The stairs leading to Consuela’s front door were crumbling, and the rusting bank of doorbells had a spaghetti of disconnected wires dangling from their base. The old door complained loudly as he pulled it open. He walked across the broken mosaic floor and pushed through canted inner doors, their broken windowpanes repaired with cardboard and masking tape. The inner hall stank of old refuse and rang with the sounds of screaming children and blaring televisions. The walls were mildewed, and the only light was a bare bulb hanging high overhead. Rick checked the paper in his hand, then started for the stairs.
The woman who answered his knock was no doubt once very beautiful, but now her features were as blurred as her voice and her eyes. “Yeah? Whaddaya want?”
Rick was not used to speaking to somebody through a cracked door with two chains holding it from opening farther. “Mrs. Ortez?”
“The name’s Johnson. Who’re you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was looking for the apartment of Consuela Ortez.”
The woman made an effort to focus. “Consuela’s sick. I called you people this morning. How come you can’t just leave us alone?”
Rick stared. “You’re Consuela’s mother?”
“Why do I have to go through this every time you assign someone new?” Her voice rose to a habitual whine. “My husband was Puerto Rican. He left us soon after Consuela was born, and I’ve never heard from him since. Consuela has his last name on her birth certificate. I changed my name back. It’s all legal and down in black and white, if you’d just take time to check your records.”
“I’m not from the school, Mrs. Johnson. I’m a friend of Consuela’s. May I speak with her, please?”
Watery green eyes squinted in concentration. “You sure you’re not from the office?”
“I’m just a friend, honest. We had a date Friday and, well, to be honest, I’m not exactly sure what happened. I’d just like to talk with her and make sure everything’s okay.”
Mrs. Johnson tucked strands of grayish blond hair back into her unkempt bun. Rick saw that her fingers were red and chapped raw, the fingernails bitten to the quick. “Well, if you’re sure you’re her friend.”
“Really, Mrs. Johnson. Please.”
“Just a minute.” The door closed, and he heard chains being ratcheted back. The door opened once more to admit him as the woman backed up on unsteady legs. “You’re really her friend?”
Rick nodded, trying hard not to stare around the threadbare room. From the woman’s unkempt appearance, he guessed Consuela was the one responsible for the place being so clean. But nothing could hide the poverty. “Yes, ma’am. Could I speak with her, please? I won’t be a minute.”
“She’s not here,” she replied, and for the first time a hint of worry showed through. “She hasn’t been home since Friday night.”
“What?” Rick felt his knees grow weak.
“She went off to see some friends. I think that’s what she said. Something about bowling.”
“She had a date with me, Mrs. Johnson.”
“Consuela didn’t say anything about a date,” her mother replied, more certain about that than anything since opening the door. “It was a couple of girlfriends. But I can’t remember their names. My memory is a mess.”
Rick felt insulted. Why would she not want her mother to know she had a date with him? “Could I maybe check her room? Maybe there’s something there you missed.”
Mrs. Johnson hesitated, then said, “I suppose it’s all right. First door down the hall. You’re sure you’re not from the office?”
“Just a friend.” Rick crossed the living room and entered the stubby hallway. The first door opened into a cramped windowless room.
Consuela’s bedroom was utterly spotless. Everything had its place, a place for everything. The bed was neatly made, the few books stacked along shelves made from raw planks and concrete blocks. The walls were covered with advertisements for past orchestral performances and ballet and art exhibits. At the corner of each were tagged single tickets. Rick glanced at the books. Most were classics—Shakespeare, Milton, Thoreau, Conrad, Joyce—and all were dog-eared from heavy use. Several had their bindings taped to keep the books from falling apart. For some reason, seeing those books made him feel ashamed.
As he searched her room for something, anything, that might suggest where she had gone, Rick found himself thinking back to the year before, and the girl who had dumped him, and what she had said. He shook his head, trying to drive away the memories, but they would not go. The recollections added a frantic note to his search.
A flake. That was what Audrie had called him. A total flake. A year later, the words remained etched in his brain.
She had been a senior and a cheerleader, he the first guy ever to be made captain of the football team his junior year. The year’s difference in age had been a challenge to him and a joke to her. It had been far more than puppy love, at least to him. After dating a month, she had wanted nothing to do with him. But the harder she pushed him away, the more he wanted her.
Finally she had taken him aside and talked down to him. To him. As if he were some unruly little brother who had to be shown his place. “I won’t go out with you anymore because you’re a flake,” she had told him bluntly, “and with your looks there’s a good chance you’ll make it all the way through school without ever having to grow up.”
Rick had been so stunned by the words that it was only when his anger boiled over that he could speak at all. “You’re crazy. You just wish you had it so good.”
Her reply had been as curt as her tone. “I don’t know if I can put it in words of one syllable, and even if I could, I doubt if you would listen. Someday something is really going to shake your world and force you to grow up. I only hope it won’t be too long in coming.”
All Rick could think of as he searched Consuela’s room was, what if the time had come? What if this was what would shake his world? The darkness of unknown dangers rattled him to his core. But try as he might, he could come up with nothing that suggested where Consuela might be.
