Dominion

by Greg F. Gifune

  The woman blinked away rain collected in her eyelashes then took his wrist and gently removed his hand from her face. Her eyes, saddled with exhaustion and misery, looked to the alley he’d just come from. “If I was you,” she said uneasily, “I’d run off too. That’s Hell up in there. Devil’s after you, boy.”

  Daniel followed her gaze to the darkened alley, everything beyond lost in the night.

  “Why me,” he mumbled.

  “Way I figure it, he only come after those who done something to make him notice them in the first place.”

  Holding her stare, he backed away until he’d reached his car.

  As he sped off toward Mass. Avenue, flashes of the dead man, of Lindsay on those monitors, and Bedbug shaking so violently flashed through Daniel’s mind in bursts that left him fighting desperately to maintain control.

  But it was slipping fast, and he knew it. He was coming apart.

  At the first light he hit, Daniel grabbed his cell and tried calling Bryce, but he answered neither his home, mobile phone, nor the bookstore line. He angrily snapped the phone shut. The look on his friend’s face back at that apartment of horrors came to him. He willed it away and instead searched the streets as he drove. If Bryce was still on foot surely he’d come across him sooner or later.

  Once he hit Mass. Ave., traffic was still relatively light, but he went with the flow of it anyway, following it through the night. Unsure of what to do next or where to go, head and heart racing and hands shaking so horribly only a tight grip on the steering wheel could steady them, he drove on aimlessly.

  After a few more blocks he knew Bryce must’ve hailed a cab, he was nowhere in sight. The prior events replayed in his mind again and again, and a wide range of emotions fired through him in rapid succession. Laughter, tears, terror, disbelief—all were swept up into a whirlwind of blurred thoughts and physical effect he could no longer sort through or make much sense of, until a single renegade notion fought its way to the forefront of his crumbling mind. Normalcy. He needed a sense of normalcy and familiarity, and he needed it quickly. It would ground him and give him a sense of place and time and reality. It could save him.

  Where the hell am I? He squinted through the rain at street signs until he got his bearings. With newfound focus and determination, Daniel drove for nearly ten minutes and eventually reached his destination: a bar on a familiar boulevard just a few blocks from the radio station where he’d worked for so long.

  He parked across the street. The area was quiet but the bar was open. Various neon beer and liquor signs buzzed in the small windows.

  Mac & Murray’s was a small joint he and many of the station employees had frequented for years. It catered mostly to local professionals but had a relaxed atmosphere and a clientele that consisted mostly of regulars. After work it was a great place to have a few drinks, unwind, shoot pool, maybe order a pizza, hot wings or a sandwich and listen to the jukebox or talk shop. Daniel had not been there since he’d lost his job, but he knew this place, had been comfortable here once, and knew it was a safe haven from the storms raging through and all around him.

  He’d lost all track of time. He looked at his watch: almost 8 PM.

  Daniel entered the bar with a rush of cold air and a spray of icy rain. Standing just inside the entrance, he shook the water from his coat and let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Normally on Friday nights the place was hopping, but being the day after Thanksgiving, it was quieter than usual.

  The large but unexceptional bar filled the entire side wall, and several tables and chairs formed a circle around a small dance floor that was hardly ever used. Beyond all that sat two regulation size pool tables, one empty, the other being played by two guys in untucked shirts and loosened ties. Low ceilings, the dark wood bar and furniture and sparse lighting gave the room a feeling of either coziness or tomblike claustrophobia, depending upon one’s personal tastes, and Daniel found himself surveying the area and wondering how he’d ever found such a place enjoyable. There had actually been a time not so long ago when he’d looked forward to coming here.

  He collapsed onto a stool at the bar and waved the bartender over. “Let me get a shot of Smirnoff.”

  A longtime employee named Troy did a none-too-subtle double take and headed toward him, snatching up a bottle of vodka and a glass along the way. “Sorry, Danny, haven’t seen you in so long I didn’t recognize you.” He slid a napkin in front of him, put the shot-glass on top of it and narrowed his eyes with a mixture of concern and suspicion. “Everything all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Worse.”

  “You OK?”

