is so near Taylor's, it seemed like a good logistical alternative. So I—"

"How many people are we talking?"

"Not many. I believe something like eight guys and their dates. Maybe a couple others, but I don't know for sure. They're all students of University of Redlands, good considerate guys and girls. I trust them all. We won't be rowdy, you have my word."

"From what time till what time?"

Paul looked up and away, considered it. "Eight till about one or two in the morning. We'll have the music turned down by midnight."

"I suppose it would be all right, if it's a one-time thing. Don't get in the habit of having get-togethers here. It's not that I don't trust—"

Paul held up a hand to stop her, grinned sidelong, and said, "No need to say it. I haven't been here long, I don't expect you to trust me. But we'll keep the party downstairs, so there won't be any reason to worry about things breaking or stuff getting stolen. And being that the nearest house is what, fifty yards away or better?—I doubt anyone will know we're here other than you."

"All right," Norrah said, "it should be fine. I work the early shift tomorrow so I'll be in bed by eleven. If you could keep it down at around that time I'd appreciate it. I sleep on the third floor, but can still hear music from down below. Do that for me and we have a deal."

"Awesome."

"One other thing. Would you mind parking your truck on the street or farther to the right on the driveway from now on? It's a big truck, not a big driveway."

"Consider it done." Paul stood and extended his hand. She shook it with a smile and left the table, went upstairs to dress.

Early that evening Norrah was driving home from work when it began snowing again. Just a light snow, more of an afterword to the storm that landed last night. She parked her Camry on the driveway beside an Infinity sedan she had never before seen, in the place of Paul's usual Dodge truck. She wondered if he traded it in. She went inside and locked the door behind her. Paul must have heard her arrive because he went upstairs through the open hatch shortly after. He was dressed in black tuxedo pants and a white dress-shirt with a red bow-tie. Was he really going to wear a tux tonight? She wondered. He asked if she had any scotch tape he could borrow, and some tacks and a hammer. She had tape and a hammer but no tacks, sorry. He thanked her and waited for her to collect the two items. When she handed them over he said, "You should come hang out with us tonight, if you'd like."

Her brow arched. "Me?" She considered it was more of a polite gesture than an honest invitation. She was thirty, while he presumably wasn't old enough to buy booze yet. But maybe he was. He possessed that youthful appearance that lasts a lifetime, like Dick Clark had. She considered herself to be a young-looking thirty, and guys did check her out when she was checking them out (groceries, that is) but still... they were college kids and if the others looked anything like Paul Klein, they could do a lot better than Norrah—her words, not mine; if you ask me, Norrah is the best any man could do. "Thanks, but I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Suit yourself, but you're welcome to join us." He turned and took a couple steps down the stairs through the portal while adding, "Might be a single guy or two. They'd be all over you."

"Wait," she said after him. He stopped and looked back, only his shoulders and head remained above the landing. "What do you mean by that?"

"Oh I don't mean anything like that. I'm sorry, that sounded suggestive. I just mean you're an attractive woman and they'd appreciate it. That's all."

She nodded slightly. "That's sweet of you to say, but I don't believe that. You guys be safe down there. You have my cell phone number, so call or text if you need anything and I'll bring it down."

"Sweet. You're the best, Norrah."

She grinned and went upstairs to change into some lounge-wear. Sweats and a sweat-shirt, her most comfy socks, and tied her hair into a pony-tail. She nuked some Lean Pockets in the microwave and poured some iced tea, mulling over the idea of a masquerade party. It was intriguing, a masquerade party. And on Valentine's Day, of all days. Weren't those kinds of things only on Halloween? She wondered if they'd be wearing costumes or just a mask. Every instance of masquerading she had heard of or read about was mostly just a mask. She remembered watching The Count of Monte Cristo, and there was the carnival in Rome, taking place sometime in the early 19th century, and those people had those little masks that were attached to a stick and held up against their faces. She supposed some of them were fastened to their heads by a string going over their ears and tied at the back. They were partial masks, covering the forehead and nose but not the mouth. She doubted this was the type of masquerading her tenant had in mind, but who knew? In her memory of that movie's carnival, the people were classy, dressed formally, and it was a regal occasion, a big deal. Could college kids put together something so tasteful? It seemed more likely they would wear costumes. She could see in her imagination a girl dressed as Elvira, tits popping out of her low vee-cut shirt, and another girl with a less desirable figure dressed as Snow White or Cinderella, the fabric at the waist threatening to bust at the seams. She pictured a college boy wearing a Spiderman mask. Peter Parker. Maybe he'd try to get a chuckle out of the dames by calling himself by his porn-acting name Peter Pork-her. Perhaps a muscular boy would flaunt his rippling beefcake by going shirtless and painting his torso green, and pretend to be the Incredible Hulk. The more she considered the possibilities, the more curious she became about this party.

Norrah remembered her sleep mask. One of those black deals that sleepers wear when they are forced to contend with an unchecked morning sun. She had been one such sleeper at a younger age, but had since gotten blinds put up over her window and put to rest the use of a sleep mask. What if she cut holes into the eyes and wore that down to her tenant's party? Nah, that's ridiculous. That isn't any kind of disguise. And besides, what would she wear with it?

She sat at the dining table and bit into the first of two Lean Pockets. It was the pizza flavored ones. She preferred the mozzarella and meatballs ones but for some damned reason those made her gassy; the remarkably similar pizza ones didn't. Go figure. She looked out the glass wall into the forest that Jack Frost had shit all over. It was getting dark, the sun long invisible below the wooden horizon. The trees would stay white until the temperature finally got above freezing. The flood light of her back second-floor deck was on a timer and just then clicked on. Large snow flakes feathered down to a carpet of snow specked with what looked like diamonds. She was nearly two months removed from songs of walking in a winter wonderland, but only two yards away from literally doing it.

Car doors closed somewhere out front.

Norrah hated that she was officially in her thirties now, and had been for months. As stupid as it sounded, if she was still twenty-nine she'd strongly consider making an appearance downstairs sometime tonight. But being thirty changed things, if only internally. Thirties were the years for settling down and pumping out babies; twenties were the years for preventing babies from being born by any number of contraceptives and ancient family secrets—hop up and down if the jackass doesn't pull out in time. One's twenties are a string of bad-judgment calls and too many colorful cocktails with cherries skewered on toothpicks, driving the back-roads at two A.M. and waking up with a massive headache and a sensation of bodily violation that you may or may not have any recollection of. Those were the years when pleasure took a front seat to everything; these were the years that pleasure took a back seat to anything practical and well considered.

There was a knock at the door, then the doorbell.

Norrah left the table and went to the door, looked through the peephole. A boy and girl. She smiled at what she saw: half-masks not unlike the ones worn in The Count of Monte Cristo. The girl wore a deep red dress, long and formal, with a black cat mask, whiskers and stubby nose. Her hair was ash blonde and professionally styled, like something you'd see Nichole Kidman sporting at the Oscar's. The boy wore a tuxedo. His mask was a lion's face, complete with tawny fur and ears. She could see both their smiling mouths. She didn't hesitate to open the door. Just as she greeted them, Paul came up from behind and apologized, said he told everyone to enter through the downstairs back door.

"It's okay," Norrah said assuredly, "I don't mind." She smiled wider at the two guests. "Cute masks."

"Thanks," the boy said. "I'm sorry, I totally forgot that we were supposed to go around back."

"Sorry," the girl said in a high tone.

"It shouldn't happen again," Paul said to Norrah, then gestured the two to follow him.

Norrah closed the door and locked it, followed after the trio. "Is everyone going to wear masks like that?"

Paul looked back with his patent crooked smile and said, "You bet. The offer stands, if you want to join us. Free drinks."

"Are you all old enough to drink?" She regretted saying it immediately. It made her feel older than she was ready to be. She frowned and said, "Don't answer that. I'm sorry."

He didn't answer that, but instead winked at her. The three went downstairs.

Over the next hour Norrah heard the downstairs door open and close several times, a few car doors slamming shut from the street. She had decided to upgrade from sweats to something less comfortable, and put on a cute little black skirt and pink cardigan sweater. Not that she intended for anyone else to see her tonight, but she hadn't intended on the first couple to see her either, and we know how that turned out. And didn't Paul mention that there would be one or two single guys here tonight? Yes, he had.

She was debating herself by eight o'clock, the time Paul had said the party started. Stay up here and don't interfere narrowly edged out go downstairs and mingle. She was seated before the blue glow of the television, watching some old comedy movie, its name escaping her. She wasn't paying attention to the movie, but to the sounds downstairs, the mirthful sounds. She poured herself a glass of red wine in the kitchen, a bottle that Paul had given her recently for no particular reason, and returned to the couch, folded her legs to the side the way only a woman can do, and tucked a hanging ribbon of brown hair behind an ear.

Norrah sighed. She remembered being in high school like it was yesterday. There were plenty of parties back then, you bet. Some during her junior year, but most were when she was a senior. There had been no masquerade parties, though. Her dumb classmates couldn't contrive such a neat idea as that. They were masquerading as good virtuous boys, that's about it. She had let one of them inside her pants at one party. That would be a bad-judgment-call evening. She chalked it up to too many margaritas. What was the boy's name? She couldn't remember. Oh yes, Elias. What a cutie he was. Small wiener, though. She giggled just as she sipped her wine and nearly spilled on her pink cardigan. That was her only one-night-stand in her thirty semi-uneventful years. The boy she lost her virginity to was Greg—whom she always called Gregory, despite his protestations—when she was a lithe seventeen years old, beauty in full bore, breasts that stayed in place when she unhooked her bra. Not that they sagged much now, but let's be honest: boobs are at their prime during their teenaged years. Their sun begins setting in the twenties slowly but surely. Gregory sure liked her boobs. He used to offer to 'massage' them, as if it was intended to be a benefit to her and not him. She went along with it, loved to see how excited it made him. And it did things to her, too, just not to the extent that it did to him. It's a shame that when her body was hard and rocking she was a dozen or so years from reaching her sexual prime. How unfair is that? Boys are in their sexual prime as teens, but for women it comes much later. By the time women want sex frequently, that ship has long sailed in men. Why couldn't both sexual primes meet at the same age? She wondered if all the hormones downstairs had an infectious effect on her, like she was a cat in heat and picked up on the scent of a dominant male.

_Maybe I should just drop by for a minute or two, introduce myself to Paul's friends, then come right back up,_ she thought. Heck, she was looking pretty good in this sweater and skirt, if she did say so herself. There was the sleeping mask in her bottom drawer of her bureau, she hadn't forgotten that. She was indecisive. She resolved to make a decision, but not until she bellied one more glass of red, and got to work on it presently.

It was a quarter of nine when she was nearing the bottom of her wine-glass. She felt the alcohol high in her cheeks. She wasn't much of a drinker, so she appreciated the effects of a good buzz. She had heard the music downstairs marginally loudly for over an hour now, and had to turn the TV up to contend with it. Progressively what she heard more and more wasn't the stereo but the laughter of teens and twenty-somethings. As more alcohol was consumed, the laughter got louder and lasted longer. She heard one boy laugh so regularly that she began imagining what he looked like. She pictured a six-foot-two baseball player, trim but hard and strong, with sandy blond hair, fine golden hairs on his toned arms. She even ascribed a mask to him: a pirate. Aaarg, ahoy matey! He'd want to plunder some booty, all right.

With a smile she stood from the couch and sauntered to the window-wall, opened the door and slid into her slippers that she kept beside it, crunched snow to the railing. She took the last drink from her glass, then looked down over the rail. Just then the door opened down below and a boy stepped outside. She couldn't yet see him, but soon smelled cigarette smoke. She was still and silent, the large flakes collecting in her hair—it wasn't coming down very hard, but the flakes were enormous—continued looking down to where the bottom deck ended and sloped down to rugged forest. She felt fortunate to not have any neighbors in her backyard. There was a street closer to the lake with houses, but that was hundreds of yards from where she lived. On a whim she gathered some snow and packed a snowball. She leaned over the railing and chucked it at an angle to where she perceived the boy (or girl?) to be smoking. A powdery _poof_ was followed by footfalls away from the house, until a boy entered her view. He was looking up with a wide grin. He was wearing a tuxedo, his mask was that of a gray mouse, a long pointy nose with whiskers. He took a pull off his smoke and waved up at Norrah.

"Hi there," she said.

"Evening, madam," the boy said.

She humored at that. Madam. Maybe his dressy attire did wonders to his demeanor, instilled in him a sense of class he might not have had under another circumstance. She got a kick out of it.

"Evening, kind sir. Are you enjoying yourself?"

A gust of wind grazed her cheek and legs, breaking her flesh out in goosebumps. Her skirt fluttered a little with it, raised high on her thighs, and for a terrifying moment she thought he could see up her skirt—the railing had wide gaps between the posts. She remembered putting underwear on, so that was good; also was the fact that the light was above her, darkness below her. He'd see nothing but shadows up her skirt.

"Indeed. I take it this is your house?"

"Indubitably," she said with a rich British accent, and went to sip her wine that had already been drunk.

"Looks like you could use a refill," he said.

"Perhaps. How many of you are down there?"

"Uh..." he looked away from her at the house. "Maybe twenty, twenty-five."

"What are some of the masqueraders masquerading as?"

"Why don't you come down and see for yourself?" He grinned his most charmingly at her.

"Maybe," she said noncommittally. "Anything especially good?"

"Mask-wise?"

She hummed an affirmative.

"Yeah, there are some good ones."

"Which is your favorite."

"Elephant is pretty cool. Actually, believe it or not, my favorite is the guy with a mask of a person."

"Mask of a person?"

"It's porcelain I think. Powder white. Very clever, you see, because he has a hat with attached horns. Looks like he's the devil masquerading as a normal man."

"That is clever," Norrah agreed. _"Is_ he the devil?"

"I hope not!" The boy laughed. "I don't know him, though."

"I thought you were all classmates. No?"

"Mostly, yes."

The door opened and another boy stepped outside and asked the smoker if he could bum a smoke. The mouse-man offered his pack of Reds to the boy who was masked as the Phantom of the Opera. He stepped into the wash of the upstairs flood light, and looked up, startled at Norrah's sight.

"Damn," he said. "What's up?"

"Me, I suppose," she said and grinned.

"You should be down. Down here."

"Oh yeah?" She thought she was sounding like a coquette, and couldn't recall the last time she was flirty with anyone. "If I had a good mask I just might have taken you up on that offer," she said regretfully. "I guess if one of you boys could masquerade as a normal man I could masquerade as a normal girl."

"Normal man?" The Phantom of the Opera said.

"You know," said mouse-man, "the dude with a white porcelain man-face."

"Oh, him. Who is that guy, anyway?"

"I don't know. We aren't supposed to ask. That's a rule."

"Well I'll let you boys go," Norrah said. "Have fun." She stepped away from the railing.

"Wait," Phantom said. "Won't you come down and have a drink? I'm buying."

"You're buying? Aren't the drinks free?"

"No such thing as a free lunch, lady."

"Ah. An economics major, huh?" She said and giggled.

"Hell no, I hate economics. But yeah I learned that from Econ 101. I brought a bottle of gin and some tonic. I got a glass with your name on it down here."

She returned to her spot at the rail and said, "Don't you boys have dates already? How would they take you flirting with the old maid upstairs?"

"He's got a date," Phantom of the Opera said, "but I don't." His non-masked right eye winked at her.

She laughed out loud, by the image, not his words. "We'll see. What are your names? I'm Norrah."

"Phantom," Phantom said.

"Mouse," the other said. "We can't give our names, it's the rule."

"Okay, Mouse and Phantom. Maybe I'll come down for just one drink in a few minutes."

"Right on," Phantom said.

She went inside and closed the door, brushed the snow out of her hair. She shivered. It was south of twenty degrees by her best guess. Hardly skirt weather, but she looked hot in it. She heard a song she recognized coming from the stereo downstairs. It was a Stone Temple Pilots song, Plush, one of her favorite songs from that band. It must have been someone else's favorite song too because the volume was ratcheted up a good deal once it came on.

Deciding against going unmasked, she went upstairs and got the sleep mask. Downstairs she went and got the scissors from a jar on the counter and got to work cutting eyes out of it. If asked what she was masquerading as, she'd say... well... Sleeping Beauty, of course. Maybe it was the alcohol that made her laugh so hard at that. She put the mask on, pulled her hair out from under the clinging elastic band and draped it over.

The downstairs hatch creaked open. She looked over and saw a boy in a black tux. It was Paul, she decided, though his jester mask served well at disguising him. His strong jaw, slender torso and broad shoulders identified him well enough.

"Hey-hey, Norrah," he said as he cleared the landing. "I hope you don't mind if I use your restroom. Mine is occupied."

"No problem. There's a guest bathroom just over there," she said and pointed to the restroom off the den.

"Thanks. I hope this doesn't offend you, but there's a couple in my bathroom. I think they'll be in there for a little while, if you know what I mean."

She smiled devilishly. "That's fine."

As he made his way toward the bathroom he said, "Cool, I see you got a mask going. Coming downstairs for a bit?"

"Yeah, for a quick drink. You sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all. But if I may make a suggestion..."

"Sure. Please," she said eagerly.

"Put some nylons on. Wearing a skirt like that, you'll freeze down there. Not to sound ungrateful, but the insulation down there is poor and I don't have a heater."

"You should make a fire."

"I have a fire going, but it doesn't put out much heat, and the door has been open at least half the time, from people smoking."

"Okay, thanks for the heads up. I'll put some nylons on."

"I bet you'll look hot in them," Paul said, appraising her legs. "Not that you need them to make your legs look hot, it's just that you have the whitest legs I've ever seen."

She looked down at her legs. "Yeah, that's for sure."

He passed her on the way to the restroom. "You have nice legs, Norrah. Very sexy."

She sensed that little remark could potentially change the dynamic of their tenant-landlord relationship, but decided it didn't matter. They were ten years apart, nothing would ever happen between them.

Norrah went upstairs, got the nylons out of her top drawer and began putting them on. She could still hear the music, though it was faint from up here. Stone Temple Pilots was now Viva La Vida by Coldplay, another song she enjoyed. She was singing along to it as she unraveled the stockings up her long slender legs. Were they really that sexy? Paul seemed to think so and maybe he was right. They were firm, somewhat defined, a long line separating her quad from hamstring. Going for long walks most evenings on the steep mountain roads tended to do that. She had to admit, she was having a nice evening in spite of herself. Maybe she'd have more than a single drink downstairs. Maybe there would be a boy down there a trifle closer to thirty than twenty. One with the same broad shoulders as Paul. Two drinks will be fine, she decided. But the reality of it was she wouldn't be having a single drink that night.

Just as she took the first step down from the third-floor landing, there was sudden screaming. Shrieking and screaming, in a register reserved for the most profound of horrors. Ear-splitting feminine screams were blood-curdling. At first it was just one or two females, but soon there were cries from a dozen or more people, boys and girls alike.

She dashed down the stairs.

There was a loud thud against a wall on the bottom floor. She moved faster, breath caught, eyes wide and frantic. She tore off the sleep mask from her face. The hatch was closed. The screaming continued, interspersed with the unforgettable pleas of the terror-stricken: _"Please, stop! Oh my God, I'm begging you!"_

She slipped a pair of fingers through the iron ring of the hatch and pulled, but it didn't budge. It did budge slightly at first, but as if someone was on the other side of it and had a firm grip of the handle and strong muscles to implement his will, it seated flush almost instantly.

Norrah shouted at the hatch, "Let me in! Open the door!" And pulled furiously at the iron ring to no avail.

A chill ran the length of her spine when a feminine shriek cut off, not from will but from inability, as though the life was ripped out of her with a cataclysmic blow. Norrah turned and hauled ass to the kitchen, uncradled the phone and dialed nine-one-one with tremulous fingers. Just then Paul came out of the bathroom off the den and stared pie-eyed at Norrah. By his expression she knew he was just as thunderstruck and stupefied as was she.

"What's happening down there!" she yelled at him.

"I..." He turned and went for the front door, unlocked it muttering, "Fuck me." He went through the door and didn't close it.

"What the hell is happening?" she said inwardly, in full panic-mode.

The emergency operator answered the call. The ensuing dialogue between Norrah and the operator would be played over and over again on the news for days to come. The thing about that recording is you can't hear the screams in the background. Not that they should have been heard, because the twenty-three were downstairs with a heavily insulated ceiling separating them from Norrah, and the speaker of the phone was practically being eaten by her. That and many of the screams had already subsided by then. But still, you'd think that you'd be able to hear one or two screams at least faintly, wouldn't you?

"Nine-one-one, please state your emergency," the woman said apathetically.

"I need help! I need help! Please hurry!"

"Ma'am, what is—"

"Hurry! Something's happening downstairs, I... I don't know what! Just send help right fucking now!"

"Calm down, ma'am, I'm sending you help right now. What is the nature of your emergency?"

"Fuck if I know! People are getting killed I think!" Norrah heard more screams come to a fatal stop and knew that she was right in saying people were getting killed. She dropped the phone on the counter and instead of checking the hatch, she went to the front door not to go around the house and help those below, but to close and lock it. She couldn't help those downstairs, that was pretty evident. If twenty-something people couldn't stop whatever or whoever was attacking them, how could she? She owned a handgun, an old Beretta that her father had bought her many years ago. He didn't like the idea of his daughter living alone, especially in a neighborhood as remote as hers. He had bought it and gave it to her with a full magazine of bullets. She had never fired the gun but considered she might be firing it tonight. But at what? At whom?

She ran for the stairs and took them two at a time. She slid to her knees before her bed and fished around blindly, felt a shoe-box and slid it out. She pried the lid off with shaky fingers and took hold of the gun, got up and walked into the hall with the gun pointed down before her. She noticed the screaming had stopped. Had it just stopped or had she just now noticed? She couldn't say. There was Viva la Vida coming to an end on the stereo, and nothing more. When the song ended, a new song replaced it. In the two seconds bridging the songs was utter silence. She stopped at the top of the stairs, gun now aiming down. She had ideas, dark ones. A man or men would come up through the hatch looking for her. The gun in her hand was light-years away from being steady. She swallowed dryly. She wished the damn music would stop so she could listen.

It was the longest fifteen minutes of her life, spent between the top two steps of the stairs. She nearly cried with relief when she heard the warble of distant sirens. When they stopped just outside her house, she descended the stairs, gun still at the ready. The hatch remained closed. She furtively made her way across the living room into the kitchen, gun pointing in the direction of her every glance. The front door tried to open, but it was locked. A loud knock and a "Police!"

She lowered the gun and unlocked the door, opened it. The cop was a large chubby man with a gun in hand. He stared down at the gun in Norrah's hand, then met her eyes.

She stammered at him, tried to tell him what she all but knew, that a couple dozen people were just brutally murdered downstairs, but couldn't get herself to say it. Perhaps he gleaned it from her wide glassy eyes, unhinged jaw, and palsy. He brushed by her, lead with his gun.

"C-call for m-more cops," she said desperately.

She closed the door, went after the cop. He began ascending the stairs.

"Not up there," Norrah said. "Downstairs. Downstairs!"

He turned around and stopped at the hatch, stooped over and pulled the iron ring, opened the carpeted door with a grating of its hinges.

"Careful!" Norrah said. "Be careful!"

Norrah went to the portal and stopped, awaited news from the cop who was now invisible below. When she heard the front door open she aimed her gun in that direction. Another cop was now inside, and that cop was myself.

"Jesus Christ," I said, "lower your gun. What's going on here?"

She lowered the gun. I can't accurately enough describe how shitty Norrah looked. It was a palpable dread, the kind that only comes from witnessing death, particularly first-degree murder. I've seen similar looks, but none more profound than Norrah's just then.

"I don't know," she said half-frenzied.

"Is that you, Davis?" Fred hollered from down below.

"Yeah." I walked past Norrah and descended the steps into the basement. Norrah followed close at my heels.

The down-stairs was a kind of studio apartment, as I had mentioned. On a dresser was a stereo that I turned off. Silence engulfed the sizeable room. There was a large bed, some night-stands, a long dresser, a small circular table with three chairs, a TV on a stand, and not much else. There were windows with drinks on the sills. Plastic cups that had alcohol in them, ice still shapely inside. The table had several cups on it, drinks ranging from full to empty, ice still shapely there as well. The place was vacant.

Fred was the first to ask the question, though I was a second away from asking the same thing. "Ma'am, what's the emergency?"

Norrah walked to the bathroom and opened the door: empty. "What... I... I don't understand." She faced me and said, "I was upstairs when I heard people screaming down here. There was a party, twenty or so people here, just fifteen minutes ago. I heard things. Bad things. I don't get it. Where did they go?"

Fred and I stepped out the back door together. I went back in and flipped a switch, illuminating a single low-watt light just outside the door. Norrah came out with us. There was no snow due to the patio being under the upstairs deck, but where the deck ended there was a bank of snow two feet tall, packed down in places from where Phantom of the Opera and Mouse had conversed with Norrah just recently. Fred took his Maglite out of his utility belt and shone it there. There were footsteps leading away from the house; Norrah had no idea who made them.

"Hello?" Fred said down the path the footsteps made.

"This is crazy," Norrah said from behind me. I looked back at her. "Twenty people don't just up and disappear."

I gave her a skeptical look. I considered that she might be on medication or perhaps needed to be on some.

"How long since you last saw them?" I asked her.

"Like I said, fifteen minutes or so."

Fred followed the steps in the snow, I stayed behind and looked around, went to both ends of the patio, unsure of what I was looking for. It was evident nobody was here but the three of us. It was as quiet as hell—snow has that effect.

Norrah returned inside.

Please keep in mind what I said about Norrah being an honest woman. I'll admit I didn't believe what she said in the ensuing moment, but I've come to believe she did see what she claimed to have. I truly do.

Norrah shrieked.

I hurried inside, gun inside my holster. I thought the need to be readily armed had come to an end, and I was right. Norrah was covering her face.

"What's up?" I asked.

When she uncovered her face to meet eyes with me, my breath caught. It caught because this woman looked like she just saw something pretty fucking terrifying. Here is how she described it to me four days later over a cup of coffee at Starbucks:

"Jay, I'll only tell you if you swear to God you won't think I'm making it up. You either promise to believe me or I won't tell you. Swear it."

I did swear it, and I meant it. Cops grow an intuition keener than most others. We can tell if someone is full of shit or being honest, most of the time. I suppose some people believe the bullshit stories they're telling, making them appear credible, but this wasn't a case of that. She was sane and she wasn't blowing smoke up my ass.

"And don't tell anyone else about what I'm about to say. I don't want anyone thinking I'm nuts."

"If it could aid in the investigation, I'm afraid I can't promise that. I'll do what's best for you and those missing twenty-three, that I promise you. Tell me, Norrah, tell me what you saw."

She took a deep breath and looked away. A tear rolled down her cheek. "When I went back inside I saw... I saw..." She shook her head and closed her eyes. "I can't get myself to say it."

I reached across the table and took her right hand between mine and squeezed. I thought it might be inappropriate, but she looked like she could use the comfort, slight as it was. And I really did want her to get this off her chest.

"Tell me, I won't judge you," I said. "I believe you, Norrah. I know you aren't bullshitting me. Do you believe me when I say that?"

She met eyes with me, her big brown glassy eyes reaching clear to the foundation of my soul. She nodded once.

"I saw them," she said. "I saw them, Jay, I _saw_ them. I don't know if I saw all of them, it didn't last long, but there were many people. And... and they were... dead."

I grasped for understanding, squeezed her hand harder. "You saw the missing people? And they were dead? What do you mean?"

"I saw them, like they had been invisible but for a moment they weren't. Blood everywhere, bodies everywhere. The blinds on the far window, the cord to lower and raise them... it was tied around someone's neck. There was a man lying face-down on the bed, his back opened up; I could see his insides. I saw... a headless body in a red dress. There was a guy in a tux on the floor with his arms gone, like they were ripped out."

"How long did this last?"

"Just a couple seconds, then they blinked away. It looked like I imagined it might look when I heard them screaming from upstairs. It... it's like it confirmed what I knew, that those people didn't run away, they were murdered."

I gave her a nod and stared down at our joined hands.

"You don't believe me, do you," she said softly.

"I do. I honestly do."

"How? How could you believe that? I wouldn't even believe that if I didn't see it for myself."

"Because twenty-three people don't vanish. Something really fucked up happened and there is no logical explanation for it. So the illogical is all that remains. There's something else."

"What?"

"It's something I shouldn't mention. I heard it from a buddy of mine, who heard it from a detective. Keep this to yourself, will you?"

"Yes," she said impatiently, "now tell me."

"On the bed. The comforter. Where was the body you saw? Was in centered on the bed?"

"No, it was on the side of it. The left side."

I nodded knowingly. "There was only one piece of evidence found of foul play, that being a single drop of blood. A _single_ drop of blood. What you described would hint at pints of blood, not a single drop, but a drop is _something._ It was on the comforter. On the edge of the bed, left side."

"Did they test it?"

"Oh for sure. Well I don't know that to be a fact, but of course forensics would run a DNA test on it. I doubt they have the results from it so soon. It could be Paul's, we'll see. It's a coincidence that it was in the same place you saw a butchered body, though, isn't it?"

"I suppose." Inwardly she said, "But a single drop? It's just so confounding."

"I know it is. We'll get this sorted out. We need to be patient."

"Do you really believe that?"

I didn't answer because I didn't believe it.

Back to Valentine's Day. I had asked her what she saw and she wouldn't answer me. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, so I didn't press her for an answer. A moment later Fred re-entered the house and said, "Come check this out," to me.

I followed him outside, the narrow beam of his flash light leading the way down the path of now two sets of footsteps in the snow. Fifteen steps or so later we were between the trunks of two large pine trees. We stopped side-by-side, six feet away from the final pair of footsteps. They ended, no trace of where the man or woman went from there. By the size of the imprints it was likely a male. Just past the final set of tracks was a pair of impressions. I thought they may have been knee-prints.

"Odd," I said. "He must have back-stepped in his own tracks."

"Yes, but why would he do that?" Fred asked.

"No idea." I looked back at the now-several footprints in the snow. "It hints at something bad, though, wouldn't you agree? If he was deliberately trying to throw us off, he's hiding a truth from us. Did you find tracks leading from the patio toward the sides of the house?"

"There are tracks on that side." He pointed to the side of the house the guests had used to reach the basement from the street. "But it was mostly a single line of tracks, as if the guests of the party had come one or two at a time. If there was a mass exodus, there would be tracks wider than what there is. People don't haul ass in a single-ranked file. They spread out."

Norrah was in the doorway. I said to her, "Ma'am does anyone live here with you?"

"Yes. There is a young man who lives down here. He was upstairs when it happened, in the bathroom. He left before you guys got here. I'm not sure why. Afraid, I guess. He heard the screaming too, had to have."

I called dispatch, requested additional units. I wanted to ask for homicide but didn't. Not yet I didn't. I asked Norrah where this tenant may have gone and she had no idea.

It was an hour later when he arrived back at her house, that Paul kid. By then there were better than fifteen cops on location, and a couple of detectives had just arrived. Paul was questioned in private, so I don't know exactly what he was asked or how he replied. All I know is he was believed to be innocent of any wrong-doing. I surmise he was considered to be a chicken-shit and fled the scene before he ended up dead. Norrah was grateful that he was able to corroborate her story, the screaming bloody murder from a couple dozen kids. We cops ceased looking at her like she was a nut job. Paul was told not leave the region in the coming days, and he'd be questioned a few more times before it was all said and done. Being a lowly cop I didn't get to be in on the interrogations, nor discoursed of the outcome of them. I concluded that Paul was lucky to have been upstairs when it happened, or he'd be the twenty-fourth missing person. It's not like he killed twenty-three people in the span of a few minutes and hid their bodies so well that they couldn't be found. That's impossible. And the guy isn't very big. I doubt he could transport a body very far. And besides, he was upstairs when it happened. What a cluster-fuck it was. So utterly nonsensical.

By the following day there were news vans lining both sides of the streets (partier's vehicles had been towed and impounded, considered evidence—at least for now) and by that evening the feds were involved. Twenty-three people missing, vanished without a trace. Well, there was that one drop of blood.

### Chapter Two

Paul had been staying at his friend's house down the hill, in Highland. Or so he said. You can't take much of what he says literally. Fucker lies when he's not busy speaking vaguely. He avoided Norrah's like it was the plague, and for good reason. How could he get any rest in such an environment? It wasn't until the third day that she was able to sleep herself. It was that third night that she had the house to herself, though there were plenty of news vans outside, eager to break some kind of development. And they'd get that development, all right. Boy would they, but not for a few more days. She slept like shit that night, but she did get some sleep.

That fourth day is when she called me. I had given her my number and said please call me if you need a set of ears to listen. I was a little surprised when she took me up on that offer. I guess the phantoms of the dead she witnessed weighed heavily upon her and she wanted to get it out in the open. Talking is therapeutic. We met at Starbucks and sat for an hour or so, talked about non-related issues for the better part of it. She said she wanted a return to normalcy, didn't think that would ever happen. At the end of our meeting I asked her if I could buy her a steak dinner at The Boathouse in the business district of Lake Arrowhead. It was a proposal of a date, I didn't try to disguise that. I sensed she'd accept because it would mean she wouldn't be alone, and I was doing my best to instill a sense of trust of me in her. Someone to confide in. She accepted my offer. Is it just me or when a gal accepts your proposal of a first date do you immediately wonder if you'll see what she looks like under those clothes? The first date is the first stepping stone that leads to unveiling those glorious boobs. I think Confucius wrote that.

That evening was one I'll never forget, and it had nothing to do with the mystery of Valentine's Day. We agreed as we walked toward the restaurant that we wouldn't mention what had happened, that we'd keep our conversation anywhere but on the missing twenty-three. And we did. It was during our dinner that I realized I found someone special in Norrah Peterson. I am twenty-eight, two years her junior, and had been single for over a year, ready to find a woman to get serious with. The circumstance was pure shit that brought us together, but stuff happens for a reason. And she says I was just what she needed in her life during that time, but I'm not sure if she meant I offered her a distraction from the fiasco or I filled a void in her life that is love. Love is what it was, though it took some time to evolve. We had such a great evening that we agreed to do it again tomorrow—though at a less expensive restaurant. We'd spend time together every day from then on. When our schedules didn't allow for us to meet in person, we'd call the other and have hours-long conversations.

It was on the sixth day following Valentine's Day that I asked her if she would consider dating a cop, which was a roundabout way of asking if she'd date me. Some people have hang-ups with dating cops, understandably so, so it was a fair question. I asked her this over the phone, was nervous to do it in person. She said yes, and I sensed her grin. She then invited me over to her house for a home-made dinner on the following evening. I agreed to the proposal and said I'd bring a pie and a bottle of Chardonnay. She asked if seven P.M. would work for me and I said I would be working till seven tomorrow, so I'd need a half-hour to shower and change and trim my nose-hairs, but I only lived ten minutes from her house, so seven-forty would be a great time if it suited her. It did and the date was set.

As you know, seven days following Valentine's Day was when the second-half of the biggest news story of Arrowhead history took place. You might not know that I was there when it happened.

It was a quarter to eight when I arrived, and I blinked widely when Norrah opened the door for me, how beautifully she was made up. A dark green dress, hair up, a silver necklace and diamond earrings, make-up was something she didn't just throw on, she had made herself up something splendid. A Vogue magazine cover she was. Again I wondered if I'd be taking a gander at the goods under the threads. You can't blame me for being a guy.

She looked past me at the parked news vans, and commented that she thought they'd never leave. I agreed. News was at the highest ratings they'd gotten in years, maybe ever. Local news teams were getting national syndication from their footage and interviews. The interviews were with neighbors and some cops here and there, never Norrah. She refused interviews (at first), and I'm glad she did. Fuck those salivating journalists (pardon my language). I know they have a job to do, but their interests don't lie in my Norrah's well-being but in their careers.

"Oh my, you look stunning," I said and crossed the threshold.

"Thank you," she said with a sweet grin. Her cheeks ball up when she grins more than the average smiler. They do wonders for her allure. A good smile can make an average-looking girl look beautiful, and in Norrah's case it makes a good-looking girl become gorgeous. And those straight white teeth and sensuous lips, they really set off her smile. I apologize for getting off track. It's hard not to talk about what a gal I have in Norrah. I'm truly blessed. And in case you're wondering, I've seen what lies under those threads and it's spectacular.

"You look handsome yourself," she said. I wore a dark suit and red tie. I thanked her.

On the dining table was a casserole dish covered in foil. There were two candles lit on the table. A kitchen light was on a dimmer and set low. In the living room a single lamp was on. The overall lighting was low, the perfect kind of light for such a situation. She had made lasagna from scratch and I ate two big ass pieces of it. She eats like a bird, and claimed to be stuffed after only eating half of a modestly sized piece. She apologized for not opening my Chardonnay, but Italian food goes with red wine, so she poured us some Cabernet. We killed the bottle between the two of us.

I had just put my fork down, took a deep breath, and told her how amazing dinner was. She thanked me. The wine was giving me all kinds of confidence so I decided to get a little personal with her. "I'm really glad we met, Norrah. I mean it. Yeah it sucks why we met, but still... I'm so lucky to have met you. I haven't been this happy in a while."

"You're sweet to say. I feel the same way. Don't take this the wrong way, because I'm not using you for a distraction, but you can see how you are just that. But honestly, Jay, even if that... _thing_ didn't happen, I'd still be eating dinner with you right now. You are a kind, sweet man. I am the fortunate one, not you."

I smiled at her—I'd guess my eyes were getting pretty glassy, partially because of the wine, but mostly because her words had made my day. I got up from the table and extended my hand, ever the cavalier. She took it and got up. I escorted her to the living room, stepped into her and put one hand on her waist, the other in her hand, and began slow-dancing with her. She was game. Shortly after, she said dancing to music would be even better, so she turned on the entertainment center and pushed a few buttons. Seconds later we were listening to classical music. I don't know who the composer was, but it was a series of waltzes. Good music to dance to. Slow, but not too slow.

It was nearing nine P.M. At the end of a Strauss waltz we stopped dancing and hugged one another. I raked my fingers across her tied-back hair, cupped her cheek, gazed in her eyes, and gave her the first of many kisses. It was a timeless kiss, one lasting both seconds and an eternity. I was so very ashamed of what my body decided to do during that kiss, and she felt it pressing against her lower abdomen. She said nothing of it, thankfully. I couldn't help it! You try hugging and kissing a girl as wonderful and beautiful as Norrah and not get physically excited. After the kiss she rested her head on my shoulder and we swayed slowly in a rhythm. I rubbed her lower back, smelled her hair which was so pleasingly fragrant. Damn those missing twenty-three. How selfish, I know, but it always remained in my conscious mind, that this was happening because of them.

"I hope this never ends," I said to her.

"It won't. Unless you pull the plug on it."

"Never."

The waltz was a short one. Following it was the first of a series of orchestral compositions. Not the kind of stuff made to dance to. We stepped to the couch and had a seat, our knees touching, and got to kissing once again. It got the point that I thought we might end up in her bedroom. I wanted to, that's for damned sure. My hand was getting a little exploratory, and went under the skirt of her dress and crept mid-thigh, which was all the distance I was going to allow myself to travel. She allowed it. My heart was pounding.

The music had entered a kind of quiet phase, where it was just a few violinists playing softly. The music was somewhat soft to begin with, so the room was fairly quiet when the music downstairs came on. All at once there was a Green Day song, Welcome to Paradise, playing on the basement stereo. It was loud enough that Norrah and I both flinched; she gasped. We met eyes, wide eyes. That was nothing in comparison to the look she gave me when we heard laughter from downstairs. Fucking laughter! We sprang off the couch together and dashed to the closed hatch of the downstairs portal. She was first to arrive, gripped the metal ring and flung the hatch open in full. The loud music got louder, the laughter more pronounced. She flew down the stairs, me just inches behind her. It was a good thing I was so close to her, because when she reached the bottom step she lost consciousness: I caught her as she fell. The sight of twenty-three revelers down below was more than she could handle.

### Chapter Three

It had been seven days to the hour. My guess would be to the minute. It was as though a week of time had been cut out of existence for these guests. In the seven days since they had disappeared, nothing was cleaned or organized, or anything but inspected. Norrah and I saw the very drinks that had been collecting dust for seven days now being consumed. Were they wondering why their ice-cubes—shapely only seconds prior—had melted and their drinks were room-temperature? Perhaps. But these fucking people were acting as though nothing had happened. I actually wondered if I was staring at ghosts. But ghosts shouldn't look so... non-transparent.

A guy in a Phantom of the Opera mask rushed to us, asked if Norrah was all right. I didn't reply to him. Hell, I wasn't far off from joining Norrah there on the floor. Another couple approached us, asked what happened to her. I shook my head and eased Norrah to her back. I told the nearest guy—a guy wearing a Peacock mask—to turn the music off. He turned it off seconds later.

I groped the cell phone out of my slacks pocket and without thought went into my contacts list and found Fred, the fat cop who was with me a week ago, and pressed Call.

"Yo, what's up, Davis?" he said.

"Fred," I said shortly.

It was all it took to alarm him. "Something wrong? What's the matter, man?"

"Get your ass over to Norrah's this second."

"Why? What happened?"

"You won't believe me."

A moment later he said, "Are you there now?"

"Yes."

"I hear people. Who's there?"

"You won't believe me."

"No... don't tell me... that's impossible."

"Just come over. Now."

"Be there in five minutes."

"Are you on duty?"

"You know I am."

I should have known it, but memory was coming by with great difficulty just then. "Good. Make the call to dispatch. I want everyone here as soon as possible."

"Davis, are you shitting me? Are you putting me on? I gotta know before I make the call. This is nothing to joke about, you know that."

"Just do it. And when you get here, tell the fucking news people to back up, give us space. It's about to become a three-ringed circus here. National news? No, international. Fred, they're back. They're all back."

After I ended the call I took a seat on the bottom step of the stairs. Norrah was still out. There were several kids standing around her, worried for her. Absently I said she'd be fine. With a little effort I sharpened my policing mind, asked where the hell they've been over the last week. I was surprised when all I got in return were blank stares.

"Where have you all been? Where!"

A guy in a mouse mask asked what I meant. Just then the bathroom door opened and a couple came out. The guy zipped up his trousers. They were both flushed, undoubtedly just got done having sex.

"For the last seven days, where the hell were you all!"

"Are you feeling okay?" an unmasked girl asked concernedly.

Norrah began stirring. I got off the bottom stair and knelt beside her.

"Honey, are you okay?" I said to her. Her eyes opened weakly. "Norrah, it's me, Jay. I need you to be strong for me right now. Can you do that for me?"

She turned her head toward the gathering of six or seven well-dressed teens and twenty-somethings. Her eyes got wide. She was awake, all right.

"It's okay, Norrah, it's okay." I don't know what I meant by it. It was a damned retarded thing to say. Consolation has never been my thing. I took her by the hands and helped her to her feet.

"What is this?" she said to me in such a high tone that it sounded pre-adolescent.

"I don't know. Cops are on their way."

"Woah, woah," said the guy in a Phantom of the Opera mask. "The cops are coming?"

"Yes. I'm a cop, too. None of you are to leave here. Not a one of you."

