Dominion

by Greg F. Gifune

  “And at work?” he asked, anger rising in him again. “Did she stumble there too?”

  “Unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Sure is.”

  She closed the space between them with two smooth catlike strides that seemed in direct contrast to her annoyance. “When a man works his way up from the bottom everyone praises him as a go-getter, a great talent, a hard worker, a shining example of dedication and perseverance. ‘Isn’t he something,’ people say. ‘Isn’t it admirable how he worked his way up? What a guy.’” Audrey’s mouth curled into a sardonic smile. “But when a woman does it the first question people ask is, ‘Whose dick is she sucking?’ It’s goddamn repellent when someone has that attitude, it’s goddamn unfair. When that someone is the woman’s husband, it’s nearly unforgivable.”

  “That’s not what I said, I—”

  “Lindsay put up with a lot of shit she never told you about because she wanted to spare you the details and because she wanted to achieve things on her own. You think we all don’t deal with the boss that slaps our ass now and then, or have to put up with the winks and the innuendo somewhere along the line in our careers, the whole hey-do-this-for-me-honey-and-I’ll-make-you-a-star routine? If we told you half the crap we have to step through you wouldn’t be able to handle it. So we don’t. We learn early on in the game that success is the best revenge. We earn it, and we do it without having to owe any man anything, because then the achievement is ours and ours alone. They can take everything and anything from us, but not that. We own it, and no one has any right to it but us. When you’re a woman, we’ll talk. Fair enough? Until then, you have no idea what it’s like for us out there. Lindsay felt enormous guilt for that night, if that makes you feel any better. She beat herself up over it for months, she felt awful—and she should have—but she wasn’t some whore that went around fucking every guy that looked at her twice or bought her a drink. And she didn’t use sex the way some women do. She used her brain. Imagine that. Apparently we’re all just not quite as pristine and perfect as you are. The rest of us make mistakes now and then.”

  “I never said any of those things about her or claimed I was perfect.”

  “Then what are you saying? You asked Brad the same questions, and now you have the audacity to come here and ask me this garbage when you know in your heart Lindsay wasn’t like that at all, that she loved you and—”

  “I’m trying to fucking understand!” He clenched his fists and forced them into his pockets for fear he might strike out and break something. Had he burst into tears or torn the room apart neither would’ve surprised him. Instead, he stood there trembling until his emotions slowly evened out. “I’m trying to understand, Audrey,” he said, this time in whisper. “I’m trying to understand.”

  “Understand that she loved you. She was your wife, and she loved you. She loved you very much. That’s how Lindsay was. When she loved someone she loved them all the way. I know you miss her, and I…” Her eyes again filled with tears, but she made no move to wipe them away. “I miss her too. I miss her so much I can barely stand it.”

  Daniel put his arms around her, and they hugged. They had never embraced with such passion before, and Audrey sobbed for quite a long while.

  Eventually they released each other, unsure of what to do next.

  “Some things are happening, Audrey,” he said tentatively.

  “What things?”

  “Strange things, things I can’t explain.”

  “You mean like my dreams?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What then?”

  “Did Lindsay tell you anything about premonitions she was having not long before her death?” he asked.

  “She mentioned something about some odd dreams she’d had and how they made her uncomfortable. They’d shaken her a bit, but I didn’t think it was anything to worry about. She kind of dismissed it all herself.”

  “Brad said she mentioned them to him too,” Daniel told her, wondering why she’d told her two closest friends but not him. “Did she tell you what they were about?”

  She thought a moment then nodded. “She was being followed in the dreams, stalked.”

  “By who?”

  “Herself.”

  It’s not me. Tell him it’s not me.

  He’d never told Audrey about Lindsay’s last words, and decided against telling her now. He already knew her response would be the same as everyone else’s. There seemed little point in even mentioning it.

  Daniel felt himself shudder. “I have to find out what she was doing at that motel. Until I know why she was there nothing else is going to add up or make sense.”

  “I promise you I don’t know.” Audrey touched the side of his face with her palm. “But it wasn’t an affair or anything like that. I know it. I feel it. Whatever she was doing, she must’ve felt she had to be there. Maybe—I don’t know—maybe it doesn’t even matter anymore. The sonofabitch that killed her is dead. It’s over.”

  Daniel felt himself wither and become smaller, less actual, like his presence in the universe was not quite as irrefutable as he liked to believe. “I’m sorry I put you through this,” he said. “I hope I didn’t ruin your Thanksgiving. I’ve developed quite a talent for that this year.”

  “We’ve all got to find a way to move on with our lives, what choice do we have? Want my advice? Look inward.”

  Heat pulsed from the fireplace, drew Daniel’s gaze deep into the flames and carried him back to the night those mysterious searing winds had swept through their bedroom.

