Abellina stands alongside my static body, turning to judge the bullet in motion. Holy shit . . . the damn thing is only about fifteen feet away and hasn’t changed direction. She places her hands in the path of the bullet. The energy generating from her palms causes a visible vibrating wave. As the bullet reaches the pulsation in the air, it curves ever-so-slightly to the left, changing course like a military aircraft. In very slow motion, the round rips through the skin of my arm. Strangely, I don’t even flinch, and my expression barely changes as it tears through the flesh. Until this moment, I never realized how close I came to being murdered. Had it not been for Abellina, I’d have been tagged and sent to the morgue.
Since she was successful at deflecting the bullet to enter a different location on my body, she seems satisfied. She wanders back to the bank as if nothing truly miraculous just occurred. She charges through the door and gives Agnew a look that I can only imagine was critical. Once back to the desk, she claps her hands together, ending the repose.
Agnew moves the gun aside as the returning echo of the shot blasts through the bank. He looks out the window.
“That ain’t possible,” he yells.
Agnew pushes his barrel out the small cut in the window and aims again. Abellina leans on her umbrella before Agnew is able to squeeze off another shot. This repose freezes everything but Agnew and Abellina—and my ability to monitor the memory. Whatever she did causes his gun to jam up.
“It won’t shoot,” he yells. “What the fuck did you do?”
“Are you ready now? You are done shooting at anyone. That rifle is out of commission.”
“Wait a damn second,” he states, looking through the scope. “That motherfucker didn’t fall. Why isn’t blood shooting out of his skull? I couldn’t have missed him. There is barely even a slight breeze out there. It was a cinch shot.”
“I’m sure the bullet struck him somewhere. Be happy with that.”
“It didn’t hit him where I was aiming. I’m walking over to see what happened. You stopped the world again so you can allow me a two-minute observation.”
Agnew storms out the front door. Abellina takes a deep breath, grabs her umbrella from the side of the desk, and follows. She must have dealt with his antics many times; she doesn’t seem surprised that he’s darting across the street. After climbing the embankment, he bypasses the other guys from my department like they are not even standing there pointing loaded guns. Inarguably, he has seen his share of moments like this because the peculiarity of immobile people does not impact him in the slightest.
When Agnew stands in front of my injured body, he is practically having a fit over missing what should have been a no-brainer kill shot. He kicks the dirt repeatedly like a child in the middle of a tantrum. I can feel Abellina giggling silently. She must enjoy seeing him having a juvenile outburst.
Agnew stands before my body, shaking his head disapprovingly. He smacks the bleeding hole in my arm even though I’m unable to fight back. What a douche. He turns around and looks at Abellina with an expression of disbelief. “I couldn’t have missed him by this much. Something is fucking wrong here!” I never realized he was such a perfectionist. With his greasy black hair and dirty, ripped jeans, it’s difficult to believe he takes pride in anything.
At first, I was wondering why she didn’t let the bullet completely miss me or just reach up and pull it from the air. After careful consideration, Agnew would have realized she impinged on the shot if some bloodshed hadn’t occurred. This must have been that rare moment when the relentless killing machine realized he was fallible like the rest of the world. What he considered to be a miscalculation seems to be taking his confidence down a peg or two.
I can feel this glee activated within her. Even Abellina can identify when someone is getting too cocky for his own good.
“You can sort it all out at your cabin,” she says. “You can’t be a perfect shot all the time.”
“I’ve always shot perfect,” he says. “You need to make it up to me, Ab. I can’t live with an error like this. You know that about me.”
“I’m not making up anything. We are not here to play games.”
“I ain’t about to leave it like this. The bastard didn’t die. When I mark someone for death, I turn out their fucking lights.”
“Agnew, you put a bullet in his arm. That’s significant enough.”
“This will look like amateur night,” he says. “They’ll be talking about this chump surviving more than they’ll be showing me any love in the headlines and on the news. Give me have one more crack at this copper here. One shot and then I’ll leave quietly.”
“You’ve already had your moment, and you blew it,” she says. Talk like that is almost egging him on. “It’s time for our departure.”
He points at all the cops standing in line with their guns aiming at the bank. “This place is ripe for the taking. There is not one person within 50 miles of my cabin. You can’t take me there without putting a slug in one of these assholes. If given a chance, each and every one of these dimwits would blast me to smithereens. They have more ammunition in the hopes of ending me than I’ll use in a month. Where’s the fairness in that? Eye for an eye, I say.”
“It’s time to go. You’ve had enough time to get a good look.”
“Fine! I’ll go if that’s what you really need.” He hesitates, staring down at the ground. “Ab, I need to tie my shoe first.”
Agnew leans down by his black Converse. Before she realizes what’s happening, he has already pulled a silver Glock from the holster tied around his ankle. He maliciously shoves the muzzle into the center of my forehead, pulling the trigger assassination style. As I’m expecting to see blood gushing from my head, the repose creates some type of force field around my body because the bullet almost completely ricochets as it exits the barrel. I stress “almost.” The power of the shot knocks my motionless body off the ground. I fell directly on my back without even tottering for a moment.
