by Bill Myers
Being the first to spot it was a favorite pastime of Suzanne and little Julia whenever they took their Sunday drives up the coast.
Swish-swish, swish-swish . . .
Sunday drives up the coast—one of the few bribes that had actually worked in luring Suzanne away from church.
She’d been a good woman. The best he’d had. Committed to her family at any cost. Granted, she may have been a little fanatical in the faith department, but her beliefs in God posed no real threat for them. He gave her her space, and she gave him his. And, truth be told, the older he got, the more wisdom he saw in some of her God talk.
God . . . if all this multi-world business was true, it would be interesting to see how the theologians would try and squeeze him into the picture. And what about the great religious leaders? What about Jesus Christ? If, as Suzanne had always insisted, this world needed to be “saved,” then didn’t all these similar worlds need to be saved as well? Again Conrad shook his head. The implications were staggering.
Swish-swish, swish-swish . . .
He could smell the mixture of dust and water that came with the first rain. Under that, the faint aroma of onions waft-ing up from the valley. He smiled, almost sadly, as he remembered little Julia holding her nose, complaining about the smell. Those had been good times. Some of the best. In fact, if he could pick one season in his life to freeze and forever live in, it would be—
The blast of an air horn jarred Conrad from his thoughts.
He glanced up at his mirror and saw a big rig approaching from behind, flashing its high beams. Come on, he thought, no one’s in that big of a hurry. Sure, he’d moved into the truck lane, but he was already exceeding the speed limit. Besides there was traffic directly ahead, so what was the big—
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The horn blasted again. Longer, closer.
Conrad looked back into the mirror. The truck was rapidly approaching. In a matter of moments it would be on Conrad’s tail, trying to intimidate him. But Conrad Davis was not so easy to intimidate.
More blasting.
“What’s your problem?” Conrad mouthed the words into the mirror, raising his hands, motioning to the traffic around them. “What do you want me to do?”
And then he saw the driver. A kid. He wasn’t looking at Conrad. Instead, he was fighting something in the cab. Perhaps stomping on foot pedals or wrestling with the gearshift—Conrad couldn’t tell for certain. He didn’t have to.
Because when the young driver finally looked up, Conrad saw the terror in the boy’s eyes.
Conrad quickly looked to the left, searching for a way to slip into the adjoining lane and out of the truck’s path. There was none. All three lanes were packed.
The horn continued to blast. The truck was nearly on top of him—so close Conrad could no longer see the boy, only the big rig’s aluminum grill.
Up ahead, about thirty feet, a cement truck lumbered its way down the grade. Conrad pushed back his panic, looking for some way out. He glanced to the right, to the emergency lane. Suddenly, the Jaguar shuddered and lunged forward.
The rig had hit him, hard, throwing his head forward, then back. Instantly, the car began picking up speed.
Conrad hit the brakes. They did no good, only threw him into a screaming skid, making it harder to steer.
The cement truck lay twenty-five feet ahead now, rapidly drawing closer.
Again Conrad looked to the right. The lane was narrow, with a steep rock wall rising beside it—a wall that a more experienced big rig driver might have used to slide against and slow down. But this kid was not experienced.
They continued picking up speed.
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The cement truck was fifteen feet away. If Conrad was to act, it had to be now. He cranked the wheel hard to the right.
But as the Jaguar swerved to the right, the big rig followed.
The kid had lost control. He was going into a skid, jackknif-ing. As he did, he continued shoving Conrad forward . . . but forward into the emergency lane and toward the rock wall.
Conrad fought the wheel.
Tires shrieked and smoked. The horn blasted.
He struggled with all of his strength to turn the car back onto the road. But it was too wet, the surface too slick. The Jaguar hit a small curb at the edge of the emergency lane. Suddenly it was airborne. The wheel turned easily now, but it made no difference. The rock wall loomed ahead, filling Conrad’s vision. When he struck it, the explosion roared in his ears. He was thrown forward, metal crushing around him.
The air bag deployed, but nothing would stop his headlong rush at the rock.
“My God!” he screamed, lifting his hands against the jagged wall as it crashed through his windshield. But he could not duck. He could not move.
And then there was nothing.
v
Twenty-seven-year-old Julia Davis-Preston woke with a start. It took several moments to get her bearings as she glanced around the dimly lit 757 cabin. She’d just had another dream about her father. The hallway dream. It didn’t come often, but when it did it always left her a little weak and shaken. In the dream she was a girl of five dressed in a chif-fon party gown. She wore flowers in her hair, and in the more vivid dreams she could actually smell them. They were magnolias—from the tree at their home in Pasadena.
As always, she had been groping her way down the long, dimly lit hallway. As always, her father’s dark walnut door waited at the far end. And, as always, it was closed.
“Daddy,” she called, “Daddy, I’m scared.”
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She knew he was there. He had to be. She could hear the muffled voices, the wisps of conversation.
“Daddy . . . please . . .”
And the laughter. There was always laughter.
“Daddy.” She ran her hand along the wood paneling.
The laughter grew louder.
“Daddy?” She could barely see the door for the frightened tears welling up in her eyes. “Daddy!”