Rick felt himself driven from the room by mysteries and unfounded fears. As he walked down the hallway and passed the kitchen door, his eye was snagged by several business cards tumb-tacked to the wall. Rick hesitated, then ducked inside the kitchen. It was as spotless and barren as the rest of the apartment. He ran his eye down the cards, searching for someone who might know where Consuela was—doctor, ambulance, dentist, social security office, police, everything neat and orderly.
Then he spotted a newer card stuck down at the bottom. It was not held with a thumbtack like the others, but rather with an enamelled gold cross. Rick bent over. Sure enough, the card was held in place by a lapel pin, as though someone had hastily tagged it into place with the only thing at hand. The card itself had a cross in the corner. The name rang a vague bell in Rick’s mind. Reverend Daniel Mitchum, youth pastor at the First Community Church.
Rick worked the little pin free and carried the card out to the living room. Mrs. Johnson was seated at the dining table with a glass in her hand.
He thrust the card forward and asked, “Do you think he might know where Consuela is?”
“Huh?” Her head moved like a puppet on a loose string.
“Daniel Mitchum,” Rick insisted. “His card was by the phone.”
She struggled to focus. “Oh. Danny is a good boy. A real gent. He makes me smile.” She nodded, a bumpy motion that took her chin almost to her chest. “He comes by from time to time. Say, you want something to drink?”
“No, thanks.” Rick hesitated, then said, “I think maybe we better call the police, Mrs. Johnson.”
That brought her around. Raw fear appeared in her eyes. “Don’t,” she pleaded. “They’re always making trouble for me. Don’t tell them she’s not here.”
“But Mrs. Johnson—”
“You’re her friend,” she begged. “You find her. Call Danny. Maybe she’s there. Yeah, that’s it. She’s gone to visit Danny.
He’s a good kid. You just call the number on the card. Everything will work out fine.”
Chapter Seven
It was almost dusk when the church van pulled into the parking lot. Daniel saw off his vanload of teens with a smile and a kind word, then turned to where Rick stood waiting by his car. Rick was growing weary, but still tried hard to put on a good face. “Hey, Dan. How’s it going?”
“Hello, Rick.” The dark-haired young man wore a Red Sox warm-up jacket and a very tired expression. “Nice to see you again. That your car?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go.” Despite his evident fatigue, Daniel set a rapid pace. “Do you think the carnival’s still open?”
“Hey,” Rick said, slowing down. “I told you on the phone, I checked that place from top to—”
“Then one more time won’t hurt anything.” Daniel grasped his arm and urged him forward. “Never can tell what we find if we check it out together.”
“Then, you believe me?”
“Let’s just say,” Daniel replied, hustling through the main entrance, “I’m sympathetic to what you’ve been going through.”
When they had piled into Rick’s Corvette, Daniel said, “Run through the story one more time, all right?”
Rick did so, feeling the affair become more real as someone finally took him seriously. “I searched all over the place, spent almost three hours looking. Believe me, I did everything but climb back into the tunnel.”
“I believe you,” Daniel said quietly.
When they pulled into the carnival parking lot, Daniel was up and running even before Rick cut off the motor. Rick raced to catch up with him and demanded, “What’s the hurry?”
“I’m not sure. I just have the feeling that the answer we’re looking for is at the roller coaster.”
“But I told you, I’ve talked to the manager and walked all around the place!”
Daniel did not bother to reply. He ran down the gaudy thoroughfare, his haste and his serious demeanor attracting stares from the remaining fun-seekers. He bought two coaster tickets, then motioned for Rick to join him in the line. He reached into his jacket, brought out a pen and a piece of paper. He scribbled hastily, then handed it to Rick. “If something happens and I don’t come out, call this number. It’s my home. My wife’s name is Bliss.”
Rick stared at him. “What do you mean, if something happens?”
Impatiently Daniel waved it aside and pushed the pad and pen at Rick. “Now do the same for me.”
“What are you talking about?”
Daniel gave him a grim stare. “Listen to what I am saying. I just think it would be a good idea if we knew a contact for each other.”
“Not me,” Rick replied numbly. “The last thing I need is for my folks to know what’s going on.”
“Hey!” The barker brusquely waved them forward. “You jokers want to ride, get a move on! I ain’t got all night.”
Together they moved forward and allowed themselves to be seated. When the bar crashed down, Daniel settled back and sighed, “Here we go.”
Rick’s query was cut short by the horn sounding, announcing that the ride was pulling out. The climb to the top seemed endless, the swoop downward uninteresting. Rick sat beside a grim-faced Daniel, allowing himself to be thrown back and forth by the centrifugal force, wondering what the guy had been talking about, wishing he could just make it all go away.
Somehow the tunnel ride felt as though it lasted a lot longer than the first time. Rick decided it was just nerves, especially when the light reappeared and he glanced to his left, and Daniel was still there. The feeling of relief was so strong he had to laugh.
But Daniel remained thoughtfully silent as they stepped from the car. He pulled Rick back around to the front and said, “Wait here.” Then he stepped forward and bought another ticket. When he returned, he was pulling pen and paper from his pocket once more. “You need to write out a little note to your folks.”