"What's this about? Did we do something wrong? Norrah said we could be here, we didn't do anything wrong," he said defensively.

"You didn't do anything wrong," I agreed.

"This can't be happening," Norrah whispered incredulously. "It can't be."

I couldn't agree more. It most certainly couldn't be happening. I heard one kid ask another where Paul was. Paul would be able to get Norrah to call off the cops, he judged. None of them seemed to know where Paul was, until a girl said she thought she saw him go upstairs a few minutes ago. Another girl overhead that and agreed, said he went up there to piss because Batman and Catwoman were busy "getting it on" in the bathroom.

A maskless boy whisked by me, began ascending the stairs. I asked where he was going.

"To get Paul."

"Paul isn't here."

"He's not? Where'd he go?" He was still going up the stairs.

"He moved out of here a week ago, hasn't been back since. Kid, why don't you come back down here. Nobody is to leave till I say you can. Got it? I mean it, I'm detaining each and every one of you for the time being." I sensed horror in each of the kids who heard my threatening words. "Don't worry, nobody is in trouble."

A guy approached me from the far end of the room. He was the oldest one here, maybe late twenties. He wore a tux, just as all the males were, and wore a mask, only it was raked back high on his head. His name I now know to be Aaron Mendellsohn. Aaron will be writing his account of things on pages to come. When he arrived at my side he put his hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him with a questioning stare.

He leaned close to me and said, "What day is it? The date. What's the date?"

I jumped to my feet and stared silently at him in disbelief. I suppose my reaction meant something to him, because he grinned at me. He knew.

### Chapter Four

It wasn't a half hour later when the end of Norrah's street was lit up like a ski resort at night. Reds and blues and cruiser high beams made daylight of the area, not to mention the light created by spot-lights on stanchions provided by news teams. There were several news personalities standing before camera crews, and I would bet there were a dozen more news vans speeding up highway 18 at that very moment. I heard a helicopter arrive within that first hour. Every single soul employed in my precinct was present, save for dispatch. The San Bernardino Sheriff was in transit. The boys-in-blue had done a good job pushing back the insanity of the reporters, and had eventually made a barricade. There was a steady stream of emergency vehicles and cruisers funneling in. By ten all reporters were having to zoom in to get a shot worth half a shit of her house.

The kids were scared senseless. Their many questions went unanswered. All they had heard was that something was royally fucked up and yes it was a big fucking deal. Nobody dared try to leave. As more and more officers poured into her house, I took charge of Norrah's well being and escorted her up to the third floor, brought her to her bed and laid her down. She was all kinds of wrong in the head. I suppose I'd have been in the same dire state if my policing mind hadn't taken over as my governing force. I was acting on some instinctive level. Part of me was the man who was newly dating Norrah, but a bigger part of me was a cop who was caring for a woman so utterly distraught.

Dan Oliver is a sergeant and friend of mine. I asked him for a huge favor, to stand outside the bedroom and be considerate of who entered. Soon would come the time when we'd both have to give statements to detectives, but that time hadn't yet arrived. I told Oliver the gist of it all, that it was seven days probably to the minute when the missing kids reappeared, and they have no knowledge of having left. Oliver looked at me like I was some kind of idiot.

In the back of my mind was a little nugget of knowledge that I clung to, that of the man who asked me the date. I debated myself whether I should tell anyone this. It was a huge thing, I grasped that. But did I want it to be known to everyone just then? As I mentioned, cops act on instinct more times than not, and my visceral reaction was to keep it to myself for now, until I could dissect the issue at length, and get Norrah involved. I could tell my boss about him later, if I should elect to do so. I could say it slipped my mind, that I was too upset by the phenomenon that is vanished people being un-vanished to have given the kid's speculative words any consideration. Aaron had asked me what day it was, and I couldn't conclude any differently, that he knew damn well that they had lapsed in time somehow. I'd have to get Aaron alone soon enough and ask him some questions, with Norrah at my side.

We were alone in her bedroom for twenty minutes when Norrah asked me to go downstairs and get her purse. I sent Oliver to get it, a white purse on the kitchen counter. A minute later I had the purse in hand. I could see dozens of my brethren down in the living room. Williams waved me down: I shook my head at him with an apologetic grin. I went inside the room and closed the door, went to the bed and turned on a second lamp. Norrah dug in her purse for her cell phone. I had a good idea who she was calling.

"Paul, it's me, Norrah. You need to call me right away. Your friends have all been found. Call me. Now."

She ended the call and looked at me. "What do you think happened?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"I know you don't know, but tell me what you think happened. Give me the possibilities, because I can't think of any."

"Neither can I. But I think one of the guys downstairs might have an opinion. Maybe."

"Who?"

Her phone rang. She answered it, it was Paul. She put it on speaker-phone so I could listen.

"Where were they found?" Paul asked. He didn't sound as shocked as I figured he would be.

"Downstairs."

"What do you mean, downstairs?"

"I mean downstairs. They are downstairs, being questioned. How many ways are there to interpret that?"

"You mean to tell me that they're alive?" Now he sounded shocked. It was as though he half-expected them to be found, only it would be their lifeless bodies discovered, not living people.

"Yes, they're alive."

"Impossible."

"Tell me about it. Why are you so surprised that they're alive?" In her voice was accusation.

"I don't know. I just figured. I heard what you heard, their screams."

"Yeah, I suppose so," she conceded. "You'd better come home."

"Why?"

"I don't know, it just seems appropriate, don't you think?"

"I'd rather not be caught in the middle of this mess."

"It's too late for that," she said disdainfully. "And why should I suffer through this shit alone? You're more responsible for this than I am. Own up to it. At least nobody will question you as if you're a possible murderer anymore. They're safe, so just come home."

"Nah, I'm going to stay here. See ya." He hung up.

"You little shit!" She flung the phone on the bed.

I touched her knee, waited for her to look me in the eyes before saying a guy downstairs might know they had disappeared. I explained what had happened. She thought I should tell my boss, that it was no minor thing. I had mixed feelings about it. I said I would tell my supervisor, but only after we spoke with the guy first. I felt we deserved that much. Nobody deserved answers more than Norrah, after all she went through. She thought I'd better get his phone number, because once he left the house it was unlikely I'd get a second chance at questioning him. I asked if she'd be all right alone for a few minutes. She said hurry back and meant it.

I went down the first flight of stairs. Several of my co-workers approached me and asked what the hell happened. That was a question asked with the same high tone by everyone, and worded exactly the same. _What the hell happened?_ I just shook my head at them. On the dining table were our plates, a casserole mostly intact. To think we ate there contentedly so recently ago that the lasagna would still be warm... it seemed like days ago that we were giggling at each other over dinner like a couple of horny teenagers. Jerry Bagwell—a rookie on the force—mentioned that Lieutenant Daniels was looking for me. I said I'd find him in a minute, and sped off down to the basement.

The kids down there looked miserable. Some looked annoyed. One girl was crying for no apparent reason. A few sat on the bed, a few in the chairs, a couple sat on the carpeted floor with their backs to the wall, heads hung low. A couple kids sat on the stone hearth, and they were whispering to one another with brooding eyes. You wouldn't imagine kids dressed so smartly could look so collectively put out. Every boy was adorned in a tux, girls wore dresses befitting of a prom. None wore masks. Poor kids must have been really confused. I felt for them, I really did. And they didn't know the half of it, yet. They were surely being asked where they'd been over the last week, and that would make no sense to them. Well, it might make sense to one of them, the one I was seeking. The rest would be thinking back two weeks, not one. A couple cops were interviewing randomly chosen masqueraders. I went straight to the oldest looking one of the lot, Aaron, who was by himself, leaning a shoulder against the wall. I went to the back door and gestured at him with a nod to follow me. He did. Together he and I went out the back door; I closed it behind us.

I extended my hand and said, "I'm Jay."

"Aaron," he said and shook my hand. "Aaron Mendellsohn."

Judging books by their covers is second-nature to cops. We're the judge and jury. This guy was straight in the head, and a good guy. Either a good guy or great guy: it was too soon to peg him to that degree. We stared silently at one another for a moment. It was mostly dark, the single low-wattage light trying its best to overcome the oppressive darkness of the winter night. It was well below freezing, our breaths balloons of vapor. It wasn't long before his teeth began chattering. Most people who live in the mountains grow hardened to low temperatures. People who live in the flatlands can't last five minutes in sub-freezing weather without chattering their teeth and rubbing their arms and asking if it's normal for it to be this cold out.

"It's February the twenty-first," I said. "Seven days after the party." I gauged his reaction. It didn't seem to surprise him in the least. He simply nodded. I confirmed to him what he already knew, or at least suspected.

"Where were you during those seven days? Without food and water and shelter? What the fuck, man?"

"I don't know," he said, and it was a candid answer.

"But you do know you were... gone."

"Not necessarily."

"Dude, what happened? This stays between us, unless you don't want it to. I got to know what happened, or what might have happened. You seem to be the only one who has any idea that you all disappeared. How do you know that, and why just you? Or maybe it's not just you. Might others know?"

He sighed, looked away from me. "I shouldn't have asked you that. They're going to think I had something to do with this, aren't they?"

"Like I said, this stays between you and me. For now, at least. Come on, man, tell me what you know."

He rubbed his blue-white hands together, breathed on them, looked up at me. "How many kids did you count in there?"

"I didn't count."

"Well I did. There are twenty-three including myself. If it had been nine months instead of a week that we went missing, maybe there'd be twenty-four: a couple were actually screwing in the bathroom, shamelessly. _Proudly._ Can you believe that?"

"So there are twenty-three. What are you driving at?"

"I made it a point to count them earlier this evening." I thought it was strange he would do so, but said nothing. He amended, "I mean earlier in the evening a week ago. There were twenty-five. I counted them, Jay."

"Twenty _five?_ Are you sure?"

He nodded. "Paul was the twenty-fourth."

"Who was the twenty-fifth?"

He faced me more squarely, stepped closer to me, hugged tighter his shivering body, and in a hushed voice said, "That's the question for the ages. The twenty-fifth is who pulled the strings here. He's the one."

"How do you know that? You don't know who he is?"

Aaron didn't answer. He looked over his shoulder at the closed door. "There's no need to mention him, no reason to begin an investigation; we won't see him again."

"Buddy, what you're telling me isn't helping for shit. What aren't you telling me?"

He shook his head once, blew into his hands.

"Could you at least give me a description of him?"

"Sure. That I can do. He was the only one masquerading as a man. That is truly a disguise, a facade."

I stared stupidly at him. The back door opened. It was the Lieutenant. I said give me just a moment. When the door closed I asked Aaron for his phone number, and entered it into my phone, said I'd be calling him in the very near future.

### Chapter Five

It was the next day when Norrah and I went for a drive, away from her house. Anywhere beat being there at her house. The media was still beside themselves. Norrah was looking for an escape and I was happy to give her one. We took my Chevy Tahoe because it was four-wheel drive and it had been snowing off and on all afternoon. It was almost evening, the roads a little icy, and the road leading from her house was lined with media. I had a surprise lined up for her. She knew we were going to Don Pepe's Mexican restaurant in the nearby town of Twin Peaks, but didn't know I had arranged earlier that morning to meet there at six.

There was one precondition laid out by Aaron before agreeing to the meeting, and that was he didn't want to talk about the twenty-fifth masquerader. I agreed to the stipulation because I wanted his company, and if that's the only way he'd agree to meet us, then so be it. But I didn't plan on adhering to the negotiated terms.

Twin Peaks is a small town, just far enough away from Arrowhead to ensure we wouldn't be hounded by journalists. The restaurant is small, only one waitress, and there were only three other parties there when we were seated, five minutes before the hour. The waitress took our drink orders after dropping off a tray of hot chips and salsa: I imperiously ordered three margaritas. The lady walked off. Before Norrah asked why I ordered three, I said we were having a special guest. I then recalled the guy who had an idea that some amount of time had lapsed between the beginning of the party and the conclusion.

"Really? He's coming?" She sounded delighted by the news.

I nodded. "He made me promise I wouldn't ask him about the twenty-fifth masquerader."

"What do you mean twenty-fifth?"

"There were twenty-three people down there. Twenty-three people confirmed to have gone missing. Paul was the twenty-fourth, but then he never went missing. There was another man, according to Aaron—the guy who is meeting us here shortly. He thinks the twenty-fifth masquerader has something to do with what happened."

"The hell I'm not going to bring it up!"

"I know, I know," I said with a smile. "I want answers, too, you better believe it. But it was a condition of this meeting, not to bring it up."

"Then what's the point of meeting him? What are we going to talk about, the weather?" she said sarcastically.

"Is it normal for it to be this cold?" I intoned and humored. I looked out the window by our table, saw a silver Toyota Tacoma enshrouded with road-dust pull into a parking spot. It was Aaron. "Maybe he'll talk about it on his own. I'm a little curious how he fits into the picture. He's older than the rest; I doubt he goes to college with the others, but maybe I'm wrong."

The margaritas were dropped off just before Aaron entered the eatery. I held up a hand and beckoned him like a mafia Don. He came our way.

I introduced the two. I relocated across the bench seat beside Norrah. He sat facing us and looked undecidedly at the mug of green slush on his side of the table.

"Have a drink, bud," I said.

"Sorry, but I'm not a drinker."

"No?" I asked, a little thrown off by that. "You weren't drinking at the party? Why go to a party if you're a teetotaler?"

"Must we delve into this topic so soon? I'm starving, was hoping to enjoy some of what I eat."

"Fair enough," I said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I don't believe I've seen you before," Norrah said to Aaron. It is commonplace to recognize most people on the mountain. They are small towns up here, a tightly-knit community. If you don't recognize someone, there's a good chance that either they are new to the area or are flatlanders (a disparaging term used for anyone who doesn't live on the mountain) visiting a relative or up for a day of skiing.

"Yeah, I don't live around here."

"Where do you live?" she pursued.

"Fresno."

"Fresno?" Norrah and I said together.

"Yep. This area is new to me."

"Why are you here?" I asked him. "Do you have family or friends here? One of the kids at the party?"

"No." He gestured at the waitress. Once he had her attention he asked for a glass of water.

Norrah and I waited for him to elaborate, or at least feed our curiosity in the slightest, but he had nothing else to add.

There was an awkward silence that ended when the waitress dropped off three glasses of water and asked if we were ready to order. Norrah and I were both knowledgeable of the menu, having had eaten there many times, so we ordered. Aaron hadn't looked at the menu before him, but said he'd have the same thing I was having, a carne asada burrito. Once the chick jotted the shit down and left, Aaron took the opportunity to begin a new topic before Norrah and I could dictate the conversation.

"So what do you do for a living?" he asked her, but glanced at me as well.

"I'm a cop, as you know," I said. "I assume you know."

"Yeah, I heard you say that. And you?"

"I work at a grocery store," Norrah said shamefully, "but go to college," she said hopefully.

"Good for you." Aaron sipped his water. "How long have you been a cop?"

"Six years."

"Love it or hate it?"

"Something in-between."

"How about you, Norrah? Love it or hate it?"

"Hate it. That's why I'm going to school."

"To become what?"

"I'm majoring in accounting. Maybe I'll work at H&R Block or something, I don't know. I'm good with numbers, and accountants make decent money."

"Sure," Aaron said.

"How about you?" Norrah asked. "What do you do?"

Now we were getting somewhere. Maybe it wouldn't lead to anything tangible to our curiosity, but it was a step in the right direction.

"I'm a teacher."

I could see that, him being a teacher. He had that smart-guy kind of look. Clean shaven, dark hair tightly cropped and parted on the side. He was slender and at least four inches shorter than me, putting him at about five-nine. He wore a red checked flannel shirt with a black jacket.

"Oh? What do you teach?" Norrah inquired.

"Middle-school, history and English. I'm a substitute teacher. I took a little time off work, am staying in the area for a couple weeks—though I got short-changed out of a week of my vacation," he said with a wink.

"You teach in Fresno?"

"Yes, ma'am."

We both wanted to ask it, but it was me who got to it first. "What brings you here to Lake Arrowhead?"

Instead of answering he sipped his water, then bit into a chip.

"Not wanting to answer that, huh?" I asked.

He looked at me undecidedly. "Eh... my answer would stem new questions I'm not eager to answer."

"Who invited you to the party?" I asked.

"Nobody."

"Nobody? You crashed the party?"

He nodded.

"Forgive me," Norrah said, "but I find it intriguing that a teacher would crash a party hundreds of miles from where he lives. Can't you tell us more?"

Before he could shoot us down with a disheartening non-answer, I asked another question: "Paul was okay with you joining the party? A stranger?"

"That's the beauty of a masquerade party. It's customary not to ask who the others are. I suppose most people can figure out who the masked people are, but not always, and not everybody. Nobody asked who I was. People just assume you're friends of someone's and that's just fine. Alcohol is the social lubricant of the machine that is a party, and folks are having too much fun to police the party by finding out who shouldn't be there, who wasn't invited and who was. I was just another guy who was wanting to have a good time. People can appreciate that."

"But you don't drink," Norrah said with a puzzled expression.

"I don't."

"Then why were you there? Can't you understand how confusing this is to us?"

"I can."

"What if I told you that I swear on my mortal soul," I said, "that what you tell us will stay between us now and forever. You can tell us anything and it won't leave this room."

"I swear, too," Norrah said. "I think I'll die if you don't tell me what you know."

Aaron grinned at us both, ate another chip. While chewing he said, "You must think I'm enjoying this, keeping what I know mum. It isn't so. I just fear being the subject of interviews and accusations. I live a quiet life and want to continue that. Just having been present at that party has put me on the radar and I don't wish to travel farther along that path of fame or infamy, if you know what I mean. But I do believe you. You seem like good people. Are you two a couple?"

I said no as Norrah said yes. I gaped over at her. She looked embarrassed. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have assumed that."

"Don't be sorry! I just thought I'd freak you out if I said yes. I really like you, Norrah, and I'm honored that you consider me your... well, that we're dating."

She looked satisfied with that. I kissed her briskly on the lips.

Aaron smiled at us. "I'm a pastor," he said.

"Beg pardon?" I said.

"A pastor. I'm a pastor."

"I thought you were a teacher?" Norrah said.

"Isn't that what a pastor is?"

"Touché," I said.

He chuckled. "I'm both. I teach on the weekdays, give sermons on Sundays at Calvary Chapel."

Norrah was agape. She then blinked the incredulous expression away and apologized. "It's just that you look so young to be a pastor. And a teacher, for that matter."

"I'm twenty-eight. Not that young. I know I look younger, I hear it a lot."

"A pastor-teacher, crashing a teen party hundreds of miles away. Nothing unusual about that," I said jocularly.

"Nothing at all, huh," Aaron said and laughed harder this time. "As a man of faith, my word is stone. When I promise something, you can take it to the bank. I'm hoping you two share that creed. You made me a promise and I don't take that lightly."

"As well you shouldn't," I said. "I know a cop isn't as moral or venerable a profession as a teacher and pastor, but my word, my honor, means just as much to me as it does to you."

"Have either of you read the bible?" he asked, looking in her eyes, then mine.

Neither of us had, and we reluctantly admitted it.

"You should try it," he said. "It's a good book. Not just the message of love and salvation and everlasting life, but in a literal sense, it's a good book. Like any book, it has a kind of story, a plot, and it's fascinating, enthralling. I say this not as a pastor but as someone who adores reading books."

We both nodded, curious as to where the heck he was going with this.

"I have a friend sermonizing in my stead, at Calvary, for two weeks. But I have to get back up to Fresno by Sunday evening, because I have classes to teach on Monday. So I don't have much time left down here. If you two would like, we could get together a few more times before I head back. I'd be honored."

"Sure," Norrah said. "All right," I said.

"I don't know anyone here, so it's nice to have met you two. Back to what I was getting at, the bible. It's a big thing I'm about to ask of you two, but would you read the bible for me?"

Aaron was looking at the knitted brows of us both. What's the point of this request, our expressions said.

"Think of it as payment for me sharing with you what I know. Deal?"

"I guess I could," I said. "Any part in particular?"

"The whole thing is worth reading, but I guess the New Testament is a good place to start. The ending is the part I really want you two to absorb. Pay extra attention."

"Why is that?" asked Norrah.

"Like I said, it's payment. I'm a pastor, you can hardly blame me for trying to teach the word of God to two non-believers." He looked down and shook his head. "Forgive me, I shouldn't have presumed you to be non-believers. But I'd feel better with our relationship if you gave the bible a read."

"If we do that, you'll tell us everything we want to know?"

"Yes."

"Do we have to read it entirely before you tell us?" Norrah asked.

He considered it. "I don't know. I'll give it some thought."

"How about instead of reading the bible," I said, "I give you a more tangible payment; say, some cold hard cash...?" I winked, then laughed.

"You'd be doing yourselves a favor by reading it. Have an open mind, please. Maybe when you've finished I'll drive back down and if you'd like I could baptize you both. If you're willing, that is."

"You're trying to convert us," I said, "and that doesn't offend me, but you should know that I am already a Christian." I was being honest about not being offended, but I'd have been dishonest had I said it didn't annoy me. It annoyed me, and Norrah both. But it was a reasonable price to pay for what we'd get in return: information. Information we were dying to acquire.

"Me too," Norrah said.

"Stating you're a Christian and being a Christian are two different things. Only God knows what's inside your heart of hearts. But if I had to guess, you two..." He cut himself short of finishing his presumption.

"What?" I said.

"I'm trying not to make myself seem like an ass. I do not think you are unworthy of His grace. What I mean to say, is most people won't get into Heaven, that's all."

"What's this all about, really," I said kind of cryptically. "What's all this religion stuff have to do with anything?"

"Jay..." Norrah chided. "Be respectful. That's what pastors do, you know. They share the word of God. Is it that surprising to you that he'd want to do the same with us? Think of it as a compliment, that he likes us so much that he wants to hang out with us more, namely in Heaven." She smiled crookedly at me. It was such a pretty smile, from such a pretty woman. I reciprocated the smile, and couldn't help but kiss her right then.

"You're a tender soul," Aaron said to her. "You would be proof, if nothing else, that God exists. He created a gem in you."

"Aww." Norrah blushed. "That's so sweet of you to say."

"Watch it, bub," I said. "That chick has become the property of Jay Davis, going on five minutes now. Go hitch your wagon to another dame, Father Aaron."

He laughed. "I promise you two, I don't go around proselytizing. And no, I'm not trying to convert you two, contrary to how this must look. If you were at my church, that's another story. I know it must seem like I'm a religious zealot, trying to nab me a couple fresh new unbelievers, but it isn't so. There's a reason why I want you two to be educated on certain material. You guys want my opinion on what happened. To fully understand my opinion, you have to have some basic knowledge of certain scriptures. Oh, and I'm not a father, I'm not Catholic."

"Oh. Sorry."

"So when can I expect you two love-birds to begin reading the New Testament."

"You really are intent on us reading it, aren't you?" I asked.

He shrugged with a poorly concealed grin.

"I'll start this evening," Norrah said. "How's that strike you."

"Awesome."

"I guess I could too," I said. "But I don't have a bible."

"You mean you _didn't_ have a bible. I have two extras in my Tacoma, one for each of you."

"Two? Is that a coincidence or planned?" I asked.

He smiled broadly. "The latter. But to be fair, I have more than two. I always carry several, in case I encounter someone interested in learning the Word of God."

I asked him where he was staying these two weeks of his vacation. The Lake Arrowhead Inn. It was about eight minutes from Norrah's, a little farther from my own house. He apologized for his bluntness before asking if we'd mind getting together at either my place or Norrah's, as he couldn't afford to be eating at restaurants too frequently. He was having a hard enough time paying ninety bucks a night for two weeks at that inn. As poorly as teachers get paid, he said substitutes have it even worse. And his congregation at Calvary wasn't too vast, his salary almost nothing at all. The good Lord provided, though, and he was happy with what he was given. He would bring over some side-dishes purchased from Stater's, said he wouldn't think of freeloading off of us.

"We can get together at my place," I offered. "And you don't need to bring any food over, Aaron. You are a good man, do a lot for your community. Allow me to repay some of that kindness by at least feeding you. I can cook some mean rib-eyes."

He hummed enthusiastically at the idea of a rib-eye. "That sounds delicious. Did I mention I'm starving?" He humored.

"How's tomorrow sound?" Norrah asked Aaron.

"Sounds great." He looked in her eyes, then mine. "Would you guys mind if we dined at Norrah's instead?"

"I don't see why not," Norrah said.

"Not that it's of much importance to me, but I wouldn't mind returning there. For personal reasons. Don't read too far into it, it's nothing like that."

I had sipped to the bottom of my margarita. Norrah wasn't far behind me. When the senorita delivered our three hot plates of savory goodness, I ordered another 'rita for the lady, and got to drinking Aaron's untouched green drink. The pastor wasn't kidding about being hungry: that dude tore into his burrito like it was his salvation. The remainder of our dinner-date was enjoyed with lighthearted topics, nothing about what happened on Valentine's day. I guess a lot of that could be chalked up to knowing we'd see him again tomorrow and a few more times before he embarked up north. We could afford to get a little chummy, and I thought it would make it all the easier for him to tell us what brought him hundreds of miles south, to a party that would live forever in history books, perhaps the very ones he'd teach his students. I could be a patient guy, I knew he'd tell me what he knew soon enough, assuming there were things to tell. For all I knew he might have only had a hunch that something would go down that fateful night, with nothing more to reveal to us than that.

Before we parted ways that evening, after a hand-shake and a genuine "It was a pleasure to meet you," he reminded us that we both promised to start reading the bible, and handed us over a brand new copy of said book. Inside them, handwritten on the first leaf, was: _To Jay_ (Norrah on her copy), _may the Word of God live within you for eternity. Your friend, Aaron Mendellsohn._

### Chapter Six

On the drive back to Norrah's we decided we really would begin reading the bible tonight, to honor our end of the bargain. To make it more lively, we'd do it together. Neither of us were eager to separate from the other, so it worked out well. And we already had a couple margaritas in our system, so it was the foundation of a fun evening. We both had work in the morning, but that seemed like years away. The night was young, and we were enjoying our new relationship status. Dating, that's what we were. Maybe not boyfriend and girlfriend, but something just short of that. If she was confronted by a good looking man and asked out on a date, I believe she'd have turned him down with the reason being that she was seeing someone, sorry. I'd have said the same thing. We were in the throes of a monogamous relationship; is there anything more blissful than that? A new commitment with a new partner? Would we be with the other for the rest of our lives? Marriage? Kids? Joint 401k plans and family health plans? The sky's the limit, the possibilities endless and marvelous to daydream over. My spirits couldn't get any higher, despite the missing twenty-three turned found twenty-three.

We went to her house. There was no police presence here, excluding myself. A news personality—a rather famous one—met us at her driveway, and requested an interview with Norrah. She said not this time and walked past him. He was whining about people needing to understand things and blah-blah-blah as we went inside; the same old song and dance, a stale tune. She'd begin interviewing soon enough.

She locked the door behind us. Our minds would be preoccupied at her home, so I offered to take her to my cabin instead. I had some wine there, and would love to turn them into empty bottles with her. She liked the idea. She changed into something more casual upstairs as I waited in the living room. On a whim I decided to go downstairs. The hatch was open, so I went down without a second thought. Norrah asked from above if she should bring clothes for tomorrow, and giggled. I said sure loudly enough to reach her well above. She asked if I was in the basement: I said yeah.

It looked pretty much the same down here. Exactly the same, actually. A few cups had changed positions, but that was from when the kids reappeared and took them up as if it had only been seconds instead of calendar days between sips. Having been twenty-four hours removed from the scene of yesterday, I absorbed what I saw more studiously. All the damned plastic cups. Really, those were the only sign that there was ever a party here, if you discounted the banner and festoons. That and a couple empty bottles of gin and vodka; one bottle not empty, and Tom Collins mix. I went inside the bathroom, saw a Trojan wrapper in the trash-can atop a mound of wadded up tissue. Curiously there was a rubber beside it, still rolled up in a perfect circle. Maybe the lewd couple had second thoughts between opening the rubber and unraveling it, like "If I'm not mistaken, I seem to recall warm wet membranes feeling better than cold dry latex." "Indeed, Conrad. I do believe you're on to something!" I remembered seeing the couple come out of the crapper having just had sex, sex that spanned seven days. I wondered if when he reappeared after a week-long stint in oblivion, if his erection was still hard. If he was inside her at the time, would he return with a water-logged weenie, much like swimming for prolonged periods turns your digits into prunes? That's some long sex! I turned the bathroom light off and re-entered the apartment chuckling.

How did I not see it before? Against the back wall was the fireplace, a stone mantle and hearth. On the footing of the hearth was a hat. It was short and wide brimmed, black. I stepped to it and saw that there were horns on it, small ones, devil horns. I picked it up and saw that there was a mask behind it. I looked around the room and saw no other masks. Ostensibly the partiers took their disguises home with them last night. But not this reveler. Someone had left a hat behind, and a mask. It was porcelain, not some cheap deal bought at a discount-shop. It was heavy and thick, white and cold to the touch. It looked like the visage of a corpse, white and expressionless. It was of a man. A little color on the cheeks, but mostly just stark white. I discarded the hat and examined the mask. There was no stick attached to it for its owner to press it against his or her face. So that would mean it was one of those deals that was secured to the head by a band around the back. But there was no band, no string or slots for a string or anything of the sort. As though it were the face of a man-sized porcelain doll, its face surgically removed from the nose to forehead, eyes cut out, edges rounded smooth. How peculiar that it didn't have a strap or stick. How did the masquerader keep it to his or her face? I wondered if this belonged to number-twenty-five. I didn't really wonder it, but I pretended that I didn't know the affirmative answer to this self-posed question. It _was_ the mask of number-twenty-five. I knew it like I knew there was a good reason why Aaron wanted us to learn some scriptures, and it had little to do with our salvation. The mask in my hands held the answers to every portentous question both asked and not asked, its wearer the key to the riddle, but it hadn't an avenue to share its secrets. He who wore it was responsible for Lake Arrowhead becoming a household name; he was responsible for the parents of two dozen youths worrying sick for six nights and seven days. He who wore it was responsible for the first gray hair of Norrah's thirty young years sprouting just above her left temple. Maybe by me touching it I was contaminating evidence. My prints would ruin the existing ones. That was doubtful, because detectives had already combed the place for clues a week ago. They'd have already seen this thing and the hat. That left me to wonder: why were they still here? Wouldn't they have been placed in containers and tagged as evidence? They left them behind, really? I guess they may have deemed them irrelevant, as I might have done if I didn't know better. I only knew better because of what Aaron had told me. So I cut the detectives some slack and merely considered them lazy instead of stupid and lazy.

I had only touched the mask at the sides: maybe there were still prints on it. The odds of the mask having gone untouched since its wearer last touched it seemed unlikely, but there could still be a partial print somewhere on it. Maybe the database would turn up a match not a police officer or myself. There wouldn't be prints on the hat, as it was fabric (unless the horns had prints; doubtful). I set the mask down where I had found it, and made a mental note to have a detective come take it, check it for prints. Unless Aaron counseled against it for some unknown reason, such as he already knew the identity of the man who had worn it.

"What are you doing down here?" Norrah asked from the top step, startling me. She jaunted down the steps.

"Ready to go?"

"Yeah. Someone's mask, huh?"

"Yep," I said. "And hat. Do you look painfully beautiful wearing anything and everything? And probably nothing?" She wore contoured black cotton pants and a USC sweatshirt, her hair still down, make-up touched up.

"You bet'cha."

"I look pretty hot naked, myself, and under only one condition: the lights have to be off."

"Lucky for me they make light-switches."

"Yes, that invention is responsible for me getting laid."

"You're silly," she said and giggled.

"Silly like a fox. Let's get out of here."

We went upstairs. I asked how long she planned on evading the journalists. They were salivating for an interview, and we both knew they wouldn't leave until they had their fill.

"Soon, I think. It just seems kind of pointless, don't you think? I can't answer any of their questions, so why bother? If I knew more, maybe I'd be more apt to give them their damned ratings."

"Yeah, well hopefully those answers will come soon enough, with the help of Aaron."

She stopped at her answering machine to check messages. Unsurprisingly she had a gang of them, thirty-four messages. How many of them would be media begging for the first exclusive interview? Probably all of them. I said that to Norrah and she disagreed with me, bet that at least a few of them were from family, worried about her. She admitted to having avoided them for the most part. She had called her mom once, shortly after the fiasco began, but cut the conversation short when she burst into tears. She pressed play and the first message was an NBC executive, using his name and title to get her attention. What got her attention more was his offer of a quarter-million dollars for an exclusive, stipulated on it being her first interview. I was pie-eyed, as was she.

"Babe, you should seriously consider that," I said and swallowed dryly.

"Now I'm babe? I'm a phone call away from being a quarter-millionaire and suddenly I'm babe?" She smiled wryly at me.

I laughed. "What can I say? You look a lot hotter when you're about to become rich."

She laughed and said I'd better be kidding, but knew I was.

"But if you're going to give an interview," I said, "why not do one that pays?"

"It would leak that I did it for money, and people would form lousy opinions of me."

"Lousier than the ones already formed? A lot of folks think you had something to do with them disappearing, as stupid as that sounds. Your continued silence projects guilt."

"Screw those people then. I don't know, I'll consider it. I have to admit the idea of coming into that kind of money is a warm one. I could quit my job and focus on finishing my degree."

"Hell yeah. Now we're talking."

The next several messages were other producers, executives, celebrities of the news world, a few people who looked her number up in the White Pages. One message was from her mother, who worried for her daughter and implored her to pick up the phone. Norrah said that she must have given up leaving unreturned messages on her cell phone.

"You shouldn't avoid your family," I said.

"I spoke to her. I know what she'll say and I don't want to hear it. Coincidentally she'd say there would be producers willing to pay me handsomely for an interview, so I'd be foolish to turn them down. She doesn't care so much about my mental state, assumes all is fine now that the kids are back."

"Not close with your parents, huh?"

"Eh, not so much lately. They're awfully selfish. I've been in contact with Grandma, though. She's the best. She worries for me."

The messages continued to play. She erased them one after the other, but didn't delete the one offering her a ton of cash.

Norrah was just saying that she wasn't going to listen to the rest, that it would take an hour, when a message began playing that stole her attention. It was a girl calling herself Brittney Hayes, a name familiar to me. I suppose all twenty-three missing kids' names would sound familiar to me, as I've heard them mentioned by name more than once. Brittney was one of them.

"Hi, Norrah. My name is Brittney Hayes. I found your number in Yellow Book. I hope you don't mind me calling. Maybe you'll remember me, I wore the red dress on Valentine's Day, with the black cat mask. You let me in through the front door. Anyway, I'll understand if you don't want to call me back, but I was hoping we could get together to talk. I'll buy you lunch or something. My number is..."

"What do you suppose she wants?" I asked Norrah.

"Probably the same thing everyone wants: answers. Answers I don't have. She was lovely, I remember her. Pretty dress, cute mask, charming girl. Maybe I'll take her up on the offer. I'd like to ask her questions, too."

### Chapter Seven

We were harassed again on the way out the house. I laughed (inwardly) when Norrah haughtily said she was offered a quarter-million dollars for an interview, "Can you beat that?" There was no response, but the pair of journalists were visibly dejected. Surprising the bejesus out of me was when another journalist after brief consideration asked if she'd give it to him for three-hundred grand. Norrah paused in stride only for a second, to process that offer, then continued on to my Tahoe at my side.

As we idled past her nearest neighbor's house, a man came outside the front door and flagged me to stop. I rolled down my window.

"Evening," he said. "Hi, Norrah. How you holding up, dear?"

"Fine, William. How about yourself? I saw you give an interview the other day."

"Yeah, I've given three. I don't know why they even bother, I don't know anything. All I could do is give character accounts of you, and I wanted to do that, for you."

"I know, and thank you. You said really wonderful things about me. I appreciate that."

"You bet. You deserve every nice thing I said. You've been a great neighbor. So do you know anything that the rest of us don't, by chance?"

"No, sorry."

He nodded. "I hope everything turns out for the best for you. You take care."

I pulled away smiling at the amicable man, waved at him. I recalled pulling him over a while back for not coming to a complete stop at a stop-sign. A California Stop, it's termed. I wrote him a ticket for it; he accepted it like a champ. I felt like an asshole now. He came to the defense of my sweet Norrah, and how did I repay him? By writing him a hundred-and-fifty dollar ticket. Granted it was months ago, but the guilt was just as heavy. I resolved to give him a free pass on all traffic violations from now on. I had several people on that mental list, each more deserving than the last.

We motored along silently for a few minutes. There was black ice on the road. When I was a kid I remember people saying "Beware of black ice," and "Black ice is dangerous." I used to think they were saying _black guys._ They sound kind of the same. "Beware of black guys." I've never been racist so I had disagreed with those heads-ups.

I fishtailed a little here and there. I was accustomed to driving on it, so it didn't phase me. It's actually kind of fun to slide a bit, if you know what you're doing. Norrah unlatched her seatbelt and scooted toward me, butted up against the center console and put her arms around my shoulders awkwardly. I glanced over and saw a broad grin and smiling eyes. She reached in and kissed my cheek, then my ear, breathed in it, giving me goosebumps.

"Tickles," I said. "Aren't you a sweetheart."

She touched my thigh and squeezed. I felt things stirring in my trousers.

"I was thinking," she said. "I think I'm going to sell an interview. I'll have a lawyer draw up a contract stating that the negotiated price must remain confidential. I don't want people thinking I'm trying to profit on this. And with the money I'll quit my job. I think it would be great not only because I can take a bigger load of classes at school, but because we could spend more time together. Between your schedule and mine, we won't have much time together, you know?"

"I think it's a fantastic idea."

She smiled and pecked an appreciative kiss on my cheek. "I'm glad you agree. And you know what else I'll do? I'll give ten percent of that check to Aaron's church in Fresno. It would help me feel better about receiving that money. Did you see how hungry he was? I know it had nothing to do with his financial situation, or at least I don't think it did, but it's not fair that a man so selfless as he, as virtuous as he, can hardly afford to eat out. Maybe the thirty grand or so given to his church would help him out. Don't you think?"

I looked over at her, my eyes prickling. "How in the world are you still single? You are such an amazing woman."

"Single? Is that how you want me?"

"Well, no. I guess I mean how in the world _were_ you still single."

"That's more like it," she said. "You don't think we're moving too fast, do you? It seems like we are, but I can't help it. I'm only following my heart, that's all. I can't help it if it wants you."

"You get sweeter by the mouthful."

"I'm just being frank."

"Howdy, Frank, pleased to make your acquaintance."

She slapped my shoulder and laughed.

I parked in my driveway apologizing for my house not being very tidy. It was an A-frame cabin, a meager twelve-hundred square feet, one story with a loft. We entered my abode with her asking why I don't lock my door. Many people don't lock their doors in this community. Crime is all but non-existent, and my neighbors know I'm a cop. I had long gotten into the habit of leaving my doors unlocked. It didn't seem unusual to me.

I have a bachelor pad, no articles of sophistication to be found. At least I didn't have posters of chicks in bikinis on my walls. And the empty keg of beer used as a TV stand had been upgraded to an entertainment center a year ago; I was thankful for having done that. I turned on some lamps. Norrah went to the restroom. I used the opportunity to tidy up quickly, put magazines and newspapers away and stuffed a few dishes in the washer, pressed down the full trashcan so it didn't look overdue to be taken out. I uncorked a bottle of Pinot Noir as she came out of the restroom. I was pouring it into two glasses when her arms hugged around my waist from behind, hands laced together above my lap, her chin rested on the mantle of my left shoulder. What a sweet thing she is. I turned around and began a campaign of kisses. They grew more passionate by the second. We took our glasses of red to the couch and recommenced kissing.

"There's something I need to tell you," she said between feverish kisses.

"What's that?"

"I have a penis. But don't worry, it's small."

I burst into laughter. "Well as long as it's small...!"

"It is. It's like yours."

I laughed harder. "Gee thanks!"

She smiled and went in for another kiss. It wasn't long before we had reached our limit of non-intercourse. Something had to give. It was starting to hurt. I took a deep relieved breath when she stood from the couch, took my hand and led me to my bedroom in the loft. Oh thank God.

It was a torturous fifteen minutes in bed. I thought I'd only last fifteen seconds, so at least there was that. But as it happened, only one of us had a happy ending and I felt just awful about it. Well I felt wonderful, but awful for her. She claimed not to care, and her smile full of perfect white teeth (ostensibly costing someone a lot of money) was sincere. Her happy eyes allayed my guilt.

We were lying naked on my down-comforter, hand in hand, staring into one another's eyes. After our breathing steadied, I asked when she might give that girl a call, Brittney.

"Maybe in the morning. I think I'm going to take the day off tomorrow. Maybe permanently like we talked about. I wouldn't mind having lunch with her before we have dinner with Aaron. Maybe I'll learn something useful from her."

"I think her intention is to learn something useful from you."

"She's in for a disappointment then."

"I wish I was off tomorrow. I'd love to accompany you two. At least I'm working the morning shift."

"We were supposed to start the bible tonight."

"Oh yeah," I said. "Did you really want to do that?"

"Not really, but we said we would. Let's do it over a couple glasses of wine. We'll take turns reading aloud. What do you think?"

"I'd rather employ a useful verse of the bible: be fruitful and multiply."

"We already did that."

"Let's go read."

* * *

Brittney lived with a roommate in the U of R dorms. She was the stereotypical starving student, but still offered to buy Norrah lunch. Norrah wouldn't think of it, said she'd even drive down the hill to spare Brittney the trip at the gas pump, and they agreed to eat at a small diner close to campus. The girl who was decked out in red chiffon and hair styled like Nichole Kidman at the Oscar's was now wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, lank ash blonde hair given no attention to, and make-up minimal. She was still a pretty young thing, as any girl with the name Brittney ought to be. Norrah was ten years her senior. They met in the reception area and shook hands. The host took two menus and said this way. They were being seated in a booth adjacent to an elderly couple. Norrah requested a booth with some privacy. Before those words, the host had looked at her as if she were trying to remember where they had once met. After Norrah's request of privacy, the hostess connected the dots.

"You're Norrah Peterson," the woman said in an undertone.

Norrah gaped at her. "How do you know?"

"TV."

Even though she hadn't interviewed yet, those damn cameras seemed to roll non-stop, so it wasn't all that surprising that her face had some recognition now. The two took a seat and gave their drink order.

"Is it too late for breakfast?" Norrah asked.

"No, we serve it all day."

Norrah sensed the middle-aged hostess was wanting to get personal, ask some questions. But she didn't, and finally left.

"How have you been?" Norrah asked.

"Eh."

"I hear that," Norrah said sympathetically. "How have you been treated? Lots of questioning? Are they sensitive at least?"

"I haven't spoken with anyone since that night, actually. Some were a little pissy with me, but not all of them. One treated me like I knew something that I was hiding from him. It irked me. I didn't know what the hell they were all talking about. I didn't believe anyone who said it was the 21st. It's not that I _thought_ they were lying, I _knew_ they were lying. I just couldn't understand why they would. It wasn't until I saw the date on a cell phone that I began believing it. I had been a missing person for a week. It blows my mind, really. A missing person for a week!"

