Paul decided to call Tracy, but had no idea how she would react. She had every reason to shut him out as he had done her. “Tracy, please call me back. It’s urgent,” he said to her voice mail.
A moment later his phone rang.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Tracy asked, her voice fraught with concern.
Paul went on to explain the dire circumstances, and asked if Jasmine and Kate could stay at their place for a day or two until things got straightened out.
“Yes, no problem,” Tracy said without hesitation.
“Do you have to check with Heidi?”
“She’s right here next to me. She agrees. Tell them to hurry over.”
“Thank you sweetheart. And….” Paul couldn’t finish.
“Hurry,” Tracy said, urgently.
Kate called Jasmine, arranged a pick-up, and headed to Tracy and Heidi’s to hide out until Paul could figure out what to do next. But now the panic was spreading. Paul sat on a stool in his kitchen watching his coffee maker dripping into the pot like the sands of an hourglass. He had to get to Ash. And do what?
As he coffee’ed up, his brain was spinning, churning, digging for solutions. But instead of logic and reason, he was losing his mind to rage and retribution. He began his plan, laying out the weapons he thought he would need to eliminate the threat from Ash and his gang and whoever else he may have to deal with to protect Kate and Jasmine, as well as Tracy and Heidi, who will be hiding them. If he had a drink or two now, just to calm his nerves, and cut himself off in the afternoon, he was sure he’d be sober by nightfall when he would make his move.
Fueled by Guinness, vodka, and Starbucks home-brewed coffee he plotted everything out, like he was back on the job planning an elaborate undercover operation against a major drug dealer. Those perps back in New York weren’t just some hicks cooking cold medicine in abandoned shacks. The guys he went after in the heyday of drugs in the city were like CEO’s of corporations, complete with a corporate pyramid structure with one or two at the top that lived “clean” lives in the affluent suburbs of New York right next to Wall Street titans, high-powered lawyers, brain surgeons, and the other one-percenters. They sent their kids to the same elite private schools, used the same Lear Jet leasing companies, belonged to the same country clubs, and hid their money offshore in the same banana republics. They were far removed from the war raging on the streets of New York, destroying the lives of kids in Harlem, the South Bronx, and on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. Their hired apprentice thugs, who did the necessary street-fighting – killing the competition for their turf, terrorizing innocent families, and hooking a generation on heroin – believing that one day they too would have a shot at the top. Sure.
Paul risked his life in undercover operations doing the dirty work to get at those kingpins. And now he was back at it again. He was going take on Ash and his gang, or militia, or cubscout pack, whatever the hell they were.
He was thinking all of this while he stumbled through several drawers trying to remember where he kept the keys to his gun vault. Why did he have so damn many keys loose in all these drawers? Drawers in the bathroom, bedrooms, kitchen, garage, were all rummaged through and through. Would he have to break into the armored cabinet to retrieve the guns he felt he needed for the operation? Or maybe he just needed knives. Go stealth. Blackout on his face like a Seal Six assassin. He shoved his hand into a kitchen drawer and pricked his palm right in the center with an ice pick and stared at his hand as it bleed. He held it up, and watched the blood drip down, onto his wrist, and down his bare arm. It looked similar to Kate’s cut palm, and something else. His phone rang somewhere. But where? He followed the sound and found it under a pile of dirty laundry on his bed. He looked at the number. A New York number. Mickey? His old pal from the Bronx?
“Hello.”
“Paul, how the hell are you? Keeping out of trouble?” Mickey asked, excitedly.
“Uh, yeah. Mickey, how are you? Anything up? I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“I’ll make it fast. I’m coming out.”
“You mean, like you’re coming out? Like out of the closet?”
“Very funny. I’m coming to visit, you knucklehead! Me and some guys are going to Vegas, and I’m going to rent a car there and drive to see you. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. Can you believe it?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s nice. Okay, call me when you get here. Bye.”
Paul turned off his phone, and went into the bathroom to clean off the blood and stop the bleeding. He stood in front of the mirror and looked at the blood trickling from his palm as he held it up. “Mickey coming here? Now? Jesus!” He said to his reflection in the mirror.
