Rory’s eyes bugged with disapproval.
“We are?”
“Rory, we’ve got to check on her. She’s old.”
Patrick contorted himself around the tenuously hanging screen door and slid his way inside with the finesse of a mongoose. He leaned forward on one set of toes, feeling on the wall for the light switch and nearly fell over from the weight of his friend colliding into his back.
“Sorry.”
“Watch where you’re going, you clumsy oaf. Hey, flick the lights on.”
“I can’t see anything.”
“Give me your cigarette lighter.”
“Here.”
Patrick struggled with the poorly constructed device, striking it a good seven or eight times. Then it finally ignited and a thin halo where the boys stood flickered to life. The floor was coated with a green film, somewhat resembling Nickelodeon Gak. They grimaced at the sight.
“What is this stuff?” Rory petitioned.
“I don’t know. Here, try the light switch.”
Rory flicked it up and down several times. Nothing.
“Come on. Let’s go.”
“What about Ms. Alma?”
Patrick pivoted his head to answer his friend, replied with certainty, “She’s dead.”
Rory knew he was right. How wasn’t important, he just wanted to be back in his messy room. So what if there were roaches and rats and moths and a peanut butter sandwich under his bed from three months ago? It was his home. It was his lair. And it was safe. No one would bother him there, not even his parents, though sometimes he might have wanted them to. Even if he had read all the comic books there, he’d gladly read them again. Anything to just get away from this infernal night.
Chapter 9
“But what about the children?” Challista pleaded from the passenger seat in that classic appeal to prudence.
Barry had been doing everything he could to keep from driving frantically. It’s been said not to drive when one is emotional and now he could see why. In reality, he was driving around looking for answers because he wasn’t totally sure which direction First Memorial Allenville Hospital was, even though he was more than familiar with the layout of the township.
“The gym is locked. They’ll be fine. They can wait. Right now, I’m worried about your health.”
“No! Barry! Please, don’t take me. I’m much better. I was just on my period. That’s why I was bleeding.”
“I’m not stupid, Challista. I’ve been around the block. You can’t just tell me something about women’s issues and expect me to just accept it at face value. Something was going on with you back there. Who are you? That wasn’t my wife!”
Challista erupted with devastation, burying her head in her lap. Barry, casting accusatory glances downward between distracted glimpses at the demands of stop lights and traffic signs.
“No! You don’t understand. I couldn’t control myself.”
“You couldn’t control yourself? Oh, ok. Well, maybe I should go over to the projects after I drop you off and score myself a little baggie of black tar heroin. You know, because I can’t control myself.”
“Barry, it wasn’t me. It was Gary.”
Coleman slammed the sedan to a screeching halt. Something had connected and a light bulb had clicked on above his cranium.
“So, Gary’s back.” He pondered.
Fellow motorists were angrily leaning on their horns and swerving around them, a mere side note to the saga unfolding inside the cabin.
Challista continued, “He was looking for some kind of book.”
Barry stared blankly at a fixed point somewhere on the horizon, trying to connect the dots. Someone in a black Honda CRV blared their horn a couple of times, pulled past the driver side window to hurl some obscenities and Barry reluctantly returned to Earth.
“Barry, honey. Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you to your mother’s.” He answered with finality.
He was calm now. He knew what he had to do.
Detective Rosicky leaned backed in his office swivel chair with the Chinese takeout, manipulating the fried rice with his chopsticks. You know, he thought, I’m not Sherlock Holmes but you don’t have to be a world class sleuth to deduce that this isn’t the most effective way to shovel food into one’s mouth. He still used them, though. Must be the novelty of it. But the Chinese don’t have the novelty of it, do they?