Although gravity seems to be challenged in most situations of a repose, the power of a charging bullet to the head will knock a person over at the standard speed. I can attest that it won’t kill you, but it seems to be the equivalent of being thumped with soft punching gloves compared to being smacked with a bare fist. Mandi said she was unable to seriously hurt her boyfriend during a repose. I now understand what that meant. Regardless, the careening bullet caused an indentation in the middle of my forehead and produced a massive headache from what I recall. That little depression between my temples became an unwanted souvenir that will not fade. Some might argue that it gives me character. About 30 seconds into a conversation, almost everyone’s eyes are magnetically drawn to the spot.
The mystery as to how I landed on the ground has finally been solved. After the bullet ricochets against the force field, the casing falls on the grass in front of Agnew’s feet. This fiercely pisses him off. With his gun drawn, he slumps down next to my body to finish the job.
Unrelenting fury is circulating inside every one of Abellina’s mutated cells. Whatever is about to happen requires more than just her mind. She faces her palms in the direction of Agnew’s body. The energy exiting from her hands is so extreme that his body is lifted from the ground and flung about 20 feet through the air. He crashes into the windshield of Prichard’s police car, causing the glass to shatter from the intensity of his landing. His rear end is stuck through the hole made in the window. The boy may be pulling jagged shards of glass from his ass for the next few days. I am surprised the impact of striking the windshield hadn’t knocked him out cold. The little shit can take a pounding. His shocked eyes blink in astonishment.
Abellina walks in front of the car, raises her palms, and blows apart the remaining glass, knocking his entire body forcefully into the front seat. From his stupefied expression, Agnew clearly misjudged the relentless power at Abellina’s fingertips.
If she didn’t consort with arch criminals and have such a wicked temper, she’d sure make quite
the superhero.
As Agnew collects his thoughts, she pulls a pair of handcuffs from Prichard’s belt, leans inside the car, and cuffs his left hand to the steering wheel.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he screams as he begins breathing normally again. “It was just a fucking cop. Why are you being so sensitive about what I did to him?”
“You don’t want to mess with me, Agnew. You have no idea what I’m capable of doing when I get upset.”
That might be the most accurate statement declared since the inception of the English language.
“Jesus, chill out.”
“Sure, I’ll chill out and leave you in this godforsaken car to fend for yourself,” she shouts back. “You’ll either need to gnaw off your wrist to escape, or you’ll be making it easy for them to escort you back to Leavenworth.”
“Bullshit! You need me to take care of Mandi when the time is right . . . you’ve told me that numerous times.”
“Well, Agnew, I’ve got a newsflash, and you better listen closely. I can manage what I’m planning to do just fine without your help. It would change how I want to conclude my business, but I’d be fine with it. I could locate a replacement killer before you wiped your ass in the morning; one that would be a little more appreciative.”
“Just relax.”
“I will not relax,” she says. “To be part of what I’m doing, I have a demand. If you go against this stipulation, we’re finished. Just try me, buddy boy!”
“What is the demand?”
“Stay away from that cop,” she insists, pointing in the direction of where my body is spread out on the ground.
“That’s not how I work.” He keeps struggling to break free of the handcuffs. “I need to finish off the piece of shit. You saw him, Ab. He had a damn shotgun in his hands. You’ve never had a problem with me icing anyone before.”
“You’re not finishing anything. That cop will continue to live. If he even gets a scratch on him caused by you, I’ll dump you in Leavenworth with two broken arms. You won’t even be able to fight off the rapists. I’ll make sure your dance card is filled every night.” She grabs him by the hair and gets right up to his ear. Being this close to him is way outside of my comfort zone. She whispers, “You can’t win against me, Agnew. I cannot be stopped by a silver bullet, a bucket of water, or even five bolts of lightning. So you better think twice before screwing with me.” She lets go of his hair and pushes his head back.
“Fine, I hear you,” he says, finally backing down. Smart boy! “Let me at least kill one of these other dicks.”
“You’ve killed more than enough people for one afternoon. I have no patience to stay here any longer. Agnew, if you defy me again and pull another stunt like getting cornered in a bank, I may not be so readily available. You don’t want to serve time in a prison where it may not be so easy to sneak you out of the front gate.”
“You can pause time.”
“I can pause time, yes, but I have a limitation about moving through locked magnetic doors. We are leaving now.” She grabs his arm and squeezes hard. “For the last time, stay away from that cop!”
“I heard you before.”
As she motions with her palm, the handcuff unlocks. Agnew stands up, scoots from the front seat, and acts as docile as anyone has probably ever seen the cold-blooded killer. As Abellina places her hands over his arm, I come out of the trance and find myself standing on the side of the highway again. Moving from one set of scenery to the next is such a weird transition.
I should have realized a guardian angel was watching over me that afternoon. An ‘angel’ is playing a little fast and loose with the language, but she still saved my ass. I wish she could have prevented that indelible dip in my forehead, but even I thought Agnew was tying his shoe. It’s frightening to think if she hadn’t read him the riot act about finishing the job, he would have assassinated me by now. That’s fucking heavy shit to consider!