The hours passed slowly as he waited for the sun to set. He finally found the key to his gun vault and laid out his arsenal on the kitchen floor. A shotgun, two handguns, a Bowie knife, and zip-tie handcuffs. He had stopped drinking alcohol three hours ago, and according to his calculations he should be below the legal limit for driving in two more hours. What he didn’t calculate was how his brain was already way over the limit. He was consumed with rage, revenge, anger, and confusion from the decades of his chosen livelihood and lifestyle. He was locked-in to attack mode purely from muscle memory. And now he was taking action. This would be his way to solve this problem. No need for meetings with supervisors and lawyers and his fellow officers to coordinate a systematic takedown with minimum chance for failure and maximum possibility for a slam-dunk prosecution in a court of law. He would be dealing his own instant karma.
If it wasn’t for a coyote’s howl Paul probably would have slept through the night. His elaborate plan gave way to a good old-fashioned alcohol-induced power nap. It was just after 11 P.M., and his raving mad rage had been lost in a fuzzy-headed fog. He went to take a leak and upon passing the bedroom, saw his arsenal laid out on the bed. It was time. He loaded everything into the Escape and was on his way.
As he drove up the highway, his rage began boiling from below. And with each passing white line in the road, coming faster and faster, his anger, angst, fury, ferocity, and focus would be the weapon that would drive him. Propel him. Primal, cave man, red-zone passion would be his guiding light. Isn’t that what kept him alive all those years on the job? He didn’t even have a weapon on him in his most dangerous undercover situations. He didn’t even have on a wire. He relied on himself. His smarts. His intuition. His guts. That’s what makes him what he is. He knows how to do this. Nobody else could tell him. That’s why he is where he is. Alive.
He jerked the steering wheel to the right and went down the dark dirt road that would take him to Ash’s. Ash and his gang of inbred hillbillies were nothing. Paul took down some of the worst thugs in the hellholes of New York during the worst period of crime in history. These Breaking Bad wannabes were just a bunch of small-time punks.
Paul turned off his headlights as he sped down the washboard road. It was almost impossible to see anything, but he was on autopilot anyway. Led by guts and guile. He was ready once and for all to have it out. Maybe this would be his final blaze of glory, but he didn’t care. He was going to win. He was going to put an end to Ash and whoever else thought they could get over on him. In his head, he took one last inventory of the tools of his trade: A shotgun, two handguns, a large knife, and enough ammo loaded to take down a Taliban platoon. If nobody got out alive, so be it. He is the one who put Jasmine and Kate in jeopardy. And he would get them out of it.
Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of light for a nanosecond and everything on his car went dead. It rolled to a stop, the thumps of the hard washboard dirt road slowing until the SUV was at a total standstill. He turned the ignition key and there was nothing. Not even the slight click when there’s a tiny sip of juice still in the battery. He opened the door and stepped out. No lights anywhere. Just a slight glow of light above the horizon many, many miles in the distance, probably from Twentynine Palms. He tapped his pocket, feeling for his .22. He felt a little safer now. He too
k out his phone. Dead. Nothing. Weird. He went back into the car and grabbed a flashlight from the glove box. Also dead. He pushed the side illumination button on his cheap Casio watch. Nothing. Okay, what is going on? Oww! A sudden burst of blazing heat was burning his leg through his pants pocket where he kept his gun. He frantically reached in his jeans pocket and struggled to get the gun out. He jerked it out, and in doing so the gun went flying in the air, landing somewhere in the dark hardscrabble brush and dirt. Paul closed his eyes and covered his eyes with both hands. Wake up! Wake up! This is not happening! Wake up!
Paul lowered his hands and ever so slightly opened his eyes, unsure if he would be seeing the inside of his home with him safe in bed, or if he was still in the middle of the deep, dark, desert. He started to see some light through his partially opened eyelids. Thank, God. It is a dream.