Then she arrived. With trembling fingers she reached for the doorknob. She could feel the cold brass in her hands as she began turning it. Further and further it turned until—
Julia awoke. Sometimes she opened the door, sometimes she even entered the room. But not tonight. Tonight she had remained outside in the hallway. She never knew if the details of the dream were based on actual fact or if they were something her subconscious had manufactured. It didn’t matter. Regardless of whether the details were fact or fantasy, the substance was just as true.
She looked down and smoothed her tweed skirt. The cabin had grown a little chilly, and she thought of rising and grabbing her matching jacket from the overhead compartment. But the old gentleman in the aisle seat beside her was sleeping too peacefully to disturb. Besides, the jacket wrinkled easily, and it might be better to give it a head start on what could be a very long day.
Julia turned and looked out the window. In the darkness, the lights of a small Nebraska town twinkled up at her. As she stared, her thoughts drifted back to her father. She hated it when they did that. Not because she hated the thoughts, but because she hated him. It wasn’t something she was proud of, but it was the truth. And if there was one thing her father had instilled in her, it was the value of truth. “A reporter’s stock in trade,” he was so fond of saying. “A person is only as good as his word, never any better, never any worse.” It was perhaps this fact more than any other that had helped make Julia Davis-Preston one of the fastest-rising prosecutors in Atlanta’s hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 13
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D.A. office. She was tough, uncompromising, and, above all else, a woman of integrity. Everyone knew it. And in this age of corrupt politics and voter cynicism, some folks were already considering the possibility of grooming her for office.
She glanced at her watch. It was 4:40 A.M. She closed her eyes, hoping
sleep would return. They’d be landing in L.A.
in two hours. Then it would be a matter of renting a car and heading up the coast to the Conejo Valley Medical Center, a hospital in Thousand Oaks not far from Camarillo where three, now four days earlier, her father had been in a serious car accident. “Critical head trauma,” they’d said. “Extensive internal injuries.” Initially they hadn’t expected him to live through that first night. Somehow he had, but no one gave any hope for his recovery. Today, this evening, sometime very soon he would die.
But that’s not why Julia was heading back to California.
She’d barely spoken to the man in five years, and she was in no hurry to race to his side for some sort of artificial recon-ciliation. She was in no mood for a teary-eyed forgiveness scene with a comatose patient who couldn’t hear and wasn’t interested. No, that’s not why she was headed home. If she had her way, she wouldn’t show up until the funeral, if then.
Julia was heading home because, a few years earlier, when she’d graduated from law school, her father had had the bright idea of giving her power of attorney. It was an honor she had immediately declined, but one that his most recently divorced wife (Rosy, Rosette, Rosa, whatever her name was) had said he’d continued to assign to her anyway. An honor that, among other things, made Julia the sole person responsible for deciding whether her father should remain on life support systems or die. According to the State of California, if a person is unable to make that decision himself, then it falls solely and completely upon the one to whom he has assigned the power of attorney.
So—entirely against her wishes, but living by the code her father had instilled, Julia was traveling cross-country to hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 14
14 view his condition firsthand before giving the doctors permission to pull the plug. She sighed wearily. Even in death he remained an intrusion upon her life.
Minutes passed, and the dull roar of the plane once again lulled her into semisleep. And another dream. But this one was based upon the clear, vivid memories of her seventh birthday. It was a typical Southern California day, bright and clear. They were in a park with rolling hills and a hundred trees. Wind blew against her face and through her hair. And she was flying, soaring . . .
“Daddy,” she half laughed, half screamed, “don’t let go!”
She gripped the shiny handlebars of her new bicycle with all of her might. “Don’t let go! Don’t let go of me!”
He ran behind her, hand on the seat, keeping her upright.
She could hear his panting. “I won’t let go of you,” he laughed. “I won’t let go.”
They hit a bump and she wobbled. “Daddy!”
“I’m right here,” he laughed.
“Don’t let go!” she shrieked.
“I’m right here, Sweetheart. Trust me, I won’t let go!”
She was sailing, zooming, never traveling so fast in her life. The blades of grass blurred under her wheels. Her heart pounded with thrill and fear until—
Suddenly, Julia awoke again. She took a deep breath and brought her seat upright. There would be no more sleeping.
Not for her. And there would be no more dreams. Especially of her father. She’d see to that. Even if she stayed up the rest of the night, there would be no more dreaming about the man.
He didn’t deserve it.
v
Conrad Davis awoke standing. Time had passed, he knew that. But he didn’t know how much. It was still raining, but now it was night. It was night and he was standing in the middle of a city street. There was no Jaguar, no big rig, and no sheer rock wall. Instead, a horn honked as a car raced past, missing him by inches. He spun around and was met by another vehicle coming from the opposite direction. The hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 15
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driver swerved hard and tires squealed. A moment later there was a sickening thud followed by tinkling glass and a stuck horn that began to blare. The car had slid into another parked at the curb. Conrad frantically looked about, trying to get his bearings. Some of the shops and buildings appeared familiar, like those in Santa Monica, a beach city he frequented just west of L.A. But many of the others—
A siren blasted. He twirled around and was blinded by a pair of high beams coming directly at him. For the briefest moment he froze, unsure what to do. The vehicle jerked to a halt fifteen feet away. Doors opened. Dark figures emerged, starting toward him. That’s when Conrad found his legs. He turned, darting to the right, heading for the sidewalk. An oncoming car hit its brakes, swerved hard, and barely missed him—before plowing into the other two disabled vehicles.
