by TJ Vargo
Nathaniel stared at Jackson. "You didn't want that cop in your business, did you Jackson?"
Halfway onto his motorcycle, Jackson stopped. He felt dizzy, his thoughts strangely disconnected as he said, "No."
"You trust me, don't you Jackson?"
He turned toward Nathaniel. Nathaniel's eyes locked on his, and he felt his sense of disconnection grow stronger. He tried to shake the fuzziness out of his head as he said softly, "I don't want cops around me right now."
"Of course you don't," said Nathaniel. "And you know I was only trying to help you." He sat on the motorcycle's seat. "I'm ready to go if you are."
Jackson kickstarted it and nodded as Nathaniel yelled some directions to him. His thoughts were slow. Almost drunken. But each word from Nathaniel was just right. He'd just listen to Nathaniel. Just ride and let Nathaniel's voice fill his head with warm whipped cream that made everything feel okay.
The motorcycle vibrated beneath him, lulling him into a calm. Nathaniel's directions took them far outside of town, where farms shouldered against one another as far as he could see. Flatlands. He'd heard somebody refer to it as flyover country on the radio once. Wasn't sure what that meant, but thought it had something to do with this being a place people didn't want to visit. That was fine with him. It was a beautiful day. No one else on the road. Brisk wind in his face. The occasional farmer getting a field ready for early planting, working under an endless gray sky. He didn't even pay attention to where they were going, just followed Nathaniel's orders. Left on Washington. Another left on Rt. 209. A right two streets later. The throaty rumble of his motorcycle blocked out all other sounds but the wind and Nathaniel's occasional shouts to turn here or there. Nathaniel's voice yelled to take a left and Jackson did, accelerating through the turn, one foot scraping through cinders on the pavement to keep the bike from sliding out from under him. Pulling out of the turn, he stiffened. The cottony, slow feeling in his head disappeared in an instant. This was his road. The red hulk of his father's barn was just ahead.
"That's it. Pull in there Jackson."
Jackson stared straight ahead, quickly shifting gears, fear pumping through him and clearing Nathaniel's voice completely from his head.
"Jackson, turn in there," shouted Nathaniel.
There was no way to ignore Nathaniel. Jackson turned slightly, maintaining his speed, as he shouted, "I'm going too fast. I'll drop you off further down the road."
"No! Turn in there!"
Jackson was almost past it. Just another moment and they'd be hurtling away from the barn, past the bodies and all his bad memories. Instead, his stomach jumped into his throat as Nathaniel's left hand shot out, grabbing the handlebars, trying to force a left turn into the farm's gravel driveway. The sudden jerk in direction threw the weight of Jackson and Nathaniel forward, knocking the bike off balance. Muscles strained along Jackson's shoulders and back as he tried to hold himself and Nathaniel on the bike, horsing it out of its sharp left turn. Gravel bulleted to the side and behind the motorcycle. A metal mailbox, handpainted with the lettering "S. Freed" flew by his face. Another inch and his face would've been peeled off. They were in the driveway, sliding. He stuck his left leg out, fighting to keep the bike upright. Gravel rolled under his boot like ball bearings. His thigh muscles burned from the strain. Laying the bike down in this gravel would grind him into hamburger. Finally, blessedly, the bike slid into the weeds and leaves that passed for a front lawn. With the soft earth beneath him, Jackson flung himself off the bike. The ground jolted against him, pounding his spine. A couple of rolls later he sat up with Nathaniel next to him.
"My, my, aren't we having fun," said Nathaniel.
Jackson tried to breathe. Nothing came. Laboring to his feet, he bent over at the waist, hands on knees. Still nothing.
"Get up Jackson."
He couldn't even look up, let alone get up. A loud hissing sound filled his ears. His lungs burned as he struggled to breathe, unable to suck in even the smallest thimble of air. Nathaniel's hand laid on his back.
"Get up Jackson."
Something in Nathaniel's touch sparked through Jackson. He gasped. The air finally came and he sucked in as much as possible. Thank you Lord. His second breath took the burning sensation out of his lungs. It cleared his head and got his legs under him. Standing up he glared at Nathaniel. "You almost killed me," he coughed, angry with Nathaniel but more angry with himself for driving all the way here without even noticing what he was doing. How the hell did that happen?" Before he could chastise himself his eyes moved off Nathaniel and he found himself staring at the barn. He looked at the small circular window in the loft and was sure he saw a gray shape duck down behind it. That was where the dead bodies were right now, staring out the window and waiting for him to come in. He tore his gaze from the barn. Had to do something, anything to keep from looking at it. He looked at Nathaniel and said, "You almost killed both of us."