  “Yeah, fucking dandy.” Daniel motioned impatiently to the glass and looked down the length of bar. Only two other stools were occupied and he didn’t know either occupant.

  “I was really sorry to hear about your wife. One of the guys from the station told me about it.”

  “Thanks.” He threw back the shot, felt the vodka slide down smooth and warm. “Hit me again.” While Troy poured another shot Daniel glanced over his shoulder. Maybe another six or seven people were scattered throughout the shadowy tables, but he couldn’t see well enough to identify them.

  “Slow night for a Friday, huh? Don’t even have any wait-staff on. Kitchen’s closed.”

  Daniel powered down the second shot then dismissed Troy with a nod and the most pleasant smile he could summon. When he checked the tables again, this time a familiar face emerged from a far dark corner of the room.

  A chill shook him as Cliff Fox strolled toward the bar with his usual swagger, a spent drink in one hand and a young woman trailing behind him who Daniel had never seen before. Though he’d loosened his silk tie, he looked stylish as ever. Bright teeth flashing, dark eyes wide and expressive, the diamond pinkie ring and gold bracelet he always wore catching the minor light, he said something quietly to the woman, who giggled as if it were the funniest thing she’d ever heard. Fox was about to say something to Troy when he realized Daniel was sitting at the bar. His demeanor changed immediately. He said something to the woman then motioned to a stool at the end of the bar. She waited for him there without question.

  Cliff slid up next to Daniel’s chair, his expression now brooding and grave. “Didn’t expect to see you in here,” he said flatly. “What do you say, my man?”

  Daniel looked him over. “You all right, Cliff?”

  He laughed contemptuously. “You’re asking me if I’m all right. Are you serious?”

  Though this Fox was a far cry from the version that existed in his nightmare, he couldn’t shake that pathetic vision of him. “I needed a couple drinks,” he said, immediately regretting how desperate he sounded.

  “Figured you were here on Wes’s behalf, it’d be just like him to go bitch to you.”

  “What are you’re talking about?”

  “I had to cut him loose this afternoon.”

  “You fired Wes?”

  “Danny, he’s useless and an embarrassment. You put up with his lame ass and covered for him for years, but guess what? I’m not you. His numbers sucked like always and I’ve had it with his pissing and moaning. I cut him loose.”

  “He’s almost sixty and he’s got a family. It’s only a few weeks from Christmas.”

  He shrugged. “Cry me a river.”

  Daniel looked down into the empty shot-glass. “How’d he take it?”

  “Not well.”

  “That job’s the only thing keeping Wes above water. It’s all he has.”

  “Obviously you’ve got enough of your own problems. I’d quit worrying about that fat tub of shit loser and spend a little more time worrying about yourself, if I were you.”

  “But you’re not me,” Daniel said evenly.

  “True. I’m stable. Christ, passed by a mirror lately? You look like a mental patient.” Cliff leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “OK, look. Jessica Simpson over there wants to go to my apartment and ride me like a rollercoaster, so I’m gonna ma
ke this short and sweet, I can’t be dickin’ around with you all night.”

  The sounds Fox made in the dream, the cries of pain, buzzed in his head.

  “You need to go get yourself some help,” Fox said sternly. “And I mean pronto, before you get into trouble. I sympathize with what happened to the wife, OK? Seriously, I do, and I wasn’t going to say anything but since you’re being an asshole and since we already had this discussion once, this is the last time I’m gonna tell you. Stay off station property. You’re no longer an employee of the station and—”

  “I haven’t been back since the last time.”

  “The last time,” he said mockingly. “The last time was this morning.”

  Daniel blanched. “I wasn’t there this morning.”

  “No more games. I asked you nicely, I tried to explain you were freaking the rest of the employees out by hanging around the parking lot like that and you promised me you wouldn’t do it anymore.”

  “I haven’t been back since I told you that.”

  “You were there this morning.”

  “No, Cliff, I wasn’t.”

  “I came out to talk to you and you drove off before I got to the car. You drove right by me, and we looked each other dead in the eye. Come on.”