“No thanks. Uh-uh. No way.”
“Just tell them you’re going to be away for a couple of days, so they won’t worry. Or at least, not worry too much.”
Rick could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Are you crazy?”
“Hurry, there’s not much time.” Daniel gave him an assessing gaze. “This isn’t my trip. You need to go yourself. Alone.”
“Go where?”
“Look, do you want to find Consuela, or don’t you?”
“Sure, but—”
“Then every second counts. Write out the note and put your address on this second page. I’ll drop your car and the note off.” When Rick still did not move, Daniel leaned forward and said forcefully, “I can’t do this, Rick. If you want to help Consuela you’ve got to believe me and do what I say.”
Feeling cut off from the garish sights and sounds that surrounded him, Rick did as he was urged. When he handed back the scribbled message, Daniel read it and grunted, “It will have to do.” He grasped Rick’s hand, guided him forward, and said as they walked, “Will you take some advice?”
“I guess so, but—”
“When you find yourself growing lost or confused, search out the light that remains unseen. Remember that the answer does not lie in strength or power or anger, but in love. Open yourself up to the Lord’s higher call, and know that you will always be protected.”
Daniel patted his shoulder and handed the barker the single ticket. As Rick climbed into the seat, Daniel called out from behind the wire barrier, “Tell Consuela that we’ll be praying for your safe return.”
Chapter Eight
Consuela awoke with a gasping exclamation that sounded as if it had been torn from her throat. Wander squeezed her hand, pressed another upon the soft skin where neck joined shoulder, and soothed, “Easy, easy. It’s going to be all right.”
“Ooooh, my head. Everything keeps spinning around,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“You’ve had a psychic shock.” Wander’s voice was calm despite his racing pulse. “Your amplifier was tuned up too high.”
“Wander? Is that really you?” She struggled to open her eyes, but they swam unfocused until she groaned and closed them once more.
“It’s me,” he said softly.
“I’m still here,” she murmured.
He had to smile. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Don’t leave me, okay? Don’t let go. I feel like I’d go spinning out of control if you didn’t keep hold.”
“I’m here,” he said quietly, daring to stroke the tiny thread of hair falling before her ear. “I’m right here.”
“What happened? I know you told me already, but I don’t think I understand.”
“Let me tell you a story,” he replied quietly. “You just lie there. It’s better if you’re quiet.”
“Lights,” she said softly. “They keep flashing in my head.”
“I know. It will pass,” he quietly assured her. “Listen. When I was eleven, a specialist came to my school. He was some big doctor, volunteering time to work with the barrio kids. All the teachers made a big fuss over him. They made me go see him. The doctor inspected me and said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with this child except he hasn’t had enough to eat.’ The head teacher prodded me in the shoulder and said, ‘Tell the good doctor about your voices.’ I will never forget how ashamed I was. I couldn’t look at the doctor after that, even when he ordered me to.
“When I wouldn’t say anything, the head teacher started telling him stories. About how when I was younger I would go off into these spells—that’s what she called them, spells. One minute I was there, the next I wasn’t. I just drifted off and away, then I would snap back and have no recollection of where I was or how I got there or why the teacher was shouting at me and why the kids were laughing.”
Wander leaned back in his chair, drawing her hand closer to the edge of the bed so that he could hold it with both of his. “She told him how sometimes I would answer voices that no one else could hear, or a
sk questions that made no sense, or speak words that no barrio child had any way of knowing, like gravity shield release, or transition approach, or thruster station. She made me stand there while she told him how, when the kids kept laughing at me, I stopped talking about the voices. How I stopped talking at all. How for over a year I did not speak to anyone. But how I would sometimes still have these spells. And how other kids would talk about how I spent all my free time wandering around the port, sitting for hours in the haunted fields that everyone else refused to walk through.
“I had to keep standing there, terrified that all my secrets were coming out. I knew they were going to do something to me. I just knew it. I stood there and tried to shut out her voice and wished the floor would just open up and swallow me whole.”
Slowly, gradually, inch by inch, Consuela turned her head. She opened one eye at a time, her brow furrowed with the effort of trying to focus on Wander. When both of those beautiful dark eyes were fastened on his face, he asked, “Feeling any better?”
“I think so. This will really go away?”
“Yes. Are you thirsty?”
“Very.”
When he brought the cup over, she opened her mouth, accepted the straw and swallowed, holding her head as still as she could. “Thank you.”
Wander settled back and went on, “The doctor made the head teacher leave the room. He then took hold of my shoulders and guided me over to a seat and forced me to sit down. I can still remember how his hands smelled, clean and a little soapy. He had a very deep voice. He told me that he was going to sit there for as long as it took for me to stop being shy and speak with him. But until I was ready, he was going to talk, because he didn’t like wasting time. He was not a volunteer as the school thought. He was paid by the Hegemony. There, he said, he had told me a secret. One he knew a silent boy like me would keep. But because he was being so honest and open with me, he hoped I would think about talking to him.
The Dream Voyagers Page 5