Gateway

by David C. Cassidy

  “Hi, Mar. Everything okay?”

  “I’m all right. But Artie Fisher is missing.”

  “Who?”

  “Artie Fisher. Don’t you remember? He’s a janitor at Kit’s school. He’s missing, Jared.”

  Jared paused. “Jesus. Yeah, I remember him now. He’s one of Judd’s friends. Maybe his best friend.”

  “This is crazy,” Marisa said. “I mean, to think he’s—” She turned away from Kit’s view. She didn’t want him to hear.

  “Mar?”

  A young man came out of the store holding a candy bar and a soft drink. He gave Marisa a look as he passed her.

  “This must be a coincidence,” she said, keeping her voice low. “It has to be, right? Tell me it is.”

  “Still on the fence?”

  “That’s not funny, Jared. I’m serious here.”

  “I’d like to think I’m wrong about this. But I don’t think I am.”

  Marisa glanced at her son. He was staring at her, wide-eyed. She smiled at him, and he settled back in his seat.

  “Artie can’t be … you know,” she said.

  “Buried?” Jared replied.

  Again she turned away, pretending to glance down the street. “Do you know how insane this is?”

  “Calm down,” Jared said. “I know exactly how insane this is. But the facts fit the theory.”

  Marisa glanced back to her child. “I’m scared.”

  “I know. I am, too.”

  “Do you really think—” She stopped herself. She didn’t like where this was going.

  “Yes,” Jared said. “Someone buried him. Which means he was murdered.”

  Marisa noticed the lamp post at the corner. Another poster of Artie Fisher. He had always had a kind smile. And a kind word for her son.

  “Why would anyone want to hurt him?” she said. “He was always so nice to me. And to Kit.”

  “I don’t know. This is for the police now.”

  “So that’s it? We don’t say anything?”

  “What would we say? First of all, they’d think we were crazy. Second of all, they’d think I had something to do with it.”

  “I know,” she agreed. “I’m just so scared.”

  “We’ll be all right. I promise. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “On another note … I spoke with Sonia.”

  “How did it go?”

  Jared sighed.

  “That well,” Marisa said. “So when’s the interview?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I’ll listen in. Maybe I can kill time with some questions.”

  “Artie Fisher aside, she’s going to try to bury me, Mar.”

  “I don’t think she’ll attack you. That’s not going to play well with her followers. Or your fans. Whatever they ask, just be yourself.”

  “And if Bobby calls again?”

  “Just deny everything. Be calm. Sonia will have no choice but to disconnect him if he’s belligerent.”

  “And what if others ask about what Bobby said the first time?”

  “Has any one contacted you about it? Your agent?”

  “No,” Jared said. “I checked my email. Twitter and Facebook. Nothing.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But I could be heading into an online ambush. I don’t want to sound cruel, but right now I wish the person who buried Artie Fisher had buried Sonia Wheaton.”

  “Careful what you wish for,” she told him. “But I can’t say I blame you.” She looked over at Kit. “Can you come for dinner? I’m free tonight.”

  “I’d love to. But to tell you the truth, I’m beat. I was up way too early. Got a nasty wake-up call from Jack Henneman.”

  Marisa was about to ask, but realized why. “The Phantom? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know. It’s far too soon. It doesn’t fit the pattern at all.”

  “A copycat?”

  “Smart girl,” Jared said.

  “What the hell is going on in this town?”

  “I don’t know. It’s like it’s coming apart from the inside.”

  “You scare me when your writing comes out of your lips, you know that?”

  Jared chuckled. “Sorry. I’m going to try and get my mind off all this. Maybe do a little work. I’ll call you later, okay? And say hi to Kit for me.”

  “I will. Goodbye.”

  “Bye.”

  Marisa glanced at the poster again. She thought about Artie Fisher, how warm his smile was. And then she thought about what Jared had said about someone burying Sonia Wheaton instead. She hated herself for it, but hadn’t she been thinking the very same?