"Yeah, it's something, isn't it?"

She nodded.

A moment later the hostess delivered two coffees and asked if they'd need a few more minutes. Norrah and Brittney were on the same page with wishing for privacy, and a prompt return of the lady would violate that, so they got the meal order over with; both ordered pancakes.

Norrah stared at Brittney's delicate pallid throat. The girl needed some color. She had some color on February 14th, but only around her lower neck, blood red, and hadn't a head attached to her body. Was Brittney the headless girl whom Norrah saw in a red dress in the basement? She hadn't a doubt it was her. Brittney must have noticed Norrah staring at her throat, because she looked down to see what she was staring at.

"This is going to sound like a stupid question," Norrah said, "but on the 21st, when you returned, were you in any pain at all? Like have... I don't know... a headache?"

Brittney's brow drew in. "No, why?"

"No reason," Norrah said, looking away.

"Is there anything at all you can tell me that would help me understand what happened?" Brittney was pleading with her eyes.

"I'm sorry. You seem like a sweet girl, so I feel a little guilty for accepting your invitation knowing that I couldn't provide you with any insight. I wish I could. It must be terrifying for you, knowing you vanished from existence for a week."

The young girl looked down grimly at the table and nodded once.

Norrah felt terrible for her, irrationally so. Maybe it was partly due to having witnessed the girl decapitated, if only for a second. On impulse she reached across the table and took the girl's petite hand and squeezed it affectionately. The girl looked up sadly at Norrah.

"You're the only one I've spoken to," Norrah said. "The only kid who went missing, that is. I doubt there will be any others, so I'm fortunate for this meeting. Maybe we could keep in touch? I'd like that."

She nodded.

"I promise I'll tell you whatever I learn. Okay, sweetie?"

"We won't learn anything," Brittney said somberly.

"I'm not so sure about that. My boyfriend and I made friends with a man who also went missing. Oh yeah, I suppose you aren't the only one I've met with from that night. But he's different. Aaron. He's older, and not part of your crowd. He crashed the party."

This intrigued Brittney. "Oh yeah? Tell me."

"There isn't much to tell. Yet, anyway. I'm having dinner with him tonight, so I'm hopeful he'll tell me what he knows."

"You swear you'll keep me informed if he does?"

"I swear." Norrah let go of the girl's hand. "I don't want to violate his trust in me by telling you what I've learned from him, so I'll ask him this evening if he minds if I share things with you."

"Thank you."

"This stays between you and me, right?" Norrah said baitedly.

"Of course it does. That was my intention from the onset of this meeting."

"Good. Mine, too. Aaron, the guy who was at the masquerade party with you, he knew you all went missing before anyone had mentioned it. Or I should say he suspected it."

Brittney's eyes doubled. "Really? How?"

"Like I said, I'm hoping to learn a lot from him this evening. I have no idea how he knew."

"Aaron..." Brittney said meditatively. "I don't know the name. What was his mask?"

"Hmm, I don't know."

"Would you ask him for me? Was it a Frog?"

"I don't know, but I'll ask."

They didn't speak for a while. Brittney looked depressed, eyes low and heavy, brooding. She stirred her coffee mindlessly without pause. When she finally looked up at Norrah, there was moisture in her eyes, threatening to spill over. "I've been having nightmares," she said. "Not your typical ones, either. I mean they're something extraordinary. I get so relieved when I wake up and realize it didn't happen."

"They started after the party?"

She hummed an affirmative solemnly.

"Since I promised to tell you what I learn," Norrah said, "would you tell me what you know? Tell me everything, please."

### Part 2:

### Chapter Eight

So ya

Thought ya

Might like to go to the show.

To feel the warm thrill of confusion

That space cadet glow.

Tell me is something eluding you sunshine?

Is this not what you expected to see?

If you want to find out what's behind these cold eyes

You'll just have to claw your way through the disguise

_In the Flesh?—_ Pink Floyd

I always thought it would be cool to write a book, and I do love to write, but never imagined it would be like this. I'm not even sure this is going to be a novel, but Jay Davis thinks it will. You'll have to understand that this is the first book I've written—or part of a book. I hope Jay finds a good editor. Grammar has never been my strong suit. Nor has spelling. But I'm fairly intelligent and my vocabulary isn't too shabby. If you agree to look past these faults, then these following pages are for you, not to enjoy but to learn my side of things. Oh, that Pink Floyd song I prefaced the book with, let me explain that. That song came on the radio the other day and the lyrics gave me the chills. It could have been written by one of the twenty-three.

My name is Brittney Hayes. I turn twenty-one this November. I'm a junior at the University of Redlands. I will be a dentist someday, God willing. If I can persevere through several more years of school, grad school and all that. I was born in Norway. My dad is an American, was in Norway for some convention on Global Climate Change, which he believes in—I do not. Maybe there is some global climate change going on, but I hardly believe humans are responsible for it, and if we are, I'm sick of hearing about it. Scientists are predicting the temperature a decade or two from now, but they can't even accurately predict the weather ten days from now. Sorry, I believe I got off topic. This is a hot-issue debate topic between my father and I, that's all. If he didn't preach to me all the time I wouldn't feel it necessary to defend my stance so rigorously. The fact of the matter is if he disbelieved in Global Warming, I'd probably believe in it and argue with him still. Global climate change awareness was a new thing back then, and there were symposiums addressing the topic. It was at one such symposium that my dad had flown halfway around the world to attend, and there he met my mom Greta. She was a staff member at the hotel where the symposium was held. She spoke very little English, but spoke enough to get to know my dad better. He was in Norway for five days, and by the end of that five days my mom was pregnant. If Global Warming was as effective as my dad's sperm, I believe we'd all be cooked to death by now. My mom gave birth to me, and shortly after moved to the U.S., having accepted my dad's proposal of marriage.

We lived in Los Angeles. My dad was rarely around, and Mom caught him cheating a few times. He can be an ass, my dad. But my mom is devoted to him, forgives him time and time again. My mom now works at the hotel Bonaventure, has a managerial job. Between her income and my dad's, they do very well. They both drive cars built in Germany that had price tags of six-figures. When I graduated high school my dad wanted me to go to USC, his alma matter. I chose U of R, and that rubbed him wrong. Mom was just happy I was continuing my education. He grudgingly agreed to pay my tuition and boarding. He said if I had gone to USC he'd have given me a very comfortable allowance on top of that. But since I'm obstinate and ignore what my dad wants and I have no clue what's best for me (obviously his words, not mine), he only gives me twenty dollars a week allowance. Twenty, that isn't a typo. My meal card and books and car insurance and all that is covered, so I don't need much money. But twenty bucks? I tried holding a job through my freshman year but it didn't work out so well. I was getting C's, and I'm an A student. So I quit and made do with my twenty bucks a week.

I don't get to enjoy things like restaurant food, don't get to see new movies unless a guy takes me out on a date. Truth be told, I have accepted dates from guys just so I could get a break from mess-hall food and see a movie not on TV. My mom takes me clothes shopping once a year, so I'm grateful for that. And she usually slips me some money behind my dad's back. That money is always set aside for the gas pump.

So here's how my destiny came to be. One evening I was in my dorm room watching old re-runs of Will and Grace when my roommate Claire came in with a couple guys. One was her boyfriend Max, the other I didn't know. I was introduced to Jonathan, and had a few beers with the three. They were warm beers, but I didn't complain. From the beginning I knew Jonathan liked me. I don't say that with an air of conceit—I don't think I'm the hottest muffin in the tray—but it was what it was. He stared at me unremittingly and was nervous in his speech. He isn't a bad looking guy, either. But the reason why I agreed to go out on a date with him had nothing to do with how he looked. During commercial breaks of Will and Grace they had been airing the same Outback steakhouse commercial time and time again, and that steak looked divine. It was a prime rib. I was hungry for one. When Jonathan nervously asked if I'd like to see a movie with him that Saturday night, I said yes under the condition that he takes me to Outback first. I got my steak dinner, and what's more is I got to know Jonathan, and kind of liked him. Liked him as in I imagined him on top of me in bed—sorry Mom, if you're reading this. At twenty I'm still a virgin, if you can believe that, and I'm not saying this in case my mom is indeed reading this; it's the simple truth. I've gone to third base with two boys, but the third-base coach hasn't yet waved anyone in to home plate. But that doesn't mean I don't fantasize about it, and frequently.

At the end of our first date, having just watched X-Men First Class—the Oppenheimer Theater downtown plays old movies for three bucks a ticket—I let that rascal get to second base with me. In return I was allowed to put my hand down his pants. As if this were a favor to me and not him, right? I marvel at how they feel, so soft and curious, and wonder to how they'd feel in places not my hand. After we did that, he was eager to set another date with me, and I was pretty happy to have gotten a nice meal in me, and I won't deny I had a good time with him. He's fun to look at, even if he's not the deepest guy, a little drab to shoot the breeze with. He's nice and sweet and generous, so that earned him a second date. I considered myself fortunate to be the object of his affection.

Our second date was at Bullwinkle's, an arcade and pizza place, with bumper boats and games. It was a lot of fun. He won me a stuffed bear which I didn't care for, but cared for the fervor in which he put in winning it. Over pizza he confided in me that he was a virgin. I couldn't believe it! I admitted to being one also. He said he wasn't one by choice. He was shy and hadn't gone on many dates. Here we found common ground, and formed a kind of bond. I thought there was a good chance that we might be each other's first, and he'd become my boyfriend. I also didn't think I'd be marrying him, but in college one's vision of the future extends to about the weekend. Not Mr. Right but Mr. Right Now. That night he invited me to a party on the following Friday. I accepted.

That Friday we went to this much-anticipated party, a rager at a Frat house. There were kegs and hundreds of people. There was a gazebo in the back yard and after we consumed a few beers we staggered to it and enjoyed a little privacy, got to work exploring the other's body. We were groping and kissing, really going to town, when another couple unaware of us came upon the gazebo.

"Oh, sorry guys," the silhouette of a kid said.

"It's okay," Jonathan said.

"Is that you, Jonathan?" the guy asked.

"Yeah. Paul? Is that you?"

"Yep. How's it going, bro?"

I lowered my sweater that had been hiked up a little during the festivities, smoothed out my skirt, composed my fluttered self.

"Good. Some party, huh?"

"Yep," Paul said. "This is Lacie. Lacie, Jonathan."

She said hi, and my date introduced me to them.

"Hey, do you know Taylor?" Paul asked Jonathan. "Taylor Labaucher?"

"I've met him once. Why?"

"He's having a masquerade party on Sunday, Valentine's Day."

"Oh yeah? Cool. You going?"

"Yeah, Lacie and I are going. You should come. You too, Brittney."

Jonathan looked at me: I smiled and shrugged gamely.

"All right, man," Jonathan said. "Where's it at?"

"The mountains. Lake Arrowhead."

"That far, huh? Will suck driving an hour home with a buzz."

"Yeah, but you can get a room at Lake Arrowhead Inn. Kind of pricey, but I hear they're nice."

"You live up there, don't you?"

"Yeah, just a couple miles away from Taylor's. I'd offer to let you stay but it's a small place. Besides, Lacie and I will want a little privacy," he said with a wink.

"You're such a perv," Lacie said and giggled.

I smiled at them.

"Are you sure Taylor will be okay with us coming?" Jonathan asked Paul.

"Sure. I'll let him know tonight. He's met you, it will be cool. The only thing is you have to dress up. Tux for you, formal dress for her. And you need masks."

"I have a tux. Sweet, that sounds cool. You down, Brittney?"

"Sure. Sounds fun. Can we get a room at the hotel? I'd rather not drink and drive in the mountains. And I can't afford to pitch in, I'm poor white trash."

The three laughed at me. I had no shame in my economy. I wasn't going to pretend to have money when I didn't.

"Money's a little tight for me, too, but I think I can swing it," Jonathan said. "All right, Paul, count me in. Get me directions and a time, we'll be there."

"Right on. I'll let you two get back to having fun." Paul directed at me: "Make sure he wears a condom. That dude has all kinds of S.T.D.'s." He and his date laughed. I laughed too; Jonathan flipped him off.

"That would be pretty impressive if a virgin had S.T.D.'s," I said.

Jonathan shot daggers at me with his eyes. Oops.

"No way, you're a virgin?" Paul marveled.

"Yeah." Jonathan sighed.

"Check back with him tomorrow," I said. "You might find that he's become a man."

Jonathan's eyes widened.

"Yeah!" Paul cheered. "Atta boy. You two have fun. Be safe. Later."

The two walked off.

"Thanks," Jonathan said to me.

"You're welcome."

"Where did you want to have sex at?"

"In my vagina," I said, then laughed. He laughed too. "I'm kidding. I can't believe you asked me that. I'm not really letting you have sex with me tonight. I was helping you out with your friend. You were right to thank me."

"I see," he said glumly.

"Oh cheer up. Just because you aren't getting in my pants tonight doesn't mean you never will. Lake Arrowhead Inn sounds kind of nice. Maybe not a bad place for a couple of dumb kids to lose their virginity, huh?"

"Not at all," he said enthusiastically. "Cool."

The next day I visited my girlfriend Jenna. She was a student of U of R as well, had an apartment all to herself. I was jealous. She was about my size, a little more gifted in the breast department, but close enough that when I asked her if she still owned a prom dress, I figured on being able to fit inside it. She did have the dress, only it was in her bedroom at her parent's house, some twenty minutes away. I told her why I needed it, and said if she got it for me, I'd write a couple papers for her. Not that I was any smarter than Jenna, but I'd get her a couple B's (maybe an A or two) and she wouldn't have to earn them. She agreed to it. She admitted that she was going there anyway to have dinner with her parents. I then asked her if she knew of a place that sells masquerade masks. She didn't but thought it might be fun to make one. She is artsy like that. She'd help me out, go shopping with me at Michaels on Sunday (Valentine's Day morning) and help me pick out the materials for it. She asked what I wanted to be. I didn't care.

"How about a cat?" she suggested. "We could get black velvet for the fur, some thick fishing line for whiskers."

"That would be cool. All right. Thanks, Jenna, you're a lifesaver."

"This party sounds fun. Maybe I could come?"

"It's invite only, I think. But I'll ask Jonathan. He's only met the guy throwing the party once, a guy named Taylor Labaucher. Do you know him?"

"No. Oh well."

"Don't forget the dress," I said with a grin. "Oh, and what size shoe do you wear? Is that an eight?"

She rolled her eyes playfully. "Yes. Is there anything else of mine you'd like to have?"

"How about your ATM card and pin-number?" I simpered at her.

"You silly thing."

The stars were aligned, it seemed. Her dress fit me like a glove. Even though my boobs are a B-cup (tight in a B-cup, thank you), and she's a C-cup (not far from a D), she had bought the dress her junior year in high school, when her body closer resembled mine. I tried it on in front of her. She said since she couldn't fit into it anymore I might as well keep it. I was thrilled. When you're poor you can appreciate gifts like this. The red shoes, on the other hand, which matched the dress perfectly, did still fit her feet and those weren't a gift but a loaner. I even went as far as borrowing her silver necklace and diamond earrings. Yes, folks, I was in debt to my friend for all this accommodation. I'd be writing a few papers for her, at least. But I think she was doing it because she enjoyed it, and we were pretty good friends, had been since our junior year in high school. I was pretty excited that we decided to enroll in the same university.

She thought I looked too good in her dress to go to a masquerade party without my hair being done up just right. My hair is the same ash blonde as my Norwegian mother's. Very thick hair. When I get a trim most stylists make comments about it, usually something like "I'd kill for this hair." I'm not a huge fan of being blonde. I'd rather be brunette. I just like the way it looks, it has nothing to do with the stigma that is being a dumb blonde. But I do enjoy how thick it is.

Jenna had a friend who styled hair. Did I mention the stars aligned that Valentine's Day? She'd arrange for her friend Michelle to meet me there at Jenna's at four P.M. to do my hair. I asked if she'd dye my hair brunette. Jenna said I was a fool, that she wouldn't allow me to change my hair color.

It only took an hour for us to make the mask. It was mostly her making it. She has a talent for that kind of thing. It was a mask that I could see being sold at a high-end mask shop, if there were such things. It was cardboard, but she starched it to make it firm after she bent it to her design, and then adhered black velvet to it. She paper-mached a nose and put velvet on that, too. My words don't do it justice; it was great.

Jonathan knocked on my dorm room door at six P.M. We both went slack-jawed at the other's sight. Him in a tux and lion mask, me in my get-up—Meow. After compliments were paid both ways, we got a move on, overnight bags in hand. He drove the same car that I drove, a Honda Civic, only mine was ten years old and blue and his was only a couple years old and black. He said there has been a change in venues, that the party wasn't going to be at Taylor's after all, that it was going to be at Paul Klein's, the guy I met at the party the other night. I was disappointed at first, but when he said it was just a few miles down the road I felt good about it. I wanted snow, a romantic atmosphere, and I'd get that in Lake Arrowhead.

We drove through Taco Bell on the way to our destination. I had my mask on during the first part of the drive, when it was just starting to become twilight. I liked it. Not just the way it looked, but the way the velvet felt against my skin. Sensual. On the freeway people were looking at me amusedly. We were driving beside an eighteen wheeler on Highway 30 and the truck driver looked down at me and smiled. I finger-waved at him. I couldn't believe it when he gestured me to pull down the bodice of my dress. I was agape, but then smiled. I'm a sport.

"Hey Jonathan, watch this."

He looked over at me and said, "What's up?"

I turned a little in my seat to better face the trucker (away from my date), pulled the cups of my dress down. The look on the driver's face was priceless. I'm lucky he didn't get in an accident and die. Or should I say he's lucky. His eyes were off the road for a good while.

"Whoa, don't do that!" Jonathan cried.

"Why?" My boobs were still exposed. I felt comfortable knowing the trucker couldn't see my face. I don't know why that is. It's not like he'd know me even without a mask.

"Because those are for me to see, not anyone else!"

"I don't belong to you," I said defiantly and took a hold of my breasts and squeezed them a little, slid my tongue across my upper lip provocatively. For a virgin I sure know how to have some fun, and can be quite inappropriate. Deliciously inappropriate.

"Still! Put them away, please. Please?"

"Fine," I said and sighed. I shrugged at the truck driver who was still watching me acutely, lifted the cups over my dumb boobs. I decided to rile Jonathan further. "I'm going to pull my dress up for him." I feigned it, brought the skirt up to mid-thigh, with no intention of actually doing it.

"Don't you dare!"

I laughed, let go of my dress. "Geez, you're so uptight. They're just boobs, you know. Every other person on earth has tits."

"You were going to show him your other parts."

"No I wasn't. I was teasing. But I bet that truck driver won't soon forget Valentine's Day of this year. Doesn't that make you feel good, knowing we made someone's day?"

"Not really."

"Lighten up."

"Well it kind of bothers me. You showed some stranger your boobs and I haven't even seen them yet."

"What?! You have too!"

"I have not! I've felt them, that's different."

"Well what you got was better. Be grateful."

"I am. But still."

"Would you like to see them now?" I propositioned, hands at the ready on my bodice.

He looked to the cars driving all around us. There was one even with us at his left. "No. That guy will see them."

"Oh... my... God. You'd pass on an opportunity to see my boobs for the first time if it means some stranger will also see them? Really, Jonathan?"

He considered it momentarily, glanced at the car to his left once again. It was getting dark out, but not dark enough that people wouldn't be able to see my offering.

"Yeah, let's just wait till the hotel room."

I smiled devilishly and took hold of either cup of my dress and pulled them down, but only slightly. It was nothing you wouldn't see on broadcast television. But it was enough to elicit a gasp out of him, and he swerved a little before correcting his trajectory. I laughed and let go of my dress. "Geez, Jonathan. What a prude. You need to get laid or something."

"My thoughts exactly," he said and smiled.

"You think you're getting in my pants tonight, don't you?"

"You said."

"A girl has the right to change her mind."

"A girl who has no qualms with flashing her boobs to passing motorists shouldn't be a girl who has qualms sleeping with a guy she's been dating."

"Well that's probably the smartest argument I've heard you make."

We both laughed.

"You sure are slutty for a virgin," he said with his eyes on the road.

"Yeah, I'm a real slut," I said mockingly. "I've kept it in my pants for twenty years. I just might keep in there for another twenty."

He shook his head with a grin. "You're fun, Brittney. I'm glad we got together."

I took a deep breath through my nose, felt pretty good about things, exhaled as I looked out my window to the truck driver who was driving beside us. He perpetually glanced down at me. I think he was hoping for an encore. Pervert. I flipped him off, but I suppose my grin negated the meanness of the act. He gestured me to flash him my tits again. I laughed. I rolled down my window, gestured him to do the same. He did.

"What the hell are you doing now?" Jonathan said waspishly.

Constraining my laughter I shouted at the truck driver, "Show me your wiener!"

He busted up. So did I. Even Jonathan loosened up a little and chuckled.

"Come on, dude!" I pursued. "I bet you have a tiny pecker! Prove me wrong!"

He shouted back at me, most of which was obscured by the wind of passage and a big engine at high RPM, but I think he said, "Pull over and I'll do more than just show you it!"

I wasn't laughing anymore. "Okay, you just got a little creepy! Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Truck Driver?"

He shrugged, a lewd grin boring down on me from his elevated seat.

I rolled up the window saying to Jonathan, "What a pervert. Remind me not to show truck drivers my rack anymore."

"I told you not to do it."

"Oh eat me," I said and laughed.

"Man, what a mouth you have."

"I didn't curse."

"That's not what I meant."

"Pfft. That's not meant literally. It's a figure of speech. How much longer till we're there?"

"We just left fifteen minutes ago!"

"I know but I'm bored. I should have gotten a second bean burrito, I'm still hungry."

"I got something you can—"

"Oh fuck off," I said and laughed all over again.

It was full dark when we reached the base of the mountain. The next twenty minutes were spent traversing severe winding roads at a steep incline. The temperature dropped from the fifties to the low thirties by the time we reached Lake Arrowhead. There were snow banks and trees flocked with white powder. It was pretty, even at night. The moon made the snow look a kind of smoke color, a bluish white. Jonathan turned the heat up, said we were almost there.

We turned off Highway 18 onto a smaller road. Ten minutes later we parked before Lake Arrowhead Inn, a nice three star two-story hotel with a view of the lake. We carried our bags to the lobby. I made him put his lion mask on so I wouldn't feel weird wearing my cat mask. He whined that it was dumb for us to wear them just yet, but I didn't care. I was planning on having all kinds of fun tonight, so he would do best to oblige me. I'm rarely the princess, but sometimes I am and when I am, you best accommodate me. I gave him a kiss immediately following my request for him to put the mask on, and that softened him up just enough.

"You look very handsome," I said to him, and meant it. I scored a good looking boy in Jonathan, ladies and gentlemen.

We got our room key and went to our room. It smelled like Pine Sol inside. It was a large, nice room, a single king-sized bed. So this is where I'll be losing my virginity, I thought. He probably thought the same thing.

We sat our bags down and took a seat at the edge of the bed. He leaned in to kiss me. After the kiss he said we don't have to do this if I don't want.

"Okay. Let's not."

"Really?" He sounded like a kid who finally didn't get his way.

I smiled. He gathered I was kidding, and I was. He asked if I wanted to get it over with before the party.

"Get it over with? How romantic," I said sarcastically. "No I don't want to get it over with. I want to enjoy it, and I wouldn't enjoy it now. We need to be in the mood, have a few drinks in us, and it needs to be the cap on a wonderful evening. Those are my conditions, like them or not."

"All right, fair enough. We have about forty minutes to kill. Paul lives just a few miles from here. What should we do?"

"You can kiss me if you'd like. If you'd be so kind. You have welcoming lips."

"I'd like."

We passed the time kissing on the bed. It was shaping up to be a memorable evening.

On the short drive to Paul's, I asked how many people would be there: twenty or so. He thought he'd only know a handful of people, tops. I wondered if they'd all be dressed as formally as us. He said they would. There would be plenty of free drinks, as well. I wanted him to keep an eye on me, not to let me get too drunk. I'd like to remember this special evening, this magical evening (if I may be corny in telling you so). I had been looking forward to losing my virginity for a long time, I just wasn't in a hurry to do so. I certainly didn't want to have any regrets over doing it.

We parked at the end of a cul-de-sac, a street with few houses. Large properties, large homes. Giant pines everywhere. The difference between neighborhoods up here and those down the mountain is that your typical street up here is a quarter mile or so from the succeeding street, sometimes farther. In other words, trick or treating for the kiddos would be hell up here.

There were only a couple cars there, so we were one of the first to arrive. The street was pitch black. There are no street lights on the mountain, generally speaking. A single flood light illumined the porch. Together we knocked on the door, with our cat and lion masks donned, then rang. A nice-looking woman answered the door with a welcoming expression. I thought we had the wrong house at first. She was in her late twenties, I judged—not a college student.

Paul then appeared behind her, apologized, said he told everyone to go around the house to the back. We were sorry. Jonathan said he forgot about that. The lady assured us she didn't mind and let us in, said we had cute masks. I loved hearing it.

We went down the hatch to the bottom floor. It was only Paul and one other guy, who introduced himself as Phantom of the Opera. As his name implies, he wore a Phantom of the Opera half-mask. On the small table was a stack of red plastic Solo cups and a few fifths of gin and vodka, the good stuff, and some mixers such as tonic and Tom Collins. Beside the table was a large ice chest filled to capacity with dry hard ice. We put ice in cups and made a pair of gin and tonics. There was music playing, not loud yet, but it would slowly but surely get louder following each song that someone was fond of. Paul stood on a chair against the wall beside the chimney, and used a hammer and nail to tack up a banner that read Valentine's Day Masquerade, 2015. It was written in fancy red cursive on glossy white paper. He nailed the other side up. There were festoons of red and pink hearts on all four walls. Phantom unzipped a large duffle bag and withdrew a strobe light, plugged it in. He tested it after shutting off the lights. The world was now in slow-motion. I danced a little, thrilled at the effects.

"You go, girl," Phantom said impressively.

"Dude," Jonathan said to Paul excitedly. Phantom killed the strobe and flipped the bedroom light switch back on. "You know what this nut did on the drive over?" He was thumb-pointing at me.

I rolled my eyes at him. "Really, Jonathan? Why are men so hung up on boobs?"

"Dude," Jonathan said to Paul again, who was now smiling in anticipation of the story. "She flashed a truck driver. It was hot."

"It was hot?" I said and cracked up. "It was hot, was it?" To Paul I said, "You should have seen it, Paul. He acted like my father, scorned me like I was a naughty girl. I was just trying to have a little fun and brat here got all bent out of shape."

"I do wish I was there," Paul said suggestively.

"As do I," said Phantom and got to work mixing himself a drink.

"It was so funny, man," Jonathan continued. "Brittney rolled down her window and told the dude he has a little prick and prove her wrong."

Everyone was laughing except me. I folded my arms under my chest and rolled my eyes at Jonathan again. "It was so funny, was it? I don't recall you laughing. Why must boys act one way when they're alone with us, and another way around their buddies?"

"It's just the way dudes are," Paul Klein said. "I think it's awesome you did that. You're a fun girl."

"Thanks." I blushed.

"So..." Paul said, his gaze jumping from my date to me. "Did you guys put an end to Jonathan's virginity the other night at the party?"

"It wasn't just my virginity," Jonathan said and thumbed me.

"You, too?" Phantom said, having closed the gap and now a part of a small circle of us center-room.

"Yep. Me too," I said proudly. "No we haven't. Yet. Tonight, after the party."

"You lucky dog," Phantom said to my date. It made me smile and feel wanted. "Wish I were you tonight."

Instead of being offended, my date nodded and grinned a smug one. Boys...

"So guys," Paul said off topic, "there are two rules tonight: you must keep your masks on, and you can't ask anyone who they are. Your name has to be your mask. That's Phantom, you're Lion, and you're Black Cat."

"Where's your mask?" I asked him.

It dawned on him that he wasn't wearing his. He went to the dresser and took up a jester mask, secured it around his face. "I'm Jester."

"Thanks for inviting us," I said to Paul. "That was really nice of you. I'm having fun already."

"My pleasure. I've been looking forward to this for months."

"Only twenty people, huh?" I said. "That's a small gathering."

"Small equals intimate."

"Anyone I know other than Brad and James?" Jonathan asked Paul Klein.

"Lacie will be here soon. But dude, what did I say about asking who people are? You might figure out who most of the people are, but you can't be asking people that."

"Oh yeah. Sorry, bro."

"Not a problem. Just be respectful of people's right to disguise."

The back door opened, three people entered. One guy wore a showgirl type mask, the ones with colorful feathers and glitter and makeup. It was funny. Another guy wore an alien mask, a gray-man: big black eyes (from a material that is see-through) and shaped kind of like a praying mantis. The girl accompanying them wore a bird mask, little bits of yellow feathers glued to it, and there was a beak. Her dress was also yellow, only a lighter shade. Very pretty dress, strapless. I didn't think she was the girl Paul was with the other night, Lacie. This girl was shorter I think.

The rules were laid out to them, and they got to pouring drinks. One of the guys had brought a bottle of Cognac, some high-dollar bottle, and removed a pair of shot glasses from his tux coat pocket. When a Korn song played on the stereo—it wasn't the radio, as there were gaps of silence between songs; probably a mixed CD—Peacock turned the volume up. Alien gave him a thumbs-up gesture.

"What a beautiful dress," Canary said to me.

"Thank you. I was just thinking the same thing about yours. Exceptionally pretty. Extravagant."

"Indeed," she said and giggled.

"Indubitably," I said and smiled. "Delighted, I'm sure."

"Yes, yes!" Paul said to us. I mean Jester. "That's the spirit. It's a formal night, feel free to act like it, talk like it."

A minute later a boy and girl entered the back door. He was Mouse, a gray mouse, and she was Bunny. A white bunny. She was absolutely gorgeous. I wanted to be her. At least her body and jaw-line were gorgeous: I had to fill in the blanks where the mask was. This was turning out to be a party of exclusively pretty people. I felt honored to be a part of this class of people, a feeling amplified by our formal attire. Mouse and Bunny were hand in hand. Mouse produced a joint from his jacket pocket and brandished it.

"Who's up for a little smoke?" he said loudly and proudly.

Most were, but not me. I'll drink, sure, but that's about it.

They sparked it up and passed it. More people arrived. Pirate and Raggedy Andy. Then Leopard. Then Frog. And the best one yet: Elephant. Elephant was awesome. He wouldn't say who he was, as were the rules, but mentioned that he had an older sister who did makeup for movies. She used latex and other things to contrive that little mask. Like all the masks, it exposed his mouth, but what made his mask so damned cool was the trunk. It was functional even! It was flaccid like a limp penis, had two holes at the end. I laughed so hard I nearly peed myself when he took the lit joint and stuffed the end in one of the nostril holes and took a hit off of it that way. He exhaled smoke through his mouth and trunk! If there was a mask competition, he'd have won hands down.

I was on my second cup of gin and tonic, feeling pretty loose, pretty buzzed, pretty uninhibited. I thanked Jonathan on several occasions for inviting me to the party, each more slurred than the last. Batman was getting pretty friendly with Catwoman. They were a couple, I'm sure. They were getting physical, kissing and lingering touches, and eventually groping. I couldn't believe she was rubbing him through his pants, for everyone to witness! I honestly thought they were going to have sex on the bed before the night was over. It wouldn't be long before they ventured into the bathroom for Batman to introduce Catwoman to Boy Wonder. Does Trojan make The Caped Crusader rubber?

It was getting crowded. The room was pretty big, far bigger than my shared dorm room, but it was looking small with all these people, and their fancy garb made them look somehow larger. But I liked it: crowded was cozy. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace that smelled as pleasant as it looked. And though I couldn't see it, there was snow just ten feet from where I stood. Again, cozy. The music was loud now. Conversations were loud out of necessity. My feet were beginning to ache due to me standing in uncomfortable shoes for nearly an hour, so I sat on the bed. Ahhhh. Lion sat beside me and we began making out. Wet kisses, masks pressing against one another's.

There was a sudden outburst of bad mojo, but it was short-lived. The sophisticated yet jovial atmosphere wouldn't tolerate it. Zorro got chewed out by Paul Klein (excuse me, by Jester) when he sprinkled some powder from a tiny baggie on the table and began making lines. Cocaine or meth, I didn't know which—cocaine, probably. He was forced to put it away and not do that again or he could just leave the party. I was glad. It was a classy party and drugs dumbed it down—although nobody had a problem with weed.

Without counting, there were around two-dozen people here now, and not a lot of room for potential late-arriving guests. I got a kick out of everyone's masks. Some more than others. What a wonderful idea this masquerade party was. Someone had said they have them every Valentine's Day, only they vary in who hosts them. I'd be hoping for an invite again next year.

I met eyes with a man seated in one of three chairs at the table. Frog. What captured my interest was that he wasn't interacting with anyone, hadn't been the few times I gandered at him. He should have masqueraded as a wolf, a lone wolf. He took a sip from his cup and looked away from me. Next time I'd see him he'd be standing in the corner of the room observing the party, seemingly detached from it.

Jester was standing with one foot on the hearth, swirling the contents of his red Solo cup, talking to Human. What else could I call him? Man? He wore a black tux, black shirt, black bow-tie, black hat, black gloves, and a black silk cape with a high collar. His mask was white porcelain, and was that of a man. There was a little pink on the cheeks, otherwise it was bone white. His hair, though hard to see with the hat, was dark. His eyes were dark, either brown or black. I thought he might have had black-colored contacts in as part of his costume. The red glow of the fire played on the right side of his white mask and jaw. What struck me as odd about him wasn't his attire. Everyone dressed to the nines, not just him. It was that his disguise was that of a man. A nondescript man. I just noticed something else about his costume, and it had to do with his hat. He wore a short black hat with a wide brim low on his brow, and had attached a couple horns to it. Like devil horns, but they weren't very big. I don't know how I missed them before. It was genius, if you ask me. In essence he was the devil masquerading as a man. Genius indeed. The devil hiding who he is...? Yes, brilliant. Elephant man would still win first place, but Human would be a close second if it were I doing the judging.

Paul was palavering with him. More like palavering at him. Human didn't say anything that I could tell. He was watching all the denizens with apparent interest, slowly raking his eyes over the room, imbibing the details of the partiers. If people can be divided into two types, talkers and listeners, I judged he was the listener type. Listeners are generally good thinkers, too. At least that's my opinion.

Just then I felt Lion's hand slide up the skirt of my dress. A cold hand against my warm thigh.

"Nuh-uh," I chided. I sipped my drink leering at him. I'd do best to keep an eye on this predator. He was a lion and I wasn't a black cat but a gazelle, his prey.

"Come on, babe," he murmured in my ear. He then kissed that ear, wetted my lobe and breathed on it, giving me the chills.

I'll be honest, it did things to me I haven't before felt to that degree. Tingles in all kinds of great places. "You can't touch me there in front of all these people," I whispered, enduring conflicting sensations of pleasure and embarrassment.

His hand glided father up my thigh and didn't stop till he was at my panties. "They aren't looking. And besides, they don't know who we are. It's a masquerade party."

He began touching me in a way that sent torrents of pleasure to my intoxicated brain. "Let's go back to the hotel room," I murmured, touched my cheek against his, closed my eyes.

"Why? Aren't you having fun here?"

"Very much so. But I'm ready. Ready for it to happen. And I'm happy it's going to be with you."

"We'll leave soon, don't worry. Let's just enjoy ourselves a little while longer."

Between two songs was a short gap of silence, a gap made longer by the slow start of the succeeding song, Tool's Aenema. At first the clamor of the crowd was intense, but they adjusted almost immediately, got quieter. That's when we heard the pleasured sounds of a couple in the bathroom. Some laughed, some cheered. I smiled. Batman and Catwoman, I had no doubt.

"See, Black Cat?" Lion said. "We can do whatever we like. It's acceptable here, and now. Nobody cares what we do."

"I don't know," I whispered undecidedly in his ear. His hand touched me where I wanted it to touch me, and reflexively my legs unhinged a little, opened up like a Venus fly trap looking for dinner. It was an involuntary action brought on by immense pleasure. We kissed.

"Mmm," he hummed, "you're smooth."

I didn't think he was referring to my legs because he wasn't touching them. Tool was loud, but now that I knew what to listen for, I could still hear Batman plowing into Catwoman, their grunts and moans. I succumbed to the moment just as they had, couldn't fight it any longer, didn't want to fight it any longer. I was feeling too good to do anything but gladly receive Lion's offering. As he became more diligent with his digits, he ceased kissing me to better focus on his efforts. My bleary eyes were narrow slits as I wallowed in ecstasy. I probably wasn't drooling, but if I had been I wouldn't be surprised. Everything before me was a blur of masqueraders, movement streaking from side to side. Laughter, pot-smokers coughing, anecdotes being hacked at, someone whistled for whatever reason. I heard the door open and close often, and smelled cigarette smoke. I leaned back just a little against a propped arm, legs opened slightly more, driving the skirt of my dress up above my knees. Not that anyone was watching what was happening, but they surely could have if they wished to. And at that moment I wouldn't care if everyone present had a clear view of my date's antics, because I had lost the battle moments ago, was riding this euphoric wave both unwillingly and oh-so willingly.

My body tingled all over. Pulsations of deep warm pleasure radiated from my center outward, pervading the whole of me, and progressively it got worse, and by worse I mean it got better.

I had an unobstructed view of Human. I met eyes with him. His: round and piercing, bright from the nearby fire. Mine: narrow and lazy. He looked down to my lap and perceived what was being done to me. Hell, maybe he saw what was being done to me. It had become an act of exhibitionism in its most natural form, if such a thing can be said. From his powerful jaw, lips stretched a wry grin slowly. By degrees it grew until his lips parted, his grin wide enough to bare his yellowish teeth. His eyes returned to mine. His smile was broad, and dare I say charming?—but his eyes... his eyes were cold and excited, humorless, and more than anything they were penetrating. Unlike his mouth, his eyes weren't smiling behind that man-mask.

He winked at me.

Through no will of my own, my legs widened to the degree that my skirt slid up very high on my bare thighs; my left knee that had been pressing into Jonathan's leg was now over his leg to accommodate my wide angle. I couldn't help it, didn't want to help it. I was completely powerless over my oppressor the Lion.

I was so exposed that I felt the ambient air between my legs. I had reached the point of no return. I was escalating, climaxing, and nothing on earth could prevent it from happening. I began convulsing, leaned back farther against my now-two locked arms. Lion put his mouth on mine, impeding my view of Human, disrupting our mutual fixation. I backed my mouth from his, ducked around him, regained eye-contact with Human, much as iron can't help but be drawn to a magnet. My legs and privates seemed to be their own entity independent of me—under the spell of Lion, governed by Lion—as were my eyes, only they were being governed by him. Governed by Devil. That's who he was: Devil. Not Man. His wide toothy grin, horned head, round unsmiling eyes feverishly boring into my own behind a mask that wasn't fooling me; an excited reveler relishing the slaughter of the gazelle by Lion. I was being taken in body by beast, and taken in mind by Devil.

I came, an explosion discharging every neuron in my body in a quaking finale. My breath hitched, eyes squinted shut as I endured the cataclysmic bliss of my orgasm.

Lion's paw left my drained body, the aftermath of my orgasm seeping out of me like a tipped-over jar of honey; my legs twitched like the last few spasms of a rabbit snared in a bear-trap. He pushed my legs closer together without assistance or resistance from me, tugged my dress down to my knees. I opened my eyes slowly. Devil had left. I looked around: he was gone. So was Jester, actually. How long had my eyes been closed, a few seconds? Longer? Time is funny that way when you're drowning in sensory overload.

"Did you enjoy that, Black Cat?" Lion said to me with a slanted grin.

"Uh-huh. So much." I swept my drowsy gaze across the room. I felt sticky and dirty. I'd be taking a shower before making love to Jonathan at the hotel.

"What are you looking for?" he asked me.

"Nothing."

"Can I get you a new drink?"

"Please."

"Be right back," Lion said and got off the bed.

I reached under my dress and returned the front of my panties back to where they belonged, awed at how much wetness there was—could all this really have come from me?—gazed around to see if anyone was watching me. Like it mattered. Seconds ago everyone had front seats to the show of the night. Perhaps if there wasn't a door on the bathroom, that would have been the show of the night. But there was a bathroom door, so it was I who was on display for any number of discerning masqueraders. But had I been? Devil saw, that much I did know. Those fire-reflecting unsmiling eyes and hungry smile were testament to that. I could scarcely believe I just got molested in front of twenty-something people. Okay, so it was consensual molestation, but still. That damned Lion. Maybe I should have been Gazelle tonight. Maybe I was being uptight. It's a party, I should embrace my sexuality and champion experimentation. Everyone says college is a time for experimentation, so I shouldn't feel bad about what happened. And nobody was even glancing at me. It's not like people were cat-calling me and whistling, clapping and begging for an encore. If others didn't care, why should I? Maybe Lion knew what he was doing all along. He had already proven on the drive over that he disliked strangers observing my bare body, so surely he wouldn't want strangers (or acquaintances) seeing my more intimate anatomy. I couldn't even be a hundred-percent sure that things happened as I described them. Or fifty percent. It was a fine haze I had drifted into, from equal parts gin and pleasure. Awful dreamlike it had been.

"Ice chest sucks," Lion said upon returning to me. He handed me a cup with clear liquid. No ice inside. "Ice melted already. It's just a chest of tepid water. How could that be? There were ice cubes in it like a half-hour ago. Oh well."

Suddenly the hatch over the downstairs portal thrust open. A woman's legs were what I saw first, then the woman who they belonged to: the nice lady from upstairs. She hauled ass down the stairs frenetically, followed by a man. The woman's eyes were goggling, pure terror broadcasting from them. Once she reached the bottom landing her legs buckled and the man caught her before she hit the floor. She was unconscious. He looked at the sum of us with mingled awe and terror. Such was the profundity of their emotion that several people turned their attentions to them. Pirate lowered the music volume a little. The man turned the woman over to her back on the carpeted floor.

"What's happening?" I asked Lion.

He shrugged, both our gazes on the couple from upstairs.

"Where's Jester?" I asked. "Did you see where he went?"

"No. I don't know, Brittney."

Batman and Catwoman came out of the bathroom; he zipped up his trousers. There was now a small gathering of people around the upstairs woman and man. He was on his cell phone, and after he ended the call he told us cops were on the way and we were being detained, and that he was a cop as well. That changed the dynamic of the party at once. The music was turned off. The air turned heavy, solemnity and confusion replaced mirth. Nobody seemed to be drunk anymore, which wasn't surprising because I myself felt perfectly sober, and I felt that way because of the gravity of the moment. Phantom and Peacock pleaded with the self-proclaimed cop to call off the inbound cops.

I was scared. Confusion breeds fear, and I was one confused girl. The woman began stirring; that was a slight relief. I had wondered if something tragic was occurring to her. Possibilities cycled in my mind, such as the man who had formed lines of coke on the table had gotten us busted somehow. Were we doing anything illegal down here? Underaged drinking, I supposed, but is that really a matter of police involvement when it's done inside the sanctuary that is a home? The fact of the matter was that cops were coming and we were being detained, which is a polite way of saying under arrest, and since I couldn't point the finger of blame at any specific individual with any confidence, that left me as an equally guilty party. That meant I was under arrest. I was in deep shit. My mom and dad... oh man, I was going to get in trouble. They could cut off funding to my education or dorms or both. But what exactly had I done? It felt mischievous what I had gotten into with Lion, our little act of exhibitionism, but was that really something to get in trouble with the police over?