  It suddenly felt as if a bevy of insects were crawling quickly up the middle of his back, their tiny legs burrowing into his flesh. “It wasn’t me.”

  “OK, whatever, the bottom line is you need to knock this shit off or they’re gonna call the fuzz, understand? Next time you’re seen in the lot Karnakian’s already told security and staff to immediately call the cops and have you removed from the premises. And he’s planning to follow it up with a restraining order. For Christ’s sake, Danny, just stay away. Go hang out at Wes’s house if you need somewhere to go and reminisce. He’s got plenty of time for socializing now.” He raised a finger in the air dramatically, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “Better yet, go talk to a shrink and work out your problems. And while you’re at it try cleaning yourself up now and then. You look like you just climbed out of a sewer.”

  Daniel slid the shot-glass away. “What was I driving when you saw me?”

  “OK, you know what, get arrested then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He loosened his shirt collar a bit further. “I’m gonna go get waist deep in Tiffany, or whatever the hell her name is. Have a good one.”

  “Answer me. Was I driving my car?”

  “I’m not doing this.”

  “Answer the fucking question Fox.”

  “No, you weren’t driving your car.”

  “What was I driving?”

  “I didn’t recognize the car, OK? But I know it was you behind the wheel. I looked right at you, just like I’m looking at you now. Have a good night.”

  Daniel wanted to be angry with him, to tell him off, but all he could see was that sad and devastated man in his nightmare. “Take care of yourself, Cliff.”

  “Take your own advice on that one, pal.” He chuckled. “I’m the Fox, my man. And that, is as good as it gets.”

  “You might not want to bank on that.”

  “Did you just insult me? You think I still have to take your shit?”

  “Leave it alone. I’ve got enough to deal with tonight.”

  Fox glanced around to see if anyone had heard then puffed his chest up in a manner that came off comical rather than intimidating. “Lucky for you this suit costs more than your entire wardrobe. I’m not about to wrinkle it up throwing down on you. Besides, it’s the holidays, right? Consider it Yuletide charity. Just remember what I said about staying off station property. I mean it. And you know what? Stay out of here too.”

  Daniel grabbed his cell and again tried Bryce’s home and cell numbers. When neither line answered he flipped the phone shut and turned back to Cliff, who was still standing there awkwardly, showing off for his date. A horrible rage was rising within him, an oddly familiar animal rage bubbling up from not so very deep within him. “Get away from me, Cliff, I mean it.”

  “Hey, I don’t work for you anymore. Know what that means? Means I don’t have to do what you say. Means I got permission to beat your ass if I feel like it and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Cliff reached out for his shoulder, as if to spin him around so they’d be facing each other, but even before he’d made contact, Daniel dropped off the stool and swung a punch directly into Fox’s mouth. The punch was short and compact, and landed with such force the impact reverberated all the way up Daniel’s arm and into his shoulder. Fox’s head snapped back and he dropped quickly, falling onto the seat of his pants. Though something inside Daniel tempted him to straddle the fallen man and pummel him mercilessly into a mass of bloody undistinguishable pulp, he managed to restrain himself.

  The disruption stopped the other patrons cold, and the blonde screamed louder than seemed necessary as Troy ran out from behind the bar. “What the hell’s wrong with you guys? I thought you were friends. Holy shit, is he OK?”

  Cliff rolled onto all-fours, coughed and spit out a tooth. It clicked across the floor, bouncing away as drool and blood fell from his mouth and dangled in strings that nearly reached his hands. “Sonofabitch,” he said, speech garbled. “You knocked out a tooth.”

  Visions of Fox with bloody gums flashed in Daniel’s mind. The rage subsided and rolled away, a spent wave slowly withdrawing from shore. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Christ, Cliff, I—I’m sorry.”

  “I’m gonna sue the shit out of you!” Fox scampered around on hands and knees looking for his tooth. “Help me find it, I—somebody help me find it!”

  Troy said something to Daniel about sticking around for the cops then joined Fox on the floor in search of his tooth.

  Released from memory, Wesley’s daughter Dora stared at him, face blank, sunken eyes blinking slowly, watching him from some other place and time, her finger raised and pointed at him.

  Outside, the darkness waited.