  ~ 74

  Kit lay in his bed. Hard rain and strong winds pelted the window. Distant rolling thunder kept him awake, and the flickering light show made him draw his covers close.

  The Bad People were near. They were going to get him.

  Jared said they wouldn’t; said nothing was going to get him. But how could he stop them?

  They were in his head, thinking monster thoughts. Thinking to hurt people. It was only a matter of time before they decided to hurt him. Decided to get him.

  They’d get Jared first.

  Then Mom.

  Then him.

  It was his fault, of course. For being epileptic. For being Smudge.

  Milky eyes, Look like sludge, Here he is, Christian Smudge! Milky eyes, Look like sludge—

  Lightning flashed again, and he cowered. He waited out the growing thunder, then dared a peek over his blanket. A small cry sprang from him, but thunder swallowed it.

  Something was there. Right there in the room.

  He swept up his glasses from the night stand, only to fumble them in his fingers. They plopped onto the carpet.

  The room was black now; even the glow of the hall night-light beneath his door had abandoned him. The power had gone out, and now the storm seemed to swallow the house.

  Please God, don’t let it get me.

  He peered into the darkness. Despite his poor vision, he could always make out shapes without his glasses, even at night. But that was with the aid of the thin light from the corridor beneath his door. Right now, he was at the bottom of a deep black cave.

  He clenched a fist around his calming stone. He’d been holding it since the storm broke, and now it felt damp from his sweat.

  He listened, trying to hear above the storm.

  Listened for breathing.

  For thoughts in his head.

  Nothing.

  He was thirsty, but he didn’t want to get up in the dark, didn’t want to make his way down that lightless corridor to the bathroom. Whatever lay in wait for him would snatch him the second he got out of bed. It would look like a man, but not; it would have big bony arms that would have no trouble catching him. And claws. It would have long ones as sharp as knives—monsters always had those—and it would rip into his throat and bleed him to death.

  But those eyes, those cold, glowing eyes, were more menacing than the beast itself. They were a window to its brain, a brain filled with horrifying ideas. Monster thoughts.

  He set down the stone beneath his sheets. Slowly, he slipped out from the covers and slid to the edge of the bed. He didn’t like being small, his feet dangled above that terrifying gap between the floor and the mattress. Moving down, he feared a claw would snatch him and drag him screaming into the abyss beneath his bed.

  He found his glasses and slipped them on. He still couldn’t see very well, but he knew that the door was only steps away. Before he could reach it, a crack of thunder stopped him dead in his tracks. When the lightning came again, chased by an even greater thunder, his scream went unheard at the black creature towering over him.

  The light fled. He turned around, dove blindly into his bed and yanked the covers over him. His heart thudded against his chest.

  He trembled and held back a scream. The last thing he wanted was for his mother to come running, only to have that thing in the dark waiting
for her. It would rip into her throat just when the lightning struck, and he’d have to watch in horror as her bloody body slumped to the floor.

  And then it would come for him.

  He tried not to breathe. Tried to hear it. Precious seconds passed, and he summoned the courage to lower his blanket below his eyes.

  A brief flicker at the window hinted at some large, indefinable shape near the foot of his bed. His heart threatened to burst in his chest. Something moved in that hellish darkness, and when its eyes opened, staring down at him, so human, so not, he scrambled for his stone, steeling against what he knew was coming, seizure and death. He found the stone and clasped his hands about it for dear life, his eyes shut tight. He started to count down in a whisper, but when the thunder shook his room and the wind and the rain hammered the window, his body went cold as the seizure took him.

  The monster was coming.

  ~ 75

  Jared woke with a start and nearly fell from his desk chair. Thunder cracked as the sudden storm raged. Cold scurried up his back, the dreamy memory of his parents’ accident overwhelming him. When a flash of lightning lit up the room, he cupped a hand to his lips to stifle a scream.

  Get a hold of yourself. Jesus, don’t lose your shit.