  He remembered Lindsay returning from the window and crouching nude at the foot of the bed, where she perched like a beautiful grand bird, stunning eyes watching him through moonlight, knees up near her chin and arms wrapped around her shins. He’d asked her what she was doing, why she hadn’t simply crawled back into bed and lain down next to him. Rather than answer, she’d turned her head to the side so her cheek could rest flat against the top of her knees, let her hair fall across her leg and gave him a soulful, nearly mournful smile. She seemed to be appreciating him and what they had together from a short but necessary distance, maintaining just enough separation to recognize and experience that rare instant when one ponders a future without the life and loves on loan to them, and understands how precious and momentary it all is, how in the vastness of time and space theirs is a single stitch in an infinite fabric, over in the blink of a celestial eye, the drawing of a breath, the beat of a heart.

  Perhaps her premonitions were stronger than she’d let on.

  Audrey was again staring at the flames. “‘Yet from those flames no light, but rather darkness visible.’” She shrugged with blasé indifference. “Milton’s Paradise Lost. I can’t remember poetry with a gun to my head, but I think of that passage every time I see fire. Isn’t that strange? God, I sound like Elliot. When you start quoting authors you’ve obviously lived with a writer too long.”

  “Paradise Lost was about Hell,” Daniel said, mostly to himself.

  She nodded. “‘The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.’ Can you believe I can still recite pieces of that?”

  Actually, he couldn’t. In fact it seemed so surreal to him he felt a sudden tinge of fear and uncertainty. “Why would you mention that? Of all things, why that?”

  “Don’t you find it relevant?”

  “Should I?”

  “Much as we may want or need to,” Audrey sighed, “we can’t wake the dead.”

  “You’re right.” He leaned in and kissed her gently on the cheek. “But what if they’re not the ones sleeping?”

  SIXTEEN

  There were no new messages on the answering machine, and nothing had happened with the computer since he’d left. Daniel kept the chat program running, turned the speakers up so he could hear any activity then went to the living room and collapsed onto the couch. The guilt had followed him home, and it was gaining momentum. Snippets of every argument he
and Lindsay ever had replayed in his mind. Her expressions and the sound of her voice when he’d hurt her feelings, frustrated or angered her joined everything he’d ever done he now regretted in the forefront of his mind. Every word he’d spoken or action he’d taken that he wished he hadn’t throttled him and refused to let go. As his mind catalogued episode after episode, instance after instance, he told Lindsay how sorry he was for everything—anything—he’d done or said or thought that had in any way hurt her. If he could take it all back now he’d have given anything to make it happen. Audrey was right, he thought, what the hell did he think he was doing going around asking questions that implied such horrible things about Lindsay?

  In response, his mind shifted to a defensive mode and conjured imagined renditions of the night Lindsay met the man in upstate New York. How far had it gone before she stopped it? He tried to remember her demeanor when she’d returned from that trip, but it was so long ago his memories were hazy at best. Audrey said Lindsay felt awful about it, and though a part of him wanted to rejoice in that, to be pleased, all he could manage was more sorrow, and again, more guilt.

  Late afternoon had become evening and he hadn’t even noticed. But for the small pool of light a single lamp in the corner provided, the room was dark. Apt, he thought. Maybe it’s where I belong, alone in the dark like a slug.

  He thought back over the years, all the conventions and parties and events he’d attended in Vegas and other locales. Blurs of too many drinks, too much fun, dancing a bit too close with too many women, daring fate and taking things further than he should have left him little choice but to forgive Lindsay’s indiscretion. While he’d never actually slept with anyone other than his wife in all the years they’d been married, he’d had transgressions of his own—yet loved Lindsay more than life itself—so Audrey was right again. Who was he to judge her?

  None of it mattered. If he could have Lindsay back it would mean nothing, everything would be wiped clean and all would be forgotten.

  But you can’t have her back, a voice in his head told him.

  She’s alive. More than you know.

  Why hadn’t she told him about her strange dreams? Could that be a clue as to how deeply they’d really bothered her, despite her attempts at dismissing them? Dreams of being followed by oneself, he thought, what the hell did that mean? And what about the diner, had the people who’d seen Lindsay there been dreaming too? Bullshit, they’d seen her. But it wasn’t her, he told himself. It couldn’t have been. It wasn’t possible.

  And her final words—were they really a clue?

  The phone rang.

  “It’s me,” Bryce said once he’d answered. “Just got back from another scintillating Thanksgiving in Jonestown. Any more calls from Tommy Telephone?”

  “Not yet.”

  “How’d it go at Jeannie’s?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “That good, huh?”

  “Went and saw Audrey and Elliot too.”

  “Oh yeah? How’re they doing?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “Was Audrey able to shed any light on things?”

  “A little—maybe—I don’t know, not really.”

  “See, the thing about a sentence is, you have to put words together that make sense.”

  Though Daniel appreciated Bryce’s attempts at humor, he was too drained to entertain them. “I’m getting in touch with a computer guy, some underground type, to see if he can find anything on our computer or Lindsay’s laptop. There might be something on those hard drives that can answer some questions. I think there might be a connection.” His mother’s face came to him, her blank eyes watching a dark computer screen. “Look, I don’t want to get into it right now, I’m spent. We’ll talk tomorrow, OK?”

  “Did something else happen?”

  “A lot of weird shit’s going on.”