But when he widened his eyes, what he saw was not a lamp in his living room, but some kind of circular doorway, with an illuminated ramp lined with soft dots of light, like the emergency LED markers on an airplane floor. He was frozen with fear. Here it was again. Is it his mind playing tricks on him, like the night of his accident? Is this some kind of flying saucer? But there was no saucer. It was merely an opening into something without any shape or form. He took a step forward, and the crunch of gravel underfoot was evidence that he wasn’t dreaming. This was real. He knew he had to go up the ramp.
He stood with both tips of his shoes inches from the ramp. He lifted his right foot and held it above the ramp for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only about 30 seconds. He ever so slowly lowered his foot and planted it on the ramp. A slight vibration, like a hum, traveled from his foot throughout his entire body. It made him feel different. No rage. No anger. No fear. He began his slow ascent towards the opening. Five steps later, he was in … something.
The ramp disappeared behind him, and he was again in total darkness. He closed his eyes for three or so seconds and when he opened them, there she was.
“What the? Tracy? Is that you, Tracy? What is this?” Paul asked, staring in disbelief.
Sitting before him, in what looked like a folding beach chair, complete with a red cup in a drink holder, there she was. “Hi, Paulie. I’m not Tracy. If you want to see Tracy, just turn around,” the strangely familiar voice said calmly.
“I don’t want to turn around, but I will,” Paul said as he did a 180. “Great God almighty. What in the …?”
With jaw dropped, Paul stared at the vivid scene in front of him. In crystal clear, better than 4K HD was a twentysomething Paul, on the beach helping a toddler dig and build a sand castle on a sparkling summer day, with soft waves lapping ashore just behind them. “That’s me and … Tracy. On Ponquoge Beach. I remember that day. It was the Fourth of July. And….”
Paul turned back around and did all he could to speak aloud and not collapse in a quivering mess of emotion. “Marcy? That’s you, Marcy? Am I … dead?”
It was Paul’s deceased wife, Marcy, appearing to be around the age where she gave birth to their daughter, Tracy. Her face glowed as if the bright July beach sand was reflecting upwards. Her raven hair shined like it was still damp from a dip in the ocean. She was wearing a blue Mets tank top and orange shorts. Her skin glistened as though she had just applied baby oil. “You’re not dead. You’re very much alive,” Marcy said, calmly.
“Is this some kind of cosmic hallucination? Is it all just in my head?”
“No, Paulie, this is real. I’m real. What you see behind you, on Ponquogue beach, that’s a scene I keep on the interior walls of this vehicle. It’s one of my fondest memories of life. On earth.”
“You are real? I’m not dead? I almost forgot how beautiful you were. Are. How can you be real?”
“Come here,” Marcy said, picking up the red cup form its holder. “Taste this.”
Paul inched towards her. Maybe this is hell? Maybe she’s the devil? He thought to himself.
“I’m not the devil. Taste this!”
He reached out, took the cup, and drank a sip from it. “I better watch what I’m thinking, huh? This tastes like … V8.”
“It is. It’s like drinking vegetables. Taste this,” Marcy said, picking up a white cup with a plastic spoon in it from the cup holder on the other arm rest.
Paul took a small spoonful of the creamy white substance. “Yogurt?”
“Greek yogurt. That’s all we really need to survive. These two substances.”
“You’re alive? I don’t….”
“I know it’s a lot to comprehend. Yes, I’m alive. I have a physical body. This is a vehicle. A machine. I’m here to help you.”
“Where did you come from?”
“I’m going to tell you where. It’s not exact, but it’s a way you can understand.”
Paul was only a couple feet away from her. He could smell the baby oil, her sweat, her yogurt breath. “I doubt it, but I’ll bite.”
“Purgatory.”
“Purgatory? That’s where you came from? Like in the Catechism purgatory? I thought they said there was no purgatory a few years ago.”
“Like they did away with Saint Christopher and Latin Mass? Those are things of the earth. Do you think an all-loving God would let good but troubled people just go to hell? Or just allow them into heaven without having earned it? There is judgment in the end. Purgatory is real. It is a real, physical place. I came from there.”