Voices shouted, others cursed, and the dark figures began pursuit. The blaring horn made it impossible for Conrad to hear what was being yelled, but he knew they were not happy. He hit the curb, stumbling slightly, before turning to his right and racing down the sidewalk. The voices continued, no doubt demanding he stop. But he was not stopping.
Not for them. Not for anybody. Where was he? What was going on?
Up ahead and across the street he saw Santa Monica’s Mayfair Theater. So he was in Santa Monica. But how? And what of these other buildings and shops he didn’t recognize?
He continued running, passing two or three pedestrians, kids walking in the rain—long stringy hair, beads, embroidered bell-bottoms, looked like they’d stepped right out of the sixties.
The footsteps behind him were gaining. To his left was an alley; he turned so hard his feet nearly slipped, but he caught his balance and continued running.
“Stop!” the voices behind him shouted. “We order you to stop!”
Conrad bore down. He wasn’t sure how much farther he could go. It had been a long time since he’d sprinted like this.
His lungs were already crying out for air.
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Headlights swept in and bounced behind him, illuminat-ing the alley. He heard a car accelerate, knew he couldn’t out-run it. It would be over in seconds. He’d be struck from behind, knocked to the ground, maybe run over. The car roared closer. Then, out of the corner of his left eye, he could see the headlights. Instead of hitting him, it was pulling beside him.
“Get in!” another voice shouted.
He turned to see an old Volkswagen bus, handpainted with fluorescent flowers. The passenger’s window was rolled down, and a black kid with a full-blown Afro was shouting,
“Get in!”
Now he heard other voices, younger. “Come on! Jump in!
Hurry!” The bus pulled ahead to reveal two more kids, a guy and a girl, dressed in hippie garb similar to the pedestrians he’d seen. They leaned out the open side door, reaching for him. “Take my hand!” they shouted. “Come on, man! They’re right behind you!”
There was a loud thump on the back of the bus. Then another. The kids looked past Conrad in wide-eyed fear.
“Stop!” a voice behind him shouted. It was less than two yards away. “I order you to stop!”
Another thump, this time followed by the shattering of glass.
“Oh, man,” the girl moaned. She turned to the driver, shouting, “The pigs just busted your taillight, man.”
“Take my hand!” her companion reached out further to Conrad. “Take it now!”
Conrad had no choice. Whoever pursued him had bats or rocks or something equally as painful, and these kids—well, at least they wanted to help. He threw them another glance.
“Take my hand, man! Take my hand!”
It was now or never. He veered toward the VW bus, then tried leaping inside. Unfortunately, tried was the operative word. It wasn’t as easy as it looked. He barely caught his left knee on the edge, before the weight of the rest of his body began twisting him away, pulling him off. There was nothing hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 17
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he could do except hope he’d roll free of the wheels and not fall under them. That’s when each kid grabbed him by an arm and pulled with all of their might. He wasn’t a heavy ma
n, but heavy enough. At last they succeeded, and he flew into the bus, landing face first into green shag carpeting, gasping for air.
“We got him!” the kids shouted. “Step on it, man! Let’s go, let’s go!”
The bus accelerated as they shut the door.
“You okay, mister?” The young woman leaned over him.
“You all right?”
Conrad wanted to answer, but at the moment he had more important things to do—like breathe. The bus continued to bounce and sway as the young man from the back shouted directions. “Right up there! Turn right up there, man!”
When he’d finally caught his breath, Conrad attempted to sit up.
“Here, let me help,” the girl said. She was a sweet thing, seventeen, eighteen, straight blond hair, peasant blouse pulled off the shoulders, and bracelets. Lots of jangling bracelets.
There were no seats in the back, just the green shag carpeting, a mattress with a coarse Mexican blanket pulled across it, and eight-track tapes—a half-dozen eight-track tapes scattered along the side. Beads swayed back and forth over the windows, and a sweet pungent odor filled the air.
Although Conrad hadn’t smelled it in years, he immediately recognized it as pot.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“You don’t know where you are?” the blond said.
“Am I . . . dead? Am I in Heaven?”
The group broke into laughter.
“That’s a good one, man,” the kid up front chuckled. “No, mister, you ain’t dead, at least not yet.”
“But we could definitely show you some Heaven,” the young man beside him said as he pulled out a few pills from his leather vest.
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Conrad recognized them for what they were. “No, uh, thanks. I don’t, uh . . .”
“Not your thing?” The kid smiled.
“No . . .”
He shrugged. “Tha’s cool.”
Conrad’s head swam. What was going on? A dream? A hallucination? No, this was too real. He glanced out the window.
And the buildings. Some looked so familiar. He’d spent lots of time in Santa Monica. In fact, weren’t they on . . . yes, they were on Arizona Street, heading east. He turned back to the blond.