  “What now?”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

  “Are you all right? You sound off.”

  “I’m tired. I need to go to bed.” Daniel stifled a yawn. Though he wasn’t sure he could sleep, the emotional exhaustion had caught up to him. “Will you be around tomorrow?”

  “Not until after closing. Busiest retail day of the year tomorrow, remember? Hopefully I’ll be up to my ass all morning and afternoon.”

  “Call me when it’s over then.”

  “Get some rest, OK?”

  “You too.” Daniel hit the disconnect button, went to the bathroom and turned the shower on. As steam fogged the mirror, he followed the hallway to the bedroom and undressed in the dark.

  On his way back to the bathroom, a towel draped over his shoulder, he hesitated in the computer room doorway. A screensaver filled the monitor. He slid into the chair a moment and tapped the mouse. The screensaver vanished, revealing the usual desktop theme and icons. There had still been no activity on the messenger program.

  After a shower, Daniel dried himself off, secured the towel around his waist and started back to the bedroom for something to sleep in. As he reached the computer room he glanced in again. He expected to see the screensaver, but this time saw neither it nor the desktop theme. The monitor was dark, but he knew full well he’d left the computer on. Stepping into the room, he looked to the power button on the monitor. It was on, as was the tower.

  Daniel sat in the chair and moved the mouse. Nothing changed. He hit a few random keys but nothing happened, so he tried the Escape key. Again, nothing. Holding down the Control and Alt keys, he hit Delete. The result should’ve been a Windows Task Manager box that allowed him to end currently running programs. Instead, the monitor remained dark and empty.

  Shit, he thought, maybe the monitor’s fried.

  But then he noticed a large black smudge of something in the upper left hand corner that was significantly darker than the rest of the screen. He leaned closer in an attempt to figure out what it was. Thin, and a few inches in length, it protruded from the corner and pointed toward the center of the screen like the shadow of a finger pressed against the glass from the inside.

  “What the hell is that?” Daniel mumbled, leaning closer still.

  Hesitantly, he reached out and touched it. The screen crackled with static electricity as his fingertip made contact. Slowly, he ran his finger along the strange dark shadow.

  And it moved.

  Bolting backward, Daniel nearly tipped the chair and fell as a muffled groan of disbelief escaped him. As the chair righted itself he scrambled out of it and onto the floor, watching the screen on his knees now, his mouth hung open, eyes wide and bare chest heaving with each breath.

  Very slowly, the shadow moved again, this time sliding back and forth as if whoever it was attached to was wiping the screen with it. After a moment another similar shadow joined it, and then another, until the shadows became a fully developed hand, the palm pressed against the screen.

  From his new position Daniel could better see the depth of the scene playing out before him. What had been shadows and dark smudges up close, at a small distance became realized images. Below the hand was the side of someone’s head, again in shadow but distinctly darker than the rest of the screen. There was a person, moving slowly but deliberately across the monitor, its other hand now joining the first and pushing against the screen for purchase, or perhaps in the hopes of finding a way out.

  This has to be a website of some kind, Daniel thought. He regained his feet and sat back in the chair, gooseflesh breaking out across his bare skin as he reached for the mouse and clicked it. Nothing happened, and the cursor that should’ve been there was nowhere to be found. There was no way to tell for sure if the browser was even on because the images filled the entire screen, there were no borders indicating a browser or website, and the shadowy image, though moving, did so in slow-motion and with the clipped, jagged look of a video feed downloading through a particularly slow dialup connection.

  The face gradually glided into better view, but was so close to the screen it remained d
istorted. Its mouth was open, black and empty inside, but set as if in the throes of a torturous scream. It made no sound, even though the speakers were still on, and when Daniel turned them up all he got was a peculiar buzzing noise.

  Heart and mind racing, he watched as the face turned toward him and a pair of eyes suddenly opened, whites glaring and unexpected in the darkness. Though the rest of the figure remained impossible to discern, the eyes were unmistakably Lindsay’s.

  He groaned in terror as a fierce rush of air erupted from his mouth.

  As Daniel tried to assure himself the eyes couldn’t actually see him—and couldn’t possibly be Lindsay’s—the figure moved farther across the screen then slowly back into the darkness behind it, which swirled and moved like liquid, parting at times to reveal an empty area but not enough to clearly divulge any details as to where the person actually was.

  The picture distorted then snapped back into focus, and the buzz from the speakers was interrupted by a brief but loud crackling sound.

  The figure continued to move backward, farther and farther into the churning darkness, seeping into focus a few feet away to reveal a woman on her knees sitting back on her heels, head bowed and arms resting atop her thighs. At first it looked as if she had gone to sleep or perhaps slipped deep into prayer, but then she slowly turned her head and looked toward the screen. Head cocked, she seemed confused or only then cognizant of being watched. With the same odd motion she’d displayed before, the woman rose to her feet and again moved closer.

  Daniel’s mouth had gone bone dry, making swallowing difficult. He still couldn’t believe what he was looking at, but as he leaned closer to the screen and squinted, a strange blue light appeared then vanished. Startled, he sat back.