BRRRNGGG
Rosicky jumped at the sputtering ring of the rotary office phone on his desk, an avalanche of fried rice cascading all over his clip on tie. Some casualties are unavoidable, especially in this line of work. He scrambled for the brown bag Ping had delivered and fumbled through the Styrofoam and paper, searching for the fortune cookie. A superstitious man by nature, he wanted to reveal his fortune during the ensuing phone call. Maybe it could do something to color his view of whatever information was to come from the other end of the line. Yes, Detective Martin Rosicky had an important job and it could be considered highly unprofessional to allow the phone to go unanswered for four consecutive rings while he fished for a delectable, sugary treat. But he was of the mind that one just can’t put a price on mojo. That is to say, if there is something you do, some kind of pregame ritual, some kind of jinx, a saying that you recite in your head, a lucky pair of shoes or hat you might wear that just seemed to put you in the zone, never question it. Never stray from it. Just go with it. Some athletes drink pickle juice before each game. But God works in mysterious ways and by such margins are playoff games decided. Final exams passed. Cold cases cracked.
With the familiar plastic ruffling sound of his fingers finally encountered his prize, he deftly snatched up the desert cookie, simultaneously slamming his other hand down on the receiver of the office phone, now on it’s fifth ring, catapulting it up to eye level where it was keenly grabbed out of thin air in a choreographed and well-rehearsed display he’d become somewhat of an office legend for. Not to discount his track record for solved cases.
“Rosicky?”
“Yeah, shoot.”
“This is Willard. I’m here at A.S.H.”
“Right. Go ahead.”
He’d mastered the art of sounding impatient when he really wasn’t. Pulled apart the seam of the plastic wrapper containing the fortune cookie like a bag of chips as he responded to Willard’s introduction, marveling at it as he let it showcase between his thumb and middle finger like a precious stone.
“Nothing.”
Rosicky waited patiently for some elaboration. None came.
“Excuse me?” He prompted. Perhaps there was a short in the phone board circuitry.
“That’s right, nothing. No evidence.”
The fortune cookie snapped in half, in no small part due to the vitriol of the moment. Rosicky took his feet off of the desk and leaned forward in disbelief.
“Finger prints? Foot prints? I mean, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job or anything- “
“No, you heard me correctly. I replayed the video from four different angles in the hallway and all of the outdoor cameras as well. None of them were tampered with. Simon can be seen escorted to his cell yesterday at approximately 1608 hours and he simply never leaves. Neither the door or window show any signs of adulteration and the computers have been analyzed for malfunctions and viruses. The ventilation grate inside the cell measures 12”x9” and shows no sign of manipulation. I don’t know what to make of it.”
As Willard spoke, Det. Martin Rosicky, with the office phone cradled on his shoulder, pulled the two halves of the fortune cookie apart and retrieved the small white slip of paper. Blank. Flipped to the other side. Blank again.
Well, that’s fitting. Not even any lottery numbers? Must be a defect or lack thereof, to be more precise. That a good enough answer for you, Mr. Professor? A big, fat, steaming pile of nothing. He was forced to admit, ultimately, that the message was painfully clear. You get no clues, no direction and no fortune. Only the unremarkable comforts of a light
ly sweetened wafer.
Or could there be more to the omen than simply an absence of one? Martin examined the implication carefully in his mind’s eye. His methods were anything but by the book. As with any decision he faced in life, be it large or small, he often diverted his decision making to an external source. Where many remained loyal to the ever popular “gut”, his intuition relied on the alignment of his thoughts with that which was simultaneously heard or seen. If a young person rang a bicycle bell at precisely the same moment as he was hovering his finger over a certain row of lottery tickets he was considering, he might take it as a catalyst in making such a selection. Sometimes he would be vindicated with a noteworthy prize. Sometimes not. Thusly, he remained loyal to this stratagem. On more than one occasion, while serving a warrant for a bond forfeiture or parole violation or even during a rugged foot pursuit, Detective Rosicky, having encountered frustration, bent down and plucked a pinch of grass blades and then letting them fall to the ground where he stood. Whatever direction the grass blades seemed partial to, he would follow.