It was quiet. Those who did speak did so in a solemn whisper. The exception was the woman from upstairs and her friend. She was demanding to know where we'd been for the last seven days, and that was as nonsensical as anything. Her friend doubled up on her question, shouted at us to admit where the hell we've been for seven damned days. I was growing more scared by the second. I wrapped my arm around Jonathan's, leaned into him.

"I'm afraid," I whispered to him.

"It'll be all right," he consoled. "It's just a misunderstanding."

"I hope so."

I heard sirens in the distance, making this dreamlike encounter feel more like a situation, a grave one.

My date hummed meditatively, his gaze focused on the hearth.

"What?" I asked.

"That's odd."

"What is?"

"Look at the fire."

There wasn't a fire. Just ash. But only minutes ago there had been a big fire. A big fire with a wonderful aroma that was now gone entirely. It was odd but I reserved hope in there being a logical explanation for it. Someone doused it with water, that was probably it—even though there was no smoke or vapor or reason to have extinguished it.

"Would someone tell me where you've fucking been over the last week!" the woman shouted, jumping from one scared confused countenance to the next.

"What do you mean?" Phantom said, and it was the first time I heard him sound that way. A new tone, one of skepticism and self-doubt.

"I mean, you all disappear last week and now you're all back? What's going on here!"

I hugged tighter Jonathan, closed my eyes. "I want to go home now," I murmured to him. "Please, I'll do anything in the world for you if you just please take me home now."

"We will soon enough."

His voice was distant, detached. He was ruminating, musing. Part of me wondered what over, but a larger part wished not to know. The scared part.

"Ice chests can't break," he whispered. "Insulation doesn't break. The ice in there is now room-temperature water."

"I don't want to hear that," I said and put my closed eyes against his jacketed shoulder.

"And the fire," he said. "Where's Paul?" He repeated the question more loudly, for the masqueraders to hear. "Where's Paul, guys?"

Pirate brushed by the woman and cop and took to the stairs.

"Where do you think you're going?" the cop asked him.

"To get Paul."

"Paul isn't here."

"He's not? Where'd he go?" He was still going up the stairs.

"He moved out of here a week ago, hasn't been back since. Kid, why don't you come back down here. Nobody is to leave till I say they can. Got it? I mean it, I'm detaining each and every one of you for the time being. Don't worry, nobody is in trouble."

"Then why are you detaining us!" Jonathan said crossly.

"Because I'm a cop and I have that authority. Just settle down, it's going to be a long night. If you all have cell phones on you, I suggest you call your parents and let them know you've returned safely."

Nobody did, though. Nobody considered themselves to be missing. The guy was loony, as was the lady from upstairs. But my intuition said that they weren't. Ice gone, fire gone, Paul long gone. Those were bad realizations. Bad things to consider.

I turned over and laid down flat on my stomach, face down on the comforter and began crying. Jonathan was a sweetheart, rubbing my back to comfort me. I needed comfort. I turned my head to keep an eye on the cop. I didn't trust him. He was responsible for all this happening, shared culpability with the woman. I watched as Frog approached the cop and leaned to him, said something in private to him. The off-duty cop looked stupefied by what he heard from Frog. Frog grinned at him. Grinned at him!

"I'm so scared, Jonathan," I said. "Something bad happened. Can't you sense it?"

"Yes," he said flatly, distantly. "Yes, I do."

### Chapter Nine

Uniformed and non-uniformed police officers and Sheriff's deputies arrived via the back door and stairs. It was too crowded, so they singled out some masqueraders and escorted them upstairs to begin their inquisition. I remained downstairs, with my Jonathan. I had gotten him to lay down beside me on the bed. We embraced, face to face. There were many individual conversations going on at once, all somewhat quiet, and were between cops and masqueraders. It would be our turn soon enough, I figured. A girl in a black dress went inside the bathroom holding her stomach, closed the door behind her. A second later I heard her vomiting. Maybe from the alcohol, but probably from the assertions a cop made to her just moments prior.

"I should be losing my virginity right now," I said to Jonathan.

It filled me with appreciation when he smiled at that. His smile was a pillar of strength in which I sought purchase. He apologized to me, said the night's young, though we knew damn well that sex wasn't something that we'd be enjoying this night.

After having been questioned, Frog stepped away from a uniformed cop and looked around, contemplating where he wanted to take a seat, and decided he'd take one on the bed. He sat a foot or so behind me, back to back. I rolled over and tapped his shoulder. He glanced back apathetically, but that indifferent expression changed at my sight. His brow lowered a little, features softened, a kind of sadness pervaded him merely at my sight. More than sadness, it was... a disapproving expression.

"Excuse me," I said, "but what questions did the policeman ask you?"

He looked at Jonathan with that same disapproving expression before returning his gaze at me. "Where we've been over the last week."

"Why do people keep saying that? Why does it matter where we've been?"

"Do you have a cell phone?" he asked me.

"Yes, why?"

"Take a look at it, at the date."

I couldn't remember where my purse was, then remembered I left it in Lion's Civic. I said I didn't have it on me. Jonathan fished his phone from his pocket and pressed a button, triggering a glow on the screen. "What the fuck..." he breathed, and turned the phone around, showed me. 9:25 P.M., and under that, February 21.

"It's just broken is all," I said.

"No it isn't," Frog argued. "Everyone's phone will read the same date. We've been here for a week."

I felt like I was going insane. I knew we hadn't been here for a week, yet people adamantly insisted we had. It was maddening.

"Why aren't you scared or confused then?" I said pointedly to Frog. I think my question caught him off guard. He had been looking a little too confident, a little haughty before I sprang that question on him. "You seem to be the only masquerader here who has a grasp on things."

I reached down and hiked my dress up to the knee, grazed my calf: smooth freshly-shaven skin. Wasn't that proof if nothing else that we hadn't been here a week?

"Here, touch my leg," I said to Frog. "Feel it. It's smooth. No stubble at all."

"I'm not touching you," Frog said with marked disdain.

"If you believe we've been here for a week, why are my legs smooth? And why don't you have a beard?"

"I couldn't say."

"And why aren't you acting as shocked and perplexed as the rest of us?"

"I am," he said, but it was bullshit. He was lying.

"You're lying. You're a liar."

Frog lowered his voice and said with equal parts fervor and contempt, "You should consider yourself blessed, young lady. Blessed! Blessed that you lived to see this day. Because if you had died, your Lion friend here would have an eternity to finger you before an audience in hell."

I was stunned. And utterly ashamed. I think Jonathan was ashamed as well; he didn't appear to be angry.

"I... I didn't know anyone saw that," I said in a tiny voice.

"You didn't know or you didn't care? People did see it. Your parents should be proud of you," he said sarcastically.

I covered my face and wept, feeling ashamed and despising my selfishness.

Frog touched my shoulder: it startled me. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "That was wrong of me to say."

"I'm such a sh-shit," I stammered, and sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

"Sweetheart, it's okay," Jonathan said soothingly.

Frog ran his hand through my hair. I uncovered my face and met eyes with him. His eyes were glassy. I looked away from him in my shame.

"Be remorseful," Frog said, "be contrite, ask God for forgiveness, but don't hate yourself. You're a beautiful girl. I can see that in you. Look at me. You made a mistake, that's all. God loves you."

"He does not," I said and sobbed. "Why should He?"

"He does. That's why you're weeping here right now, and not... gone."

"Is everything all right here?" a cop said from the foot of the bed.

"Yes, sir," Frog said.

"Would you give us a moment alone?" the cop said to Frog.

Frog caressed my cheek with a sympathetic smile, apologized again before getting up and relocating to the other side of the room. The cop took his place on the bed, turned the scrawled-on yellow page of his little notepad over to a fresh sheet. He asked if we preferred to be questioned together, me and Jonathan, sensing that we were a couple. I said yes please, and thanked him. I had stopped sobbing, but the tears were running unchecked.

"State your first and last names." We gave our names: he jotted them down. "Give me the details of the seven days prior to today," the cop directed at Jonathan.

"It was an ordinary week. Classes, went to a party on Friday night. Watched college basketball most of the day yesterday, and went to this party tonight."

The cop jotted a short note before saying, "I should be more specific. Could you give me the details of the week spanning from February fourteenth till today?"

"Is it really the twenty-first?" I asked him.

He nodded once, wrote another short note. He already knew we wouldn't have answers for him. The last person or two questioned had already cemented that expectation. But he had a job to do, and executed it professionally.

"Then we have nothing to tell you," Jonathan said. "We got here Valentine's Day evening, and as far as we know, it's still that day."

"Is it possible that someone slipped something inside your drinks?" the cop speculated. "Drugged you all?"

Lion and I exchanged doubtful stares, shrugged. "I suppose it's possible," Jonathan said, "though highly unlikely. Everyone here is cool. And there are no lapses in my memory."

"Mine either."

The cop scrawled a few words on his pad while saying, "Nor is there a lapse in anyone's memory here, it seems. Do either of you have any enemies?"

We said no.

"What's your relationship like with Norrah Petersen and Paul Klein?"

Neither of us knew Norrah, and I had only just met Paul on Friday; Jonathan said he was acquaintances with Paul.

The cop jotted on his pad. "In your opinion, would Paul have any reason to abduct anyone? Or have the disposition of someone who might do so?"

"No way," Jonathan said.

The cop turned the page over and stood up. "You have my deepest sympathies for enduring this. I know I don't look it, but I'm thrilled that you're alive and well. If there's anything you remember about this past week, or think of something you'd like to share with me, here's my card." He handed a pair of them to us. "Soon you'll be free to go. Since most of you live on campus in Redlands, we're going to have a bus come and transport you all there—if you wish to accept that service, that is."

"My car is on the street," Jonathan said.

"I'm afraid they impounded the cars on the street several days ago. They were considered possible evidence in your disappearances. I'm sorry."

It wasn't much longer that we were detained there. When a bus pulled up out front, we exited through the front door in a single and double ranked file toward it. A police barricade separated the journalists from us, and they clamored at our sight, shouting questions at us from afar; none of us answered a single one. There were dozens of camera flashes going off in rapid succession. It was daylight out front, though the clock would have you believe it was dead-night. A hundred feet away camera crews had their big ass lights on stands and they cut through the darkness like a sun. That and the swirling blue and red cop lights and blindingly bright headlights. I squinted as I walked.

None of us spoke a word as we situated ourselves on the bus. We were collectively despondent and introspective. Our minds were anchored down to the sobering reality that we were part of a dark mystery that might forever remain unsolved. Nothing good would ever come of it, but there might be some bad.

Together we lost a week of our lives, somehow, and that knowledge was likely to plague our curious minds for the remainder of our years. These people who were mostly strangers to me and strangers to each other, would now recommence their lives as twenty-three individual fragments of a larger picture all our own. We were bonded by a profound commonality that would never change, never diminish.

Twenty-three people who went missing we were. But not a one of us on that bus was smiling a toothy grin with wide unsmiling eyes, wearing a mask of a man. Paul Klein wasn't the only one who escaped that night.

In the coming days I'd be all-consumed by the need for answers. Who could I talk to? The lady from upstairs and her friend the cop stood out as likely candidates. When I wasn't awake to ruminate over the mystery, I was sleeping and suffering the worst nightmares of my life. I'd wake my roommate Claire with my screaming. After the second night of that she began sleeping at her boyfriend's, assured me that it wasn't personal and that she'd come back once I settled down.

I don't feel it is important to elaborate on the content of my recurring nightmares, as dreams are just dreams. They don't pertain to these pages. And if they do, I don't want to know about it. What I will tell you is that it is the same dream every night, and is of the masquerade party. Something inhuman gets to work slaying us all, one at a time, and with great pleasure. The door is unlocked but won't open for us as we try to escape. The hatch won't budge either. One by one we are murdered, not methodically but in a kind of homicidal improvisation.

I awaken each time upon my death. Clawed hands ripping through my neck.

If you have any ideas or information regarding what I've written, no matter how insignificant you might think it is, please contact me at brittneyHayes951@gmail.

Thank you.

### Chapter Ten

Norrah felt so bad for Brittney by the end of their pancake meal that she not only swore she'd get back to her as soon as she met with Aaron, but opened her wallet and removed all the cash she had (a few twenties and some smaller bills) and insisted she take it. "Compensation for your time with me," Norrah had said. Brittney abashedly took the money, said if she didn't need it so badly she'd have turned it down.

Norrah had a good idea that she (Norrah) would be selling an interview for a ton of money. And if so, she considered cutting the girl a check for some unknown quantity, to make her remaining college years more comfortable to get through. What a shitty father she has, to make life so rough on his daughter as he drives around a hundred-thousand-dollar Benz. And what a shame that a fortune was so accessible to Norrah but not for Brittney. Any news broadcaster should want to hear her story over Norrah's. But what it came down to is there were twenty-three people who went missing, so the public couldn't and didn't remember each of their names. NBC couldn't hook "Interview with Brittney Hayes tonight at eight!" because nobody would know who that is. But everyone knew who Norrah Petersen was. She was the closed-door and whispered prime suspect at first, sharing that infamous title with Paul Klein. "She knows something that she isn't telling," many pundits had echoed for days. It didn't help that people associated the surname Petersen with Scott Peterson, who had killed his wife and unborn child; that story was in the headlines for months. So all the public had to do was transition from hating one Peterson to the next.

Had it been only Brittney Hayes who went missing, and twenty-three people shared Norrah's circumstance of being upstairs when it happened, the money would have been offered to Brittney instead. But it wasn't just that. Several students had already given interviews and did so for free, so there wasn't enough meat on that bone left for news companies to make a business proposition to yet another recovered student. And on top of that, the interviews with the students were boring, a real yawn-fest. Sure the ratings would have been high for the first and maybe second interviews, but people had given up hope of hearing something juicy after having heard variations of, "I have no idea what happened. I didn't know I was missing. There is nothing unusual to speak of."

Norrah walked her new friend to her Civic. Friend is what Brittney was; Norrah had decided that before her first pancake was eaten. She enjoyed the girl's personality and they shared something special in an indirect way. She especially liked her candor. Things she should have been embarrassed about or ashamed of she easily confessed to. That's a rare thing. And a refreshing thing. She described in too much detail (Norrah thought) the sexual things. Norrah figured she could ask Brittney anything and get an honest answer back reflexively, without any consideration or tailoring. And that's what she did at the Civic.

"Are you still a virgin then?" Norrah said with a silly smile.

"Unfortunately, yes. Why, you want to get lucky?"

Norrah laughed out loud. "No, weirdo. That's really cool. Don't feel like you need to get it over with. You shouldn't feel bad waiting till the time is right, and with the right person. I wish I had done what you're doing."

"Yeah." She unlocked her car door and sat inside. "I'm kind of glad it didn't happen, because I would be regretting it right now. Since that night, Jonathan has avoided me. Maybe he'll come around, but it isn't looking like it right now."

"Have you had any long-term boyfriends?"

"No. If I had, I probably wouldn't be a virgin."

"Oh yeah, duh."

"Every time I date a guy something seems to screw it up. I guess I'm the one to blame. But not always."

"Do you want to hang out sometime? Come over for dinner? I know it's a long drive, but I'd pay for your gas."

"Sure."

"I admit to having a kind of ulterior motive. I do like you, and I'd enjoy spending time with you, just the two of us, but there's a guy I'd like you to meet. The guy I'm dating, the cop who was with me that night, he has a younger brother about your age. I haven't met him yet but Jay tells me wonderful things about him. I've seen his picture, he's really good looking. And he just dumped his girlfriend who cheated on him. Who'd want to cheat on a guy like that? Shoot, don't tell Jay I said that. His name is Caleb. He goes to U.C.L.A."

Brittney smiled at Norrah, closed her door and lowered the window. "That's cool of you to want to do something nice for me, a virtual stranger. Oftentimes first impressions are wrong, but I was right to think you were a nice lady when I first saw you."

"Lady?" Norrah repeated with a sour taste in her mouth. "I'm a lady to you?"

"Sorry, I know that sounds like I'm calling you old. Girl. Is that better?"

"Much."

"How old are you, anyway? Mid-twenties?"

Norrah liked hearing that. "Thirty. Thanks."

"About Caleb: dating isn't something I'm eager to do right now."

"Not now, but down the road. But not too far down the road because a guy like him will have women coming after him."

"All right. Thanks for the money. I feel like a shit taking it. I hope it doesn't set you back too much."

"Not at all," Norrah lied. It did sting. "Take care, Brittney. I'll call you tonight, okay? After Aaron leaves."

"I look forward to it."

On the drive back up the mountain, the low-gas light came on in Norrah's Camry. She stopped at the Chevron in Blue Jay. She began pumping gas after swiping her debit card in the thingy. After four dollars of petro went inside the hungry tank, the gas stopped. She tried it again, but it wouldn't let her pump. She wondered if she was at zero in her checking account. There was a strong possibility she was. She'd have to check her account online when she returned home. She went inside the Food Mart and handed the clerk her debit card and said forty on pump two, and added that it might not work. He punched some keys on the register, looked up at her with sudden awareness.

"Norrah Petersen," he said.

"Yes?"

"You're her."

"Uh... thanks?"

"That's so cool." He checked to be sure nobody was within ear-shot when he said conspiratorially, "Between you and me, Paul Klein had something to do with all them kids missing, didn't he?"

Norrah stole the debit card out of his hand and left.

"I didn't mean any offense by it," the clerk said to her back.

"Nobody ever does," she said.

Thanks to the ridiculous prices at the pump, she only got one gallon of go-juice for the remaining four bucks in her account. She'd have to get gas at Shell, on credit. Shit, her Visa was currently at its max of two grand. And if she wasn't maxed on credit, would someone at Shell make comments about her celebrity as well? She couldn't write-off every gas station. And every bank. And store. Maybe giving that interview would be a blessing on two fronts. Money, and people would stop asking questions. All the questions would have already been asked, and answered. They'd still ask questions, but then she could just say "Watch the interview on YouTube," and that would be the end of it.

She considered bringing me in on the business deal. Maybe she'd counter their offer with a half-million, and say Jay Davis would join in. They'd probably wonder who Jay Davis is, and when she stated that I'm the only other person who was in the house when the twenty-three reappeared, they'd imagine their ratings hiking north. With a half-million, we could both retire, and share her nearly paid-off house and live off the interest. If that dried up, there's always a book deal. Like the book I'm writing at this very moment. There has been no publisher shopping for this story yet, and truth be told I'd rather not make money on this project. Once I make a dime off of it, people will see that as a motive for writing it. Or that I'm trying to profit off of other's misfortune. I'd rather find a way to get the story out there while keeping it non-profit. I suppose that's my ultimate goal.

As Norrah drove home she wondered how she ran out of money. She knew she was low, but not that low. She was getting paid tomorrow, so it wasn't a big deal.

"Shit. Shit!" She was supposed to buy groceries for tonight's hosted dinner. Rib-eye steaks. Now what? As much as she liked Brittney, she currently resented her for accepting that sixty-something dollars earlier. That's unfair, Norrah thought. It wasn't Brittney's fault but her own. She considered calling me to ask if I'd buy some meat and bring it over, but couldn't get herself to do it. She was fiercely independent, and didn't think she had it in her to ask that favor.

She was friendly with Clyde the butcher at Jansen's Market. He was in his sixties and always flirted innocently with her. They had been acquaintances for ten years. That was plenty long enough to ask him for a huge favor: let me pay for the steaks tomorrow... with interest. She was confident he'd go for it.

She wanted to get it out of the way so she wouldn't have to worry about it over the next several hours. She parked outside Jansen's and didn't get a hand-cart as she entered. She'd rather not be presumptuous with Clyde's generosity. She was already changing her habits, not looking around as she entered the store but instead kept her head down and eyes straight. It was dead at this hour, thankfully. She frowned at the butcher behind the counter, not Clyde.

"Afternoon, ma'am," the man said affably. His nameplate read Ryan Sturgeon.

"Hi, Ryan. Is Clyde off today?"

"No, he's in back cutting up some lamb. Want me to get him?"

"Please."

He went in the back. Clyde came out a moment later with a bloody apron and a very large knife. He smiled at her. "Norrah! Well hello there, lovely lady."

She wished he hadn't used her name so loudly. "Hello, kind sir. How are you today?"

"Can't complain, can't complain. You look great."

"Do I?" She looked at herself. "Whatever you say. How's Bethany?"

His smile became a lesser one. "She hasn't divorced me yet, so could be better."

She laughed. "Why don't you just leave her, instead of talking about your crappy marriage year after year."

"Maybe our marriage isn't quite as bad as I make it out to be. It is pretty lousy, but it could be worse."

"You just want her gone so you can propose to me, don't you?" She winked at him.

"That's exactly right." His smile warmed her. "So what can I get for you today?"

In a low tone she said, "You don't know how wonderful it is to not be asked the usual questions. I love how you treat me the same now as you did before."

"Oh? What happened?" A brief moment later he chuckled. "I kid, I kid. I figure you get inundated with those damned questions enough; you don't need it from me, too."

"That's why I love you, Clyde."

His brow raised. "You just earned a free slab of bacon with your order, my sweets."

"I'm afraid I'm going to need a bigger favor than that." She winced.

"Is that right? What can I do you for?" What can I do you for was what he always asked. Today she would reply differently to that ambiguous question.

"Oh about eighty bucks."

"Beg pardon?"

She laughed, waved dismissively. "Never mind."

"Oh!" He laughed. "I can do you for eighty bucks!" He laughed harder. "That's good stuff, Norrah."

"I try. But really, I do need a favor. I get paid tomorrow... so..." She hoped he'd connect the dots, saving her the embarrassment of having to ask directly.

"And..."

"I get paid tomorrow... so..." She gave him another chance.

"So you have no money now?"

She nodded.

"Ah. What is it you're looking for?"

"I'm having company tonight. I promised them rib-eye steaks. I have potatoes and vegetables already, but I have no steaks."

"We aren't in the habit of lending food here. It's not my policy. But I think we can make an exception this once."

"It's okay," she said on second thought, "just forget that I asked. I don't want you to get in trouble."

"No-no, I won't forget that you asked. I'd be happy to do you a favor. God knows you could use a positive experience right now during these trying times. What's a couple steaks? Nothing for a store like this. And I know you're good for the money."

"Of course I am."

"How many steaks?"

"I could get by with two. One for each of the guys, and I'll make myself a frozen chicken breast."

"You like rib-eyes, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"But you prefer chicken?"

"No."

"Then three rib-eyes it is."

"You're the best, Clyde. I'm not just saying that, either. I've never met such a thoughtful employee at any grocery store, including the one I work at."

"Yeah, that's right," he remembered, "you work at Stater's. Why do you buy your meat here?" Before she could answer he took a guess. "Because Stater's has Stater's steaks, not our U.S.D.A. prime cuts."

"Exactly. People who can appreciate the difference in steak quality buy here."

He smiled as he moved the rib-eyes around, picked three beauties out, the best looking three he had. He placed them on a clear plastic sheet.

"Want me to marinate them? We have lemon-herb, teriyaki, barbecue."

"Ooo, teriyaki sounds great."

"Coming right up." He put the steaks in a big baggie and pumped the dispenser of teriyaki, slowly filling up the baggie with dark brown liquid. He wrapped the baggie in white paper and weighed it. "Thirty-two dollars it's going to be, dear. I'm afraid there's no way I can ring it up in a way that payment taken tomorrow will satisfy it. The only way is for me to pay and you pay me back later."

"I can't take your money. No way. Just forget it," she said shamefaced, "I don't need them. I'll be fine. Thanks anyway." She turned and took her first step away, cheeks burning red.

"If you keep walking, I'm going to shout Norrah Petersen is here, Norrah Petersen is here. Do you want that?"

She turned around and gawped at him.

"I'll be offended if you don't let me do you this favor. Offended, Norrah. Take the steaks. This isn't up for debate."

She returned to the counter to accept the proffered parcel, her bright eyes conveying her gratitude. He held up a hand (think nothing of it) and said he looked forward to seeing her tomorrow, or whenever she had the money.

She blew him a kiss and strode off. She'd make it a point to stop by tomorrow and pay him back, thank him again. Two teenaged boys stood side by side between Norrah and the market's exit, fixed on her. Their expressions said it all.

"Dude, I told you it's her," said one.

"Why won't you give an interview, lady?" asked the other. "My dad says—"

"Hey!" Clyde shouted at them.

The two boys looked around Norrah to the butcher. With eyes to the floor before her, in full stride, she flanked the two boys.

"Come here a minute!" Clyde said and beckoned them with a finger.

The double sliding-glass doors opened for her. She heard Clyde scolding the kids from a good distance behind her now. She got in her car.

"Clyde, you wonderful man," she muttered, patted the meat-parcel on the passenger seat.

### Chapter Eleven

The dinner get-together was at seven. That was the earliest it could be, since I worked till six, and needed to get showered and dressed. I called Norrah on my drive home to see if there was anything I could bring over. She said yes, some dessert. And some wine or champagne. I'd hit Stater's on the way over. She sounded chipper so I asked what was new. There were no news vans on the street. They had left. Her street looked as it should once again, void of motorists and parked vehicles. I was happy for Norrah. I knew that meant a lot to her.

Aaron texted her at six-thirty to check if everything was still on, and could he bring anything? She said it was still on and he needs not bring anything but his self. She texted directions to her house. He replied: I was there for seven days, remember? LOL.

She LOL'd back and added That's right.

As Norrah peeled potatoes she stared vacantly out the kitchen window at the darkening sky, wondered what it's like to cease existing for seven days. For any amount of time. Was it like the phenomenon that is going to sleep and seemingly the same second waking up many hours later? Sleep is kind of creepy like that. Huge chunks of time blink away at once. Or maybe ceasing to exist for those seven days was like how it was before you were born. Just black timeless nothingness, a concept impossible to wrap your mind around. If anyone should know the answer to that question it would be Aaron. Or Brittney, let's not forget her. She was another reason to be in a good mood. Norrah didn't have many friends, and Brittney was a fun girl. If Norrah had to guess, before this whole crazy shit-storm happened, she'd have guessed that after a week of being vanished, they'd return starving and dehydrated, smelling like B.O., hair disheveled. That wasn't the case. She wondered if they slept all right that night, or if being gone for a week was akin to getting the longest most restful night of sleep of your life.

She quartered the taters and dropped them in a pot of water, took the parcel out of the fridge and placed it on the kitchen island, tore away the paper and examined the plump baggie with three gorgeous pieces of meat.

Norrah strolled to the back deck, stepped outside. It wasn't as cold as it had been lately. She turned the knob on the propane tank of the barbecue. There was no hollow hissing sound as there should have been. She opened the lid of the 'cue anyway, turned the burners on and pressed the clicker. She wasn't surprised that there were no flames. Not hearing the propane seeping through the lines was indicative of an empty tank. There was always the oven. She could broil them. But that's sacrilege for steaks this nice.

"Ah..." She had an idea. Paul Klein was still living with God-knows-whom down the mountain, and probably hadn't come up to take his barbecue. That reminded her: she needed to call him to learn what the deal was. He had paid for February, but the month was almost at an end. She doubted he'd be paying for March. He seemed intent on living elsewhere. She figured her home was tainted to him now. Norrah wouldn't allow it to become tainted to her. She loved the house, planned on living here for the rest of her life. If she and I were to get married, she'd insist that I move in with her, not vice-versa. It would suck badly not having Paul's four-hundred a month, all the more reason to give that interview. Let's face it, there were too many reasons to do the interview and not enough to keep avoiding it. Aaron and Brittney didn't know it yet, but they were going to benefit greatly from the interview, as Norrah has a giant heart. In her mind she already set aside that money for them, so to not interview was to deprive them of what was theirs.

She'd need to tell Paul to get his shit out of her house, unless he wants to continue paying rent. And if he did want to live there, that was fine by her. She harbored no animosity toward him. Sure she was peeved last week when he up and bailed when the going got tough, but she couldn't hold being a chicken-shit against him. People are inherently chicken-shits, save for the few brave souls who employ themselves as fire fighters, cops (ahem; wink), soldiers and the like. If Paul didn't come get his shit by March first, and didn't pay another month's rent, she was going to keep his belongings. Throw most of it out, but keep the stuff she wanted. She'd make a guest bed out of his king-sized bed. It was comfortable, she had laid on it once when Paul wasn't home (yes my girlfriend can be creepy-weird at times). He had nice furniture, a nice big LCD television. And his barbecue. Hers was nicer, but it lacked a current essential element at the moment: propane. She opened the hatch and went down a few steps before reconsidering. Should she bring the steaks down and a fork? Eh, not yet. It wasn't freezing outside, but it was in the forties, she judged, so it would take a while for the grill to get hot. She'd let it warm up a trifle. Down the stairs she went.

"Early in the morning, risin' to the street... light me up that cigarette and I'll strap shoes on my feet," she sang as she went. Sublime was happy music. Would there be dessert after the dessert? She wondered. The after-pie dessert known as wicked hot sex? She smiled. "Loooove is... it's what I got... I said remember that."

The back door was unlocked. She hit the outside lights, which might not have been necessary, but it had become dusk. Pink and orange sunlight was both strange and beautiful. She stepped out. At the end of the patio the barbecue stood. It was against the railing and facing the last of a series of large basement windows. It took her a minute to learn the barbecue's functionality, eventually got it started. On a hook was the scraper. The grill was a little crusted, black tar-looking crud stuck to it. She got to scraping it, cringing at the strident sound it made. She checked her watch: 6:43. The food wouldn't be ready to eat till about half past seven, but that was okay. She never claimed that dinner would be ready at seven.

"...Love is... it's what I got... I said remember that." Her hip vibrated, cell phone played Nat King Cole's Unforgettable. She saw it was me calling.

"Well hello there, good looking," she said cheerily into the phone.

"I said looove is... it's what I got... I said remember that," I sang.

Her jaw dropped.

"Life is too short so love the one you got, 'cause you might get run over or you might get shot..." I continued to sing. I began laughing.

"How did you know I was singing that," she said bewildered.

"Because you butt-dialed me. I enjoy your singing voice, dumpling."

"Oh. You brat. You freaked me out."

"Sorry. I just left my house. I'll be there in a few."

"I was just wondering if there was going to be after-dessert dessert."

"I have a peach pie. And two bottles of champagne."

"Sounds good. But that's not what I meant."

"After-dessert dessert? Hmm. So peach pie, then... hair pie?"

She burst out laughing. "You're gross! No, no hair pie for you, sicko."

"It is a little outdated, that term. Since the wild unkempt look has been out for about a decade or two now. I like them shaved, more aerodynamic. As a benefit you can run and swim faster, too. And I suppose make love faster: less wind resistance. I once dated a girl with a bush so big that she kept her car keys in there."

"Stop being gross and get your buns over here. Hurry up."

"Will do. Bye."

She pocketed the phone. "Hair pie..." she said thickly and rolled her eyes.

She scraped the grill a little more before calling it good. She looked center-deck to the three-foot gap section in the railing, which was an entrance to the acres of forest that was her backyard. Well, not hers, someone else presumably owned it. The snow there had melted partially, the tracks Fred the fat ass and I had made had melted away. It was a peculiar thing, the single set of tracks that stopped abruptly fifteen or twenty feet from the house. Fred had opined that someone had back-tracked perfectly. But for what reason? None of that really mattered anymore, she supposed.

She closed the lid on the barby and turned around, took a single step and stopped. She saw something obliquely through that far window at the end. Without looking directly at it, her memory showed her what it was: a person being hanged by that damned blinds cord. She bravely looked directly at it: the body wasn't there. It was mostly dark inside. She made blinders with cupped hands to cut the twilight glare from the window, and pressed her face against it. On the hearth was a dark mass that she knew to be a broad-rimmed hat. Two little spots of white were the horns. She scanned the room.

"Life is too short so love the one you got, 'cause you might get run over or you might get shot." Her heart wasn't in singing this time. She left the window smelling the charred remains of some old cattle-flesh being seared away on the grill, and opened the door.

"I said remember that... loooove is..."

She flipped the inside-light switch on and wished she hadn't. She gasped sharply. It was like a hologram baseball card that you can rotate to see the batter going through the movements of his swing. Bodies were pulsing into view and fading out just as the next body pulsed into view, all around the room, body after body, no two bodies present at once. She felt dizzy, put a hand on her forehead and swooned. No-arms Pirate, Phantom dissected like a science project, torn in half Mouse, face torn off Catwoman, back ripped open Frog, and there was the man choked to death by the blinds cord wearing a batman mask, his throat swollen and purple, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

Norrah made a fucked up kind of cry-moan and dashed to the stairs, took one step and tripped, dropping to her knees on the sharp edge of a step. She looked between the posts of the banister: bodies blinked in and out of view, round and round like a carousel. As she pressed herself up to a stand, she saw one particular body that seized her attention. A girl in a deep red dress on the floor beside the bed, headless. It disappeared, appeared, disappeared, appeared and continued to cycle, along with the others. She sprinted up the stairs and slammed the hatch closed behind her.

She strode to the bathroom off the den and cranked the faucet on, splashed water at her face, looked up at her reflection in the mirror.

"What's wrong with me?" she asked herself, splashed more water up at her face. She needed to hear the comforting voice of someone she knew, withdrew her cell from pocket and called me.

"Yessum?" I answered. "Call to hear more of my reasons why shaved coochies are more practical than hairy ones? Underwear fit better," I began, "no gray hairs in private places, giving vaginas a more youthful appearance."

"How close are you?"

"About a mile or so. Why? Need me to pick up something else? I bought a pie at Stater's."

"No."

Silence. I heard nothing but her heavy breathing.

"Hun?" I said. "Something wrong?"

"...no. It's just... nothing." She knew I wasn't going to let it slide so she came out with it before I had to chance to needle it out of her. "You know how I said I saw them? The bodies?"

"Yes."

"I just saw them again."

I hummed meditatively. "I think what's happening is all the stress you've suffered as of late is wreaking havoc on your senses. I thought about that the other day, but didn't mention it. All the attention you've been getting, it takes a toll, you know?"

"You think?"

"I do. Hallucinations. I doubt it's anything serious, but if you'd like you can make an appointment to see a doctor and I'll come with."

"God, Jay, I'm so lucky to have you. I mean it. That makes perfect sense. And that you care enough about me to offer to take me... I'm just so grateful to have you."

"You're a peach to say."

In the ensuing brief stretch of silence, Norrah became cognizant of water dripping periodically in the nearby kitchen.

"See you in a minute," she said and hung up.

Drip. Drip.

"Damnit," she said when she saw what was making the noise. On the kitchen island was her plump bag of steaks and teriyaki marinade. The bulging corner of the bag was leaking. It puddled on the island granite before running over the side and dripping onto the wooden floor. She had a mop and bucket on wheels in the den utility closet. She could have it cleaned up before I got there. She was glad she hadn't emptied the water (dirty as it was) the last time she mopped. She didn't feel like dealing with filling it up right now.

Drip. Drip.

I should have thought of that, stress-induced hallucinations, she thought. It has been one hell of a week or two. Nerves on edge. She maneuvered the bucket by the mop handle into the kitchen. I'm lucky that's all it's been, a few pesky hallucinations. I need a vacation, that's what I need. To get out of town for a few days. Maybe Jay could come with me, how fun would that be? Maybe Yosemite, or Disneyworld. Maybe a pre-condition of my interview could be a pair of round-trip tickets to Orlando. Would that seem greedy to ask for?

It was getting darker outside, a lavender sky and a chilly wind that whistled through the eaves. The single lighted lamp in the living room wasn't cutting it for kitchen light anymore. She flipped a pair of kitchen lights, set up beside the puddle and took the mop out of the mostly-full bucket, wrung it dry in the squeeze thing. She evaluated the puddle, which was pretty damned big, considering its source. A couple feet wide and growing slowly before her eyes. She checked the baggie, which was still plump. The liquid lost should make it flat, but it wasn't. She scratched her jaw, frowning at the goo on the counter top, the red syrupy stuff running down the side of the island, the ever-growing puddle on the floor.

A horrible idea occurred to Norrah. Isn't teriyaki brown? It's soy sauce and something sugary, isn't it? She plopped the mop down on the puddle, and swiped a finger across the counter top. It was red. Her heart raced. Was she hallucinating this? I would tell her yes, and she would waffle before agreeing that I was right. The baggie, though, it was plumper than ever. She lifted it off the counter: a few drips dropped in rapid succession before stopping. She rested the mop handle against the island to use both hands to squeeze the baggie, applied ample enough pressure that a hole in it would gush teriyaki out. Nothing came out.

"Weird."

She placed the meat back on the counter, grabbed the mop with both hands. Her breath caught at the puddle on the floor. It was now four feet wide, a good quarter-inch thick, and crimson red. As if she had to contend with the growing puddle before it got out of control, she swirled the mop head around the sauce swiftly, flipped it over and repeated. Her fingertip was wet and red. Curiosity was getting the better of her.

Please taste like teriyaki.

She paused cleaning the floor to lap her fingertip with the very tip of her tongue: a bit salty and minerally, and not sweet or tangy whatsoever. It didn't surprise her, she somehow expected it, but it still scared the living shit out of her.

"It's not blood. I'm hallucinating it, that's all." Can you hallucinate taste? She sure hoped so. The mop head was deep red like Brittney's dress had been, soaked completely, but she kept at it, swirled and twirled, flipped and repeated. The puddle was thinner but still spreading. Frantically she mopped, cutting off the perimeter in every direction. It got to be that the mop wasn't removing liquid but adding to it. It needed to be rinsed and wrung. She lifted the dripping-wet mop off the floor, and when she looked into the bucket, things went from bad to worse. The water wasn't water but blood, and there appeared to be a mop head already inside, its many strings of red yarn floating.

Norrah shrieked, a harrowing blood-curdling scream. She dropped the mop, covered her face with both hands. She peeked through her fingers down at the bucket, screamed somehow louder, as the tangle of mop-yarn that was human hair slowly rolled over. Surfacing was a head, the bloody lifeless eyes of Brittney.

I had just closed my car door when she shrieked. I dashed to the house and flung the door open. Norrah was standing beside the mop bucket, staring down into it, screaming bloody murder.

"Norrah," I said and rushed to her, took her by the shoulders. She didn't resist being taken in my arms. She sobbed, wept. Her eyes wetted my shirt. "Did you see them again?"

I rested my cheek on the crown of her head, breathed her fragrant hair. She shook her head, which shook mine with it. "Do you want to talk about it?"

She hesitated before nodding once. She backed out of my arms, squinted as she looked down inside the bucket, then the kitchen floor, and lastly the island counter.

"What are you looking for?"

"It's gone," she said.

"What's gone?"

"The blood."

"Blood up here? Is that why the mop is out?"

She nodded, wiped her eyes, one final sob.

"That settles it," I said resolutely. "We're going to the doctor's. Tomorrow. I'm taking the day off work to take you."

"I have work, too."

"Call in sick. Take vacation or something. Quit the damned thing."

She pressed the moisture out of her eyes with her palm. "Yes, I'm going to quit my job tomorrow."

"Good. Excellent."

"I'm going to sell my interview for three-hundred thousand. Tomorrow."

"Again, excellent. You deserve it, Norrah."

"I'm giving Aaron ten percent of it for his church."

"If that's what your heart is telling you, do it."

"And I'd like to help Brittney in some way. I haven't decided how yet."

"How does such a big heart fit in so little a package?" I hugged her, firmer this time.

"I just decided I don't want Paul here ever again. I can't express why, I just don't want him here."

"You got it. Shouldn't be an issue, he doesn't seem eager to return."

We stood embraced for a moment before she said, "Tell me I'm not crazy, Jay. Tell me I'm not crazy and mean it."

"I do mean it. You're not crazy. Just stressed. Maybe some Xanax would do you good. Tomorrow we'll bring it up to your doctor. You need sedation, something to calm your nerves."

"You make me feel better, always," she said, voice muffled against my chest. "What would I do without you in my life right now?" She backed away from my chest and met eyes with me. "I love you, Jay."

"Don't say that. Don't say it because you don't mean it. Someday you will, and someday I will, but you're saying that because you're emotional right now. It's not fair to either one of us."

"You're right," she said in her tiniest voice. "I'm sorry." Her face was flushed.

"Don't be."

"I shouldn't have said it." She took the baggie of steaks and got a fork out of the drawer.

"I'm flattered. Let's not make this a total loss. You went from the bottom relationship step all the way to the top rung in one giant bound. Let's take another step, a smaller one, together. Let's define what we have. Sound good?"

She nodded, intrigued.

"Good. Would you be my girlfriend? Enter a committed relationship with me?"

"I'd be happy to."

Being so willing and happy to commit to me, her smile genuine and adoring, it touched me. "I'll bring a toothbrush over next time," I said, "put it next to yours in the bathroom." Her smile widened, parting her lips. "We can exchange house keys and all that. Sound good?"

"Are you just doing this to make me feel better? So I'll feel less embarrassed about what I said?"

"The hell I am. I'm glad you said it, because now we've made some progress in our relationship. Norrah Petersen is Jay Davis's girlfriend. 'Hey buddy, have you seen my girlfriend Norrah around?' 'The one with exquisite tits and perky ass? Yeah, your girlfriend is right over there.' 'Hey who's that guy holding hands with Norrah?' 'That's her boyfriend Jay.'"

"You're weird," she said and giggled.

I kissed her lips, ran a hand down her hip.

"Hey, guys," Aaron said from the open doorway.

"Aaron, my man," I said and turned to face him.

"I see love is in the air."

"It is, it is," I said, and shook his hand.

Norrah didn't speak of the severed head in the bucket that evening. She remained upbeat from the moment we defined our relationship. If she saw bodies blinking in and out of sight when we made our way out back to the barbecue, she said nothing of it. I suspect she didn't see them because she was too pleasant for someone who was witnessing images of gory murders. I had my Norrah back, and when she's herself she's the liveliest creature you'll ever meet. It's infectious, a personality like hers. Lots of laughter and smiles, jokes and witticisms and banter. It's hard not to have a good time when she's on her game. From the moment Aaron arrived, that's the Norrah who was hosting us. I don't recall when it was, but sometime during the visit Aaron said Norrah is a sheer delight. Sounds kind of fuddy-duddy, sheer delight, but he hit the nail on the head there. 'Who's that wonderful girl over there?' 'Who, her? She's my girlfriend.' 'No kidding? Lucky dog, your girlfriend is a sheer delight.'

### Chapter Twelve

The steaks were nothing short of divine. I'm the grill master between us, but Norrah pulled it off splendidly. Our starving pastor was wolfing his down like... what was it I said last time, like it was his salvation? Yeah, like that. It was a cozy atmosphere—candles on the table, lights set low, Rachmaninoff playing the piano softly from strategically-placed speakers, bubbly being sipped liberally by us (Pepsi by him), a fire crackling not too far away. Aaron didn't say much during supper. He was too busy inhaling his food. We spoke of our history, summarized life living on the mountain in a community small enough that everyone knows everyone.