“And that’s where UFO’s come from? Purgatory? What about the UFO I saw the night of my accident?” Paul asked, with a touch of earthly skepticism in his voice.
“Do you remember Frankie Doherty?”
“He was my best friend all through grammar school, until eighth-grade graduation! We were altar boys together. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Well, he passed away a few months ago. That was his first trip back to earth, the night of your accident. We still have free will. He won’t be traveling for a while. He has more to learn. He was not supposed to do that. He was messing with you.”
“Damn. Passed away. I always meant to look him up. And he got caught just messing with me? That explains the altar boy Latin on the side of the UFO. That knucklehead.”
“He didn’t just get caught. You don’t get away with anything where we are. You do remember God is all-knowing?”
“I was good at Catechism.” Paul closed his eyes to concentrate. “I got it. God is eternal, all-good, all-knowing, all-present, almighty.”
“Don’t forget, all-wise, all-holy, all-merciful, and all-just.”
“You don’t mean to tell me that the Catechism from third grade is all literally true?”
“No. Not at all. But it was what we had to go by, and close enough.”
“Why is this happening? I’m sure it’s not to give me a pop Catechism quiz.”
“Sit down, Paulie.”
Paul sat on the floor of the vehicle, and as he did the area around him became warm, fine, white sand. Like the sand on the Ponquogue beach on the eastern end of Long Island. He put his hand in the sand, and let it run through his fingers. Marcy got up from her beach chair and the surface below her feet became sand. She sat just across from Paul. Their knees were just inches apart. He looked around the circular vehicle, and like a 360-degree surround video, the scene of that day on the beach was playing out before him in real time. He felt the cool spray of ocean water on his neck and the warm sun on his face.
Marcy was perfect in her youthful beauty. Her eyes were a clear sparkling blue, her raven hair so shiny it looked like it had streaks of silver in it. Her skin had no blemishes or redness. Just the pure white skin of what they called the “black Irish” in the old neighborhood.
“Paulie, we in purgatory must earn our way to heaven. By making a difference on earth. I am doing this to save you.”
“So, you know where I was going and had to stop me?”
“I didn’t have to stop you.”
“I was going to get killed when I busted in on Ash’s house and you
saved my life? How could I ever thank you …?”
“No, Paulie. I wasn’t trying to save you from getting killed. I was saving you from killing. I was saving your soul. You were blind with rage and confusion. As you have been for so long. You had weapons and you were going to kill. And your soul would be lost for all eternity and damned to hell.”
“Yeah, but I’m already lost. I already killed. I know my Catechism. The sixth commandment: thou shalt not kill. I have killed.”
“That’s not the sixth commandment. The sixth commandment is thou shalt not murder. A police officer, a soldier, a good Samaritan who takes a life to save lives is not murdering.”
“I wanted to make a difference when I became a cop. I didn’t want to lose my soul.”
“You didn’t.”
“You are flesh and blood? Like a real human? How can that be? Where do you … live?”
“You’ve heard of Andromeda?”
“Sure, The Andromeda Strain. Good movie, based on Michael Crichton’s book.”
“We’re on a planet in the Andromeda Galaxy, 2.5 million light years away. Humans will never be able to travel that distance. All human-type advanced life forms are separated by hundreds of millions of light years, so they can’t contaminate each other.”
“Like keeping petri dishes separated in a lab.”
“Exactly.”
“Only we have the technology to travel light years. It’s designed that way.”
“How come I couldn’t see the vehicle? Was it really invisible?”
“Yes it was. Cloaked I think is the correct term. The responsible travelers always are.”
“So if you have a human body, you eat, drink. What about … sex?”
“Kiss me.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Paul leaned in, closed his eyes, and ever so gently placed his lips on Marcy’s. But he felt nothing. No hint of the blissful sensations he had when they were young and in love. He pulled away.
Marcy smiled. “Sexuality really is a glimpse of heavenly bliss that human beings experience. We in purgatory are denied that sensation. Until we attain full blissful purity in heaven.”
High Desert High Page 23