The Spaces Between Us

by Ethan Johnson

  Agnes smiled back.

  Bess. Come pick me up from the Manor. Bess, please.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I simply must remember to place more mirrors in here to reflect the qi out of the room and down the hall, where it has more space to move around.”

  “Of course.”

  Bess?

  “Well, never mind all of that nonsense, dear heart. Henry tells me that you can turn things into… other things. Well, gold, specifically. Did I hear that right?”

  Agnes felt her stomach turn. She nodded.

  “Why, this I must see for myself, do you mind? I have read extensively about the Sumerians, and how they spoke of people having this ability, but it seemed to have died out with them. Well, the ones that remained on Earth, that is. You do know the rest formed a colony near our second closest star, don’t you? Extraordinary people!”

  Agnes shook her head. Not about the Sumerians, as such. The countess clapped again.

  “Stanley! She has agreed to give us a demonstration.”

  Agnes had done no such thing, but she prepared for the inevitable. Stanley entered the room and removed the tea tray, leaving the tabletop free for other things. He left the room slowly and deliberately so as not to drop anything.

  “This is really exciting! I really hope that Henry wasn’t pulling my leg.”

  Agnes shook her head and stared at her knees. A few moments later, Stanley returned with the tray, this time bearing other objects. Agnes spotted a pitcher and something covered with a silk cloth. Stanley put the tray on the table and waited for approval from the countess before taking his leave.

  “Ah, here we are. The trinket you gave Henry was intriguing, but I’m afraid I require a more… convincing demonstration.”

  She pulled the silk cloth way to reveal a red brick. It was a solid rectangle. As a brick, it was nearly worthless, but as a bar of gold, it would easily value $3 million. The countess’s eyes sparkled. “Well, dear heart… show me.”

  Agnes shook her head. “I can’t.”

  The countess looked appalled. She righted herself, and spoke in an encouraging, friendly tone. “But, of course you can, dear heart. I know we’re working with something a little bigger than you’re used to, but I know you can do it. Turn it into gold, Agnes.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. She looked down and shook her head. There was a catch in her throat as she spoke. “With respect, ma’am, I can’t do it.” She sighed, hating to resort to outright deception. “The vibrations aren’t right. I think the closest I can get is cheese.”

  The countess stiffened, and fury flared behind her eyes. “The vibrations? The vibrations!” The countess balled her fists and made her bangles clatter as she struggled to keep her composure. “Dear heart, the vibrations are always right for making gold. Do it.”

  Agnes shook her head. “I can’t.”

  Another voice rang in her ears. “Do it, Agnes.”

  Bess stood in the doorway, brandishing a small pistol. Between the pistol and her black frock, she looked as though she was posing for photos with a wild west motif.

  Tears streamed down Agnes’s pale cheeks. Her face became a tragic mask, and she felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach.

  Bess had told her about the Order. They met at the library one evening. Agnes wasn’t trying to do it, but they established a telepathic connection across the room. Bess assured her that there were others like her, and they were learning how to use their abilities to help those in need. They were committed to a life centered around universal truths. Henry was her mentor. If Agnes wanted to meet him, she could arrange something. They were fast friends, and soon, fellow initiates. Henry was a kindly older gentleman, always wearing a suit, no matter the weather. His books, his collection of rare artifacts from around the world, not to mention his many spiritual journeys to the most obscure parts of the globe all provided a large dose of credibility. And when the three of them spoke without speaking, she felt like she had found a new home, and by extension, something of a surrogate family. Now that family had fallen headlong into dysfunction. And the Order, once her calling, was now laid bare as a sham.

  The countess tried to calm her down and get her to focus. “Come now, Agnes, Bess doesn’t want to do anything rash. She’s just very concerned, that’s all. You see, Henry and I are planning to open a new Enlightenment Outreach Center in Bangladesh. The costs will be considerable, but so worth it, when we start to spread our message of peace and prosperity to a people so lost, and suffering. You want to help us help them, don’t you? Please Agnes, do it for the people.”

  Agnes wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She would comply, but she had to know something first. “Bess, why didn’t Arienne teach you?”

  Bess scrunched up her face. “Arrienne? Agnes… I made her up. Just like you did with Image, or whatever you call it.”

  Fresh tears trickled down Agnes’s nose. She considered the bullet. In the heat of the moment, she felt there wasn’t much else to live for anymore. Before she could speak or do anything else, Agnes felt a warm sensation rise through her feet, and up her calves. It felt like she had been lowered into a soothing hot spring, but the sensations were internal. The feeling continued up her thighs, through her guts, up into her chest, radiating out into each of her arms, and finally, up to the top of her head.

  No.

  Agnes’s breathing slowed. She raised her hand to signal that she would produce the gold, as requested. Bess inched closer and motioned with the gun to proceed. Agnes gripped the pitcher handle and raised it over the brick.

  “Gold is needed here.”

  She did not pour the water out onto the brick. Instead, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Bess dropped the gun. It, like nearly everything else about the Order, was fake.

  Bess doubled over and crumpled to the floor. She wailed in pain, clutching her belly. The countess looked at Bess writhing in agony, then glowered at Agnes.