When he was winding down, slowing his pace as he became full, he spoke of his church, of how they had been considering expanding it when they accrued enough tithings to do so; the seating was so limited that there were always a dozen or so people standing in the back. Norrah fixed on me when he said this, waggled her brow. I knew what she was thinking, that maybe her monetary donation could go toward the expansion.

"Tomorrow," Norrah said to Aaron, "any plans?"

He swallowed a mouthful of food before saying no.

"Come by around eight. Not for dinner but for cake or something. I believe I'll have some exciting news for you."

"Oh? Intriguing." He cut through the last of his steak lazily, too full to eat it but too delicious not to.

Norrah took a roll from the basket and stared at it vacantly, her mind elsewhere. She looked over at Aaron. "At the party... were you Frog?"

He lowered the steak-spearing fork from near his mouth. "Why yes I was. How'd you know?"

"I had lunch today with Brittney. She told me everything about the party."

"Brittney? Which one was she?"

"Black Cat."

"Oh," he said disappointedly.

"Would you estimate that I'm a decent judge of character? Do you think I can tell the difference between a good and bad person?"

"I believe so, yes," he said in earnest. He discarded his fork for a moment, as this was an interesting segue to a question or statement.

"Then believe me when I tell you that Brittney is a good girl. Nobody's perfect, as you well know. Not you, not me, not anyone. I'm aware of what she did at the party. Yeah it was in bad taste, but she was out of her element, and had a lot to drink. And if you ask me, Jonathan took advantage of the situation. She has a good heart, is more modest than her actions that night would lead you to believe. If you had never heard of Tiger Woods and went to a golf tournament, watched Tiger play a ten-over-par, you'd form the opinion that he's a lousy golfer, when all it was was a bad day. Bad days happen. I doubt Brittney would do what she did twice in a hundred times."

"Okay," Aaron said indifferently. "And ten-over-par is about Tiger's usual these days. He's not what he was. It's a shame, he was a phenom. Sorry for the tangent, but I love golf."

"When she spoke of what 'Frog' was telling her there on the bed, I suspected that it was you, because of the God references. And if I may be blunt, I was a little pissed off at you when she recited what you said to her."

"What did you say to her?" I asked Aaron.

Norrah answered before Aaron could. "He said Brittney should consider herself blessed that she lived to see that day. Because if she had died, Jonathan would have an eternity to finger her before an audience in hell."

"Ouch," I said and winced.

Aaron lowered his gaze and shook his head, wearing his remorse on his sleeve. "I apologized to her. I cannot believe I said that to her. It was an abominable thing to say. Not twice in a hundred times, as you just said, Norrah. It was a rash remark from an emotional person. She didn't deserve it."

"I'm glad you see that," Norrah said and smiled her sweetest at him. "She forgives you."

"Good. Maybe that kind of stuff is commonplace, I don't know. It just seems a little personal, don't you think? That guy had his hand up her dress like he was mining for gold. At least six or seven people were watching it happen, and it's not like the dress was obscuring the act. Her body was in plain view. Am I that out of touch? Is that what occurs at parties? A couple were having sex in the bathroom, loudly."

"I don't know," Norrah said. "That stuff happens, I guess. Kids will be kids. College is only half about education; it's a social thing, a time for experimentation."

"I don't blame her as much as I blame him. He was capitalizing on the situation. What kind of guy allows his friends and strangers to observe him penetrating his date? It's despicable."

"I agree," I said. "Boobs are one thing—I'm pro-mammary—but hoo-ha's are another thing entirely."

"Like I said, I don't get out much. I'm not one for parties."

"What brought you to this party?" I asked him.

He looked at both of us, a brow raised. "So we've arrived here once again, have we?"

We chuckled, nodded.

"I don't know if what I'll tell you will be believed," Aaron said. "I suppose that's why I haven't said anything."

"A pastor wouldn't lie to us," Norrah said.

"I am not without sin. But you're right, I wouldn't lie to you. I still don't think you'll accept the things I say."

"I could say some things that I'm not so sure you'd accept either," Norrah said.

"Such as?"

She checked with me: I nodded my consent. "I saw everyone... dead."

He sobered, brow arched. "Did you, now..."

"I did. A hallucination, sure, but it was real to me."

"What did you see?"

"Like I said..."

"I mean specifically. Did you see me?"

"You were Frog?"

He nodded.

"Yes, I saw you."

"Dead?"

"Dead."

"Croaked," I said, trying my hand at humor. It was misplaced, nobody laughed.

"How did I die?"

"You were on the bed, on your stomach, back opened up."

He swallowed. "Back opened up?"

"Like torn open. I could see your spine and ribs."

He nodded gravely, took his napkin and dabbed his forehead and mouth.

"Don't take it to heart," I said to Aaron, "it was just a hallucination."

"You really believe that, huh?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course. Don't you?"

"She's more right than you might think. Right to have figured us dead."

Neither Norrah or I had a response to that. We stared at him dubiously.

"You say you saw me with my back ripped open. You know what I think?—I think what you saw was real. In fact, I know it was real. It happened."

"Come on," I said thickly, "you can't mean that." I waited for him to break character and laugh, say, 'I got you.' But there was no humor in him.

"I suppose I should start from the beginning, and let you be the judges."

### Part 3:

### Chapter Thirteen

My name is Aaron Mendelssohn. Not Father Mendelssohn, I'm not Catholic. A common mistake some people make. I can't speak for all pastors and priests, but I surmise that most of them had no idea of their calling in their youths. I wouldn't go as far as saying I was a troubled teen, but I got in my fair share of trouble.

Fresno is a boring town. People find trouble out of boredom, as if it's their only chance at survival, stirring the pot a bit for amusement. The worst thing I ever did was break the window of a BMW parked in a Macy's parking lot to steal a phone and sunglasses. Maybe you could say the worst thing I ever did was sucker Marie Elbrick into having sex with me. She was thirteen and I was fourteen. We were hanging out under the bridge at the dry riverbed at the northeast edge of town, about a mile from Fresno State campus. We were neighbors and she was my first crush. I don't think she liked me more than friends, but I had a kind of gift even at that age: the gift of manipulation. I got into that poor thing's head, made her feel like a dumb kid who wasn't cool enough or adult enough to do the things I was wanting her to do to me. I don't remember precisely how I did it, but shortly after I began my campaign of manipulating her, we were lying naked on the dirt making a fine mess of our morals, if we possessed any to begin with.

When I ran into Marie a few years ago, boy was she shocked to learn that I'm a pastor. I don't blame her. She wound up becoming a member of my congregation. Occasionally when I'm behind the lectern reading my sermon, I'll make eye contact with her and see flash-images of her lying naked under me at the riverbed. It's something you can't take back, becoming an adult at such a young age. It's a concept so fundamental that you can't undo your actions, but it's a fascinating one, and a profound one. In a split second you can decide to commit murder and do it, and for the succeeding billions of split seconds of your life you spend them in consequence, in jail. On a caprice, fourteen-year-old me manipulated Marie into having sex, and the man I grew into has to face that consequence for the rest of my life. Not that it's nearly as bad as murder, but you get my drift. Consequences don't have expiration dates, they are forever. Forgive but not forget, and all that.

Some people are under the impression that when God speaks to people, it's direct. As in we can hear a voice not our own. Maybe that does happen on great occasion, but it has never happened to me, yet I'll tell you openly that God has spoken to me numerous times. His voice is our subconscious. Not every time, but you somehow know when it is. Maybe that's God's doing, too. When you ask God for guidance, oftentimes your ensuing thoughts are a product of Him. So even though God didn't tell you (for example) to accept that job offer in Topeka, He arranged it so you'd feel it was the right decision to make.

The first time God spoke to me was when I was fifteen. I mentioned breaking the window of the BMW to steal a phone? I did something similar to an old station wagon. The difference was that the door was unlocked. I was walking from my house to my best friend Shane's, had only just left, striding along the sidewalk when I saw the wagon, the door-lock lever sticking up. I stepped to the car and saw a bag in there, a purse. I wondered how anyone could be so stupid, to leave a purse in a car, let alone an unlocked one. Thirteen years later, I sometimes wonder if God hadn't arranged for that to happen, as it put me on the path where I am now. I opened the door, took the purse, and took off.

I was a block or two away from the crime scene when I was confident of not being pursued. I had a look-see inside the bag. Mostly junk like Chapstick and bifocals, but there was a wallet. I kept the wallet and discarded the bag under a hedge. There were ninety-one dollars in the wallet. I was ecstatic. That's a ton of money for a fifteen-year-old. I removed the driver's license from a window-slot without much looking at it and stuffed it in my pants pocket. Licenses can be sold. Fake ID's. There were no credit cards in the wallet. I was passing by a street gutter, chucked the wallet inside and continued on.

I heard sirens in the distance. I thought someone called the cops on me. I picked up my pace. When a saw an ambulance turn onto my street, I was relieved. Wasn't the police after all. It sped past me in the direction I was heading. It was a block away now, and slowing down. My stomach writhed at where the ambulance stopped, and though I didn't believe in God back then, I prayed that it wasn't Shane's house it stopped at, but instead his neighbor. I took to a sprint, my heart thudding.

There was no denying it now, it was Shane's. A uniformed man and woman trundled a gurney into the house. I ran even faster. They were inside the house when I arrived. I didn't knock, barged right in. Shane was the first person I saw, and he was weeping. As was his father. Shane's mom, Mrs. Simon, was being put on the gurney. She was suffering a heart attack. I thought heart attacks were for old people like grandparents, not parents. She wasn't even forty yet. She was heavy-set, though. And smoked.

I sat in the back seat of Mr. Simon's Buick alongside Shane as we trailed the ambulance to Lawrence Matthews Hospital. The two weeping Simons in the car affected me; I began crying with them. I was feeling bad for Mrs. Simon, when ten minutes ago I was ripping off another misses (Mrs. Weiss said the woman's driver's license).

We were in the waiting room, Shane seated between his father and me. I felt the wad of money in my pocket and felt like a shit. I withdrew the license from my other pocket and examined the woman whom I stole from. She was forty-seven according to her birthday, and smiled widely at the camera for the picture. She looked not pretty but sweet and affable. She reminded me a little of my own mother. This woman would go to her car maybe today or tomorrow and wonder if this was where she misplaced her purse. She'd waste an hour or so searching for it fruitlessly before beginning the tedious task of replacing everything lost—or in her case stolen. Long line at the DMV, a trip to Blockbuster for a new card, Blue Shield for a replacement medical card, etcetera. The house the station wagon parked in front of wasn't a very nice house; she was far from being well off. The twenty-year-old wagon was testament to that. So would she miss that ninety-one dollars from her wallet? Any conclusion otherwise would be fooling myself. Maybe she had withdrawn cash from the ATM that morning to give to her landlord, as she had written her rent check for eighty-dollars short due to some unfortunate expense incurred that month. Or maybe it was for medicine. Maybe for heart medicine so she could avoid suffering the ailment that sent Mrs. Simon here at Lawrence Matthews. Every idea I came up with that her money could be used for made me sicker and sicker. What would I do with the cash, buy some football cards? Coax an older kid to buy me a couple Penthouses and a case of Bud? I wasn't drinking at fifteen, but I might as well have started, being that I was obviously on the path to becoming a real shit, a real loser.

For the first time in my fifteen years I was wallowing in self-loathing. I hated myself. I wanted nothing more than to turn over a new leaf, and wished there was a way I could turn that leaf right this second.

A doctor entered the reception room with a grin, which the Simon's and myself received as good news. He said she was doing all right and we could visit her if we'd like. Shane and his father followed him into a hall as I stayed behind, elbows on my knees, resting my head that felt heavier than it had ever been in my hands. Rushing into the room through two automatic sliding glass doors was a man pushing a wheel chair with his very pregnant wife. They were frenzied, in a hurry to get the baby out of her. She was groaning and wincing. It wasn't a minute later that they had vanished behind any number of hospital doors, the world's newest inhabitant moments or hours away from joining the fray.

It made me remember Marie Elbrick. I had done to Marie what the man pushing the wheel-chair full of precious cargo had done to his wife. Different outcome, but that was a result of good luck. What if I had impregnated poor Marie? Thirteen and pregnant, yikes. Her folks were Catholic, so I doubt that baby would have been aborted. I'd be a fifteen-year-old father right now. How would I have provided for that child? By breaking into cars and stealing cash? My self-loathing resurfaced at the thought. Was it worth it what I did to Marie? It was fun at the time, sure. A better question would be was it worth it to Marie? She lost her virginity at thirteen, years before she'd have a brain that cogitated like an adult's. Years away from being able to make that weighty decision of first-time-sex with any degree of certainty that she was making the right choice. Maybe if she had never met me, there would have come a point when she decided she'd like to stay a virgin till she got married, or become a nun. Doubtful, but at that moment every idea seemed more than possible, they seemed probable. She might have met a boy and fallen in love with him. And after a few years of nurturing that love they'd finally consummate their relationship by surrendering their bodies to the other, knowing it's the right decision, and remember that magical and unequivocal evening for the rest of their lives. I stole that possibility away from Marie. And from myself, for that matter. But at least I deserved to have it stolen away. Marie didn't. There would be no magical first time for her. Her first time was pretty much the result of a dare from a stupid-assed punk kid. Not exactly a Cinderella story, is it?

A nun then entered the hospital reception room. How about that? I had just entertained the idea of Marie becoming a nun only a moment ago, and here enters the hospital a nun. She was old and short, wore the standard nun garb. She held in both pruned hands a coffee-tin painted white. There was a picture on it of some village in a third world country. A sign over the tin read Philippine's Ministry Donations, God Bless. She slowly trudged along, passing by every person in there, smiling at each of us and angling her tin so we'd all have to get a good look at the villagers who we might decide not to assist in their time of need. An older man in sweats put a twenty in there. Others put bills in there as well, some only coins. But would you believe that every single person in that reception room donated? Not most of them, all of them. Okay, maybe not the few children present, but they didn't have money and their parents donated. When she passed by me, smiled down amiably at me, I had the sudden urge to take my ninety-one stolen dollars and drop them in the tin. I almost did. I flinched, extended my leg to better remove the cash from my jeans, but then decided against it, looked away from the nun in my shame. The reason I fell short of donating the money was actually a pretty good one: I had resolved to return the money to the station wagon on my way home. It was a sudden idea, and when it manifested I felt great about it. I'd only be able to return the license and cash, but those two things might be enough to make a shitty circumstance slightly less shitty for the woman, and that was a start in the right direction.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," I said to her, denying her the decency of eye contact.

"Be not sorry, young man. May God bless you," she said and moved along away from me.

I'd have preferred she call me a little heathen bastard. That she was nice about it made me feel even worse. My self-hatred was at high-tide.

The first time God spoke to me was inside that hospital. It came not as a booming sonorous voice like it does in the movies, but as my own voice. It merely said Give her the money. That's all it said. You might wonder why I think it was God who said it. Bear with me for a moment.

I didn't give it a second thought. I stood up and groped the ninety-one dollars out of my jeans pocket, took a few steps to erase the meager distance the nun had gained over me, and dropped the cash in the tin. She turned her head toward me, looked up with wide-eyed wonderment, then back to the tin where she saw in the wad of bills at least a couple twenties if not more. Her smile was wide.

"Are you sure you want to do this, son? It is a lot of money."

"I'm sure."

"God bless you, my child. You are a wonderful boy!"

"I wish I was."

I returned to my chair and gazed around the room. Several people were staring at me. They bore pleased expressions, admiring ones. The older man in sweats who had dropped a twenty in the tin was smiling at me, gave me a thumbs-up gesture.

To these people I was a good kid. Little did they know. But if they could see me as a good kid, wasn't it possible that I could make others see me in the same way? The only way to achieve that was to become a good kid. A tall order. But not an impossible one. I didn't want to commit to becoming a saint of a kid just yet. I had to think it through first. What would I have to change in my life to accommodate my wishes of turning over a new leaf? I'd have to give it more thought later.

Shane had returned from visiting with his mother, took the seat beside mine. He relayed the good news, that she was going to be all right, but she'd have to stay here for a while. Shane wanted to stick around and said I didn't have to. Maybe sticking around would be that first step (second step if you count the donation to the nun) toward becoming a good kid. It would show that I care about people other than myself. Truth was, I didn't want to stay there. It was Saturday, the best day of the week, and who would want to waste it sitting in a waiting room? I sure didn't.

"Are you sure? I don't mind staying," I said to Shane.

"Go ahead. There's no reason for you to stay. Maybe you should call your parents and have them pick you up. It's kind of far."

"Nah, it's only like a thirty-minute walk."

It winded up being a forty-minute walk. As I neared my house, the station wagon came into view. I felt guilty all over again. I turned around and tried to remember which gutter I tossed the wallet into. It was a block or two past the car, I recalled. I retraced my steps and soon found the gutter. I dropped down to my knees and looked inside. I couldn't see it from my angle. I laid down flat and scooted to the opening, reached my hand down inside and immediately felt the imitation leather wallet. I brought it out and wiped it off on my jeans. It looked good as new. I put the license back in the window. I then returned to the hedge where I discarded the purse and found it, put the wallet back inside.

When I got near the lady's house I kept a good eye on it, hoping nobody would see me. I opened the wagon door and placed the purse exactly where I had stolen it. I closed the car door and turned around, gasped. The woman in the picture of the license was descending the two porch steps and looking at me with a furrowed brow.

"Good afternoon," the lady said.

I scurried off down the sidewalk with my head down.

"You're the Mendelssohn boy, aren't you?" she said to my back. "Yes. June's son."

I stopped.

"What were you doing in my car?" Her demeanor wasn't accusatory, but one of curiosity.

"Uh... nothing." I faced her. I had guilt written all over my face.

It dawned on her that I may have had some dubious reason to be in her car, perhaps theft. She went to her car. I took the opportunity to resume my pace homebound.

"Is your mother home?" she asked. I think her reason for saying it was to make me aware that she'd be having a word with my mother if I didn't cooperate with her. It worked.

"Yes, ma'am."

She waved me over as she opened her car door. My heart hammered, sweat puddled on my brow. I went to her.

"Whoops," she said, "I left my purse in the car?"

"I guess so," I said. I imagined being grounded for a month, maybe two.

She reached in and grabbed it, looked at me with one brow a little higher than the other. "This isn't why you were in my car, was it?"

"Yes, ma'am." I couldn't believe I said it. She couldn't believe I said it. Maybe she suspected it, but I doubt she suspected an honest answer from me.

"Yes? What did you want with my purse?" She opened it and fished around inside.

"I'd rather not say."

She looked at me quizzically, then returned focus to the purse. She took the wallet out, set the purse on top of the car. She held the wallet up between us, met eyes with me.

"Do you know what's in here?" she asked. I didn't know it was a rhetorical question: I was about to say ninety-one dollars, but she spoke before I could. "It's my daughter's unborn child's baby-shower gift."

I stared at the wallet.

"My daughter Emma is having a baby shower tomorrow. My son has the registered list of items Emma chose from Babies R Us. I picked out a stroller that is fifty-percent off. I went to the bank this morning to get the eighty dollars to pay him for it. He'll be here this afternoon."

I nodded, swallowed, a hard lump in my throat.

"Aaron...?"

"Ma'am?"

"Is my unborn grandchild going to have a stroller that his grandmother bought for him?"

Our eyes were locked. I made no movement, no sound. My heart beat so hard that I could hear it.

"Would you steal from an unborn baby?"

"No, ma'am."

She lowered the wallet from between our gazes and said, "Let's have a gander, shall we?"

All at once I spewed, "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I swear I'm trying to be a better kid. Honestly. I gave a nun—"

She held up a hand gesturing me to stop talking. She unsnapped the fold and opened the wallet. She pried it open and I began weeping, bawling at what I saw. I dropped to my knees and covered my face.

She thumbed through the twenties, looked curiously at me, then closed her wallet, placed it in her purse on the car.

"Aaron Mendelssohn..." she said with some importance. "It appears I owe you an apology. I didn't openly accuse you of stealing, but I guess I insinuated it, didn't I?"

"No, ma'am." I sobbed.

"And I upset you, too," she said regretfully. "Would you forgive an old lady? I'm truly sorry."

"Don't be." I wiped my eyes.

"His name is going to be Adam," she said. "The baby."

I composed myself a little. "Adam?"

"Yes. He'll be my first grandchild."

"Congratulations."

"I hope you won't think less of me. I'll understand if you tell your folks that the lady a few houses down is a cynical and suspicious old bat. But I'd greatly appreciate it if you didn't. I don't want to create waves in the neighborhood."

"I won't say anything." I got back to my feet, wiped my eyes.

I cried all over again on the short walk home. My mom asked why I was crying. Already I didn't want to lie. Already I was changing and for the better. What I said wasn't exactly the truth, either. "Shane's mom had a heart attack."

She put a hand over her heart. "Oh my lord..."

"Don't worry, she's going to be all right."

"She's so young!"

I nodded, said I was going to my room. She was rushing to the home phone as I entered my room. I had a book shelf. On it were any number of dumb books. I reached up and removed a big heavy dictionary, blew the dust off the cover. I opened it and searched Miracle:

1. An effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause.

2. Such an effect or event manifesting or considered as a work of God.

3. A wonder; marvel.

I closed the dictionary and replaced it on the shelf.

That evening at the supper table I asked my folks if they had a bible, and if so could I borrow it. Both were equally piqued; my sister teased me over it. They did have one and my dad asked why I wanted it.

"Just to read. I thought it might be interesting."

Being that most boys my age preferred skin-mags to books, let alone books that shaped character and taught virtue and morality as the bible does, they were quite pleased with me that evening, proud of me. Even though I wouldn't consider my folks to be religious people, they had a relationship with God to some small degree, and like many others they were constantly setting goals of attending church more regularly (but never doing it). Their bible would have more dust on it than my dictionary, and they regretted that, as well. My dad said he hoped I'd develop a more personal relationship with God than he and my mother had. To them my newfound interest in the bible and God was the closest thing to a guarantee that I'd grow up all right, as good Christian boys tend to do. He gave me the black leather bible with some ceremony, having dusted it off and inscribed the first leaf of the book: For my dear son Aaron. May the Word of God live in you for an eternity. Your father, Don. If I had any questions about what I read—it was a King James version, a little difficult to read—my father would happily explain it to me. That wouldn't be an issue, as I'd put to use the dictionary frequently.

That night I began at Genesis and two months later I read the last line of Revelation.

### Chapter Fourteen

I had begun attending Calvary Chapel sometime between reading books Matthew and Mark. My parents are Christians but they don't go to church, as I've already stated. I went to church by myself every Sunday morning.

I hadn't been sixteen for long when I met Abbey. She also went to church by herself. That shared commonality brought us together. She was three months older than me. I didn't think she was very pretty when I first met her, but she was kind of cute in a strange kind of way. After I got to know her she was the prettiest girl I knew. Such is the pleasantness of her personality. We always sat beside each other in the front row, off to the side. For some reason we never sought to extend our relationship outside of church. We enjoyed the other's company, had lots in common, but somehow it just wouldn't turn into something more. But that was okay, Abbey made me look forward to Sundays more than I would have otherwise. I hope I did the same for her. Boy she had a pretty singing voice, too. Church always began with a few hymns. I purposely didn't sing (I moved my lips, though) just so I could better hear her. I take back what I said about our relationship not extending outside of church. We swapped phone numbers. We'd text each other at first (texting was a brand new thing back then), but before long we'd call one another. But we never met in person outside of church.

Sometimes I'd read a verse in the bible that resonated in me. I'd text it to Abbey. She did the same to me. Once she called me, crying, said her grandpa had finally died from esophagus cancer. I cried with her. I felt like I knew her grandpa, she talked about him so much. I don't have the same cellphone now as I did back then, but if I had that old phone I'd be able to recite my favorite text from her, as I had saved it. Here's a close enough version of it: I just wanted to tell you that I love you, Aaron. I love you as if you were my own flesh and blood. I thank God every day that we met. You don't have to tell me you love me too, I feel your love. Thank you for making my every Sunday so wonderful.

Yeah, it was a keeper of a text. She's so sweet. She's also responsible for nearly giving me a heart attack. A lot of people will say that, upon being startled, something like "Oh my, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" But I think I was on the cusp of literally having one. And at seventeen years old! If I had the heart of a thirty or forty year old man, I probably would have died right there in church. It happened on the third day of November, 2004, the most profound day of my young life.

I always go to the early mass, which starts at eight A.M. That way I have most of my Sunday intact after church ends. Abbey attended the early mass for the same reason. I was having trouble sleeping the night before, tossing and turning. Not bad dreams, but good dreams, though I couldn't remember them upon waking. Dreams that when you wake up you're disappointed and try to fall back asleep to resume them, but never do. As a result of the dreams I was up at five A.M. I made some oatmeal and read my bible at the kitchen table. It was still dark out. Routinely I leave home at 7:40 and walk the ten minutes to church—even after I got my driver's license I continued to walk to church. At six A.M. I texted Abbey: You should come to church a little early today. I'm up and bored. We can chat a little. What do you say? I'll be there at 7:30.

She didn't text me back right away as she typically does. I showered and dressed in my Sunday best, got a move on. My watch said it was seven. Oh well, I could read my bible a little there. There were less people out this morning than usual, for some reason. I guess it was because I was almost an hour earlier than normal.

There were no cars in the church parking lot. None whatsoever. I was early, yeah, but I figured at least pastor Gates would be there a little early, warming up or something. I arrived at the large wooden double-doors with tall ornate iron handles, expecting them to be locked. To my surprise and delight they weren't. I guess nobody would steal from a church. It was pretty sacred, even to bad people. Plus it wasn't like there was a cash register there. I went inside, through the vestibule, and into the main room. There was another room off to the right, where Sunday school happened.

"Anyone here?" I said. My voice echoed a little, as the floor is wooden, pews are wooden, and there isn't much to absorb sound there.

I walked down the center aisle, past the many rows of dark-stained pews. The stage or platform or scaffold or whatever you want to call it was about two feet elevated, a couple steps at either far end of it. I went up the left-side stairs to the baby grand piano in the corner. There was a microphone stand and mic angled inside the compartment of it, to receive the pretty piano music that Henry played for us at the beginning and end of every service.

I didn't mention that I had been taking piano lessons for a couple years, but I had been. We have an old piano at home, out of tune and in need of refurbishment. My sister plays really well. Me, not so well. But I try. Since I first stepped foot in this church I had admired this baby grand. Jet black and glossy, gold hardware. The feet of it were like lion's paws. It was a Baldwin, very expensive. I suppose it was pretty safe here from thieves, being that it weighed as much as a small car. I scanned the empty church before having a seat on the piano bench.

"Baldwin," I said and whistled impressively.

I struck a C, listened to the note rip into the silence and linger for seconds before gracefully coming to an end. I hit a few more keys and a few more. I had been playing a Beethoven song over the last few weeks, Moonlight Sonata. A common piece for intermediates to play. It isn't very difficult but it's pretty. It sounded good even on my parents old out-of-tune piece of junk, so you can imagine how beautiful it was on this Baldwin. And the room was large with lots of wood, which really did wonders for the reverberation. I imagined a pipe-organ would sound heavenly in here.

I played Moonlight Sonata from memory. Because it was from memory I had to play a little slower than its intended tempo, but it sounded pretty good I thought, and I imagined Mrs. Cortez my piano teacher would have been impressed. I closed my eyes as I played it, imagined myself on a stage before a crowded concert hall. Mrs. Cortez once told me that Franz Liszt who played back in the mid 1800's was like a rock star of his era. Concert halls would sell out for him, and there would be hundreds or even a thousand screaming fans jockeying to get closer to him. She even said that frenzied women would tear at his clothes because he was so good looking and talented that they simply had to have a piece of him. I was no Franz Liszt, in the looks department or talent, but just then I pretended I was him. With my eyes closed I saw an enormous venue with thousands upon thousands of fans attentively receiving my pianoforte sonata. When the last note of the piece finished echoing off the walls, the theater exploded into applause.

That's when someone clapped in Calvary Chapel.

I stood from the bench in alarm, looked at the girl who walked down the aisle toward the front of the church. "I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't be," replied the girl.

She was nine or ten (I judged) with long brown unbrushed hair, bright green eyes, skin the color of cream, and a pretty white dress. She rounded the front pews, headed toward me. I stood there in wait. She was close enough that I knew I had never before seen her.

"Sit back down," she said with a charming grin and gesture. "You play beautifully."

"Thanks. My sister is better though. I don't have a knack for it."

"Sounds like you do."

"Nah. I have to practice twice as long as she does to play the same things."

I sat back down on the bench, scooted it closer to the keyboard.

"Are you taking requests?" she asked and smiled.

"Sure," I said gamely and cracked my knuckles. I wondered if at her young age she could even name a single piano song.

"How about something from Franz Liszt?" she said.

"Franz Liszt?" I repeated, more than a little surprised by it. Just one minute ago I was Franz Liszt, if only in my mind.

"He was a good Christian, you know."

"Was he?"

"Oh yeah. You bet."

"Cool. I don't know any of his songs. His songs are too complex for my skill-set. I'm surprised you've even heard of him."

"I love classical music. It's a hobby of mine. I know more than I care to admit about it." She took the two steps leading up to the landing and said, "May I?"

I was in the process of removing myself from the bench-seat when she touched my shoulder and said I should stay, so I did. She sat beside me, extended her hand and introduced herself as Magdalena, though most people call her Maggie.

"Maggie, I'm Aaron."

"Pleasure to meet you," she said and put her hands in position on the keyboard. Already I could see she was vastly familiar with the instrument, simply by her posture and sudden immutable focus on the task she was taking up. I admired her before she struck the first note. I wondered how long her parents had been making her take lessons. Probably since before she could read.

Maggie began playing a piece I was ignorant of, a melancholy thing quite lovely. It wasn't complex or technical, at first. But before long it got very advanced, and she didn't make a single mistake or seem to exert herself in the endeavor. My mouth was open as I watched, in awe of her incredible gift. This kid was some kind of anomaly, a kid-genius.

When at last she finished I clapped feverishly.

"Like that one?" she asked.

"Very much. Who wrote it?"

"Fredryk Chopin. Nocturne number twenty."

"You are gifted, Maggie. I can't believe a kid your age can play like that. You are truly gifted. If I could think of a word better than gifted, I'd use it."

"Kind of you to say."

"Where are your parents? Outside?"

She shrugged indifferently.

"What time do the pastors show up?" I asked. "It's just the two of us."

"Not sure. I'm kind of glad, though. I wanted to talk to you."

"Me?"

"Uh huh." She played a few notes softly.

"Have we met?"

"Not till today."

"But you wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes, sir."

I must have looked all kinds of confused. She giggled at me, put an arm around me and patted my shoulder with her other hand. "Ever wonder if God has a purpose for each and every one of us?"

"Yeah."

"Well I think He does. I believe He has a great one in you."

"Thanks," I said, and felt a little dumb saying it.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" She began playing a peppy little tune, but did so soft enough that we could talk over.

"I have no idea."

"You know what I'd like to be if I could?"

My phone chimed in my pocket, an incoming text. I said excuse me and checked it. Abbey said good morning, just woke up. I texted back that she was going to be late for church.

"Sorry about that," I said. "What would you like to be?"

Abbey responded almost immediately: Church doesn't start for an hour and forty minutes. We turned the clocks back last night.

"Oh crap!" I said. "I forgot about that. I'm almost two hours early, not just one."

"Yeah," Maggie said. "Spring forward, fall back."

"Yep." I texted Abbey: I forgot! Dang. "I'm sorry, Maggie. I got side-tracked. What did you want to be?"

"A chef."

"A chef? Really? Why can't you be one when you grow up, then?"

She stopped playing, put an elbow on the keyboard (a cacophony of notes came and went) and faced me. "I have a horrible sense of taste. But food is so beautiful, so artistic. Some of the dishes master chefs make, they're like works of art to look at."

"I guess so. Hey, can you play Bach's Toccata en Fugue? I know it's pipe organ, but I bet it would sound cool in here, even on piano."

"Sure. You'll need to scoot down a little more, though; I'll have to reach some keys down there."

I scooted down, prepared myself to be awed. No way could she know such a complicated song. She began playing it. It sounded weird at first, it being piano instead of organ, but it didn't take long for that sensation to pass and it was totally awesome. With my cell still in lap I dialed Abbey's number. Instead of speaking to her, I set the phone upright on the piano and let her hear for herself. Maggie's fingers were moving so fast that they were a blur at times. And her expression, it didn't look like she was executing something challenging at all. Just another day at the office, her face said. I had heard that Beethoven, Liszt, and Mozart were playing songs such as these before ten years of age, but it's one thing to hear about it and a whole nother thing to witness it. It's a surreal experience.

"Wow," I said as she transitioned into my favorite part of the piece. "Incredible."

She played the entire piece, eleven minutes of bliss. When the song came to an end I stood and clapped. She stood as well, faced the empty pews and bowed dramatically. I laughed. A little actor she was, flamboyant as all get out.

"That was unbelievable, Maggie. You shouldn't want to be a chef, you should want to be a pianist. Heck, you already are. You could make millions."

"You're kind to say."

"I haven't seen you here before. Do you normally do the early mass?"

"No. I was just passing by when I heard piano playing, thought I'd pop in."

"I'm glad you did. You made my day. Aren't your parents with you?"

"I'd better be going," Maggie said suddenly.

"Really? Why? Stay for church, would you? You can sit with Abbey and I." Abbey. I just remembered I was on the phone with her. She had probably hung up by now anyway.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I have things to do."

"I thought you wanted to talk to me?"

"I did."

"But you didn't really say much." I was confused but my excitement trumped it.

"I know, sorry. I thought we'd have more time. Until we meet again." She took the two steps of the stage and headed up the aisle before stopping abruptly, hastily changed directions toward the side-exit.

"What do you mean more time? Church doesn't start for a long time."

She seemed to be in a hurry, was nearly running.

To my delight Abbey entered through the vestibule into the church. She wasn't wearing her usual Sunday clothes, but jeans and a sweat shirt.

"Abbey! I'm glad you came!"

"Are you all right?" she asked, her tone registering worried.

"Yeah, why? Hey Maggie, wait! I want you to meet Abbey!"

She opened the side door, waved at me and left. Abbey was almost to me. The closer she got, the more I didn't like the way she looked. Something was troubling her. She didn't speak again till she was up on the stage and standing before me.

"Should I be worried?" she asked me. "I am worried."

"Why?"

"Who's Maggie?"

"My new friend," I said, looking to the side-exit where she had left.

She looked to that same door. "Do you see someone over there?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Who were you talking to?"

"Maggie!"

"Who's Maggie?"

"My friend. We just went over this!" I chuckled. It was so frustrating that it was kind of funny. "Sorry about the call, Abbey, I forgot you were on the line. I wanted you to hear Maggie play Toccata En Fugue. She plays better than anyone I've ever heard, and that includes Mrs. Cortez."

Abbey looked ill. "I heard you clapping, that's all. Aaron, I think you're sick. Maybe you should sit down."

"Sick? You mean to tell me you didn't hear her play Bach?"

She didn't answer, just peered at me with those troubled eyes.

"But... but she played it. You didn't hear it?" I looked to the side-exit. "You saw her, though." I was really starting to hate her look. "Didn't you?" I said in no more than a squeak.

She shook her head no.

I put my hand over my heart, my aching heart. I was dizzy. I moved to the bench seat and sat down facing away from the piano.

"I should take you to the hospital," she said. "I drove here."

"No... I don't think that's necessary." I couldn't be sure, though. My heart was hurting it beat so furiously. I reflected back to everything that was said between Maggie and I, starting with her asking me if I knew any Franz Liszt, and how I was pretending to be just him only seconds prior, and how that was an awfully big coincidence. I wondered if Maggie was a ghost. I hoped so. I hoped she was a ghost and not a delusion from my ill mind.

Abbey sat beside me on the bench, touched my hand.

"Maybe it was a ghost," I said.

"No," she asserted.

"How do you know?"

"First of all, I would have seen it. But more than that, there are no such things as ghosts. Except for the Holy Ghost."

"How do you know there aren't ghosts?"

"It doesn't say there are ghosts in the bible."

"It doesn't say a lot of things in the bible that are so. Doesn't mention snow but I'm pretty sure snow exists."

"Are you feeling better? Does your heart bother you?"

"I'm better, yes. Thanks. Thanks for coming over, by the way. You're a good friend."

"I was confused. You called but didn't say anything. Then I heard you say Wow and That's amazing, and clapped and whistled. I knew you were at church, so there were dots I couldn't connect."

"This is nuts. I'm telling you, Abbey, I saw her. She's real. We had a conversation."

"What did she say?"

"I don't know, a lot of stuff." I reflected again. "Interesting though, she was heading toward the main entrance, turned and went out the side when you got here. I don't think she wanted to confront you. Or," I speculated, "didn't want me to observe you not seeing her."

"She isn't real."

"And she said she wished we had more time. I think you coming here is why she ran out of time with me."

"Don't talk about her as if she's real."

"She said 'until we meet again'."

Abbey asked if I was on any medication or if I ate anything different or have any allergies. I decided to stop talking about Maggie to her. I knew she was real, that's all that mattered. And I liked her, she was a cool kid. I hoped she meant it when she said till we meet again.

### Chapter Fifteen

I was twenty-one years old, a senior at Fresno State. I was also a Sunday school teacher. I had been contemplating quitting that gig to become a pastor. They were building a new Calvary Chapel on the other side of town, and there wasn't a pastor for it yet. I had been salivating at the thought of taking that position, and eventually would.

I had finally gotten up enough courage to ask out on a date Rebecca, a girl who sits in front of me in one of my Gen-Ed classes, Art History. We had gotten together to study one evening, and it was at the end of that study session that I invited her to the Fresno State Fair that Friday night. She said yes! She was a tad on the chubby side, but her face was pure joy. I had to wait three long days for Friday night to arrive, and when it did I was nervous and excited. I picked her up at the address she provided me (her folks house) and drove us to the fair. It was early evening when we got there, midnight when we'd leave. I spent probably a hundred and fifty dollars that evening, not on just rides and food, but playing games to win her a stuffed Yosemite Sam that she had to have. What made the evening special wasn't anything I've mentioned thus far, and it certainly had nothing to do with Rebecca—who went on two more dates with me before we mutually agreed that we were just too different to work out. What made it special was the Fun House.

The fair was closing shortly, at midnight, so the Fun House was to be our final 'ride' if you can term it that. Most people were jamming the lines of the real rides such as the Ferris Wheel and one of the few cheesy roller coasters, so we didn't have to wait at all to get inside.

If it was empty in there I planned on giving Becca my first kiss. I actually planned on giving her the kiss on the Ferris Wheel but she was afraid of heights so that didn't work out. The only people in there other than my date and I were a couple kids. Adorable kids, I should add. A little towheaded girl no older than eight, and her little brother whose hair was so light that it was almost transparent. She lead him by the hand, very cute.

The place wasn't rinky-dink at all. I was impressed. It was dark inside, save for the lights framing each mirror. Seemingly hundreds of mirrors in that first room, all at strange angles. Becca left my side so we could have a little fun trying to find the other. I heard a Ptaaang! and cracked up: she ran into a mirror. At least she didn't break it: she wasn't exactly petite. Soon she was in some distant corner of the large room giggling.

"Can you hear me?" she said from somewhere.

"No, I can't," I kidded.

The little towhead girl laughed from somewhere.

"Jessica, come back!" the boy cried.

"Come find me!" the girl baited.

"I'm scared!"

"Fine, twerp. Stay put, I'll get you."

I walked around, seeing angles of myself never before seen. I stopped at a spot where I could see at least two dozen images of myself. There was carnival music playing, the same song looped on a track. It's kind of a creepy song, for some reason. You know the one I'm talking about, it's in movies and TV shows.

"Jessica!" the boy shouted.

"Jessica, stop scaring your little brother," Becca chided from somewhere. I laughed.

I walked some more, expecting to come face to face with either my date or either one of those precious specimens, but the room proved to be larger than I could have guessed.

I turned around and found myself facing a girl. She scared the crap out of me. My heart felt like it had been shocked by one of those hospital jumper-cables things. It hurt so bad that I touched over it with my hand. It hadn't hurt that bad since... since...

"Maggie," I said.

She smiled at me. She hadn't aged a day. Same dress and long unbrushed hair, it was as if I had only left Calvary Chapel that long-ago morning just five minutes ago.

"We meet again," she said, referencing what I had long ruminated over: Until we meet again, as if she somehow knew that I cycled that over and over again.

I looked to the mirrors, at my many reflections, and not one of them showed my old friend, who was my young friend. She only existed in the flesh before me.

"Are you really real?"

"Follow me," she said and began walking through the maze of mirrors with me at her heels.

"Did you say something?" Becca said loudly from the other side of the room.

"Danny, where'd you go?" Jessica whined.

We coursed through the mirrors effortlessly. Maggie wasn't fooled at all by them. I saw a few reflections of the towhead girl. We passed through a door into another room. This was the room of the funny mirrors. Tall and short and skinny and fat.

Maggie turned to face me. "Good to see you again," she said and hugged me, low on my chest.

"What are you, a ghost?"

"Ghosts aren't real."

She faced the mirror closest us. I did the same, my elbow touching her shoulder. Unlike before, her image was reflecting, and I wondered if it was reflecting because she willed it to. Through the mirror she was at least ten feet tall, and I was even greater than that. Funny mirrors.

"Then what?" I asked. "A hallucination?"

"Are those the only two possibilities?"

She side-stepped to the next mirror; I followed her. Now we were morbidly obese. I held up a fat hand and marveled at it. I probably would have humored under another circumstance.

"Yeah, I guess," I said.

"A ghost or a hallucination..." she said patiently, "that's all you can come up with?"

She stepped to the next mirror in succession. I closed the gap. My face was distorted massively, legs short, torso long. It was gross. I looked like a freak. But Maggie, she looked the same this time. This mirror didn't distort her image.

We stepped to the very last mirror before the exit. This time it was Maggie who was severely distorted, face looking like it was imploding, chest all bulging, legs long and skinny. But I was normal.

"How can that be?" I asked.

"Perception," she replied. "What do you see when you look at me not in the mirror?"

I looked at her little figure beside me. "I don't know, an ordinary kid."

"And through the mirror?"

"A creepy-looking kid. You look like a monster."

The corners of her mouth upturned. "Yes, like a monster. Work it out, Aaron, I'm not a ghost or a hallucination; so what am I?"

"God?" Then it hit me: "An angel."

"An angel," Maggie repeated contentedly.

"No... you aren't an angel, are you?"

"Look at us in the mirror," she said. "You are Aaron, a simple ordinary-looking man not unlike any other man on earth. Look at me. I may be an ordinary-looking girl on this side of the mirror, but not on that side."

"Distortions," I said.

"That's exactly right," she said as if I had stumbled upon some arcane knowledge that she hadn't expected me to grasp. "You are beauty, I am beast. You are of the flesh, I am not." She looked over at me; we met eyes. "There's a reason why I'm telling you this. I don't intend for this to be a riddle, but more of a lesson. Maybe it's a kind of metaphor, but not entirely. These mirrors create distortions of ourselves. There are real distortions of ourselves out there, Aaron. You, and me. Beauty, and beast. Distortions not only in appearance, but in philosophy and virtue. Your negative reflection exists, in a boy. Beauty. My reflection exists in a beast you should hope never to meet. Distortions, perversions."