"Maybe I did. I apologize, but there's business to be done here. Important business that can't wait. You'll help, won't you Jackson?"
Jackson turned away and began walking to his bike, fighting the fresh fuzziness that Nathaniel's voice blanketed over him. His breathing wasn't right. It was ragged. What the hell was happening to him?
He stopped and looked at the motorcycle at his feet, its back wheel spinning. He stuck his foot out, letting the side of his boot rub against the spinning wheel until it ground to a halt. Grabbing the handlebars, he lifted the motorcycle and slid into the seat, turning to yell at Nathaniel, "I'm leaving. You can come with me if you want." But Nathaniel wasn't there anymore. He'd disappeared down the gravel driveway that stretched down the side of the white farmhouse toward the red barn looming in the background. The windows in the top of the barn seemed to stare at Jackson and he had to look away.
Taking care not to look up at the barn (it sees me - it wants me to come inside and see what I’ve done), he pushed the motorcycle back onto the gravel driveway and stopped to catch his breath. He only had to start the bike and he'd be out of here. He put his heel on the kickstart. Then put his foot back on the ground. He looked behind him. He had to look once, just once before he left. There was Nathaniel walking down the driveway. He was almost to the barn. Jackson was near shock with the thought of what Nathaniel would find in there.
"Nathaniel!" he yelled, waving his arms.
Nathaniel turned, a smile splitting his beard. He yelled, “I’ll wait for you inside.”
Jackson turned to look at the road. It would be simple. Just start up and go. But he couldn't do it. Dropping the kickstand, he got off his bike and started walking, then jogging toward the barn. Nathaniel was already opening the side door. Jackson started to run, feeling a twinge in his right knee. Probably twisted the damn thing when he laid the bike down. The hell with it. He kept going, ignoring the little jags of pain in his knee. Had to explain it all to Nathaniel. How his dad had shot Tina. Why he had run. As bad as it was, he had to face it.
Nathaniel was going inside the barn. Jackson watched the grinning skull on the back of Nathaniel's jacket slip through the open side door. The pain in his knee faded and his fear disappeared with it. Trying to slow down so he wouldn't run into the door, he cursed as his knee buckled slightly. He caught himself against the side of the barn. "Nathaniel, wait!" he yelled, grabbing the doorknob and yanking the door open. "Wait for me," he shouted again. A couple of mourning doves thrummed into the overhead rafters through ribbons of sunlight as he burst in. He watched their flight as they went straight over Nathaniel, who was climbing the ladder into the loft. Nathaniel turned and smiled at Jackson before continuing upward.
"Wait!" shouted Jackson. He ran to join Nathaniel, the horror of the night before staring out from deep in his subconscious. The slats of the ladder flew in and out of his hands as he climbed upward. Pulling himself over the last rung, he rolled onto the floor of the loft and then up to his feet. Nathaniel's back was to him, standing over and blocking his view of Tina's body on the co
t. All he could see were her feet. Bare skin with spatters of blood. Red toenails on fish-belly-white skin.
"Your dream was real. This is where it happened," said Jackson, tears clouding his eyes. "I was here. But I couldn't stop it. I tried to, but I couldn't. I hope you believe me. I'm sorry."
Nathaniel's back rose and fell with a deep breath. He turned to face Jackson. "I know that Jackson. But, I didn't come here to accuse you. I brought you here so you could forgive yourself and begin again."
That cloudy feeling grew in Jackson's mind. But even with Nathaniel's voice coiling deeper into him, comforting him, Jackson couldn't hold down the feeling that he'd failed. "It was my fault. She's dead because of me," he said, tears flowing. "I should've never brought her here. She was your friend and now she's dead because of me."
Nathaniel slipped his hands into his pants pockets and smiled at Jackson. He took a step toward Jackson. "It's not your fault." He lowered his eyes and took another step closer. "I didn't come for her. I came for you." His voice slowed. "You'll understand in time. None of the things that happened in your life up to this point are your fault. They're mine. All mine. I lost you when you were just a baby. But now I have you back and I won't let anything hurt you ever again."
As Nathaniel got closer, Jackson looked past him to Tina's body. Bolts of sunlight from a window above the cot blasted onto her naked chest. Her face was beautiful, all her features still perfect, like a waxen figure. He shifted his eyes away from her to Nathaniel. "Just stay back," he said, holding up a hand. "What the hell do you want with me?"
"I'll tell you everything, in time," said Nathaniel, taking his time to step over the leg of Sam Lewis, laying stiff and dead on the floor. He looked up, eyes bright, and said, "We have all the time in the world now." He took another step and then stopped, about five feet separating him from Jackson.