  “What have you done to my baby?”

  Agnes gave her a thin smile. Her eyes darkened, and the tone and timbre of her voice changed. Her face became impassive. She set the empty pitcher down.

  Arienne was a clever forgery. I enjoyed playing her part when asked.

  Bess howled, and looked up at Agnes fearfully.

  However, I can assure you both that I am quite real, as is the lump of precious metals now lodged in your daughter’s stomach. I have many names, and many forms, but to you, I am called Image.

  The countess fell to her daughter’s side and sobbed. “Stanley, come quickly! Help us!”

  Agnes/Image smiled. Stanley will not be joining us presently.

  Bess suffered a bout of dry heaves. The countess raged impotently. “You monster! You murderer!”

  I am neither. Much now depends on you. Agnes is needed elsewhere.

  Agnes/Image left the room and walked steadily down the hall. She put her coat on and paused at the front door. Her eyes returned to normal, and her jaw loosened. She heard Image speak telepathically to her.

  Your brother needs you.

  Yes.

  Your sister needs you.

  Yes.

  Where will you go first?

  Agnes took a deep breath. “Home.” She opened the front door of the Manor and stepped over the threshold. An instant later, she stood in her bedroom, beside her bed. She glanced at her alarm clock: 11:05 A.M. There was still time.

  CHAPTER 43: BREAKING ROUTINE

  Gene sat as his desk reviewing paperwork, when he was interrupted by knuckles rapping lightly on his door. The door was cracked open, which was his way of saying he could be bothered by other people, but he appreciated a heads up before anyone walked in. What was the point of having an office without some form of access control?

  “Yeah,” he grumbled.

  Sharon Meier walked in holding a manila folder. She was another supervisor at Streets and Sanitation. She had been there about three years fewer than Gene. She gestured to one of his gues
t chairs.

  “Go ahead.”

  He tried to stay interested in his pile of reports. Best not to encourage regular visitors, he mused. He liked his alone time. Sharon slid her hand down her backside and prevented her skirt from bunching up as she sat down. She shifted around on the hard-plastic chair and gave a snort.

  “Jesus, Gene, get some better chairs in here.”

  He shook his head. “Not happening.”

  Sharon waved her hand in front of her nose and scrunched her face up. “And would it kill you to air this rat’s nest out occasionally? This isn’t a locker room.”

  He looked up from his papers. “It might.”

  She dropped her folder on his desk and pushed it toward him. He sighed and pulled the folder the rest of the way and spun it around. He opened the folder and looked at a single sheet of paper. He rubbed his forehead a few times, then glared at Sharon.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “It looks like somebody’s getting their ass fired, that’s what. You don’t need me to tell you how to handle jerkoffs that don’t put in an honest day’s work.”

  Sharon smirked. “Is that why Leon is still on the payroll?”

  Gene sat back and gripped his armrests. “What about him?”

  “Word around the office is, you reamed his ass for not coming back full on Monday night.”

  “Yeah, so what?”

  “So, why is he still here?”

  He blew a puff of air up through his mustache. “Shut the door.”

  “What for?”

  “Just, do it, okay?”

  She rolled her eyes and complied. The door clicked shut and she leaned into the wall and crossed her legs. He flipped through some papers on his desk and pulled some photos out from under some spreadsheets. He tossed the pile over to Sharon, who leaned forward grudgingly to pick them up. She flipped through the pictures quickly, pausing over a couple, then looking up. “Okay, what am I looking at?”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m not in the mood for twenty goddamn questions. Did Leon screw up, or not?”

  He leaned back coolly. He lifted his chin at the stack of photos. “Look again. Especially at the last one.”

  She picked up the stack again and held them closer to her nose. She saw a nondescript alley with trash bins pushed off to either side, but precious little else. The final photograph contained a homeless person pushing a loaded shopping cart. “I see a bum with a shopping cart. And…?”

  “And, that’s it.”

  “What’s it?”

  He flashed a toothy grin. “Seems like we’ve got some volunteer trash collectors.”

  “How is this news, Gene? Bums pick through the trash all the time, so what?”

  “Yeah, they pick through it, but they don’t take all of it.”

  “No, they don’t. And…?”

  “Well, now for some reason, they do.”

  Sharon frowned. “They take all of it. All.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “So, Leon runs Blue 13, comes back light as a feather, and you’re okay with that because some bums got a little too thorough looking for scrap?”

  “I never said I was okay with it. I just told you what happened.”

  Sharon leaned back hard into the wall. “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “Red 23 came back light too.”

  Gene snapped up the paper from the folder that Sharon had given him earlier. He looked over the numbers, then did it again. “Not as light as Leon, though.”

  “No, but enough to raise some concerns about work avoidance.”

  “Right.”

  She held up the wad of photos. “Where did you get these?”

  “I took them.”

  “When?”

  “Tuesday, after I ripped Leon a new one.”

  Sharon’s arm dropped, and her hand landed in her lap with a thwack. “What the hell, Gene? And you couldn’t tell me something was up?”