  Daniel tossed some cash on the bar and hurried out the door.

  THIRTY

  The wipers slapped back and forth against the slush. Speeding through driving ice and rain, Daniel held the wheel firmly and cut through the night toward Framingham, a town twenty miles west of the city. As occasional headlights glided past, sliding over the car in phantom-like fingers, there was enough illumination, coupled with the glow from the dashboard, to reveal the gash across his knuckles. His flesh had snagged on Fox’s tooth before exploding through it, and now a thin vein-like network of dried blood decorated the back of his hand and upper wrist, and a dull ache pulsed in the small spaces between his fingers. He still couldn’t believe he’d hit Fox the way he had. He hadn’t been in a fistfight in years. Yet there was something distressingly pleasurable about what he’d done as well. Much as he tried to deny it, ramming his fist into Fox’s mouth had felt good. So good it frightened him.

  He tried Bryce’s lines again but they remained unresponsive. Maybe he’d gone to the police and was in a precinct house even now, sitting in a quiet little room relaying his story. Daniel could practically see the cops exchanging dubious glances and wondering if they had some escaped mental patient on their hands. Maybe Bryce was still roaming the streets in fear, trying to stay one step ahead of the shadows following him. Maybe Russell had found him and was with him at that very moment, doing only God knows what to him.

  Can’t ever be sure who or what’ll come through.

  A vision of Wayne Bartkowski burned to a blackened and gory mass beckoned him, appearing and taunting him like a ghoul from a funhouse or some late-night horror movie, the fleshy strings that had once been his mouth parting into a grisly smile that revealed teeth now freakishly large for his savaged face. And the eyes…dead eyes, irises burned away, whites transformed to bloody red pools.

  Daniel pulled onto the Mass. Turnpike, and after several minutes and passing through toll booths, eventually reached Wesley Steiger
’s hometown.

  With nearly seventy-thousand residents, Framing-ham, the largest town in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and home to one of the more famous retail strips in the state, had managed over the years to retain a significant number of rural areas along with its more urban and commercial districts. Wesley had lived in one of the more rustic areas in town with his wife and daughter for years, but Daniel had only been to his home twice in all the time he’d known him, once for a cookout several years before and once when Wesley’s car had been in the shop and he’d needed a ride to work.

  A modest Cape at the end of a working-class cul-de-sac, Wesley’s house was a single story, basic and rather boxy structure painted a faded white dressed with black shutters. As bland as the homes built in colonial New England for which its basic style was named, the house sat on a tiny square of land and was flanked by a gravel driveway and a series of waist-high hedges that served to separate the property from the neighboring yard. A small statue of the Virgin Mary decorated the front lawn, and Wesley’s monstrous Oldsmobile was parked in the driveway. A stone plaque next to the front walk read: WELCOME.

  Light filled one of the windows facing the street.

  The rain had become more snow-based, and plopped against the car in thick wet dollops, drumming steadily along the roof and hood and spattering the windshield and windows with an icy gelatinous film. Daniel shut the wipers off, killed the engine and watched the house until it blurred into oblivion.

  There was something unsettling about the disconnect he felt at that moment, a feeling of isolation from the rest of the world and whatever scraps he could still cling to and claim as reality. The things firing and functioning within him, organized electrical activity and impulses that controlled his mind, rushes of blood and intakes of oxygen that fed his body, all became more concrete and realized, palpable. His heart beat defiantly and out of synch with the sounds playing along the roof. His breathing was slow, deep and deliberate. All these things seemed new to him somehow, virgin terrain existing all along that he’d somehow missed until just then. The act, the process of being alive, of being a living organism—and all the conflict and struggle to maintain it, battles that raged within him by rote and without his conscious participation or control—flowed through him like the raw energy it was, no longer shackled to ambiguity or something he could summarily dismiss. After all, did one ever stop to think about the act of breathing, to ponder the concept of all the vast networks and systems that need to work in unison and that take place within one at all times in order for life to sustain itself? These things were taken for granted. They functioned on their own, or not, and one lived or died, was healthy or sick, sane or insane. Or perhaps something else, something more, something different.