This, of course, was never discussed. A good magician never divulges their tricks of the trade. But it was by this method of reasoning Martin Rosicky used to meticulously analyze the blank slip of paper he continued to adjust between his fingers. After all, the very absence of a fortune could be seen as a clue in and of itself. It was not a denial of information. It was a confirmation of all information. Could this be the case that was completely and totally open to interpretation in every conceivable way? He sure hoped not. This is no ordinary case. This could be a major problem. Not just for his professional career but quite possibly his sanity too, not that he hadn’t considered it before but now that he was facing it in reality…….
“I almost forgot, there is one thing. A canister of Nickelodeon Gak was discovered underneath his bunk. Remember that stuff?”
“Are you serious?”
He was assuming he was, you just can’t make this stuff up. Please let now be the time for Deputy Willard to make an awkward attempt at humor.
“Like a heart attack. No finger prints on that either.”
“Well, did you take it out and play with it at least?”
Willard scoffed, “I don’t even have time to play with my own dick.”
Chapter 10
When the boys reached the bottom of the steps, Rory began fidgeting through his pockets for his half smoked cigarette.
“Never too late to quit, you know?” Maddy quipped. “Not home, huh?”
The short fell out of his mouth as he attempted to respond. Patrick cut him off.
“Yeah, must be out running some errands. Looking for this?” He tossed Rory the cheap yellow lighter. It hit him square in the chest and bounced to the ground, altering his puzzlement.
“I wanna go home.” Was the whimper from Jimmy.
“Yeah, me too. Sorry I wasted everyone’s time. Jimmy, give me a candy for the road.”
“Hold on, guys. I’m coming.” The group had already gained some ground as he fiddled with the tobacco, eventually gave up as the distance increased.
The dark purple shade of sky shown clear, piercing through the night air as they neared the pond. A slight breeze was no match for an unusually amorous bull frog. Beneath croons, they could feel the crunch of the autumn leaves and dried foliage beneath their boots. Rory continued to fiddle with the lighter as he walked, the obstinacy of the device winding his course.
“Come on, Rory. I’m cold.” Maddy called out from ahead.
Could she be trying to tell me something? His eyes widened as he cupped the short around the reluctant flint spark. If I could just get this thing lit, I can complete my ‘super cool’ image. He halted for a moment to focus his concentration, dipped out of the wind.
WHOOK
Fire.
Rory struggled through a breath of sophistication.
“Put that thing down. Aren’t you going to keep me company?”
Maddy turned to check on the slowpoke and felt her jaw drop with befuddlement at the spectacle her mind struggled to comprehend. There. In the night sky. There could be no mistake of it. With the light from the innumerable stars, nebulas and galaxies, the heavens had been revealed with indubitable clarity. Something was……coming. Fast. From high up. The moon served as a majestic backdrop for the figure taking shape beyond her friend. It just wasn’t a bird. Oh, how I wish it was a bird. Far too large, though. And maneuverable. Too early for Santa, so no chance for that. No. Somewhere in her young and innocent mind, she knew. It’s amazing how kids or certain people know some things. They don’t have the training or certifications. No experience or memories to guide them. No voice in their head or ancient ancestor whispering hints in their ears. Not necessarily. They just know. And their conviction is unwavering. And they are usually right.
By this means did Madison Henley make some sort of connection with in her being. This is why she wanted to scream. Even though she couldn’t. No matter how hard she tried. Because she was petrified with fear. No one had ever warned her beforehand to keep her eyes open or maintain awareness for what she was witnessing. It was as if a primeval instinct buried deep within her genealogy, ingrained like grooves in a record through intense pressure and duress, never to be erased, always to be preserved and concealed until it’s eventual use, no matter how improbable.
The winged visage fluttered, dipped and swooped in stuttered waves from the position of the moon in the foreground. The waves increased in size as it drew closer. It must have been powerful too, in order to support all of that weight and still remain airborne.