“You don’t have to buy me flowers,” she says, jokingly, “but a simple thank you would suffice.”
“Thank you,” I offer, unsure how to adequately express enough gratitude for keeping me alive. Shy of kneeling before her like an obedient slave, I can’t think of a move that would show my indebtedness for such an act.
“What you saw should help you understand better.”
“I understand what happened that day, but . . . well, I just can’t figure out why you would go to all that trouble for me. Other than having quite the imagination and some problem-solving abilities, I’m not anyone.”
“That’s not true, Mr. Delaney. Will you admit that the obliteration of Wilkinson Creek appealed to your creative side?” Her mouth curves upward giving me a genuine smile. “All that you witnessed today will have a profound impact on your inspiration and imagination.”
“This sounds like what you kept saying today during our sessions regarding my writing.”
“Inspiration in all its forms is important. Believe it or not, but how I acclimated into society was through the study of the written word.”
“The fact that you can move into different dimensions and deflect bullets, reading seems like it would be a bit passé.”
“Through the written word, I began having some empathy for humans,” she admits. “It taught me that not everyone was wired the same as the parasites residing in Wilkinson Creek. Compassionate writers made me recognize that some humans were worth sparing. Throughout my travels into the future, I read a few things that made me look forward to arriving at those later years. When I adjusted an event in the past, the action caused many sizable flutters in the timeline. When I checked back to 2023, a favorite author of mine no longer had any books residing on the shelves. The writer happened to be Derek Delaney.”
This detail renders me speechless for a moment. All of the trouble to get me to show up in Wilkinson Creek today was so I’d be inspired by witnessing the destruction firsthand. For a counselor—pretend or otherwise—she was far too interested in me starting a career as a writer.
“My futzing in the past has robbed you of your destiny as a premier novelist,” she adds, apologetically. “When Mandi removed her uncle’s pistol, I assumed that all would return to normal, but you were still in law enforcement after everything modified. For most people, it’s bad decisions or a lack of forward momentum that knocks them off their path. In your case, it was my interference with history. At one point, your life as a novelist was set in stone.”
“I didn’t realize I was on a predestined path.” I wonder how much she has tampered with history before getting it right today.
“Talented mortals always have destiny working behind the scenes,” she explains. “After Ms. McAllister made her wish, you were sidetracked by the inner warning system that she inadvertently bestowed on you. You’ve managed to use that side effect wisely, but it has also been a hindrance creatively, causing you to abdicate those pursuits. The part of her nervous system that got transferred to you is now buried with the rest of Wilkinson Creek. Due to this change in your chemistry, you will no longer hear those vibrations or be valuable in law enforcement. I am steering you back to your destiny. The worthy all have a calling. I held Wilkinson Creek accountable for their crimes. For any wrongdoing that I’ve done, I am here to make amends.”
There is nothing like being informed that Mandi’s arrival in 1994 caused my life to have a significant hiccup that led it in a different direction. Tinkering with the past has bumpy consequences.
She adds, “The road to nowhere is a very short trip. If you continue toting a gun, you will not achieve success as an author. You cannot divide your attention and expect to achieve real results.”
“Are you implying that I will be a prominent literary voice?” I’ve been thrown some curveballs today, but I am listening because a woman able to travel through time probably has all the answers.
“You are destined to pioneer a new genre that will inspire a vast audience of readers, but be warned that this opportunity is rapidly appr
oaching its expiration date,” she enlightens. “There comes a time when a creative soul like yourself must embrace what they were meant to do. You often only get one shot to achieve greatness. You are getting a second opportunity.”
“I cannot have my future handed to me,” I mumble. I’d be waiting for her to unexpectedly show up to cash in the favor.
“This is nothing more than a slight push to reclaim what is rightfully yours. In all my commerce, I highly regard those rare individuals that refuse to toss pennies down wishing wells or gamble on games of chance. For a small town lad, you are an anomaly. You proved that someone raised in a hopeless community could actually achieve greatness on their own steam. You’ve been searching for an innovative concept—one that surpasses some of the best books you’ve read. Can you admit that you are presently standing in the middle of such a concept? With no evidence to prove my existence, anything you fashion about me would essentially be considered fiction—just give me a name like Sophia.”
She is totally right that this “is” the concept I’ve been waiting to write. Using the now-defunct Wilkinson Creek as the backdrop would give me a simulated location much like Smallville, Gotham City, Metropolis, and Derry. They have all been substitutes for actual places. Those towns and cities have felt real enough due to the tailoring of the author.
“What I’ve done here will baffle the government, the experts, and the theorists! Wilkinson Creek will become a blind attempt to gather an understanding of an event that defies logic. Years from now, no one will be any closer to comprehending what took place—but your readers will also be awarded a fictionalized version of such knowledge. You will want to make sense of what happened here today. You are standing at the fork in the road of which direction your life is about to take. This is how I’m making my own amends. Derek, don’t look at this as pressure; it’s a decision to guide your destiny. I want to believe that you’ll choose the right path.”
In Dark Places Page 38