  The study was dark. His laptop had gone into sleep mode. He’d been working on some ideas for the book, but fatigue had bested him. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, but one thing was certain. He was still dog-tired.

  The sky flickered. The trees swayed in the light, and like the glistening river, quickly fell dark. He rubbed his eyes, then his temples. The pain in his skull throbbed.

  “Shit.” He’d cracked open one of the doors to let in the cool evening breeze. A puddle had spread across the hardwood.

  He rose from his chair and felt a pang of indigestion. He’d picked up the dinner for two at Hung Fat, and had eaten for two. He’d even eaten all six of the fortune cookies. One of his fortunes foretold of great success with a new venture. He was so desperate for a boost in sales that he’d taped it to the face of his Underwood for good luck.

  He stepped toward the door, only to stop cold when the wind blew it wide. It slammed hard against the rubber doorstop. Driving rain soaked him and the floor, and as he went to grab the door, he clutched his chest instead.

  Pain tortured him. He dropped to his knees. His hands throbbed. The skin around his bloodshot eyes felt hot, the veins there pulsing, thickening like snakes.

  Terror struck him when the lightning came. He caved to the floor and curled up in fear, trying to refute what his eyes were telling him. That monstrous face rippled on the slick hardwood, its eyes trained on him, wanting him. Thunder deafened, and when he tried to rise to scramble for the door, he slipped to the floor. His head hit hard, rocking him.

  His mind spun as something rose within him. Something burning and cold.

  Rage.

  He folded his arms tightly against his chest; tried to temper his sudden drive to explode in a scream. This beast within him grew like a fever, and the last thing he heard was not the sound of his shriek, but that black word lodged in his brain, that terrifying monster thought.

  ~ 76

  Sonia Wheaton drew her head back from the toilet. She groaned, her mouth thick with the taste of vomit.

  She wiped her lips on the back of her hand, steadying herself with the other that clung to the ceramic rim of the bowl. Her breath came slowly as she repositioned her aching knees on the cold hard floor. And just when she thought this latest misery had passed, the stench took her. Her gut heaved, and she threw up again.

  “Ohhh, fuuuuuck,” she cried. “Jesus, God, make it stop.” She waited for another aftershock. Most of her dinner stared back at her, a sickly mix of mac and cheese and black olives. Some bad chicken from Hung Fat.

  But it wasn’t bad chicken. Wasn’t the mac and cheese. Wasn’t the olives—which she normally couldn’t stand—and it wasn’t the spicy Gan Guo beef or those two slices of Sara Lee cherry cheesecake. No, she’d felt quite sated after her gorge-fest in front of the boob tube, and she’d slept like the proverbial log. That was, until twenty hellish minutes ago.

  She spat out the filth in her mouth, flushed the toilet, and got slowly to her feet. Warm water felt good on her face as she washed. She rinsed quickly, brushed her teeth, then rinsed again with some minty mouthwash. She could still taste that rancid shit in her throat.

  At the vanity, the bank of four bright bulbs above the mirror only added to the growing throb in her head. Her back still ached. It had for weeks now, and she couldn’t remember when it hadn’t. For the most part she’d handled it, but sometimes the pain had been so piercing, she’d almost screamed.

  “Shit.” Vomit splattered her plaid nightshirt. She took a wash cloth and cleaned it as well as she could. It smelled awful. She removed it and tossed it into the hamper.

  She glanced at her breasts in the mirror. Her nipples were darker than last week. Swollen.

  She bit back her tears before they streamed down her face. She couldn’t cry any more. Not at three in the goddamn morning.

  Her emotions were all over the map. Up and down like that fucking toilet seat. She almost laughed at the thought, but the dull ache in her growing breasts tempered her. Still, they were definitely more attractive, despite the pain. Tom would have approved.

  She flicked off the light and returned to her bedroom. The storm lit up the room, and she sat on the edge of her bed. The constant sound of wind and rain seemed to dull her senses, but only for a moment. She couldn’t stem the tears this time.