Maddy could hear herself screaming from inside her body for some time now. She wanted so desperately to do something for her friend. To warn him. To at least give him a chance. Only timid whimpers were squeaking out. Jimmy noticed her cessation and had returned to her side in the familiar, protective umbrella of her shadow where he continued perusing through his collection, oblivious. More sounds were emerging from her throat now. Her vocal chords were beginning to grab the syllables more effectively.
“uh………uh……..oh……..OOOHHH! OOOOOOOHHHHH! OOOOOOOHHHHH!”
She finally managed to exclaim, her finger hanging in the air, indicating the direction of her angst. Her mind was too shocked to fully vocalize words yet but it was enough to alert Patrick to her plight. He’d approached her side with a quizzical expression, his eyes searching for the slice of sky she was trying to alert to.
Rory was concerned now. But there was just no way for him to have pieced together what was happening. He was trotting over to Maddy. Originally, it seemed like a prank or something. He was enjoying the attention. It had appeared she was pointing at him at first. But now that he was much closer, he could sense the seriousness of the situation. His smile was gone now as he gathered the courage to turn around and find the source of his friends awe. He could tell by the horror on her face that he was not going to like what was awaiting him. Yet, he knew there was no avoiding it. He closed his eyes and prayed to wake up from a bad dream. Once you know you’re dreaming, you can wake up if your will power is strong enough. Everyone knows that.
“RUN!!! RUN!!!”
The urgent exhortations ruined his private requests for a reality check. He couldn’t simply just comply with the commands, even though he knew that he should. Curiosity was getting the better of him now, he willed his eyes open and instantly regretted doing so.
The creature’s massive wings sliced through the air as they beat out impressive strokes.
WHOOPF
WHOOPF
WHOOPF
WHOOPF
There was no time to process things. A Shamu sized dose of adrenaline surged though his veins, giving way to a Fred Flintstone like spin out of tennis shoes from beneath him. Once the grooves on the bottom of his sneakers took hold of the earth, he was too frightened to realize just how fast he was sprinting, if his feet were even touching the ground at all as if propelled by pure panic.
Rory had clo
sed the gap between himself and his friends with astonishing quickness. You never know how fast you truly are until your life is in danger. No one had ever considered him suitable for athletic activities before but if there were any talent scouts watching from some concealed perspective, they would surely have been clamoring for an interview. His eyes wide like dinner plates, threatening to break from their respective cheek bones with alarm, he tore through the wilderness, unwittingly clawing past his comrades, gaining further momentum by heaving himself past their seemingly motionless bodies.
Maddy was especially gifted for her age. With the hormonal head start of adolescence most young women receive, her advantage apparent as she strode effortlessly past Patrick, no slouch in the wind sprint department himself, perhaps still reacting more from the testimony of his buddies than what he’d witnessed firsthand. He was well aware of the magnetic frequency of terror transmitted from his cohorts.
After the initial burst of adrenaline however, Maddy was coming to an awful realization, stopping her in her tracks.
“Oh, no. Jimmy!”
The unfortunate epiphany hit Madison like a ton of bricks. She turned quickly at this, her eyes scanning for the little red Power Ranger costume which housed the boy. Patrick had instinctively halted at her alarm. A part of him had to have known there was no way the little tyke could possibly keep up with the older kids in an all-out sprint.
There he is! In the murky environment of the meadow they found themselves in, Jimmy’s tiny frame could be made out, booking toward them as fast as his little legs could carry him yet still a substantial distance back from the group. Maddy was frozen with indecision. She observed her body stunned with incapability from a third person point of view as shock began to take hold of her mind’s ability to function under the unusual circumstances. The beast was swooping down, it’s wings pinned back for increased velocity like a Peregrine falcon in dive bomber mode, preparing to snatch Jimmy up like a drive through order doggy bag, payment a distant afterthought.
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