"I don't know what you're getting at."

"I need you to pray for guidance."

"I do."

"But you have not listened to Him. In your heart you want to continue teaching those children, but your mind has been at odds with this idea."

"You know about that, huh?" I said, dumbfounded that she should know the innermost workings of my private thoughts. I shouldn't have been, because she proved herself to be supernatural, but I was awed just the same.

"You have done a great job guiding the children at Sunday school," Maggie said. "They look up to you."

"Thank you."

"It would be a shame to give that up. Both for you and for them."

"I'm not going to give that up," I said, perhaps not selling it very well.

"God knows your heart, Aaron. He hears your heart, not your mouth. Ultimately it is your decision to make. All I ask is that you listen to your heart over your mind, and continue to receive God's counsel. Don't push him away."

"Why do you care so much? Why does God care so much?"

She didn't reply at first. Her eyes so green and pretty peered at my own. "Listen to God and perhaps you'll someday know."

"What kind of angel name is Maggie? Doesn't seem like a name for an angel. No offense."

"Magdalena," she said.

Oh that's right.

"There you are," Rebecca said from the door between rooms. "Ooo, funny mirrors."

I looked at Becca, then Maggie, then Becca. I didn't need to ask her if she could see my friend because I knew she couldn't, just as the mirrors couldn't see her unless she willed them to see her.

My ageless friend disappeared before my eyes.

### Chapter Sixteen

It was two days later, Sunday morning, and I had just arrived at Calvary Chapel. I was in the Sunday school room poring over my lecture that I had prepared earlier that week. Maggie was right, even though I had refused to believe that I was toying around with the notion of quitting my duty as Sunday school teacher. I loved the children but had considered my calling to be something higher than teaching kids the word of God. The pastor of the church was Keith Denny, whom I idolized. He walked the line that he preached. He had a way with words, too. Really connected with the parish. And thus attendance rose following his replacement of pastor Gates a year ago. Naturally I was thrilled when he said I possessed a rare gift, and that is making learning scripture fun for kids. He didn't pay out compliments often, so the ones he did issue were received like an unexpected check in the mail.

Keith Denny thought I'd make a great pastor. He said just that, last year, shortly after replacing pastor Gates, and since then I had desired to be what he was, a pastor for Calvary Chapel. It was my conceit that made me think that I was too good to limit my talent to teaching kids, that I was put on this earth for something more. Something on a wider scale than a dozen or so kids. I would be teaching kids as my day job someday anyway, so I didn't need to do it again on Sundays with a fresh set of kids. I saw my job as something I needed to do (but enjoyed doing nonetheless), as it was a stepping stone to something bigger. It gave me much needed experience. But the time had come to move on. I had long been thinking that, even as my heart had protested it. I had deeply connected with most of these kids, and a more rewarding feeling there is none. God wanted me to teach these kids, but I was considering putting my ambitions above His will. Maggie was right about that. It took her telling me to open my eyes. Or at least to admit to myself that I was headstrong on following my own will above His. What I wanted to do was change God's will, not my own. I prayed that He'd see it my way, that I had more to offer in leading a flock of adults a dozen times greater in number than was my current flock of twelve or so kids.

As I stated, I loved these children. And I mean it literally. I hoped that when I eventually got to be a pastor that these children would inevitably be a part of my flock. They wouldn't be kids forever, after all.

Most of them had already been influenced by their parents, so they accepted God easily and never argued my teachings. Some of them were just bored to be there, and I could understand that. I'd have been one such kid ten years ago. Only one of the children gave me a hard time. He wasn't bored to be there. He seemed to be put there purely to be a thorn in my side, to challenge me. Maybe God guided him there to test my strength.

I called him Trouble. I thought his parents should have named him that. I called him it affectionately though, or at least I acted like it. "There's Trouble," I'd say with a grin when he entered the room. I had given Trouble every chance to fit in with the rest of us, but as they say you can't win every battle, and with Trouble you can't win any battle. I secretly hoped his parents would change churches. Trouble had been a part of my Sunday school class for only a few weeks now, so he was a new student, and a somewhat new teenager at fourteen. Fourteen is a rotten year for kids who were raised by lazy non-caring parents (I'm not saying those are among his parents' traits, but had I met them I wouldn't be surprised if they were). Fourteen is typically the first rebellious year of a kid's life. Trouble was a scrubby scrawny little kid who wore the same blue jeans every Sunday, identifiable by a few rips and frays in the pant legs. It was as though the crappy jeans were a part of his Sunday school uniform. His shirts varied, but they were too casual as well. I had no idea who his parents were, didn't care to know, but it was evident they took no pride in their son's appearance, and on the most sacred day of the week at that.

Brooke was my favorite child. I never called her Brooke, I called her Tinkerbelle. She reminded me of Tinkerbelle from Peter Pan. A spritely little blonde kid with ruddy cheeks, capering about in a skip and song, with an underdeveloped body for her eight years of age, as if her mother had been a smoker when she was pregnant (though she was absolutely not!). She was no taller than your average five-year-old. She was thin, pale, had a thatch of dense unmanageable buttermilk-blonde hair, and possessed enormous blue eyes. They were hard not to stare at. So beautiful they were, a deep cobalt blue.

What I loved most about Tinkerbelle was her enthusiasm, which was infectious to the other kids, as was her smile with pearly white teeth, a couple of them crooked. Her parents I did know, Sven and Juliann. They were both blonde and blue-eyed as well, Scandinavian immigrants—Sweden, I believe. Their Tinkerbelle was their reason for living, and who could blame them? She was the kind of kid who makes you want to have some of your own, and pray that they turn out just like her. And that had nothing to do with how cute she was (okay, maybe a little). It was her politeness, disposition, and positive attitude. But on the other side of the coin was the likelihood that she might make you a young grandparent, and give you ulcers once she reaches the age to date boys. Not to mention the kids on backs of milk cartons are rarely homely; they tend to look like... like Tinkerbelle. Ever come across a kid so precious that you wish science had reached a point that we could cryogenically freeze the growth gene to keep them locked in youth? If not, you haven't met Tinkerbelle.

My students adored her, with the exception of Trouble—hardly surprising.

Today Trouble decided to give her a wedgie, pulled the back of her underwear high up. Poor Tinkerbelle bemoaned the discomfort, but was too agreeable and kind to get angry at him. She asked him to pick on a girl his own size, and did so with a pleasant-enough expression. It angered me. I made Trouble stand in the corner (yes I'm aware fourteen is an inappropriate age to send to the corner), and was a little surprised that he obeyed me. Had it been any other kid forced to stand in the corner, the other kids might have teased him a little, lightheartedly. But Trouble's peers didn't want to get on his bad side, even though they had found his bad side the moment their paths had crossed.

There were sixteen chairs in the room, four rows wide and deep. I had less pupils than that, but only by a couple. They were listening to me talk about Jonah being swallowed by a whale. It's a fascinating story for youths. They can hardly believe such a thing happened.

"Was it a Sperm whale?" Trouble asked from the corner, delighted by his cleverness. He had faced away from the corner and took to a seat without me noticing, sitting Indian style. He smirked at me. The children craned their heads around to see him.

"Enough, Trouble," I said.

"Sperm," he said thickly and laughed.

"What's a sperm?" Tinkerbelle directed at me, extending the er of sperm for several seconds. Anything out of that kid's mouth was cute, I tell you.

"It's a kind of whale," I replied, then glared at Trouble. "You're supposed to be facing the corner till I say you can return to your seat."

"You're not my dad," he said. "Go on and tell panty-girl what sperm is, Aaron."

"I already did," I said and really glowered at the boy. "Enough disrupting my lecture. If you insist on being a nuisance, you can leave us."

"Good," he said crossly. "I'm bored."

"Why are you such a jerk," the boy seated beside Tinkerbelle said to Trouble. The boy was Freddy, a soft-spoken introverted eleven-year-old. I couldn't believe of all the kids it was Freddy who finally spoke out against Trouble. And it changed the air of the room at once, created a palpable tension that hinted at ugly confrontation.

"I didn't know you were in love with Brooke," Trouble said, provoking Freddy. "Brooke, are you in love with Freddy, too? Huh, Tinkerbelle?"

"Don't be mean," Tinkerbelle returned.

"I mean it, Trouble," I said in an authoritative tone. "I won't stand for this behavior."

Trouble looked up to his left at the empty doorway, a kind of surprised look that I wasn't expecting. It was an image I'd revisit frequently in the coming days. There was a gravity to it that escaped me at that moment, but wouldn't for long.

Trouble then fixed on Freddy, who was now facing me and undoubtedly regretting that he opened his fool mouth. His gaze was low, cheeks red. His assailant regained that loathsome smirk. "Hey Freddy," Trouble taunted, "kill any hamsters recently?"

Freddy's eyes blinked wide. He turned to look at the punk kid seated in the corner. "You shut your dang mouth!"

The kid looked up to that same empty place in front of the doorway. His smirking mouth stretched a smile. He returned his attention to Freddy to say, "You're going to hell for killing that hamster. Satan is going to ram his pitchfork up your butt."

I gasped. I knew I had to take control of the situation and fast. Before I could take action, Freddy bolted from his chair, tipping it back into the boy behind him. "I hate you, Paul! I hate you! You're such a bully!" He then b-lined toward Trouble, ranting, "That's what you are, a bully! A bully! I bet your parents wish they had a different kid than you!" He stopped short of Trouble, fists clenched, eyes sharp.

"Like your precious Brooke? Are you two boyfriend and girlfriend or something? She doesn't even have tits yet, what's your problem?" Troubled laughed.

I resolved to march over to the troublemaker and take him by the arm and out of the room, out of the church, but didn't get to him fast enough. I had wasted too much time being locked up with incredulity.

Freddy's buttons had been sufficiently pushed. Reserved or not, introversion be damned, he pounced on Trouble. Shockingly, Trouble didn't attempt to thwart the attack. He was too busy laughing. Freddy put his hands around the delinquent's neck and throttled him. I was now rushing to the boys.

"You want..." Trouble said, panting from hysteria, "you want Brooke to touch your little weenie, don't you?"

"Shut your damned mouth!" Freddy cried.

"Enough! Both of you, enough!" I shouted and separated the two, pulled Freddy off the lousy kid.

"God hates kids who kill their hamsters," Trouble said with great satisfaction.

"I didn't kill Jackson," Freddy argued, "he just stopped being alive! Stop saying I killed him!"

"Says you," Trouble retorted.

"Take your seat," I said to Freddy, touching his back. "I'll handle this."

"You're just jealous of Freddy," Trouble said to me and giggled. "Jealous that Brooke is in love with Freddy and not you."

"Enough!" I clasped his wrist, yanked him to his feet. "You're no longer allowed in my Sunday school." I began leading him not through the door into the church but to the back exit which opened to the overflow parking lot. I wasn't about to have this kid enter the church to make a scene there. He wasn't resisting me, which was a good thing because nothing on earth would have stopped me from ejecting that kid out of my class.

"In a few years or so," Trouble said, being pulled behind me, "your little Tinkerbelle is going to be Marie's age. Remember what you did to Marie under the bridge? What you stole from her? What you stole from her you can never return. How do you feel about that? Did she look at all like Tinkerbelle?"

Thunderstruck, I let go of his wrist and froze in place. I couldn't guess as to what my expression was, but Trouble found humor in it.

"Who told you about Marie?" I whispered.

"Whenever you see blood, do you remember poor Marie? What you did to her? Love thy neighbors—you sure loved your neighbor Marie, eh?" More laughter.

I slapped the kid across the face in a loud thwack. Instead of scaring him, he found humor in that as well. I was more than a little disconcerted. It felt like I was stuck in a nightmare. I prayed to God to give me the strength needed to deal with this situation that was quickly becoming a crisis.

The kids remained in their chairs (save for Freddy, who stood in the back watching the ugliness transpire). All were silent, mouths agape. Most were too young to piece together what Trouble was referencing between Marie and I, but not all of them. I had a couple teenagers. Kaitlin was one such teenie. Her hand was over her mouth, eyes as round as eyes can be. A teenaged boy was checking the children around him, unnerved and worrying for them as they endured the malicious words of Paul.

I retook the boy's wrist and egressed him out the back door, where morning sunlight made me squint. I closed the door behind us, stood before Trouble with my arms folded under my chest, breathing heavily. I wasn't angry but confounded, bewildered. And Trouble, he now looked bored. Was this boy bipolar or what? What had just happened didn't move him at all. There was no remorse or shame, just arrogance. The situation was under control, under his control.

"Why did you say those things?" I demanded.

He looked away and shrugged, then yawned, which might have been a ruse to get me in a dander. I wanted to slap him again.

"Maybe you and I should have a talk with your parents," I said threateningly. "Who are your parents?"

"None of your business. And besides, they don't go to church."

That was just as shocking as anything he could have said. They didn't go to church? Why would a boy of such a rebellious constitution go to Sunday school if his parents didn't take him? Or maybe they did take him, and dropped him off to get him out of their hair for an hour or so. That had to be it.

"You aren't welcome here anymore, Paul. I mean it. Find another church to make miserable."

"Doesn't God say to forgive?"

"Yes, and I would forgive you if you asked for it, but you didn't. And won't."

"Yeah that's true," he said and the corners of his mouth upturned.

"How did you know about Marie?"

He looked haughtily at me. "You fucked her, didn't you."

His vulgarity didn't anger me as it should have. I didn't care that he just used the F word. I had bigger things on my mind.

"How do you know about her? About Marie. Tell me."

"None of your goddam business."

"Don't use the Lord's name in vain." That vulgarity I couldn't let slide, not in the house of God (or parking lot of His house).

"Saying his name in vain couldn't be a bigger sin than suckering a little girl into having sex with you."

"I was young, so don't make it out to be something worse than what it was. Yes it was horrible what I did, and yes I'm contrite. But you need to tell me who told you this."

He shrugged with a wry grin. "A friend."

"Nobody knows about that," I said. "I don't believe you."

"I wonder if Kaitlin would let me do to her what you did to Marie."

"What on earth is wrong with you? How could a fourteen-year-old be so angry, so vitriolic? Leave Kaitlin out of this. She's a good girl, doesn't need to be corrupted by you."

"Good girl, yes. Good to take under the bridge. I bet you'd like to take Kaitlin under that bridge at the riverbed," he said knowingly. "You know which one I'm talking about... by Fresno State."

I nearly struck the kid once again. It took all my concentration to restrain myself. "If you return to my class," I warned, "I'm going to call the police and have you escorted out."

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Absolutely."

"You'd call the police? What will the cops learn if you did that? Maybe that you hit a minor? I have witnesses. Try landing a pastor gig with that on your record."

"Landing a pastor gig?" How on earth did this kid know so much about me! He did have one heck of a point, there was no denying that. I didn't want him telling the cops that I struck him. Assaulting a minor is one of those game changers, the ones you spend your remaining years regretting, living in consequence.

"Just go away and don't come back. Okay?" I sounded less authoritative than pleading.

"Nah," he drawled. "I think I'll stay, actually. It's kind of fun. And I have a feeling Brooke is going to grow up to be one hell of a hot chick. Maybe I'll have some fun with her under the bridge, if you know what I mean." He winked at me.

I lost control, saw red. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently, some crazed expression on my face. "Shut your fucking mouth!" It was the first and last time I uttered that word since I was fourteen.

He was laughing, so I shook him harder yet. One shake was so severe that his head snapped back with a cracking sound; his vertebrae re-aligned. That sobered his laughter. He gripped my forearms and ripped them away from his shoulders, glared at me incensed. He pointed threateningly at my face. "Don't you ever touch me again," he said in a low tone, eyes bright with rage. "Ever. Do it and it won't be the police who takes you away, but a mother fucking coroner. Got it?"

I took a solemn step back from him, retraced what I had done. This kid was turning me into a monster. Turning me into what he was. He was brilliant at getting under my skin. In that aspect he outsmarted me. Outwitted me.

"Go on and leave," I said firmly. "Don't come back."

"No! I already said I'm staying so accept it! You got yourself into some serious shit touching me, you'd do best to remember that!"

I was speechless, had no smart comeback to that.

"Here's what's going to happen," he said, sounding much more adult than he was. "We're going back inside and pretending this never happened. Consider that a gift. I'm staying today and will be back next week, so you're just going to have to deal with it. Try me and you'll be getting busted by the cops. That's the cold hard reality of it all, Aaron."

"Just tell me this and we'll return inside," I said. "Who told you about Marie?"

"Mind your damned business."

He opened the door and went inside. I followed him in. The kids were utterly silent, their eyes jumping between Trouble and me. I was discombobulated, couldn't even recall what my lesson for the day was. Paul took his seat at the back and stared at me apathetically, as if nothing had happened.

"I uh..." I began after an awkward silence. "Let's sing a hymn." I cleared my throat, sweat dotting my brow, and began singing: "Jesus loves me this I know..."

The kids weren't singing along.

"Come on, everybody," I urged, "sing along." I tried out a smile; it felt as unnatural as it looked. "Jesus loves me this I know..." One kid joined in, then another. "For the bible tells me so. We are weak and he is strong..." Now everyone sang along, except for the enigma in the back. He grinned his malicious grin at me, eyes cold and calculating.

Before that hymn would end and a new one would begin, I had resolved to tell pastor Denny that I was done teaching Sunday school. Freakin' done. I was going to put in for the pastor position at the new Calvary Chapel (just months away from completion) across town. I'd tell him after service.

### Chapter Seventeen

It was nine o'clock in the morning. Sunday school ends at the same time pastor Denny wraps up his sermon, give or take a few minutes. I dismissed the kids. I was relieved that Trouble hadn't caused any more grief since our altercation. He was one of the first to leave the room, in fact. My little Tinkerbelle, Brooke, was one of the last to leave. I held her back for a word in private. Once we were alone I said I was sorry that she had to go through that.

"It's okay, Mr. Mendelssohn."

"I'm so blessed to have such good students, especially you. You're special, do you know that?"

She smiled. "Thank you."

"Would you do me a big favor?"

"Sure."

"Would you take a seat and wait for me? I'd like to have a word with your parents. To tell them what a great daughter they have." That's not why I wanted a word with them.

"Okay."

She took the nearest seat, her short little legs trod air under the chair.

I weaved through the throng of adults and older kids in the main room, was called by a woman. I stopped and looked in the direction of her voice, saw Abbey smiling at me.

"Well hello there, Abbey!" I stood on my tiptoes, scanned the area for Mr. and Mrs. Stanwick, who are somewhat easy to spot being that he is well over six-feet-tall and both he and his wife have the same buttermilk-blonde hair as their only child Brooke. Abbey deduced it was a bad time, said she could talk with me another time.

"Would you stick around for a while?" I asked. "I just need to talk to a kid's parents for a couple minutes."

"Sure. I'll be in the vestibule."

I continued my search and eventually found the couple. I confronted them and requested a word alone. They were disquieted by the request, worried that their darling Tinkerbelle had gotten into some trouble, which seemed as unfathomable as it actually was.

When we had some privacy (at the front of the church), I related to them that some bully kid gave Brooke a hard time, gave her a wedgie. A boy came to her defense. They should be proud of how well she handled the situation. Gingerly I asked them if they thought she was old enough to start attending regular mass with them. I said it would be in her best interest. I didn't want Trouble to corrupt her. They said they'd think about it, that if I thought it was best for her, they'd take that into strong consideration. I then inquired into where they lived, if it was on this side of town. Yes, they lived only a few miles east of here. I said there was a new church being constructed now, also east of here (only more than a few miles), and maybe it wouldn't be much farther a commute than it was to here. With a warm smile I said that I was hopeful to become that church's pastor, and would absolutely love to have the three Stanwick's as part of my congregation. Mr. Stanwick congratulated me on my soon-to-be position of pastor. I said I hadn't been offered it yet, but if it was God's will, I'd be getting the job. They said they'd consider it, especially since their child was being pestered by a bully. Brooke came first in every aspect of their lives, so they'd do what was best for her. I loved hearing it, and openly appreciated their deep devotion for Tinkerbelle's best interest. I said that if I'm ever fortunate enough to have a wife and kids, that I'd feel like the luckiest man on earth to have a daughter half as wonderful as Brooke. They were flattered. Mrs. Stanwick insisted that I call her Juliann, and said she'd be happy to have me over for dinner sometime soon. Mr. Stanwick said to call him Sven, and hoped I'd take them up on the offer. Their child talked about me a lot, so they wished to get to know me better.

"Juliann makes one heck of a standing rib-roast," Sven boasted.

"It is pretty good," Juliann said.

"I'd be happy to. Very kind of you to offer."

We exchanged phone numbers, plugging them into our phones. Friday would be good for them if it suited me: it did. I said I'd be right back with their daughter and went to the smaller room adjoining the larger. Brooke wasn't there.

Just then the exit-door opened. Golden morning sunlight enshrouded Tinkerbelle. She stepped inside, the door closed from the pneumatic arm.

"There you are," I said to her.

"Here I am!" she said and ran to me, hugged me at the waist for no reason.

"How precious are you?"

"Very!" She giggled. "Just playing."

"Well it's true." I let go of her. "Let's get out of here. What do you say?"

She nodded, followed me.

We were almost to the door when she said, "Don't lose hope on Paul."

I stopped and looked down at her. She turned demure, white cheeks now rosy. "Don't? Why do you say that?" She shrugged. "You want me to tolerate him? He's bad for our Sunday school." She agreed with a nod. "Then why do you say that?"

"If..." She became reflective, and to this day I believe she was retrieving stored information from recent memory. "If someone could reach Paul... if someone could get through to Paul, it's you."

"Who told you to say that?" It was too mature a thing to say by an eight-year-old.

"Nobody," was her reply. She was a great many wonderful things, my little Tinkerbelle, but a great liar wasn't one of them.

I looked to the back door where she had come, then her. Her cheeks glowed a deeper shade of red. She avoided my eyes.

It was an emotionally draining morning, I hadn't the capacity to endure more. That night, as I'd roll around sleeplessly in bed, I'd regret that I didn't ask Tinkerbelle if a girl with unbrushed brown hair and green eyes had come in from the back door to chit-chat with my little Tinkerbelle, to coach her what to say to me. Once I got that idea in my head, it wouldn't leave. I was probably wrong about it, though. By the following Sunday I had decided not to harass her about it.

Brooke reunited with her folks, who waved goodbye at me as they crossed the vestibule to become ghosts of my imagination for the next seven days. I could see Abbey in there, reading postings on the wall. She'd have to wait a little longer.

Pastor Keith Denny was putting his notes and bible in his black leather bag when I approached him. I told him about Trouble, about the scene he made. I stopped short of confessing to having slapped him and throttled him. He was concerned, understandably.

"I was kind of hoping that I could become the pastor at the new Calvary," I said.

He wasn't smiling when he said, "Funny you should say that. I was actually going to talk to you about this subject. Originally a man you probably don't know, Tom Dearst, was going to take that position, but has since turned it down for some reason or other. If you're serious, I believe the church would be lucky to you have as their pastor."

"That's great, Keith!"

"Stick with what you're doing, at least for now. It will probably be two months before the church opens its doors. Plenty of time to think it over. And plenty of time for you to reach Paul. To get through to him."

"Interesting choice of words," I said dryly, remembering Brooke. "Did you tell her to..." It would have been impossible for Keith to tell Tinkerbelle that. He was in the next room.

"Tell whom to say what?"

"Never mind. I'll do my best, Keith. I'll try."

He shook my hand and returned to his task of organizing and putting things away. I quickly strode to the vestibule, catching Abbey in a great big yawn, which turned into a yawn-smile at my sight. We hugged.

"Did you just get here?" I asked. "Or did you stay for the sermon?"

"I listened to the sermon. Pastor Denny is great. Not nearly as boring as Gates was."

"Totally. What brings you here?"

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm moving."

"Again?" She had moved to the other side of town two years ago, was a member of some church out there.

"Yes, but for good reason. Grad school. I got accepted into Stanford Law!"

"No way!" I hugged her again. "Wow, Stanford. How much is that going to cost you? Never mind, it doesn't matter. It's worth it, whatever it costs."

"It will take a while to pay off my student loans, I'm sure."

"Man, I'm going to miss you, Abbey. We don't see each other much anymore as it is. It will become even less."

"I know, sorry. So how's it going? How have you been?"

"Fantastic. Oh! Guess who I saw a couple days ago?"

"Who?"

"Maggie!"

She frowned at me. "Do I know her?"

"You never met her. Remember?" I said hintingly. "Maggie...?"

"No." She was trying to remember.

"The ghost," I said with a smile.

"Oh her!" She made a silly face at me. "You stinker. I thought you were being serious."

"I am! I saw her again! Abbey, she isn't a ghost. She's an angel. And I'm not kidding."

"Let's have lunch together, can we? Tell me about it over some food."

### Chapter Eighteen

Tuesdays I had a four o'clock Economics class at Fresno State. Class gets out at five, my last class of the day. I had become quite a habitual person, going to Subway on my way home to get a meatball sub. But today was different. It didn't register in me that I was breaking my routine; I was in a kind of mind-numbed haze. I didn't drive home today, I walked. I only live a twenty minute walk from school, but I always drove it—why wouldn't I? It didn't compute in me that I was walking, when I should have been driving home my truck that was parked in the lot nearest the Econ building. It was as though my brain and body were two separate entities, my brain being operated by someone other than myself. But my vision, it was my own. I turned down one street, then another. I had no idea where I was going. The sun was low on the horizon, the light bronze.

In the distance was an elementary school. There was a playground being enjoyed by a number of kids, on swings, teeter-totters, monkey bars, jungle gym. I crossed the street to the side that the school was on. It dawned on me that I didn't have my book-bag. Had I forgotten it in Econ class? I paid no attention as I padded down the sidewalk. The small school was right smack in the middle of a residential neighborhood, houses environing it on every side. I was now close enough to make out the features of the kids who were hanging upside-down on the monkey bars. The only one I cared about was the buttermilk-blonde girl, whose pink tee-shirt had fallen down to her armpits. Her little boy-chest many years away from becoming a woman's chest. She squealed exuberantly as she swung from her knees, arms dangling down.

I cut over a patch of grass toward the sandy playground area, stopped short of the monkey bars. Brooke saw me and stopped swinging.

"Hey there," I said.

"Hello," she said with an upside-down smile.

"Would you come down for a moment?"

"Sure," she said after a brief hesitation. "Is something wrong?"

"Kind of, yes," I said without forethought.

Once she left the bars and gained my side, we began distancing ourselves from the playground. Her pink tee-shirt read Susan B Komen foundation. It was a walk-a-thon shirt, advocating for breast cancer awareness. Cute, that a little kid would wear such a thing. I doubt she had any concept of that horrible disease, but still...

"I have some bad news," I said sadly. "Your mom and dad were in a car accident."

She gasped, stopped walking. Like a spigot cranked open, her eyes poured out. "No!"

"Yes. I'm sorry to be the one who has to tell you, Brooke. And I'm sorry about what happened in church a few days ago. But this is more important than that. This is about your parents' health. I'll take you to them, okay?"

She nodded, put her hands over her eyes and bawled, little legs struggling to match the pace of my longer legs.

"Wh-what happened to them?" she stammered. "Are they all right?"

"I hope so. We have to hurry, though. Hurry before they aren't all right. Can you walk a little faster for me?"

She began running ahead of me. I told her that running wasn't necessary, that a fast walk would do. We turned at the end of one street, then at the end of the next.

It never occurred to me that I was dreaming, as it rarely does. But I wasn't dreaming. I was... I don't know what it was. But it was happening, somehow, in some way. It was happening. I was leading Tinkerbelle along the residential neighborhood, down past Fresno State campus, onto some back roads.

My companion was absolutely bawling. Disconsolate. I ceased trying to calm her down. She insisted on holding my hand. It was tiny in my own, so fragile and weightless.

"We're almost there," I said.

"Where is it?" she asked. "I don't know this area."

"I'm sure you don't," I muttered.

We were at a road with a posted sign reading Not A Through Street. We continued along hand in hand until it dead-ended, where there was a dirt bank sloping gradually down. The sun was partially obscured by the low ridge of a hill. To my left I could see another road a quarter-mile away, and it was a through street, via bridge. Under the bridge was a dry riverbed, which Brooke and I had just entered. We slanted to our left, toward the bridge.

"Here?" she asked. "They're here?"

"Yes, just up ahead. Almost there."

"Why were they over here?"

"I'm not sure."

She clutched tighter my hand in hers, began pulling ahead of me in her rush to be with her mom and dad. I picked up my pace to please her. Her hand was getting slippery in mine; nervous sweat I imagine.

Her gaze was far ahead, and because of it she wasn't watching her footing. She tripped over a rock. Being that she was attached to my hand I prevented her from falling on her face. I suspect if her mind had been in a more pleasant place she'd have thanked me instead of being hardly aware that it happened.

The riverbed began to bend to our right. We continued straight, though, to where the crest of the embankment and bridge met. To where I once teased Marie Elbrick that she was just a dumb kid, incapable of doing adult things.

We breasted the embankment of dirt and rocks. Brooke was becoming concerned, and not for her parents this time. This seemed like the last place on earth her mom and dad would have had an accident.

"Are you sure they're here?" she asked skeptically.

"Yeah-yeah," I said curtly. "Less talking, more walking."

I stopped under the bridge, where it was ten degrees cooler and a whole lot darker. The bridge was never used this day in age. It was built to access an oil lease just a short ways down that road, but those wells had long been dried up and shut-in, deserted.

Tinkerbelle stopped a couple steps ahead of me, looked back with worried eyes, a furrowed brow. She asked why I stopped.

"This is the spot," I said and knelt down. "I'm sure of it. I'd bet my life on it."

"What are you talking about? This is the spot my mom and dad got hurt?" A tear rolled down her cheek. "Please tell me where they are, I'm scared!"

"Marie lost her virginity right here."

"What's a virginity?"

I scooped up a handful of dirt and let it drizzle through my coned fist. "I wonder if her blood is still in the dirt, stained for eternity."

"You're scaring me."

"Good."

She swallowed. "Good?"

I nodded. "You should be scared. There's about to be some fresh blood on this dirt."

Her eyes were wide and confused. "Whose blood? Where's my mom and dad? Please tell me! Tell me, Paul! Tell me, tell me, tell me!"

A loud and long honk behind me snapped me into awareness, into reality. I was in my Toyota Tacoma, at a stop sign leaving Fresno State campus. I was drenched in cold sweat. The stick-shift in my hand was slippery under my clammy palm. I pulled onto the road leading away from school. The annoyed motorist behind me zipped around me, flipping me off as he went.

"What on earth..." I breathed. The sun was ripe, an hour away from setting. I wondered how long I had been idling at that stop sign. Had I fallen asleep? Admittedly I hadn't gotten a good night's sleep since a couple days ago, before Trouble nestled deep inside my brain like a tumor and has since been festering and eating away. Knowing I probably wouldn't see Abbey again didn't help my peace of mind. I was filled with dread that what I had just experienced wasn't a dream but a premonition. I tried to dismiss it, wholeheartedly I did. It was absurd, I was no psychic, had never experienced a premonition. I motored along the road, autonomously made all the correct turns leading to my apartment a few miles from the university.

My heart ached for Tinkerbelle. What I imagined didn't happen, but that didn't dampen my pain for her any the less. Had the impatient driver behind me not honked, what might I have witnessed in the following minutes? Tinkerbelle getting beaten by fists, fists that were my own? That would be one way to add her blood to the dirt, yes. Hopefully that would be the avenue that her blood came to be on the dirt. But I didn't think it would be. Just as Marie bled on that dirt in a whole different fashion.

I shuddered, skin broke out in goose bumps.

"What's happening to me?"

I withdrew the cellphone from my pocket in a half-frenzy, tapped icons and words and finally a name: Sven and Juliann Stanwick. I pressed Call.

It rang seemingly a hundred times. I didn't think they'd answer. My breath held as I expected voicemail to answer. And what might that mean? Nothing. But it would mean more than nothing. It would be kindling for morbid speculation, such as the Stanwick's were occupied dealing with a crisis, one that I could make a sporting good guess at.

"Aaron," a man answered. "What a nice surprise."

I turned onto the street which I lived. "Sven. Good afternoon." I was shooting for calm, but wasn't so sure. "Or evening."

"Still afternoon for another half-hour. How are you doing, friend?"

"Eh, I'm hanging in there. Driving home from class."

"Class? You go to college?"

"Yeah, Fresno State."

"Woot! Go Bulldogs!"

"Yes, go Bulldogs," I said distractedly. "Listen, do you know where Brooke is?"

"Uh..." He moved the phone away from his mouth. I heard him ask his wife where Brooke is. Juliann said she was playing across the street at the playground. My heart was at a gallop. "She's playing," Sven said. "Why? What's up?"

"Oh man..." I muttered. "Oh my..."

"Aaron...? You're worrying me, buddy. What's wrong?"

"Uh... I don't know how to say this." I didn't want to scare him needlessly. Any parents would freak the hell out with some near-stranger predicting their kid's abduction. But I needed them to have the same sense of urgency I was operating under. "I uh..."

"Aaron," Sven said sternly, "tell me what's wrong!" I heard Juliann's panicked voice in the background. She was wondering the same thing as her husband.

"I'm probably wrong about it," I said as a preamble to the bad news.

"Tell me! Tell me, Aaron, come on!"

His loud pissed-off tone accelerated my panic. "I had a kind of... premonition, I guess you could say. But I'm sure it's nothing."

"That you're calling me sounding the way you do suggests that you don't feel it's nothing. Would you please just tell me already?"

"Damnit, Aaron, what's the matter!" Juliann shouted just inches from her husband's phone.

"She's going to fall off the monkey bars and get hurt, break bones," I lied. It was a useful lie, as it would send them to the school playground immediately.

"He thinks she's going to fall off the monkey bars and break something," Sven relayed to his wife.

I heard the front door slam shut seconds later.

"She's on her way," Sven said to me. "Thank you very much, Aaron, from the bottom of my heart."

"Don't thank me. I didn't do anything."

"Maybe you did and maybe you didn't. But that you were compelled to warn us, that tells me that you feel her getting hurt is a possibility. Even a remote chance of that happening is alarming to me. To us."

"I agree. That's exactly why I called." I exhaled deeply.

"And I'm not a premonition kind of guy, but I put stock in a pastor telling me he had a vision of something."

"I'm not a pastor. Not yet, at least."

"You will be. And you're something not far from a pastor. God, I don't know what I'd do if my little sweetheart broke her..." He choked back a sob. "Broke her neck or something."

"I don't even want to think about it," I said.

I could hear the emotion in his voice when he said, "You are a wonderful guy, Aaron. A blessing."

"Would you mind if I stayed on the phone for a little while? I'd like to know that she's all right. I'm sure it was nothing, but I won't be able to rest until I know for sure."

As if Juliann had guessed that was the case, that her husband and I were on the phone until we got word back from Brooke's state of hopefully-great health, she returned only a couple minutes after I had heard the front door slam shut.

"Oh thank God," Sven said.

I took a deep relieved breath. "Yes. Thank God."

"Hi, Daddy!" I heard Tinkerbelle exclaim. "I'm not hurt, I'm fine!"

"Yes you are, sweetheart. We're sorry for making you come home."

"The little rascal was hanging upside-down on the monkey bars," Juliann said to Sven. "I could just picture her falling and getting hurt."

"It's okay, I never fall," the kiddo said in her defense. "I can't play on them anymore?"

"Not today, pumpkin. Go get ready for supper."

"Yes, Daddy."

"Aaron, thanks again for the call," Sven said, and in his tone was utmost gratitude. Probably unfounded gratitude, as it was only a silly vision I had. I guess it was a dream after all.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you all," I said. "I haven't been sleeping well lately, so I guess my imagination got a little carried away."

"That's beside the point," Sven said. "You care enough for our daughter that you'd call us when you're worried for her. You don't know how much that means to me."

Juliann took the phone from her husband and said to me, "Really, Aaron, Sven is right. That was awfully thoughtful of you. You really care about her, don't you?"

"Care about her?" I said thickly. "I love her, Juliann. I really do."

I couldn't see her tears, but I sensed them. "Well she loves you, too."

"I'll let you guys go."

"Are you still on for dinner Friday night?" Juliann asked. "We won't take no for an answer, so you might as well say yes."

"I'll be there. See you then. Should I bring anything?"

"Heavens no."

I said bye and ended the call. I had been parked in my designated spot for minutes, my Tacoma idling. I went inside my apartment, crashed on the couch and began weeping. Weeping from the immense emotion of it all. It didn't matter that it was all inside my head, the experience was just as nerve-wracking, just as intense.

"Lord, my savior," I said from the couch, looking up at the ceiling. "Thank you for keeping your most precious creation safe. I owe you everything. If I could be selfish for just a moment, please don't put me through that again. That dream or whatever it was. I'm not strong enough to endure them. Amen."

### Chapter Nineteen

The next day I was at work, a clerk at Truegold's Car Wash and Detail, though I did a heck of a lot more than run the register. I was a gopher, washing rags, pouring soap solution in the vats, even washed and dried cars if that's what was asked of me. I worked Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, from nine in the morning till five. It only paid enough to cover my rent, but that was fine. I was getting grants from the government, student loans, and my parents were great and sending me regular checks of seven-hundred bucks every first of the month. I didn't care for the job most days, but today I loved it. It was busy, as Wednesdays always are, due to half-priced humpday washes. Busy was a good thing that Wednesday, as it got my mind off of the terror that was imagining something pretty damned dark happening to my Tinkerbelle. Large chunks of the day were being eaten away every time I glanced up at the clock. Three hours felt like thirty minutes.

I was thoroughly exhausted when I clocked out at six minutes past five. I was sticky from perspiration and hesitant to smell my damp armpits.

I had only just pulled out of the parking lot onto Kern Avenue when my phone rang. I steered with my knee as I groped the phone out of my pocket with one hand and rolled up the window with the other.

I read Stanwick on the screen. I hoped Sven wasn't calling to thank me yet again. As relieving as it was that Tinkerbelle had been safe, I was a little humiliated that it was a worry in vain. Him thanking me made me all the more humiliated.

"Hi, Sven," I said. I took my Truegold cap off and tossed it to the passenger seat, raked back my oily hair.

"Please tell me Brooke is with you," Juliann said desperately.

"Oh no," I said inwardly. "No, she's not with me."

She sobbed. I pulled into an Arby's parking lot and parked.

"I'm calling the police," she said between sobs. "She's... she's been taken!"

I palmed my forehead, closed eyes stinging. "Lord in Heaven," I breathed.

"I hoped it was you." A sob. "Why couldn't it have been you?" She ended the call.

"Please don't let this be happening," I said.

God works in mysterious ways. Sometimes it can be something as seemingly insignificant as a simple thought surfacing, or a memory. I had one just then, no more than a minute after Juliann had hung up on me. I called her back.

It was Sven who answered, and did so on the first ring. I suspect he reserved hope that I might be able to help them in some inestimable way. He said yes in a cracked voice, waited for me to speak.

"What is Brooke wearing today?" I asked. "Her shirt, what is it?"

"Excuse me?"

"What is she wearing?"

"I don't know," he said in a panic. "I don't remember."

"Can you remember what was she wearing yesterday when your wife found her at the playground? Was it a pink shirt? Susan B. Komen?"

He inhaled sharply. "That's what she's wearing! Where did you see her!"

"I didn't, but you should call the police. Now, Sven. Call them."

"Juliann is on the phone with them. Damnit, this can't be happening! A friend of Brooke's was just over here to say that a man told Brooke to follow him, and they walked away together!"

"In my premonition, or whatever it was, she was wearing that shirt. I didn't think to mention it yesterday. Give me your address. I want to be with you two."

I heard Juliann wail her anguish in the background; it chilled me. He sputtered out an address that I had to replay in my head to get it all. He was lost to emotion.

"In, in, your dream," he stammered, "what happened to her?"

I heard Juliann tell Sven to come on, they were going to look for their baby.

"Listen to me, Sven," I said firmly. "Listen to me carefully. Nothing is going to happen to your girl. Understand me? Nothing. Stay put. Don't leave the house, you're in no condition to drive, and you won't find her. I'll handle this. See you soon."

I threw the truck in drive and floored it, sped out of the Arby's lot like a bank robber with a fresh sack of cash, vehicle fishtailing and tires screaming as I turned onto the avenue. Almost immediately I saw red and blue lights in my rear-view mirror and couldn't friggin' believe it. What are the odds? Bastards are never around when you need them, and now this!

"Shit, shit, shit!"

I pulled over. The sun was directly before me, low on the horizon. Too low. I envisioned Paul walking hand in hand with Tinkerbelle along the riverbed toward the bridge. I looked in my side-view mirror at the cop who was taking his sweet damned time, hadn't even left his cruiser yet.

"Come on, asshole!"

He was punching my license plate into his computer. He'd waste a couple minutes on that. I didn't have time for this bullshit. I opened my door and got out with my hands up to show him I wasn't armed. He opened his door and said to stay in my vehicle. I continued anyway.

"Sir!" I exclaimed. "Please, you have to let me go! There's an emergency!"

Tentatively he got out of the cruiser. "What's the problem?"

"A girl's been kidnapped!"

"When?"

"Just now!" I closed the gap between us. "Listen, I'm a pastor, not trying anything funny here. I have to help find the girl before it's too late."

"What's her name?"

"Brooke. Brooke Stanwick."

"Wait here just a moment." He returned inside his cruiser for what felt like ten minutes but was only a minute. He got out of his car at last. I was at the curb pacing around, rubbing the nape of my neck. "She was reported abducted just now. It hasn't even been called out yet. Any idea who took her or where she might have gone?"

I could have answered both, but instead lied. A bald-faced lie. "No idea."

"I'll let you go, but you have to drive the speed limit. Got it? No exceptions. You'll kill someone driving like that."

"I will. Thank you, sir."

He was still in his black-and-white when I pulled away from the curb at an honest speed. Once he was out of my sight I floored it. I couldn't believe I was remembering how to get to the old bridge over the riverbed. It had been seven years since I'd been there, when I was fourteen and a real piece of work. I was making turns as I saw familiar streets. Instead of driving down the street which led to the bridge and crossed over to the old oil lease, I decided to take the path that I had watched myself leading Tinkerbelle across. The dead-end. I had to be cautious, extra careful to not be seen until I was close enough that he couldn't escape. That's assuming I wasn't already too late. The sun was below the low ridge of a distant hill. It seemed later than it had been in my premonition, and that terrified me. I was easily driving sixty-miles-an-hour down a residential neighborhood. God forbid a kid crosses the street to chase a ball.

I slowed down a good deal before arriving at the end of the road, lest home-owners call the cops or chase after me to ream me for driving like a lunatic in a neighborhood with kids at play.

I got out of my truck and ran down the dirt slope looking to the distant bridge at my left. It was nothing but a silhouette now, red and gold sky around it. It was later than it had been, I was sure of it.

A girl shrieked far away.