  “What’s to say? Bums cleaned us out. End of story.”

  She exhaled sharply, and looked up at the dirty, water stained ceiling. “Did it occur to you to find out where they were taking all of it?”

  “No, why?”

  “What if they’re robbing Peter to pay Paul? They leave you with a nice spotless route, then dump it on someone else’s, and they get a load of grief, leaving us looking like morons? Where’s this crap going?”

  Gene huffed. “You wanna know so bad, you put on your detective hat. I’m busy.”

  Sharon glared at him icily. “Fine.”

  He returned to his reports. “Great.”

  “Good talk.” Sharon left the room.

  Gene looked up. “Shut the…” The door slammed behind her. He blew a puff of air up through his mustache and grimaced. “Christ almighty.”

  CHAPTER 44: BURNED

  Agnes took off her coat and set it on a chair in the corner of her bedroom, followed by her knit bag. She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to get centered. First and foremost, she needed to know that Marc was okay. She closed her eyes and sent her consciousness out in search of her brother.

  Work.

  She saw an office park, then a five-story rectangular building. She floated through the walls, as she wasn’t bound by the constraints of physical reality. This method of travel had its advantages and pitfalls. On the one hand, she had greater freedom of movement. On the other, she couldn’t interact with anybody she saw or touch anything.

  She also had a greater chance of success if she had been to the place she wished to project to before. Fortunately, she had made a trip out to see him three years ago, and he remained at the same company and at the same desk. Consistency had its merits. When she arrived at his desk, she saw his name plate. His computer was turned off, and his personal items were stuffed in a brown box. Marc still worked there, didn’t he?

  She floated around the office. She saw a few people at their desks working. One person caught her eye: A sad-eyed black woman typing an email. She didn’t see who it was addressed to, but she did see phrases like “I wish you would have at least said good-bye” and “I didn’t know you were so unhappy here”. Panic shot through Agnes.

  Apartment.

  Her consciousness was transported instantly to Marc’s humble one-bedroom apartment. She had been there recently, albeit unexpectedly. The living room was arranged a bit differently than she recalled. The coaster set was missing, as was the coffee table.

  His bedroom door was closed. Orange light flickered through the top of the door, where it did not form a tight seal against the frame. The bottom of the door was black, as though something was blocking the light from the other side. She passed through the door, and into a blazing fire.

  Marc had stripped his bed and set up incense burners on his dresser and night stand. One of his mattresses was propped up against the wall. The other had fallen over and knocked a lit candle off the coffee table, which for some reason was placed in the center of the room. Gracie’s portrait billowed with grey smoke as the pile of Christmas presents he had unpacked smoldered underneath. Flames leapt up from the carpet and spread to one of the walls. The place was going to go up like a match in mere minutes.

  She tried to find some clue as to why such arrangements had been made. It looked like someone… or something… was summoning him. Or he was trying to summon it. There was no sign of a struggle or foul play. Marc was just… gone. His apartment was about to be as well.

  Another wall caught fire. Why wasn’t the smoke alarm sounding? Agnes looked up at the smoke detector. She didn’t see any indicator light flashing or lit at all. Had he removed the battery? Even then, why weren’t the sprinklers kicking on? She looked around the ceiling. The apartment didn’t have a sprinkler system installed.

  Oh, Marc, what have you done?

  The fire was spreading across the ceiling. All would
be lost soon. Agnes couldn’t risk trying to transport her physical body there to join her ethereal form. It was risky enough, being new to it, and ideally needing a boost from Image to land her safely in either direction—coming or going. She was going to have to do the only thing she could.

  Home.

  Agnes’s eyes snapped wide open, and she took a deep breath. She gasped for air, then got up off the bed. She threw her bedroom door open and ran down the hall as fast as she could. Agnes didn’t run, as a rule. This was the exception. She banged on Gracie’s door urgently.

  “Gracie, I need your help.”

  Her sister’s voice reverberated through the door. “What the hell, Agnes? Leave me alone.”

  “Gracie, it’s Marc. He’s in big trouble.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “Gracie, please.”

  The door opened slightly. Agnes pushed it open and burst into the room. “I need your phone.”

  “What is your effing problem, Agnes? No, I’m not giving you my phone.” Gracie swiped her phone from her nightstand and clutched it to her chest.

  “Then look up the emergency number for Hillside, Illinois.”

  Gracie balked. “It’s 9-1-1, genius, and no.”

  Terror flashed across Agnes’s eyes. She grabbed the comforter from Gracie’s bed and draped it over her shoulders like a cape.

  “Dammit Agnes! Mom, Agnes is in my room, and—"

  Agnes pulled the comforter forward, over both of their heads. “With this blanket, we go to Marc’s apartment.”

  The comforter dropped to the floor. Mother stood at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Lauren Michele and Agnes Darlene, don’t make me come up there.” Neither of her girls responded. “Well, that was well worth missing my show. Good job.”

  CHAPTER 45: NINE-ONE-ONE

  Bess had turned pale and continued to clutch her belly. She moaned and cried out in random intervals. Her mother, the countess, squeezed her arm. “Momma’s here, baby.”