  She saw Tom’s face in her mind, saw those sexy blue eyes. She had always been so blasé about her relationships, had never allowed herself to be tied to a man. She used them, just as they had used her. And yet, those eyes, and that infectious smile that had lit up her life, had not only tied her to Tom Greenwood, they had possessed her. Her father had taken her trust at thirteen and had raped it from her, but this, this thing she and Tom had had, it had made her whole again. And now it was gone.

  She was certain—almost—that Tom’s death wasn’t the accident that investigators had concluded. It was all too easy to accept things at face value, but the fact was, Tom might have been a simple flunky at the Eight-Ball, but he wasn’t simple. He was good with numbers, well read, and could fix just about anything. For him, adjusting a leak in a gas line was about as difficult as ringing up a sale for a pack of Lucky’s.

  There was Artie, too. She had dated him in high school, a lifetime ago. Like his mother, she always called him Arthur. She still did.

  How could he just disappear in a whiff of smoke? It didn’t make sense. Everyone in town knew him. Hell, he’d been janitor at the public school for over twenty years. He was one of the good ones. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, and a fly wouldn’t hurt him.

  Trixie was a mess, of course, just like she was. When she spoke with her on the phone, Trix had told her that Artie had gone to the dump on Monday and had never come back. Following up with that twit Ernie Dobbs, she had learned that Artie never showed up at the landfill, and that Ernie was still the stupid hick he always was. Here they were talking about Ernie’s best friend, his missing friend, and he still had the brass balls to ask her for a date.

  And then there was Kyle Duncan. The smoking gun.

  She held no doubt that what had happened to Kyle, Arthur, and Tom were connected. On the surface they were so disconnected, and her suspicion had more holes than she could count. But she did have that damning video. The mere threat of releasing it publicly sent Jared Cole into a panic. And the fact—fact—that Bobby Duncan’s appearance on Torch Falls Today had sent Cole running for the hills only deepened her conviction she was right. Sure, she had paid a visit to Bobby earlier that morning, had given him a crisp Jackson and a bottle of Jim Beam for his trouble, but it was all in the name of truth. Wasn’t that what being a reporter was all about?

  Yes. Truth. It was the only thing that mattered now. For Kyle. For Arthur. For Tom.


  Tom’s death might have been an accident. She had to accept that. But she knew that Jared Cole had something to do with it. And no matter how nice he played, once the interview was over, he would pay.

  She picked up her cellphone and checked the time. Three twenty-four. “Christ.”

  Thunder grumbled at the same time that her stomach did. She set down the phone and put a hand to her tummy. Certain that another bout with the toilet was imminent, she got up, only to have the nausea pass. She slipped back into bed and curled up with her phone. She brought up a photo of Tom, fell in love with him all over again, and cried herself to sleep.

  ~ 77

  Thunder rocked Sonia awake. She tried to get back to sleep, tried to ignore her queasy stomach. It did no good, and she cursed.

  The flickering lightning led her downstairs to the kitchen. She was sick of unsalted crackers and lukewarm ginger ale, but she had to admit, they had helped her through this hell the last four weeks. God, she needed something to settle her stomach.

  She took a box of crackers from the cupboard and ate two. The first bite tasted like it always did—bland, bland, bland. A sip of that piss-warm Canada Dry was about as pleasing as what she’d tossed in the toilet.

  From the fridge she grabbed a carton of leftovers from Hung Fat. She wasn’t going to be sick, she realized. It was a rabid craving that pounded her like a hammer. She set the carton on the counter, opened it, and stirred in a big squirt of Heinz ketchup. Her doctor had told her she might have cravings, and ketchup on cold chicken-fried rice had been hers.

  “What the hell,” she said. “You’re eating for two now.” She added another squirt for good measure.

  Standing there in her panties, she stroked her belly. She had just started to show last week, and with each passing day, felt her baby growing. Felt her life sowing another.

  How could she do this? How could she raise a child by herself?

  The tears came again.

  “God, Tom! Why? Why did you leave me?”