"You little mother fu—"

I sprinted down the rough terrain, leaping over underbrush and rocks, praying I wouldn't sprain an ankle. Another shriek. I made it to the bottom of the riverbed and followed the contour of it, the bend that would lead me to the bridge.

She shrieked again, and this time she shouted for help. I clenched my fists. God help that boy when I reached him, for it would truly be a miracle if he escaped with his life.

"Stop it!" she cried. "You're hurting me!"

She was closer. I knew where they were, under the bridge, in the low spot between embankment and bridge. It was black with shadows. I was risking being spotted but it wouldn't matter at this point. She was being abused, and in my current state I'd catch that piece of shit even if he were an Olympic sprinter.

Another shriek, a blood-curdling one; this time it was cut off. I could see in my mind's eye Paul bludgeoning her with a blunt object to the head.

I was almost to the bridge. I could see their tangled shadows. I slanted up the gradient. Paul must have heard my footfalls by now. The girl was quiet, indicative of either something really bad or the abandonment of Paul's attack.

"I'm going to beat the holy hell out of you!" I shouted as I breasted the bank at full speed, gasping for breath.

My right foot snared on something, then my left foot, sending me airborne before crashing down, my head smacking a rock.

I might have been unconscious. If so it wasn't for long. My head ached something wicked. I pressed my upper body off the ground, saw a series of low rocks in a line too neat to be a coincidence. Just then a foot kicked me in the ribs, sending me back down.

"You like that?" Paul said smugly. "How's that for precision?" He kicked me again, this time in the left kidney. So painful it was that it rendered me motionless for some timeless moment, back arched, hand pressing against my abused kidney. He walked around me, stepping over the fishing line that had been secured to two large rocks spaced fifteen or twenty feet apart. There was a third rock at a different angle with fishing line tied to it, as well. He didn't want to leave anything to chance. He had estimated where I might land after tripping—hence the rows of smaller rocks designed to bust my head upon.

"Brooke?" I called, panting, wincing. "Are you okay?"

From behind me Paul kicked my back. It caught between two ribs, dividing the impact, lessening what it might have otherwise been.

I felt the gravity of the situation in full at that moment, what it might mean if I didn't put together a counter-attack that second. With a surge of adrenaline, disregarding the torrents of pain, I erected to my hands and knees and was a second away from standing when Paul's foot thrust squarely into my crotch. Adrenaline be damned, I wasn't coming back up from that.

"Finished yet?" Paul asked. I couldn't see his smug smile but I sensed it. "You fucked up, dude. You fucked with the wrong guy."

"Why are you doing this?" I asked as I clutched my groin.

"I doubt you'd understand. Would you believe I'm doing this because it seemed like a fun idea?"

"You're evil."

"Maybe. But this beats watching The Bachelor, eh?" He laughed. "Or jacking off."

"You better not have done that to her."

"Jacked her off? What are you talking about, Mr. Mendelssohn?"

"You know what I mean." I tried to stand but pain disrupted the attempt.

"You're such a hypocrite, man." He kicked me in the right buttocks. "You teach us to be virtuous and praise God, but what skeletons do you keep in your closet? Suckered a thirteen-year-old girl into screwing you in public? Aren't you ashamed of yourself, you hypocrite?"

I said nothing.

"Breaking into cars, stealing phones and money. How do you want to become a pastor? That's all religious people are: hypocrites. You preach the gospel for tithings, so you can buy shit. You're the piece of shit, not me."

He stepped on my hand with his heel, crushed it with a turn. I yelped.

"I hate you people. I really do." He knelt beside me.

"Paul," I breathed, coughed. "Just let Brooke go. That's all I ask. Don't do anything to her."

"Who's holding her back? She's free to go. And just what are you implying, that I would rape a little girl? That's fucking disgusting. You would automatically think that's what a boy my age would do. A boy our age. You were what, fourteen? Takes one to know one, huh?"

"Brooke?" I called in her direction. I couldn't see any more than a darker shadow assumed to be her. "Hun? Tinkerbelle?"

"Oh," he said and snapped his fingers melodramatically. "I may have accidentally hit her over the head with a rock."

"You're going to burn in hell," I said.

"Wrong! I'm going to come out of this better than you think!"

I rolled over to my back slowly and began to sit up. When he wound his foot back to kick me, I held my hand out pleadingly, gesturing that I wasn't going to attempt to escape, but simply sit up. He allowed it. Sitting was a painful event. My insides were on fire around the kidneys and liver, testicles swollen and throbbing.

"How did you know to set up the fishing line?" I asked. "How'd you know I was coming, and where'd I come from? How do you know so much?" Desperation was imbedded in every syllable. "Tell me, I have to know."

"I could ask you the same question. How did you know I would be here with Brooke?"

"I saw it. That's all. I don't know, Paul. That's the truth."

"Yeah, I think you have friends in high places. That's what I think. Maybe I have my own. Ever think about that?"

"Who?"

He walked around to my backside. I went rigid in anticipation of him kicking me. A tense second later I craned my head back. He feigned kicking me. I moaned and writhed. He laughed. He dug the toe of his shoe in the dirt and flung it at me.

"You're a pussy," he said. "You know that? Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to let you live. And your sweetheart Brooke. Yeah I hit her on the head, but she'll get over it. Here's what you're going to do in return: Sunday you are going to get up there before the entire Calvary Chapel congregation. Tell that douchebag pastor Denny that you have an important message for them, because that's the damned truth. You're going to tell everyone there what you did when you were fourteen, and in explicit detail. You're going to tell how you tricked a girl no older than half the kids in Sunday school to screw you under the bridge. You'll also say that you stole money from an old lady's purse. Feel free to add more confessions in there. The truth will set you free—isn't that what that black dude said to Neo in The Matrix? You're going to do that Sunday, or else."

"You'll be in juvenile hall come then," I said. "Are you so arrogant that you can't see that? You're in serious trouble. Unless you have it in you to kill us both, which I don't believe you do, you're going to be imprisoned."

"Don't tempt me. You'd be surprised what I have in me. The reason why you're going to do what I just said, and why you won't report me to the police, is because I'm letting you both go. This is a get-out-of-death free card. You only have one. If you don't specifically do what I just said, I'm going to kill not you—no, I'm not going to kill you; I want you to live through what's going to happen—I'm going to create some tragic end to your Tinkerbelle. I would say rape and kill her, but that would be a lie. I wish I had it in me to do that, but I don't. She's a fucking kid, for chrissake. If she were a little older, yeah, I'd do that just to piss you off. But I will kill her, Aaron; that I will do. And you'll have to live with yourself knowing that your actions led to that precious thing," he intoned, "getting murdered. Could you live with that? I know you have a hard-on for her, and probably have ideas of being her first lay, so I doubt you'd want that."

I shook my head. I wanted to puke from both the pain and this lunatic's presumptions.

"Do we have an understanding?" he asked. "Do it this Sunday, or else. And if you mention my name to anyone, it'll be the same outcome. Death of an angel, a little blonde-haired angel. Once you do as I say, I'll be done with you. I hear Los Angeles is fun, I might go check it out."

It was dark out, so I wasn't sure if he saw me nod. I said we have a deal. But only if he answered one question for me.

"I already told you, dude, a friend. That's all you need to know."

"No, not that," I said. "Why me? Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to you?"

"Nothing at all," he said sincerely. "I do hate you, but that's only a recent hatred. I suppose you're wondering why I went to your Sunday school classes. Because I was asked to."

"By your friend," I surmised.

"I'll be sitting in the front row this Sunday. I wouldn't miss it for the world. Remember, you have only one chance at this. Do you believe me when I say I have the resources to ensure Brooke's death? Because you better damned believe that I do. That fishing line that tripped you up, that's a small example of how much smarter I am than you, and how I know things."

"I believe you," I conceded.

"Shake on it?"

He rounded me, thrust out a hand to shake. I put mine in his. Upon shaking it, he kicked me with a knee to the side of my head. Lights out.

### Chapter Twenty

It was full-dark before Tinkerbelle woke up under the bridge with me sitting at her side, calling her name. Paul was long gone. She awoke with a gasp and no idea where she was. I said my name and promised everything was all right. She got up touching at the side of her head with a hiss. I led her hand in hand along the riverbed toward my Tacoma. I wanted to get a good look at her head, at that nasty cut. I felt the blood on her temple. She was crying and asking questions I wouldn't answer, except for one, and that's are my parents all right? Yes, they were fine.

"Sweetie, we need to have a talk," I said. "You're too young to understand the seriousness of this situation, but you need to have faith in me. Will you? For me?"

She nodded, sobbed.

"First of all, you're going to be all right from now on. I promise. Paul won't bother you ever again. You have my word."

"Kay."

"You and I are in the same boat now. We both know something that we can't tell anyone else. Anyone else. That includes your mom and dad."

"I can't lie," she said.

"I know, but this time you have to. When I said nothing bad will happen to you, that will only be the case if you lie about tonight. When we get to your parents' house, you're going to say a boy from your church walked with you just to say he's sorry about the scene he made the other day. After his apology he left. You decided to... I don't know... go play somewhere. I guess you can be honest in where you were, the riverbed. It shouldn't much matter. But how you got hurt is you tripped and hit your head on a rock. You must say that, Brooke. You cannot mention that Paul had anything to do with it. Tell me you'll say that. Tell me you'll lie for me."

She was weeping hysterically now, but she nodded.

"Tell me, sweetheart. I need to hear you promise."

"I promise."

"Stick with the lie. I'll talk to your parents and tell them the story before you get a chance to, so it should be easier on you. Just confirm what I say."

"Why can't I tell them the truth? Why don't you want Paul to get in trouble? Paul's a bad kid."

"You're too young to understand. I don't mean that as an insult, it's just the simple truth of the matter. Bad things will happen if word gets out. Really bad things."

"I want to go home," she said softly, crying.

I drove her home. Inside my truck I had a good look at her head, and worried she'd need stitches. She'd get by with some butterfly bandages, I supposed. Mostly I was relieved she wasn't sexually assaulted. As much as I loathed Paul, I was fairly certain that he was honest in his remark that he had no desire to molest a child. Had Paul molested her, I'm not sure I'd have agreed to keep it a secret, even under the threat of killing Brooke. I couldn't say what I'd do, but how on earth could I let that boy touch Brooke in a way that would scar her for life without avenging her? Thank God that wasn't the case.

I myself looked like hell. My forehead was cut from the initial spill I took. At least my shirt concealed the damage Paul inflicted upon me with his foot. I'd have some scars come Sunday, when a hundred people would watch and listen to me confess some seriously horrendous things. I didn't want to think about that yet. I needed to get through tonight.

There were several cops parked at the Stanwick house. I pulled right up and reminded my little friend of the severe consequences that would befall us both if she didn't stick to our lie. She darted out of the truck to reunite with her parents who had watched us pull up and were losing their minds to excitement. I took satisfaction in their joyful expressions, their tender embrace. Her parents were crying harder than Brooke. Juliann had only just noticed her girl's injury, ushered her inside to get a closer look.

I told our contrived story to the Stanwick's and the cops. Nobody sensed it was lie, or they might have asked more questions. It helped that I was the girl's Sunday school teacher, I'm sure. It attached credibility to my story. I was eager to get the heck out of there, and did before long. I winked at Tinkerbelle as I left.

* * *

That Friday was the dinner-date at the Stanwick's. I had mixed feelings about going. I didn't want to be asked questions about the other day because I disliked lying to them. I figured they'd see through my lies, as I was poor at it. Fortunately they were just as eager to avoid the topic as was I.

Tinkerbelle didn't look her usual happy self. She didn't have much to say. I guess my presence forced her to remember our secret, that damned lie. As I sat at the table eating the standing rib-roast that really was as good as Sven had promised, I stole glances at the girl. Her big blue eyes were low and avoided mine. Before my plate would be empty I'd conclude that things would never be the same between us again. It was a hard pill to swallow, but I wanted to do what was best for her, and resolved to make that happen.

After dinner we had boysenberry pie and coffee. Brooke was dismissed. I heard her watching some Disney movie in the next room. Sven was talking about his job as a foreman at a textiles factory uptown when I noticed a tear rolling down Juliann's cheek. I asked if something was the matter. Sven stopped talking and looked over at his wife.

She nodded and said, "I'm sorry. I know you don't want to talk about it, and trust me, Aaron, neither do we, but I have to tell you how lucky we are to have you in our lives. What you did the other—"

I held up a hand, cutting her off. "It was nothing. And you're right, I'd rather not talk about it; would rather not remember it."

She wiped her wet cheek with the back of her hand.

"Would you two mind if I had a word alone with Brooke?" I asked.

I left my slice of pie half-eaten and ambled to the living room, where 101 Dalmatians was being watched by a kiddo on the couch. She was lying on her side, head propped up in hand. She only glanced at me. There was no excitement from my company, no smile, just a vacuous expression that worried me.

I asked if I could have a seat beside her. She sat up. I took a seat and glanced over my shoulder: the Stanwick's remained at the table, a safe distance from overhearing what I had to say. Sven had his wife's hand in his, consoling her.

"Can we talk for a minute?" I asked her. I paused the movie.

"Kay."

"How are things going, sweetheart?"

"Fine." She finally met eyes with me, and this time they remained on mine.

"You've been great. Thank you. You're mature for your years." I hesitated before saying, "What would you think about getting a new Sunday school teacher?"

She shrugged, and that pained my heart. Last week I believe she would have been upset by that question, begged me not to go, and cried.

"You probably think this is my fault," I said. "And maybe it is, I don't know."

"I know it isn't," she said thinly.

"Thank you for saying that. You have no idea how good it is to hear it. We both know that things are different now. I only want to do what's best for you. That's all that matters to me. Even if you think what's best is for me to stay at our church, that doesn't necessarily make it so." I took a deep breath and looked away. "What I'm trying to say is you'll be better off without me. I thought I was stronger than I am, but Paul proved that I'm not strong at all. I can't handle situations like that, I'm too weak." I gazed at her once again, eyes stinging. "I'm going to leave the church, teach at another Calvary across town. I'm going to tell your parents that in a few minutes. If for some reason they say they'd like to follow me over to that church, I'm going to advise against it. I think it would be best for all of us. Maybe we'll meet again in the future. I'd like that very much."

From her expression I thought she was going to say she'd like that very much too, but she didn't say anything. She leaned into me and wrapped her little arms around me, face pressed against my shoulder. I hugged her back, and now I was crying.

"I tried, Tinkerbelle," I murmured. "There's no reaching him. He's headstrong."

She released me and we met eyes.

"I don't like lying, Mr. Mendelssohn."

"I'm sorry for making you lie about the other night."

"Not that," she said. "Well, that too. Pie was the one who told me to tell you not to lose hope with Paul. Remember when I was outside—"

"Yeah I remember. Who's Pie?"

"My friend."

She unpaused the movie and grinned briefly at me, which was her putting an end to our conversation.

### Chapter Twenty One

Can you blame me for not being eager to relate to you that Sunday service at Calvary Chapel? It was to be the last time I stepped foot in that church, and I planned on telling my students that at the end of my lesson. I had my pupils stay in the class room, said I'd be back in five or ten minutes, and closed the door behind me. I thought I'd get away with it, but that's not the way it turned out. Paul was quick to open the door and conduct the kids into the main room, where they lined up against the wall to listen to what I had to say. I wasn't going to debate it. I was at his mercy. All I could hope for was that he would stick to his word and leave town after my confession. As much as I dreaded what I was about to say, I took comfort in knowing that Trouble was soon to be out of my life, and for good.

Keith Denny opened up in prayer and song. Before beginning his sermon he introduced me to his congregation—most knew me, but not all. He said I had an important word for them. Keith believed I was going to give some uplifting speech of sorts, not the dark history of my past.

I walked solemnly to the lectern, hated that people were applauding me. My students were clapping louder than any of them. As I stood there, my gaze swept over the sea of faces. Paul was seated in the front row, smirking at me. There was no doubt that he was enjoying this tremendously.

"I... I don't know exactly how to say this," I began. I was sweating. There was utter silence in the room, save for a muffled cough here and there. "I want to remind you that we are all sinners. Every last one of us. This includes me. No matter what you've done in the past, there is salvation within reach for us all. Did Jesus not forgive Judas after Judas betrayed him? I am an example of this, of a man having gone astray only to be taken in by the merciful hand of God.

"You will be shocked at what I have to confess. But it is important that I do, because there is a message here, one of redemption. Know that I am not the boy I was years ago. The man standing before you is born-again, has been delivered from perdition with the help of the Almighty."

I glanced at Trouble, who nodded his approval.

"When I was fourteen I did something I forever have to live with. I..." I swallowed. My gaze jumped from one face to the next. "I laid with a girl." Eyes widened in the crowd. "She was thirteen. She wasn't all that bright, was vulnerable and gullible to a fault, and easily manipulated. I did just that, manipulated her into doing what I wanted her to do. We were under a bridge when I took advantage of her. It was short and meaningless, and I felt sick to death at what I had done. Not at first, but the guilt came soon enough.

"At fifteen I broke into some cars, stole things. I was a Godless boy. But it wasn't all for nothing. Some good came out of it." I proceeded to tell the story of the ninety-one bucks I stole out of the purse, and how I gave it to a nun, and the miracle that followed it; the money returning to the purse shortly after.

"It was that night that I took my parents' bible to my room and began reading. It was then that I developed a close personal relationship with God. He forgave me, just as He'll forgive you for any and all sins, if you'll but ask.

"So that is all I have to say. I wanted to openly confess to you all, so that you might find some hope in my message, that nobody can stray too far from God to be welcomed back. I hope you will forgive me as well, and keep your faith in me. I suppose this is as good a time to mention it as any: this will be my last day at this church. There is a new church under construction at the other side of town, and if it is God's will I'll become the pastor there. Please pray for me that I'm making the right decision, because I'm not so sure that I am."

I hung my head and walked away from the lectern feeling about two inches tall. I chanced a glance at Keith Denny, who was overtly discomforted and stunned by my revelation. When the first person began clapping, others joined in. Finally Pastor Denny clapped. As I walked away he took to the lectern, cleared his throat and nervously thanked me for my words, wished me luck on my new endeavor before beginning his sermon.

The kids followed me inside the classroom, the last of the procession closing the door behind her. Shortly after, it opened and Trouble entered.

They took their seats in silence. I wiped my sweaty brow and without thought apologized to them for having to witness that. Nobody said a word, and I could hardly blame them. It was Paul who finally brought a voice to the room not my own.

He walked to the back door behind me, faced the students and said, "Everybody has choices to make. Grave choices. Life-changing choices. Aaron here has made some pretty horrible ones, and now you all have to decide if you're okay with allowing him to teach you about God. Will you guys allow a rapist thief hypocrite to teach you about a God who allowed that little girl to be deflowered in the dirt under a bridge? Your loving God didn't love Marie too much that day, did He? So the choice is yours. You can leave right now with me, which is the right thing to do, or stay here and suffer this pontificating shit's lies. Come with me and I'll teach you the right path to walk. One free from hypocrisy."

I said nothing. Truth is, I was afraid of him. He was fourteen and possessed the intelligence of a grown man, and brimmed with confidence. I continued to be at his mercy. I'd forever be at his mercy. It wasn't an empty promise that he made under the bridge. Brooke's life was in his hands.

Kaitlin stood from her chair. Every head in the room turned to her. She entered the aisle and walked forward, toward Paul. Paul grinned triumphantly.

"Anyone else?" he said.

Silence.

"So be it. Follow the path this asshole is leading you." He smiled at Kaitlin, opened the door and departed with her into the overflow parking lot.

That single empty seat in the middle of the room would mock me the remaining fifty minutes of the eight o'clock hour.

My lecture was one I had given months ago, about Adam and Eve, of original sin. It seemed fitting. I spoke not a word of Paul. As far as I was concerned, that boy no longer existed.

It was five minutes before the hour when the back door opened and Kaitlin stepped inside, alone, and returned to her seat, her cheeks tear-scarred. Freddy was seated beside her, rubbing her back consolatory.

When I released the kids to reunite with their parents, I hadn't intended to keep Kaitlin behind to ask her what had happened. As I said, in my mind Paul no longer existed. I had already begun removing him from my mind and a conversation with this teenaged girl would violate that. But she did stay behind. She waited until we were alone before speaking.

"You don't have to tell me anything, Kaitlin," I said. "I don't blame you for following him. Okay?" I smiled feebly at her.

"I went out there to try to talk some sense into him," she said. "I spoke of God and His love." She looked at the floor before her, eyes glassy. "Mr. Mendelssohn, I know it's wrong for me to say this, but Paul isn't like us. He isn't... a boy who will find God. He's made up his mind. He couldn't understand why I didn't share his point of view. He actually said that he..." She looked up at me with a grimace. "He hates God."

"I know he does," I said. "That's his decision. That was courageous of you to try, Kaitlin. It took a lot of guts. More guts than I have. Let's close the door on this chapter now. He's no longer going to be a part of this church, just as I won't. Things will change for the better because of it. Go on to your parents now."

"I'm going to miss you, Mr. Mendelssohn. I wish you wouldn't leave." Before I could respond she left.

I wouldn't see Paul Klein again for seven years.

### Chapter Twenty Two

I had been the pastor of the new Calvary Chapel for six years, and a substitute teacher for the Fresno Unified School District for four years. Only one child from Sunday school and his parents switched churches, and that was Freddy. I could say they switched because they were eager to be taught the scriptures from me, but that wouldn't be true. They lived closer to the new church, that's all. He was now seventeen. I hadn't spoken to the Stanwick's since I left the church. Occasionally I wondered about Tinkerbelle, who was now a young woman, one who might not remember me, and that's probably a good thing. But I hoped she missed me like I missed her. A kid like her can do that to you, have an everlasting effect on your thoughts and reflections. If I ever suffer dementia or Alzheimer's, I'd guess that those afflictions couldn't erase that girl's memory from my ruined brain, for the better or worse.

Rarely I sermonized about prophecy, about the end times. It can be a frightening topic, and one of much debate, as there are differences of opinion regarding many parts of Revelation. Some interpret the verses to be literal, as others think of them as figurative or metaphorical. I consider every word of that book to be literal. Since the novel Left Behind came out, and its sequels, End Times prophecy had a surge of interest; consequently I had received many requests to sermonize the topic.

It was Friday night and I was in my apartment at my desk, before my computer. I had come down with a cold that Wednesday and was combating it with Nyquil and Tylenol. I figured I'd be in better shape come Sunday. I was hammering away at the keyboard, typing up my lecture, having just taken a shot and a half of that nasty-tasting green formula of Nyquil. It may quell cold symptoms, but boy does it make you drowsy. It was ten o'clock at night, which was just about the time I go to bed, but I wanted to finish my lecture. I was writing about the rapture, The Great Deceiver, Satan's pet the Antichrist. As sobering and portentous a topic as it is, I couldn't have chosen a worse time to write of it, as I was nodding off at increasingly shorter intervals.

I fell asleep at my desk.

I awoke Saturday morning to a starry screensaver and a vague idea of what caused me to be at my desk instead of bed. I felt marginally better, cold on the decline, but was suffering a wicked neck ache from the peculiar angle at which my head rested against the desktop.

I moved the mouse and my seven pages of work appeared before my eyes. I scrolled up to the beginning and prepared to read it wholly, before deciding to get some food in me and take a quick shower first.

As I showered I recalled the dream I had just awoken from. It was the first time I had dreamed of Paul. I had all but forgotten him, by choice. Six years I had successfully removed him from my thoughts, and all it took was one lousy dream to undo that. In the dream he had aged, had become a good looking young man. He had lured the young woman Brooke to the riverbed, where he decided she was plenty old enough to have some fun with. He used the same lines on her that I fed poor Marie all those years ago, and like Marie she succumbed to his wit and charm, and her blood was added to the dirt as I watched in horror it happening. I watched as if it were a movie, powerless to come to her aid.

I toasted a bagel and in sweats and tee-shirt sat at my desk. I read what I had written, eating my bagel. It was evident where the Nyquil had taken hold of me, as the typos became more and more frequent, and there was some nonsense interspersed in the body of my work. There was a section that was a string of letters where ostensibly I had fallen asleep with my finger pressing the P key. Three lines of P with a few K's ending it. I didn't recall having woken to recommence my writing efforts, but I had written a few pages more before ending abruptly.

Most of what I had written—especially the latter portion of it—would have to be deleted as it was nonsense. But the effect of these medicine-induced ramblings was profound. It opened my eyes to the darkest idea I ever had, and that is where I had written Paul Klein in the place of the Antichrist. I didn't believe he was, but it was meaningful that I had written it. Perhaps I was already dreaming of Paul leading Brooke to the riverbed when I typed it; I couldn't say. But once that seed was planted in my head it wouldn't leave. That I was pondering the possibility of Paul Klein being the Antichrist hinted at the impossibility of it. God wouldn't allow mankind to learn of who this evil man is before it was time to know who he is, just as He wouldn't allow us to know when the rapture is, and when Jesus' second-coming is. That I flirted with the idea of Paul being the Antichrist was all but proof that he was not. If he was, that idea would have forever eluded me. And besides, I couldn't wrap my mind around the notion of the Antichrist being a youth, just as it's difficult to picture Jesus Christ as a teenager. In the scriptures Jesus went from being a youth to being a man, his adolescent years not touched upon. Can you picture it?—a young Antichrist? Would he be a sweet little babe, coloring with crayons and telling his mother he loved her? I couldn't imagine it. And when would the Antichrist first consider his destiny? I doubt he'd be in first grade learning the alphabet as he secretly knew that one day he'd be the vessel which Satan controlled.

Paul was on my mind as I wrote what I did, that's all. Even the string of P's and K's intimated that was the case: they were his initials. If Paul wasn't the Antichrist (each time I write Paul and Antichrist in the same sentence it feels more and more absurd), couldn't he be something else? Something not as consequential, but still significant and maybe even profound? He had known things back then when I was a young Sunday school teacher, things he couldn't have known without someone or something enlightening him of things. The door of intrigue that is Paul was re-opened.

I prayed for guidance. I didn't want to obsess over that miserable kid again. I asked God to remove him from my thoughts.

I got to work re-writing my lecture. It took the rest of the morning and a few hours of the afternoon to finish. I read the final product, made a few adjustments and corrections before printing it out. It was going to be a wonderful message to my congregation; I was proud of my work. And I believe God had answered my prayer to remove Paul from my thoughts because I didn't think of him again that day.

### Chapter Twenty Three

My cold was gone Sunday morning. I was feeling mighty fine as I drove my Tacoma to church.

I was pleased to see a great many new faces in attendance that morning. People come out of the woodwork following a pastor's promise to speak of the apocalypse. Parishioners tell friends and family who wouldn't otherwise go to church. And those who typically attend church only on Easter and Christmas suddenly find time to make it for this rare occasion.

Today was to be different from most Sundays, in that my one hour sermon was to be an hour and forty-five minutes, just fifteen minutes bridging my morning and afternoon sermons. One hour is hardly enough time to cover all that needs to be covered, and it's a bad idea to divide such a lecture into two parts with a week separating them. People have short memories. It needed to be one long uninterrupted sermon. It's more impactful that way.

I planned to sermonize an hour and half, with the remaining fifteen minutes used to call forth all those who haven't accepted Jesus as Lord and Savior to come up and accept Him before all. Typically those who come up are those semi-annual church-goers. There are always a good number of people seeking to accept Christ following the message of the second-coming and apocalypse. Atheists might consider this to be a scare tactic, soliciting new parishioners, but you must see it as a positive thing, as those who were lost have now been found. The end of the world is a scary thing, and preaching about it should give urgency to repent and accept Christ.

After singing a pair of hymns I wasted no time delving into the sermon. I felt God guiding me through it, bestowing me the ability to articulate my points well. As I read from my several pages, I frequently glanced up at the crowd, met eyes with various people, several of whom were new faces, and continued along my message.

It was during one of those glances that I spotted a familiar face at the back of the room, leaning against the wall with her arms folded under the bodice of her white dress, one leg hooked behind the other. There were so many people present that this girl wasn't alone in standing at the back of the room, but she was by far the most recognizable to me. Meeting eyes with her wrecked my train of thought. For a prolonged moment I was speechless, my auditors curious at my abrupt cessation. Puzzled heads were turning to the direction of my gaze. I broke eye-contact with Maggie and looked down to my papers and apologized, picked up where I left off. From then on, every time I looked up from my papers my eyes would jump to Maggie. I feared that her presence would inhibit my sermon in some way, out of distraction, but it did not—at least not since that initial distraction.

Honestly I thought there would come a time when I looked up to find that spot at the back wall unoccupied, but it didn't happen. I took a brief pause to sip a bottle of water, while arguing with myself that who I witnessed was someone other than Maggie; someone resembling her but not the angel who had blessed me with her presence twice, and not since that night at the Fresno State Fair.

It was half-past eleven, and I was wrapping up the sermon. I spoke of Paradise, of the believers' ascension into the Promised Land. I said there is no time like the present to repent for your sins and accept the Lord as your savior. Like I had done on several occasions—at least once a month—I asked my congregation if anyone here would like to take this opportunity to do just that, to come up and turn their hearts over to the Lord. Sometimes only one or two people come up (never has nobody come up), but I had never been so blessed as I was today, to see better than ten wayward souls stand from their seats and places against the back wall to make their way to the front of the church. I began singing Glory Hallelujah as they ventured forth, and the mass sang along joyfully, their hands in the air, palms upward, swaying with their eyes closed.

My smile blinked away when Maggie pushed away from the wall to make her way down the aisle.

When the hymn ended there were eleven people surrounding me. One man dropped to his knees and bowed, wept. The others then did the same. A man and woman held hands. They were husband and wife, new to the church.

"Praise the Lord!" a man cried from the pews. Others echoed that sentiment.

Only one of the eleven before me was not weeping, and that was the girl who I now knew to be Maggie. She was on her knees, praising God ardently. I stepped around the lectern and knelt beside a young woman who was nearly collapsed on the floor. I touched her head and said God bless you.

Another hymn broke out spontaneously. I made my way to the others, the eleven who were making the biggest decision of their lives, and knelt beside them, touched them, praised God for reaching them. I passed over Maggie to the next man and woman, the married couple, and God-blessed them. A man on the floor before me looked up at me and confessed to being a sinner, said he had long lost his way. I assured him that God would forgive him if he'd but open his heart and let Him in.

I erected and began walking to the lectern, throwing a glance down to Maggie, who just at that moment looked up at me with those piercing green eyes which seemed to emit a light of their own. She held out a single hand toward me, palm up.

Nervously I stepped to her and knelt, her hand now inches from my chest.

"Do you wish to let Christ into your heart?" I said and took her hand, placed my other hand on her shoulder, closed my eyes.

God has chosen you, she said inside my head. Just as you seek lost sheep to bring to your flock, another seeks to take those sheep away from God. Recall those mirrors in the Fun House, your distorted reflection. He is a distorted reflection of you. Like you, he has been chosen, but not by God. Your purpose will present itself before you in visions and compulsions. Embrace them, as they are from God. You shall do what He wishes, when the time comes.

"Why me?" I said inside my head. "God doesn't need me to help Him. Don't get me wrong... I'm honored, but God could just strike him dead if He so chooses."

God will not strike him dead. That isn't to be the course of destiny.

"Is he...? Is Paul the... Antichrist?"

If he were, it isn't your place to know. Paul isn't the first man to consort with minions of hell, or The Great Deceiver himself, nor will he be the last. Continue what you are doing, preaching the gospel to the masses. It is your calling, Aaron, for now. But when God tasks you, you will do as He wishes.

"I will. I will do all that He asks of me."

I opened my eyes to the sweet smile of Maggie. With one hand on her delicate shoulder, the other touching hers, she disappeared.

To my parishioners I was a pastor kneeling down and touching someone or something that wasn't there, had never been there. I scanned the crowd as I stood. They were praising Jesus, hands in the air, and not one countenance appeared perplexed at my recent activity.

They were two incredible, momentous hours, as would be the succeeding two hours, where I would have now-fifteen souls around my lectern, supplicating to God.

### Chapter Twenty Four

It was the twelfth of February, 2015, and I had just finished teaching eighth-grade history to a room full of rambunctious kids who thought substitute teachers meant a respite from learning, and license to fun at my expense. I taught six history classes that morning (I preferred teaching English), and was now done for the day.

It was the beginning of the weekend, and I was giddy. I had been working up the courage to ask out on a date Deborah Leigh, the Human Resources gal at Fresno Unified School District. I was enamored by her, had been since she took the job nearly a year ago. There were times when I had minor issues that could have been resolved by a simple phone call to her, but I had chosen to go to the office and deal with her personally. She was lovely, inside and out, and her ring-finger was delightfully bare.

Four days ago (Monday) I inquired into her personal affairs, asked if she had a boyfriend. I hoped she couldn't tell that I was so nervous that I feared fainting. The way she grinned upon my question was indicative that she suspected my motive for asking. And instead of aggravating my nervousness to an even greater degree, she quelled it; her expression had brightened in a way that suggested that she had been long awaiting that very question from me. She proclaimed to be single, inquired into my own status. I matched her grin when I said I too was single. Too shy to ask her out just then, I said I had to be going and would see her again soon, and looked forward to it. She deflated, visibly dejected, and it was then that I knew wholeheartedly that she wanted to be asked out. Now four days later, today was to be that day.

Just because you sense that you're going to receive an affirmative answer to your proposal doesn't make you any less nervous asking—for me, at least. I was sweating up a storm, moist hands slipping on the steering wheel as I drove to the office. Valentine's Day was two days away and I couldn't fathom a more wonderful way to spend it than on a first date with Deborah.

To my dismay she wasn't at the office. Another woman was. She informed me of Deborah being on lunch, wondered if there was anything she could do for me. I said I'd just wait for her to return. A half-hour later Deborah opened the glass door to the office smiling at me. Already the best part of my day.

"Hi there," I said. "Do you have a few minutes?"

"For you...? I don't, sorry." She winked and gestured me to follow her, and into her private office she went, another glass door. I closed it behind us. She seated behind her desk; I sat in one of two chairs before it.

"Happy birthday," I said right off the bat.

Her eyes widened, corners of her mouth upturned. "Thank you! How did you know?"

"I remember you mentioning it a while back." Truth was, I overheard her telling a co-worker her birthday six or seven months ago when they were talking about signs, astrology. I had made a mental note of it.

"You're sweet to remember," she said affectedly. "I don't remember mentioning it. Anyway, what can I do for you today?"

"Uh..." I swallowed. I wanted to ask her out right away, but apparently I needed more courage first. "I wanted to put in for some time off."

She nodded once, her pleasant expression sobered just enough to hint at disappointment. Disappointment that I wasn't there to ask her out, perhaps.

"Sure thing, Aaron." I loved hearing her say my name. She turned to her computer, fingers on the keyboard. "Let me just pull up the—"

Her phone rang. She apologized and answered the phone, entered a conversation. I spaced out just then. I was gazing adoringly at her beautiful face, her full lips, imagining how they'd feel pressed against mine. My gaze drifted down to her shirt, which was buttoned a tad low, which wouldn't have been a big thing if her chest was modestly sized, but it was anything but modestly sized. She was very well endowed. One button too low meant a heck of a lot of cleavage. It wasn't overboard, she didn't look like a tramp, but it was enough to please the discerning male viewer. I felt like a jack ass for looking at her breasts, returned to her eyes, which were fixed on me. She was grinning sidelong. She had caught me staring at her breasts! I felt like a total tool.

For the remainder of her phone call I wouldn't look at her. I looked at the framed picture behind her. It was an Ansel Adams black and white of the Yosemite Valley. Half Dome was centering the photo. I stared at it, daydreamed of climbing it hand in hand with Deborah. I considered that this day, this hour, might start the first chapter of a new life, one shared with the woman speaking on the phone. Might we look back on this meeting ten or twenty years from now and laugh about how I got caught looking at her boobs? And how she denied my date-proposal initially before laughing and saying "I thought you'd never ask! Yes, let's go out!" I sure hoped so.

I envisioned the two of us in a hospital room, Deborah looking harried and spent, a newborn babe in her arms while I filmed with a camera, tears in my eyes.

I saw myself walking our son to class on his first day of kindergarten. He had a sack lunch in hand, a lunch prepared by Deborah. I pictured him asking me about Jesus, and me sharing God with him.

I then saw myself driving my Tacoma in the mountains. The sky was dark gray, and it was snowing hard. Was it Yosemite? I thought it was, being that the Sierra's were the nearest mountains. Deborah wasn't beside me, though. I passed a 4,000 Feet Elevation sign, followed by a Lake Arrowhead 4 miles sign. I had never heard of Lake Arrowhead. There was a bird with black and white plumage perched atop that Arrowhead sign. As I drove past it, its gaze followed me, wings flitted.

"Hello..." Deborah drawled, waving a hand before my eyes. I returned to awareness.

"Sorry."

She bit the side of her lip and returned to her computer, punched some numbers in. "So you're going to be out of town this weekend then?" She asked. "For Valentine's Day?"

"No, why?"

"Oh I don't know," she said and blushed.

I didn't want to prolong this one second longer. I subdued my nerves just long enough to say: "Would you like to go out with me sometime?"

Her expression would have been answer enough. "I'd love to."

I smiled broadly. "Great. I was thinking we could do something on Sunday, Valentine's Day. But if not, we could get together next week or something; whatever works best for you."

"Sunday would be just great. Is that why you requested the next two weeks off? Do you anticipate the date being so horrible that it will take you two weeks at a mountain resort to get over it?" She giggled.

"Huh?"

"Nothing, I was kidding." She straightened her posture and placed her hands on the keyboard. "So February 15th to March 1st?"

"February 15th to March 1st?" I repeated with a soured expression.

"Is that wrong? Did I hear you incorrectly?"

"I said those dates?"

We wore matching expressions of confusion.

"Okay, what did I miss?" she asked. "I thought you said the fifteenth to the first... Lake Arrowhead...?"

"Lake Arrowhead," I said inwardly.

"Did you want to give it more thought before committing to those dates?"

I was staring blankly at her. I focused and said, "No. Those are fine, I suppose."

"Do you have family in Lake Arrowhead? I went there once when I was young. My aunt and uncle used to live there."

"Where is Lake Arrowhead?"

"San Bernardino mountains," she said. I must have still looked confused because she added, "Southern California? Near Big Bear? An hour or so from L.A.? You are familiar with Los Angeles, right?"

"Oh. That's right. Yes, I am."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." I stood up. "Great, so this Sunday, right?"

"Sure."

We exchanged phone numbers. She said she'd text me her address, and seven o'clock would be a fine time to be picked up.

### Chapter Twenty Five

When I got home I Googled Lake Arrowhead and learned a little about it. I sensed that it wasn't a coincidence that I envisioned myself driving to that town just a moment before Deborah insisted that I had said I was vacationing there. What Maggie had said, that God would grant me visions, that idea returned to me, and I all but knew that this was an act of Him. The question was, why Lake Arrowhead and what was I to do there? And when, exactly? Leave tonight? Next week? I hoped God wasn't wanting me to leave before Valentine's Day. The idea of breaking my first date with Deborah was an ugly one.

When I was driving the mountain road in my vision it had been snowing, and hard. That seemed like a good way to estimate the days I was supposed to be down there. I checked Weatherchannel.com and it was indeed supposed to snow in Arrowhead, but not till Monday. I was ecstatic. I could leave the morning after my date.

On Saturday I went to Men's Warehouse to buy a nicer pair of shoes to compliment my suit. I splurged and bought a hundred-dollar pair of black leather ones. The salesman assisting me asked if I wanted to take a look at suits or tuxedoes today. I shook my head no but said yes. It confused my poor helper.

"Yes?" he said.

Yes was the correct answer, I felt it in my heart. It was a reflexive answer given to me by providence. "Yes, but nothing too expensive, please. I'm on a budget."

He hooked me up with a cheap tux for just under two-hundred bucks, and threw in a white shirt and black bow-tie.

I left the department store muttering, "What in God's name am I about to do?"

The next morning was Valentine's Day. The day that would live in infamy, though I couldn't have known it then. I awoke with a smile. Deborah was my first thought, and she didn't leave my mind until my cellphone rang. It wasn't a number from my contact's list, but the area code was my own.

"Hello," I said.

"Who is this?" a girl asked.

"Aaron Mendelssohn."

There was silence on the other end. She then whispered, "Oh my..."

"Who is this?" I asked.

"You probably won't remember me, but I used to go to your church, Sunday school. My name is Brooke Stanwick."

"Tinkerbelle! Not remember you? Of course I do! Wow, how the heck are you?"

Her voice suggested she was unnerved. "A little spooked, I guess. I just intentionally dialed a random number and it ended up being yours."

"Really?"

"You're going to think I'm nuts."

"Trust me, Brooke, I won't think you're nuts. Nothing you could tell me would make me think that. Not as of late."

"Ever hear a voice in your head, telling you things? But it's your own voice?"

"Yes. Yes I have," I said as a matter of fact.

"Good. I'm glad. I'm not psycho, then. Or if I am, we're both psycho."

I chuckled.

"I don't know why," she said, "but I got it in my head that you're driving to a place called Lake Arrowhead and I should be going with you. That means nothing, right?"

I was agape and speechless.

"Mr. Mendelssohn?"

I cleared my throat. "Call me Aaron."

"But you aren't going to Lake Arrowhead, are you? I don't even know where that is."

"I am going. Brooke, I believe God spoke to you."

"Are you serious?" She sounded excited. "Why would He want me to go there with you?"

"I couldn't say. He must have guided your fingers over the number-pad on your phone. That's amazing."

"It is." Brief silence. "It's giving me the chills. I was compelled to pick up the phone and dial a number randomly, after daydreaming about going to Arrowhead with you. I've never done anything like it. I hope I'm not intruding, but would you mind if I went with you today?"

"To where?"

"Where else? Lake Arrowhead."

"I would say no under any other circumstance, because I feel that I should go there alone, but in light of this how could I say no? If it is God's will, of course you can go. Only I'm leaving tomorrow, not today."

"Tomorrow?" She registered surprised. "But I'm pretty sure we're supposed to leave today. Like right now. Maybe I'm wrong. I sense it though."

"I'm pretty sure it's tomorrow. I saw myself driving up the mountain during a snow storm, and it won't be snowing there until Monday. Let me check online real quick, just to be sure it didn't come early."

A minute later I was staring at the weather forecast with a broken heart. It was snowing today. I'd be breaking my date with Deborah. I sighed into the phone.

"What is it, Aaron?"

"You're right. I'm supposed to leave today, I guess."

"We're supposed to leave today, you guess."

"Yes, that's right." I did some math in my head. "Brooke, how old are you, anyway?"

"Fourteen."

"That's too young. I'm sorry. You sound older than that on the phone. I didn't think about how young you are. Your parents would never allow it."

"They won't know about it. As luck would have it, they're out of town till Friday."

"Maybe that isn't luck."

"Maybe," she said hopefully.

"Gosh, Tinkerbelle, I can't believe I'm talking to you after all these years. It doesn't bother you that I call you Tinkerbelle, does it?"

"No," she said and giggled. "It's cute. How old was I when we last met, seven? Eight?"

"Eight."

"You'll be in for a surprise when you see me. I was slow to mature, but I really shot up. I'm taller than my mom already. Five-foot-seven. I'm on the varsity basketball team as a freshman. Cool, huh?"

"No kidding, huh? I bet you're beautiful." What a dumb thing to say.

The way she breathed into the phone, it made me picture her smiling that charming smile. "Nah, I'm not beautiful. But that's nice of you to think so."

"Want to hear something sad?" I asked.

"Not really."

"I finally got the courage to ask out the woman I've been in love with for almost a year, and our first date is supposed to be tonight. Oh well, huh?"

"Aww, that is sad. I'm sorry, Aaron."

"Eh, it's okay. She'll be understanding I think. We can go out next week or something. Or the week after. I'm unsure how long I'm supposed to be in Lake Arrowhead. I took two weeks off of work without knowing I asked for it. So I'm thinking I'm to be there for two weeks."

"It can't be that long. I have to get back before my parents return."

"Oh that's right. I suppose we can come back sooner, then. Hopefully God will guide us. Worst case scenario, I'll drive you home and return down there."

"That's a lot of driving."

"Yep."

There was a stretch of silence. "I never did tell anyone about what Paul did to me that night," she said.

"You remember that, huh?"

"How could I forget? I have a permanent scar on my temple. It's small, but it's a reminder."

"I'm just grateful that he only hit you and didn't"—I cut myself short. What was I thinking? Dumb, Aaron, dumb!

"Didn't do anything sexual?"

"He didn't, right?"

"He didn't."

"Thank God," I muttered.

"Yes, thank God. Why do you suppose he did what he did? Any idea?"

"I don't know, Tinkerbelle. I wish I did. He's just a bad person."

"He's evil."

"Yes. I guess I better let you go. I have to make a horrible call, to Deborah. Text this phone number your address and I'll come get you in about an hour. Does that work for you?"

"I'll be packed and ready. Good luck with Deborah."

I broke the bad news to Deborah. She took it in stride, looked forward to our date, whenever it may be. I probably over-did it with the apologies and asserting that I wanted nothing more than to go out with her, that I simply had no choice, that I had to be somewhere. We ended the call on a high note, and I got to packing. I packed lightly, only two pairs of jeans and some shirts, a jacket. And my new tux and shoes. God would provide.

I found a hotel online, Lake Arrowhead Inn, and called to reserve the room for two weeks. I said I might not stay that long, but I wanted to secure it, just in case. They couldn't promise it would remain available unless I agreed to book it for two weeks and gave a deposit over the phone. I cleared my mind and uttered the first words that popped in my head, issued up like water from a well, and it was "Two weeks will be great."

It was ten A.M. when I pulled onto the road, used my phone's GPS to find Tinkerbelle's house, which I had been to twice but couldn't recall how to get there.

I parked in the driveway, texted her that I'm out front. Nervously I awaited her, imagining what she'd look like. I hoped she wouldn't be so pretty that I'd have a hard time not staring at her. I suspected she'd be just that pretty, or more. When she didn't respond and didn't come out, I turned the truck off and went to the front door, rang the bell. Then rang it again. I waited ten minutes, in which I phoned her a dozen times to no avail.

"So be it," I said and got in my truck.

I continued phoning her as I drove to the freeway. I gave up. It wasn't meant to be, I guess. I had a long drive ahead of me, set it off on the right foot with a prayer for guidance and safety, and safety for Tinkerbelle, who I hoped was okay.

I had an audio book of Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises playing on my cassette-player. I was engrossed by the story when my phone rang. It read Tinkerbelle, a name I input into my contacts list this morning with a smile. I answered eagerly.

"Yo, Tinkerbelle, where were you?"

"Oh, man, I'm sorry. I'm so embarrassed. Are you on your way down there now?"

"Yeah, about... seventy miles south of Fresno as we speak. What happened?"

"I was taking a shower and slipped, I guess. I just woke up on the floor of the tub."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. My fingers are all wrinkly, like prunes."

"I'd guess so. You took a shower for an hour and a half."

"Well crap," she said inwardly. "I thought I was supposed to go down with you."

"So did I. I guess not."

"Damn," she said. "Want to hear something interesting? I must have hit my head on the fall, because I'm bleeding."

"That's not interesting. That's alarming. Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. What's interesting is where I'm bleeding. My temple. The scar on my temple."

"That is something," I said meditatively. "You weren't supposed to go. I think that's pretty evident now."

She inhaled deeply through her nose. "Well have fun down there. Maybe we can get together sometime. My parents would love to see you again, I bet."

"Yes, we'll do that. You were the most precious kid, Brooke. Really you were. Probably still are."

"You're sweet to say. I'll let you go. Be safe."

"Sure thing. You too." A thought occurred to me before saying goodbye. "Wait a sec. Since I have you on the phone, may I ask you something?"

"No," she said gamely.

"Well I'm asking anyway," I said jocularly. "Maybe you won't remember, being that you were eight years old, but the last time I saw you we were on your couch. You said something that I spent a lot of time thinking about in the following days. You said Pie told you to tell me not to lose hope in Paul."

"Pie..." she said dreamily.

"I didn't mis-hear you then? It was Pie?"

"I didn't say anything about Pie, did I?"

"Yeah, there on the couch. I don't mean to be nosy, but you had a friend waiting outside of class? I couldn't make any sense of it, and that she'd advise you on me and Paul. Vexing, that's what it was. I regretted not asking you about it in detail."

"If you had, I probably wouldn't have said anything more. I don't recall mentioning Pie to you."

"It was a long time ago. I don't remember much of being eight either."

"Pie was my biggest secret."

"Like the movie, The Secret Life of Pi?" I was smiling.

"Actually seeing the commercial for that movie reminded me of Pie. I hadn't thought of her since... since about that time, when I was eight."

"Did you tell her about Paul and me? Is that why she said what she did? And why was she in the parking lot that day?"

What Tinkerbelle then said might have surprised me, but it didn't. Nothing would surprise me much this day. The extraordinary seemed mundane today.

"Pie isn't real, Aaron."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean she doesn't exist. Pie was an imaginary friend, my best friend. Or I guess you could say she was my subconscious, though I was too young to figure that out back then."

"You know our subconscious minds can be the voice of God," I said. "That doesn't surprise me that God would tell you to say what you did. Because He was right to advise me to try to reach Paul. I should have tried harder. That's cute you thought she was an imaginary friend. Pie," I said and chuckled. "God works in mysterious ways, eh?"

"Yeah..."

I sensed she wasn't telling me something. "Is everything okay, Brooke?"

"Yeah. I'll let you go. Drive safe."

I drove down Interstate 99 for several hours before merging onto Interstate 5. I drove up the gradient known as the grapevine. The sharp incline caused the gasoline to shift back in the tank, triggering the low-fuel light in my gauge cluster. My truck was working hard breasting this hill, so I hoped it wouldn't be too far till the next gas station. It was ten miles before there was an exit with refueling stations. I began merging to the off ramp before suddenly correcting myself back onto the slow lane without reason or consideration. It was pure irrational nonsense what I had just done. I swallowed and peered at my gas gauge: dead on E. A sign read Next Gas 11 miles. I was going to run out of gas.

"Are you kidding me?" I said. "What the heck was that about!"

"Have faith," I said calmly. I said it, but it wasn't from me. Have faith I did, from that moment on.

The needle of the gas-gauge was resting on the peg a good quarter-inch below the E by the time I exited the freeway in Santa Clarita. I expected to run out of gas, and reproved myself for believing that God wouldn't provide for me.

There was a Shell station close by, but I drove past it, turned onto the next street, pulled into an Arco. I got out and stretched, bones popping in my weary back. I slid my debit card in the machine and wed the nozzle to my truck. I squeezed the lever, dropped the catch-mechanism over it, and walked directly toward Manzanita Plaza, which neighbored the gas station. I strode to The Party Store, which was the nearest store of the lot. I had ceased being dubious or skeptical or even incredulous. I acted purely on impulse now, and accepted that. There was a Carl's Jr in the center of the plaza, it's fragrant smoke wafting out of a smoke-stack. I was starving for it. I considered driving through after I was all fueled up.

I milled around aimlessly inside the large store for a few minutes before happening upon a large bin with discounted items inside. Sitting atop the array of party goods was a Halloween costume. It was for kids, a frog costume. I took it, went to the cashier and paid for it. I laughed as I left the store. A kid's frog costume? I opened it up and thoughtlessly threw everything away except for the mask.

Maybe this has nothing to do with my purpose, I mused. Maybe this isn't God's doing but my overactive imagination, or some bad bacon this morning. What sense could there be in having a Halloween costume mask?

I made it back to my silver road-dust-enshrouded Tacoma, removed the nozzle from my truck and cradled it. I glanced at the meter and saw that only five cents worth of gas had made it to my tank. Faulty catch-mechanism. I sighed and gave it another try, slid my card, pressed regular unleaded, and pumped gas. Only another nickel's worth of gas made it inside my tank before it clicked off. Broken pump. I got in my truck and started it, hopeful that the ten cents worth of gas would be enough to crank over the engine to move me to the next pump. It fired right up. I pulled forward fifteen feet to the next pump and turned the engine off. As I got out of my truck I glanced at the fuel gauge: full tank. I gawped at it.

"Forgive me, Lord," I said. "I was wrong to have doubted you."

As I pulled onto the road, I had forgotten about Carl's Jr and their delicious burgers. I wasn't hungry anymore. I was satiated, and why should that have surprised me? My stomach was another gas tank filled without sustenance.

Something huge was coming, and not just from the dark clouds blotting out the sky. A storm of another name.

### Chapter Twenty Six

I made it to Lake Arrowhead Inn at 3:45 P.M. It had been snowing from approximately three-thousand feet, rain before that. Fortunately my truck is four-wheel-drive. I had no idea where I was going from here. I asked God to give me the answers, but they weren't coming. What did come was a pervading drowsiness. After unpacking my few meager possessions, and hanging my tux on a hanger in the closet, I lay on the bed face down above the covers. I fell asleep almost at once.

It was the only dream I ever had in which I knew I was dreaming. Thus so, I was inclined to believe it was a vision from God. My trip then began making some sense, being that I was at a masquerade party. That explained the tux and frog mask. So this must be a premonition, I decided. I was on the bottom floor of a large house, partying with two dozen kids. They were getting snookered, some smoked pot, and all were laughing, having a merry old time. I was standing in the middle of the room observing the party, alone, dressed exactly as I had been before falling asleep on my Arrowhead Inn bed. I saw a man seated at the table, alone, wearing a tux and frog mask. That was me! How odd, that I would be seeing myself. It's because it was a vision, I reminded myself.

It didn't take long to conclude that this wasn't a place of God, but teeming with Godlessness. I could look past the underaged drinking and smoking and maybe even the pot, but someone had cocaine, and a couple went inside the bathroom to have sex, and a guy was getting a girl off with his hand for all to see.

A boy was walking toward the other side of the room. I was in his path. I tried to move out his way but wasn't quick enough: he stepped through me as if I wasn't there. A girl in canary yellow was looking in my general area. I waved at her. She didn't wave back.

There was a man standing by the fire wearing all black except for a white mask. I was mesmerized by his sight. An uneasy sensation of foreboding seized me. Was this man the reason I was here? My gut said yes. I turned to better face him, scrutinized him. A man in a Raggedy Andy mask chanced by him, complimented his costume and cupped his shoulder before walking away. A man in a jester mask approached him, put a foot up on the stone footing of the hearth, and spoke to him while swirling the liquid in his cup. I stepped closer to eavesdrop.

"I'm happy with the turn-out," Jester said to him. He scanned the room approvingly, took a sip of his tonic. When his gaze swept by me, I noticed his hazel eyes. They alarmed me. There was a familiarity to them, I had seen them before. Was he... Paul?!

"Check that out," Jester said to him and nodded to a spot behind me. I looked back and saw a man in a lion mask molesting black cat. Back cat, who by all accounts was purring. I gaped at the boldness of the lascivious couple. Her legs were damn near doing the splits. His hand obliquely touched her so that the others could better see. A man in a pirate mask encroached on the couple, snapped a picture with his phone of a finger's conquest. I could just imagine the photo circulating on the internet and hoped she wasn't a minor. Or drugged. How on earth could anyone allow themselves to be put on display like that? I was heartbroken for her.

I returned my focus to the duo before the fire. The man in black grinned through me at the girl on the bed. His dark eyes had fire-light dancing in them. It didn't occur to me that he was facing away from the fire, making that reflection impossible. I had a sinking feeling that he was a supernatural being. Demonic. But demons aren't visible to us. That Paul was friendly with him—if this truly was Paul, which I was fairly certain he was—was hardly surprising.

I recalled the incident seven years ago in my Sunday school class. The one that quickly got out of hand after I sent Trouble to the corner. Fourteen was too old to be sent to the corner, but he did as I commanded, though I suspect he wouldn't have if he didn't want to. He wished to be the center of attention, and by being sent to the corner in a ceremony of reprimand he achieved that. He had called Tinkerbelle panty-girl, having recently given her a wedgie. Freddy came to her defense like the good boy he was, and that's when something happened that I hadn't remembered in years, but it was something that I revisited frequently following the incident, and that was Paul looking up to the vacant air beside him, attentively, and grinning before telling Freddy that God hates kids who kill their hamsters. Paul inexplicably knew that Freddy's hamster died; just as he knew I had taken Marie under the bridge at the dry riverbed; just as he knew I'd be showing up at that same spot to rescue Tinkerbelle and devised a trap to overpower me. Was the man standing beside Paul responsible for that knowledge? I believed so. And why I felt that why had little to do with rationalization and a whole lot to do with intuition.

I looked over my shoulder to the small circular table, where the real me was seated. Me in the flesh was watching with a soured expression Lion fondle Black Cat. Then he (me) fixed on the man with fire dancing in his eyes.

I returned my attention to Paul. Jester. He was watching what was taking place on the bed, as were several others. His eyes never left the opened gift under Black Cat's dress when he said out of the corner of his mouth, "You said she'd be here. Oh well, huh? Lucky her, I guess." Paul took a sip, swirled the cup again. "I could have Norrah come down here. Wouldn't that be better? That way I could watch."

I looked to the man with white plastic horns attached to a broad-rimmed black hat, expecting him to respond to Jester. But he didn't. Let's be honest here, the man was masquerading as the devil in disguise, and for all I knew, he was the devil. I don't honestly believe that, but I do believe he was something evil. Devil was glaring icily at Black Cat, his grin so wide that his yellowish teeth bared. That coupling of wide energized eyes and maniacal smile instilled a fatal dread in me, as it would any sensible person.

"Yeah, you're right," Paul said.

Yeah, you're right? I thought. I had been staring at that toothy grin: he hadn't uttered a word. In fact, he hadn't uttered a word yet to anyone that I was aware of.

A moment later Paul said, "Fuck no I don't! Better safe than sorry." A pause. "I know, I know. You're right. You're always right." He sipped his drink staring at Black Cat.

A few seconds later Paul looked over at his friend suddenly, brow raised. "Now? Give me a sec. I'm enjoying watching that dude check that chick for ovarian cancer." He laughed. Devil did not. But Devil did appreciate the lewd exhibition taking place on the bed, hadn't taken his eyes off of her since it began, hadn't given that maniacal smile a rest.

Paul reluctantly took his eyes off the girl and faced his friend, said, "Are you sure?" His gaze was at the fire-glowing half of Devil's masked face, whose dreadful expression seemed to be painted on, save for the dancing reflective flames on his dark irises.

Paul inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly with a nod. He set his cup on the mantle of the hearth and headed for the stairs, stealing a quick glance at Black Cat on his way, adjusted the tight crotch of his pants.

I was amid the beginning of something momentous, there could be no doubt.

Devil slowly removed his hat; a tactician in no real hurry, as his rewards are in his work, not their outcome. My breath caught, not from anything material, but from a sense that something portentous was unfolding. He dropped the hat to the stone hearth, peeled back his white porcelain mask and discarded it. I don't know what I was expecting to see—a demonic visage; evil personified, perhaps—but I didn't imagine this man would look unassuming. He was your ordinary Joe in appearance, with the exception of his foreboding expression. It was the expression of a mad man and a deviant. One with a unique collection of talents.

Masquerader #25 tugged one glove off his (black?) hand, then the other. His nails were clawish, lustrous, and jet black.

Ordinary Joe was ordinary no more.

### Chapter Twenty Seven

I awoke with my cheek on a small puddle of drool. I didn't know where I was at first. It was my hotel room. The digital clock on the stand read 5:12 P.M. I went to the window and parted the drapes. It was snowing. The parking lot had been plowed, tall snow banks hedging it. A bird landed on the balcony rail, just a couple feet outside the window. It squawked at me. It possessed black and white plumage and a plump little black head, which turned away from me so that its beady little eye could more directly watch me. I recalled from my vision the bird atop the Arrowhead sign, and wondered if this bird was a sign of another kind.

I closed the drapes and powered on the TV, set it to the news and watched it in bed while eating some beef jerky that I had brought from home.

I worried that I wouldn't be able to find the house of the party, and what consequence that might have. I worried that even if I did find the house, they wouldn't let me in, being an uninvited guest. If asked I would say I'm friends with Mike. Surely there would be a Mike there, isn't there always? I worried what might happen to me if I did get inside the party. Devil had removed his gloves and been poised to... to what? Something, surely. All hell was going to break loose, as the saying goes. And who better to break hell loose than Devil?

Thank God Tinkerbelle didn't come. I snatched my phone from the night stand and texted her: It's good you didn't come. Something really bad is going to happen tonight. I couldn't live with myself knowing something bad happened to you because of me.

I finished off my bag of jerky watching a reporter on location at Snow Valley Ski Resort. Three feet of fresh powder dumped in twenty-four hours. Skiers paradise, the reporter deemed it.

My phone chimed. Tinkerbelle had responded: Could I call you?

I texted an affirmative, went to the closet and took out the ironing board and iron, removed my black slacks from the plastic wrapper and hanger. My phone rang.

"Hey-howdy," I said.

"I'm starting to get a little worried," she said, and I heard it in her voice.

"For me? Don't be. I'll handle myself."

"Well maybe for you, too. But I'm worried because I haven't stopped bleeding since I fell."

"Brooke, if you need to go the hospital, go!"

"I... I don't know if I need to. It's not bleeding badly. But it hasn't slowed whatsoever. Actually, it's gotten—"

"Are you a hemophiliac?"

"No. I went on WebMD and browsed it, and that's what I found, too. Hemophilia. But I'm not one. I've always been able to stop bleeding on my own."

I hummed. "You said it's your temple?"

"Uh huh."

I waited for her to say more.

"I told you it was from the scar that Paul gave me, right?" she asked.

"Yes."

"I think the bleeding has gotten worse. Actually, I know it has."

"Go the hospital. Have your neighbor take you if you don't think it's bad enough to call nine-one-one over."

"It's not that bad. It was just a little blood seeping at first, but now it's trickling. I've soaked through two towels."

"If you don't get help right now, I'm going to call nine-one-one for you. You're worrying me."

"I know, that's what I was afraid of. I didn't want to worry you, but when you texted me I figured I'd get your advice. If I called my parents they'd flip out, call for an ambulance, and cut their trip short."

"How does your head feel?"

"I have a headache, but of course I do. I fell in the shower, hit my head."

"Go get it stitched up. Keep me informed, okay?"

"Talk to you later."

I remembered seeing the bloody forehead of Tinkerbelle when she was no taller than your average five-year-old. That bastard Trouble had brained her hard with a rock. The gash wasn't very big, but it was deep enough that she had a sheet of blood covering the left side of her face.

I couldn't believe how close I had come to bringing her with me on this trip. How horrible I would feel about that decision right now, having just awoken from a dream that forecasted something wicked this way comes, as Ray Bradbury had so eloquently titled a novel. She would have had to endure seeing Black Cat being taken advantage of, for starters. And the couple swaggering into the bathroom to fornicate. It was no place for an innocent fourteen-year-old. Following that thought was the idea that Brooke would be seeing Paul once again. Paul, who once threatened to kill her if I didn't do as he said. What else was it he had said? That he wouldn't rape a little girl, but if she was a few years older he might? Yes, and he said Brooke was likely to be hot when she grew up. Thank God she didn't come with me.

A sudden thought hit me like a charged live-wire, its impact no less powerful. It was what Paul said to his evil friend before the hearth: "You said she'd be here. Oh well, huh? Lucky her, I guess." Who had they anticipated coming? Is the answer to that question pressing a blood-soaked towel to her temple this very moment? If so, it begs the question: who had given her the vision of accompanying me on my trip down here? I thought it had been God, or an angel. But now I wasn't so sure. Although I couldn't say definitively, I thought I knew who had prevented her from coming with me on this trip. Divine intervention caused her to slip in the shower, as well as provide her with some kind of stigmata in the form of a reopened gash. Maybe I was wrong, but my gut said I was right.

On the heels of this revelation was another: if Paul sought to lure Brooke down to the party, that could only mean that he knew I was coming. I didn't know how I felt about that.

I ironed my tux, took a shower and got dressed, prayed for my safety, the partiers' safety, and Tinkerbelle's safety.

The uncertainty of everything was maddening. What was supposed to go down at the party and why was I sent here? Because Paul was going to be there? Why did that matter?

My guts were all in a knot as I closed the hotel door behind me, got in my truck. I wanted this day to be over, for it to be tomorrow. How crazy a notion it was that I was about to go to a party that I hadn't the foggiest idea where it was, but I knew I'd be there just the same. God would guide me. That God would guide me gelled my conviction that I was doing the right thing, that I needed to be here tonight. I was serving His purpose, and I would die for that purpose if it was my destiny. My reward would be waiting for me in Heaven.

### Chapter Twenty Eight

As I drove aimlessly over a recently plowed road, I did a lot of thinking, some introspection. How important was it that I was right here, right now? How did this all come to be? I hadn't even heard of Lake Arrowhead when I daydreamed it two days ago. I had just been caught gandering at Deborah's chest, embarrassed but not too embarrassed to inhibit me from having a vision. I was driving up the mountain, the sky gray and ominous, snowflakes sifting down, not yet dumping. The bird on the Arrowhead sign. The same species of bird that was outside my hotel room: a magpie. Was it an omen?

I gasped and instinctively hit the brakes, cutting loose the back end of my truck, which slid out and threatened to send me into the snow bank curbing the side of the road. I released the brake and gassed it a little, just enough to regain enough traction to propel me away from the looming snow bank. My heart raced, and not from sliding on the road. I needed to make a phone call, but it would have to wait until I got off the road. I'd need my focus on driving just to keep from wrecking.

I had the epiphany less than a mile from the place of destiny, Norrah's home—though I didn't yet know the home owner to answer by that name. Thankfully it was near, because I was busting at the seams by the time I parked toward the end of the cul-de-sac. The idea that caused me to nearly crash was eating at me, and wouldn't subside until I could speak with Tinkerbelle.

I left my truck idling, heater on high, and called Brooke.

"Hello," she said, upbeat.

"What did Pie look like," I asked.

"Pie? I told you, she isn't real. Like you said, she was my subconscious."

"Do subconsciouses manifest themselves? She wasn't all inside your head, was she?"

In her hesitation was the answer, confirmation.

"I don't know," Brooke said.

"Don't be shy about it. What did she look like?"

"Why? Why do you want to know?"

"Because, Brooke, I believe I know your little friend Pie. She isn't as imaginary as you think. Did she have brown unbrushed hair and bright green eyes, eyes that almost seemed to glow?"

Brooke inhaled sharply.

"May I take a stab at guessing how her name came to be Pie?" I didn't wait for a response. "I don't think that's her name. I think her name is Magdalena, or Maggie, and from that I'd guess you thought it would be cute to call her Magpie, and eventually Pie."

"Yes. Yes!"

I exulted with a fist-pump.

"She's... real?" Brooke asked. "But she can't be real!"

"I don't know how I missed that earlier. Maggie had wanted me to remain you kids' Sunday school teacher, insisted that it was God's will. It was my calling, though I shunned it. It's hardly surprising that she'd have you try to convince me of the same thing, knowing how much I adored you. Unfortunately it didn't work. I can only guess at the fatal outcome of what I did, of abandoning hope on Paul."

"Paul was hopeless, you couldn't have changed that."

"Says you. Says me. But God thought otherwise. Maggie thought otherwise. Anyway, I'm here at the party now. I'll have to let you go."

"Party? What party?"

"I don't know, a masquerade party."

"Whose? What are you doing there?"

"No time to explain things. Actually, I couldn't explain things anyway. I'll fill you in later. I just had to call you to verify that your Pie is my Maggie. Very cool. I knew in my heart of hearts that Maggie was real, even though my dear friend Abbey couldn't see her. I knew she was real, but by you sharing with me what you did verified her existence to me."

"Magpie is real," she said dreamily. "She's an..."

"You can say it. She's an angel. I'll talk to you soon. Take care, Tinkerbelle."

I ended the call and quit the engine. There were several cars lining both sides of the dark street. I was parked behind a yellow late-model Pontiac GTO. Not the kind of car you want to drive in a snow storm. The only light in the area came from a frosted-glass fixture on the porch of a house fifty yards away. There was a house directly to my right, but it was nothing but a hulking shadow, no lights on inside. I stepped out of the truck and walked toward the music, which was faint at this great distance.

I nearly fell on my ass from the shock that was a voice shouting, "Hey! What are you doing!" just a couple feet from my ear. I flinched, looked to the yellow car beside me. A guy in a Batman mask and girl in a Catwoman mask were laughing hysterically inside the GTO. The driver's window was cracked open, and now rolled down fully in a hum.

"Sorry, dude," Batman said. "Just messing with you."

I smelled the strong skunky stench of marijuana pouring out of the cabin.

"You scared the crap out of me," I said.

"Sorry, bro. Hey, want a toke off this? It's good shit." He offered the joint.

"No, I'm fine. I... uh, already smoked some earlier."

"Sweet. See you inside, bro."

I began walking toward the house, feet already turning into popsicles through the thin soles of my wingtips, padding across a fresh inch of snow blanketing the asphalt. I stopped and turned my head, saw Batman hand Catwoman the joint. She held it to her mouth; the tip glowed a hypnotic orange. I returned to the open window of the GTO.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" I said.

"Shoot."

The girl coughed violently as she passed the point back to her date.

"Is Paul hosting this party?"

"No, Taylor is. Oh wait. No, you're right. Paul is hosting this party, isn't he?"

"Yeah," the girl said. "Why?"

I stood is silent thought for a moment. "What's he like? Paul."

"You don't know him?" He puffed the joint.

"He's a dick," Catwoman said. "Not really, but kind of."

Batman coughed, said, "No, he is a dick, you're right," and coughed some more.

"A sexy dick, though," the girl said and grinned devilishly, slid provocatively her tongue over her upper lip, then laughed at her date's reaction.

"You bitch!" Batman said and laughed with her. "I don't care. So what, girls like him." He looked me in the eyes and said, "Doesn't matter though, bro, because you know what? Brandy here is going to bed with me tonight, not him. Am I right, man?" He was smiling proudly at me.

"Yeah," I said with feigned enthusiasm. "You're right. Right on, right on. So how long have you known Paul, and where'd you meet him?"

"I don't know, a few months ago I guess. At a frat party. He goes to the same school we do: University of Redlands."

"He isn't a student there," Brandy (aka Catwoman) informed. "At least that's what Marissa told me. He just pretends to go there."

"Really?" Batman said bemused. "Why would he do that?"

Brandy shrugged, gestured for her date to pass the joint back over. He did, and she wasted no time ripping a toke off of it.

"How do you know him?" Batman asked me.

"Same way. At a party," I lied. "Does Paul ever talk to you about... I don't know, religion or anything like that?"

"Fuck no," Batman said grinning up at me. "The only time he mentions God is when he says goddamn."

Brandy howled laughter, a laughter amplified by THC.

As much as I hated that word, I had to admit, that was pretty clever. I humored with Batman.

"I'll let you guys go," I said. "See you inside."

"Yep. Hey bro, did you forget your mask?"

"Oh yeah. Thanks."

I walked back to my truck, unlocked it and got inside. I watched as Batman and Catwoman got out of the car parked directly in front of me and slowly sauntered down the white street, careful not to slip. He pinched her ass and she hopped up and swatted his hand. He laughed and did it again. I shook my head at them with a grin.

My toes were numb. I decided to start the engine and crank the heat on to defrost my feet, turned the knob to floor-mode and kicked off my shoes. My daytime running lights activated with the engine, illumined the street a great deal before me, reflecting the snow's blinding whiteness back at me. I wished I hadn't turned my truck on. The stoned couple twenty feet or so into the beaten track of my headlights looked back at me. It was a spotlight for some new shenanigans. Batman took advantage of the situation by reaching down to the hem of Brandy's dress and pulling it up. She slapped his hand and shrieked, then laughed. He tried again, with the same result. She flipped him off before flashing me anyway, defiantly, pulling her dress all the way up to her stomach and doing a full circle. She wore a white thong. What bothered me about it wasn't the immorality of the act, but that I couldn't look away from what I was seeing, her alluring figure. It was Satan working on me, enticing me, tempting me, and I was giving in to temptation. Only a piece of forbidden fruit that ripe could stray me from the path of righteousness. If hell was to be occupied by a multitude of women looking like that, Satan could do worse than making pamphlets with her on the cover, posed just as she was a second ago, turning a circle with her dress above her waist, little white cotton panties. Like it or not, the image would be forever tattooed in my memory.

She lowered her dress. Batman gave me a thumbs-up and cheered, "Yeah! What an ass, huh? Remember what I said, bro! Tonight she's in my bed, not Paul's!"

Upon mention of Paul, Catwoman lifted the skirt of her dress to just below her waist and gyrated her hips, miming intercourse with Paul.

I gawked at her. This was a new breed of people to me. Wholly unabashed and shameless. Proud, even. Bodies not temples but drive-through's. They were children in heat. I wondered if it would be so bad if something horrible did happen to these kids tonight. Did God not scourge the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah for the same reason? Maybe sometimes the slate does need to be wiped clean.

You're a hypocrite, man, Paul had once said to me. He was right, I am a hypocrite. I'm supercilious, looking down on these kids like I'm better than them. But what had I done just twenty short seconds ago? I imbibed fervently the sight of Catwoman's lower-half in all its splendor, those milky long slender legs and full glutes, and it aroused me. And in my dream I watched Lion fondle Black Cat. I was aghast, yes, but that didn't stop me from staring at the deed, did it? Not at all. I'm a hypocrite. For the first time in my twenty-eight years, I admitted that to myself.

The heat was doing more than defrosting my toes, it was cooking my feet, and it felt sublime. I put my shoes back on and shut off the engine. It was time.

I was heading toward the side of the house, where I had seen the two kids go a minute ago. The window in front (the center of three stories) had blinds which were open, kitchen lights on. I looked inside as I walked, stopped when I spied a woman. She had just entered the kitchen from a larger room, and was now pouring wine into a glass. She was older than Batman and his luscious date, around my age. Dressed plainly enough to know that she wasn't there for the party, but instead was the presumable home-owner. She glimpsed me through the corner of her eye, looked over at me directly. I resumed my pace at once. Peeping Tom? Sure, why not. I was feeling like a real jerk. She assuaged that feeling with a smile and wave at me. It wasn't a polite smile but a sincere one. What a lovely woman, I thought. I waved back before disappearing behind the corner of the house, descended the slope using the wall for support, lest I slip on the snow and fall flat on my butt. The snow was deep here; I used the tracks of the preceding guests so I wouldn't be walking through deep powder.

The music was getting loud as I neared the back of the house. I lowered the Frog mask from the top of my head to my face. There was a patio under the second-floor deck free from snow, but not free from guests. I rounded the corner to meet the company of a boy and girl.

"Hey guys," I said coolly.

"Hey," said Bunny. "I got to pee." She went inside, leaving the door open.

"What's up, Frog?" Mouse said buoyantly, as if I were an old friend instead of a stranger.

"Not much, amigo." I had to raise my voice to contend with the music. "How goes it?"

"It goes, it goes. Cold as shit, huh?" He sipped from his red cup.

"Yeah it is. Is it any warmer inside?"

"Yeah, body heat, the best kind," he said. He reached out to shake my hand, saying, "I'm Dust—" He cut himself off. "Whoops. I keep forgetting we aren't supposed to use our names. I'm Mouse. The pee'er who just went inside is my girl, Bunny."

"Bunny, huh? Nice."

"My little Playboy bunny, she is."

"How's the party?"

"Just got here ten minutes ago, but it seems cool."

"Sweet," I said. "I haven't seen Paul in years; can't wait to see how he's been."

He nodded, sipped his drink. "Years, huh? You're the first guy I've met who's known him longer than... longer than this spring semester, I guess."

"Is that so?"

"He's the new guy on campus, so to speak. Everyone talks about him. Chicks dig him. He's with a new chick every time I see him, and they're always knock-outs."

"Knock-outs, huh? Like Bunny? And Catwoman?"

"You think they're hot?" Mouse asked with a twitch of his brow.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that about your girlfriend. That was rude of—"

"Dude, don't worry about it," he said with a disarming grin. "I take it as a compliment. And yes, Brandy is gorgeous. I mean Catwoman." Under his breath he said, "What I wouldn't give for ten minutes alone with that."

"Really? But you have Bunny. If you don't mind me saying, she's a perfect ten."

"Oh yeah? Thanks, man. Yeah, she's smokin', but Catwoman is different. Strange always trumps been-there-done-that, know what I mean?" He put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it.

I nodded, though I'd never relate to him, couldn't empathize in the slightest with how he felt, which was jaded. Jaded to have won the affection of a gorgeous woman who was racking up the miles on the odometer and about due for a trade-in on a new lease. Or a Certified Pre-Owned, like Catwoman. Hell, maybe Mouse and Batman could trade pink-slips. I looked over the railing to the blackness of forest. The girl returned outside and draped a limp arm over Mouse's shoulder, grinned intoxicatedly at me.

"Feel better?" I asked.

"Much. Froggy. I'm going to eat some frog legs tonight. What say you to that?"

"Ouch...?"

The couple laughed.

"I'll talk to you guys later," I said and headed for the door. "Be safe."

"Always," Mouse said.

I stepped foot inside and for a moment was overwhelmed by déjà vu. It wasn't déjà vu, but something similar. It was the sensation of having been in this room, even though I hadn't. It was from my dream. It was more confirmation that I was on the path of destiny. For better or worse, I was where I was supposed to be. I gazed around the room, taking in the sights of diverse masqueraders. There was Black Cat, laughing with Canary. I wondered if she had already been excavated there on the bed, or if that was yet to come. I remembered seeing myself seated at that small table, watching Lion do what he did, and decided that the deed hadn't yet occurred.

I appreciated Black Cat's physical beauty, and as I surveyed the room I appreciated the good looks of boys and girls alike. Maybe it was the formal attire, but I didn't think so. Paul had invited the cool crowd, it seemed, which almost exclusively consists of beautiful people. I was an outsider looking in, in every aspect this evening.

What is Paul planning for you all, I wondered. A better question was, what does Paul's friend plan for you all? Whatever it was, they were in on it together, those two. In my dream Paul had said he should get Norrah to come downstairs, that way he could watch. The lovely lady upstairs whom I peeked at through the window must be Norrah. What could it mean that she should come downstairs, that way Paul could watch? Watch what? Watch Black Cat get molested? That was my own flaring hormones talking. No, it wasn't that. He was to go upstairs and not bring Norrah down. It was a puzzle I couldn't solve, not enough pieces in place.

"You French, Froggy?" a guy said at my side. He wore a mask with colorful feathers and glitter. A showgirl's mask.

"No, why?"

"You know, they call the French frogs."

"Oh." I put my hand out and said, "Name's Aaron."

"No names, comrade. No names." He shook my hand.

"Oh yeah."

"Dude," he said, "I'm looking to score some E. Got any? Or know anyone who does?"

"What's E?"

He grimaced. "Never mind." He walked away, clapped the back of Raggedy Andy and got to work needling him for a possible source of E.

There was Pirate, Elephant, Bulldog, Raccoon, Princess, Fairy... I began counting them for no reason. Thirteen on that half of the room. Canary, Black Cat, Leopard, Catwoman, Jester, Devil... there were nine on the other half. Behind me, outside on the patio, was Mouse and now Phantom. Twenty five in total, including myself.

I threaded through the crowd to the table, slid a red cup off the stack and poured myself a cup of tonic and ice. A loud rock song played. Some people moved to the beat, not dancing but something less than that. The cigarette smoke from outside wafted in. I smelled something not cigarette smoke, something sweeter. Pot. I sipped my tonic as I ambled across the room, grinning and nodding at anyone who made eye-contact with me. I then met eyes with Jester. Paul. His were welcoming, grinning at me. He knew who I was. I'd rather he frowned at me. We were still looking at one another when Butterfly—her mask a colorful glittery spread of four wings—tapped my shoulder, stealing my attention away.

"Yes?" I said to her.

"Toby...?"

"No, sorry."

"Oh."

"Hey, do you know who that guy is by the fireplace?" I asked in an undertone.

"What?" The music was too loud to conduct any kind of surreptitious conversation.

I stepped into her; she moved her cup away to accommodate my closeness. I put my mouth to her ear and said, "Do you know who that guy is by the fire? Standing beside Jester. With the horns."

She looked in that direction, which was around me. She put her mouth on my ear. I felt her wet lips nuzzling my ear, and it sent a tingle down my spine.

"I don't know. I like his mask, though." She lapped at my earlobe once, playfully.

I felt it in my groin, pulled back from her. She wore a wry grin. It went well with what she then said: "Want to take me upstairs?"

I swallowed dryly. "For what?"

She had just taken a sip of her cocktail when I said it. She laughed and spit out some of the drink.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"So am I."

She turned away from me, spied a friend of hers and raised her hands in the air, grinded her hips in a kind of dance move. "Canary..." she drawled.

I took a deep breath and risked a glance at Jester. He was still watching me. Probably hadn't stopped since first laying eyes on me. Still wore that same pleased expression. Beside him Devil glared at me. His wasn't a pleased expression. I looked away at once, thought it would be a while before I looked in that direction again. How impossibly sinister his presence was, irrationally so.

There was now a song playing that people were intimately familiar with the lyrics. The sum of them sang along. With my back to Paul and his cohort, I stepped to the nearest window, beside the small table laden with booze, and looked outside the dark windowpane. Phantom and Mouse were just beyond the patio, standing on a bank of snow, looking up to the deck above us, conversing with Norrah.

The throw of yellow light from that upper deck fanned twenty or so feet into the forest before becoming dark impenetrable night. Phantom and Mouse stood a couple feet apart, facing me, their cheerful faces gazing up at Norrah.

My eyes doubled at what I saw between them, well beyond them. A little white ghost of a personage blending in perfectly with the snow, save for her dark hair and green reflective eyes, standing at the farthest reach of the light, between the trunks of two large Pines.

I rushed to the open door and stepped outside.

A woman laughed above me, a soothing musical laughter. "We'll see," she said. "What are your names? I'm Norrah."

"Phantom," Phantom said.

"Mouse," the other said. "We can't give our names, it's the rule."

"Okay, Mouse and Phantom," said the woman above, invisible to me. "Maybe I'll come down for just one drink in a few minutes."

"Right on," Phantom said.

The two masqueraders flanked me and went inside, closed the door. I was alone out here, save for the woman on the deck above me. The sliding glass door opened and closed. I was now absolutely alone, in the physical sense. But not in the spiritual sense. Down the snowy slope, between the Pines and catching very little light was Magdalena.

"Hi," I said nervously at her.

Her somber expression was wooden. Her white dress billowed with the wind, as did ribbons of her brown hair. One lock of hair caught at her cheek, tip whipped around her chin and flitted like the forked tongue of a snake. She wore no shoes, stood barefoot on the snow. As if she were weightless, she didn't recess into the powder.

"Aaron, Aaron, Aaron," she said disappointedly. The music did nothing to obscure her voice, nor did the distance separating us. I couldn't be sure her voice wasn't all in my head, even as I saw her mouthing the words. "Are you losing your way, and so soon?"

"No," I contended. "I mean... I... I don't know. Maybe I am."

I hung my head, glimpsed up shamefully and was relieved to see her turn a smile.

"Let's chat, shall we?" she said.

I went through the narrow division of rail, up the steep bank of snow, crushing down into it. I stood in place momentarily. The coldness of snow rushed through the leather of my shoes, numbing my toes almost at once. I continued on, stamping a single set of tracks into the snow, not wondering why there wasn't a second smaller set of tracks leading to her. I arrived before her, stopped. From her shadowy visage shone green eyes, a source of light all their own, albeit meager.

"You are not so unlike the others here," she began.

I didn't need to ask what she meant. I was ashamed, nodded.

"Another hour or so and might I find you upstairs with... who was she? Butterfly?"

"I wouldn't do that. Look into my heart and see for yourself."

She nodded with marked satisfaction. "What you thought earlier," she said, "about Sodom and Gomorrah, and wiping the slate clean. Very perceptive."

"Oh no... please don't tell me that's what's going to happen."

"And why shouldn't it?"

"Because they don't deserve that!"

She stared silently at me, green eyes glowing dimly, churning with supernatural energy.

"I'll do what I'm supposed to, but please don't take them away," I said desperately.

"Are you pleading with me or with God? I am not He. It is His decision to make."

"Then why am I here? What purpose does it serve for me to be here? Am I to be one of the... those punished for sinning?"

"God is punishing no one. It isn't He who has designs against your peers. It is another."

"Paul's friend," I surmised. "Devil."

"God and God alone has the power to act against it. But why should He?"

I dropped to my knees—my warm knees melting the snow around them, soaking my slacks with freezing water—and prayed my hands together, looked up at the pitch black sky and swaying boughs of Pine needles.

I prayed, begged God to keep these kids safe. I won't relate all my pleas, but there were many. The voice of God is our subconscious, and my subconscious showed me the path to walk. Gave me direction. I was tasked, and obliged to take up that task. It is such a deeply personal thing, the words I received from God, that I could in no way violate my conscience by repeating them to you my reader. They were words between He and I, and shall remain in confidentiality. But this sacred vow I took shouldn't affect the following pages, I'll see to that.

I was on my knees in the snow, weeping in my hands. Upon saying Amen there was a hiccup in time, a disconnect between what I had been doing and what I was now doing. I was at the back door, looking down at the knob. I touched at my knees, the fabric of my slacks dry and warm. I glanced over my shoulder; Maggie wasn't there. I checked my wristwatch: 8:52 PM. I'd step inside to make it twenty-five masqueraders in the room of destiny.

###

If you enjoyed this story, check out the author's other novels. You can contact him at jeffvrolyks@gmail.com, where he eagerly awaits your comments and vows to email you back!

About the author:

Jeff Vrolyks lives with his wife of 7 years Christy in Simi Valley, California. He is a new writer, in that he recently discovered a passion for writing and hasn't stopped since. He was in the Air Force for a four year stint (cargo aircraft crew-chief), worked in the beer beverage industry, automotive industry, and in the oil fields on drilling rigs. His turn ons include thunderstorms in the forest, rainy sunsets at the beach, and glowing reviews from you. His turn offs include driving in Los Angeles, working-out in an over-crowded gym, and receiving scathing reviews from people intolerant of foul language and violence.

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