The floorboards of the old loft creaked. Jackson had taken a step backward. His bootheel hung precariously off the edge of the loft, the board moaning beneath the toe of his boot as he shifted his weight. He had to force himself to look away from Nathaniel, glancing over his shoulder down to the hard wooden floor scattered with tractor parts and farming implements below. Some dirt sifted down from the floorboards and pattered on the floor below. Carefully sliding his boot away from the edge of the loft, Jackson moved toward the ladder. Nathaniel came closer, then stopped as Jackson froze.
"Let me go," said Jackson, staring at Nathaniel. "I just want to be left alone."
Nathaniel slipped his hands from his pockets and lifted them in front of his chest, palms facing Jackson. He lowered his voice, soothing as he talked. "Everyone wants to be left alone. You want it all to disappear. All of it to go away. But it won't. I can assure you of that. You'll just be running for the rest of your life, like everyone else, and I won't let that happen." He slid his feet forward another step. "I can show you how to stop running, how to be better than other men. You know I can do that for you, don't you?"
There it was again, that feeling of comfort. And there was a new dimension now, familiarity. Yes, Jackson thought, staring hard at this man, I do know it. But now was not the time to give control over to his feelings, because, somehow, he knew these really weren't his feelings. They were Nathaniel's. He moved another step closer to the ladder. "I'm leaving now," said Jackson, "Don't try to stop me."
"I can't let you leave. It's taken me too long to find you to let that happen." Nathaniel's teeth became impossibly long as his lips drew back into a huge smile. The mourning doves beat their wings through the air over his head, flying off the rafters. They flew past Jackson, escaping to the outside under the eaves. He watched where they had slipped through to the outside, wanting to follow them, then turned his attention back to Nathaniel. Somehow, this man knew him. He narrowed his eyes and planted his feet, forcing the tremble out of his legs.
"Before my father died, he said he met a man," he whispered, his throat becoming thick, making it hard to breathe. "That man told my father he was looking for me." Jackson's blood drummed in his head. He gestured weakly at Nathaniel. "You're that man, aren't you? The man in black."
"Yes, I am." Nathaniel moved quickly, grabbing the arm of Jackson's coat. "I'm here Jackson - to help you."
Nathaniel's face pushed toward Jackson. The man in black. The man of his dreams. It couldn't be. Jackson pulled away and yelled, "Let me go!"
"You don't understand." Nathaniel's voice flooded into him, demanding his attention. "You're my son Jackson. The son I lost long ago."
Jackson exploded into motion. Tearing his arm from Nathaniel's grasp, he stumbled backward. Had to get away. The edge of the loft appeared beneath him as he spun off balance. Nathaniel's hands fumbled across his back, trying to pull him away from the edge.
"Jackson, no!"
It couldn't be helped, he had too much momentum.
Jackson fell over the edge of the loft, tumbling downward through space. He held his arms out in front of his face, closing his eyes. One of his hands hit something hard and spun him around, still plummeting through the air. The hand burned with pain. Plummeting backward now. Eyes closed. Then a numbing punch to his whole body as he hit the floor. An explosion of white light burst behind his eyelids as the back of his head slammed against the floor. All the air ejected from his lungs. It hurt, but only for a moment. Every part of him tingled. Went cold. Then... nothing.
Chapter Six
"I'll have the Texas stir fry, a side of fries and..."
The man gave her a smile that was friendly but his eyes narrowed queerly, looking but not looking at her at the same time.
"...if your shift is almost over, I'll have two beers." He patted the bar stool next to him and cocked his head down, as if listening. "You hear that? This seat's calling your name and I don't think it's gonna take no for an answer."
Although it took great effort to do this casually, she smiled at the gray-around-the-temples, overweight businessman, noticing how he kept his left hand, the one that probably had a wedding ring on it, under the table. And she would've bet that his wallet had a couple of old, beat up photos of two kids and an overly made up wife smiling like she didn't know what he did on his business trips. With all the disappointment she could muster she said, "I'm sorry but I can't. I'm not allowed to or I'd lose my job."
The businessman gave his best oily smile and shrugged. "Well just make it one beer then." He shook his head, thinking only a stupid restaurant rule was keeping him from another conquest, and gave it one more halfhearted shot. "But you don't know what you're missing."
Normally she would've laughed, doing her best to play along and coax a big tip, but more important things had her attention and she merely nodded while scratching out his order before turning to walk back toward the busy kitchen. She could feel his eyes follow her and she tried her best to lessen the swing in her hips. No reason to get him worked up. She wasn't up to playing games tonight.
This time of the evening was always the worst. Right after the main dinner rush, when the kitchen was behind on the orders and the late rush of people were in a boisterous hurried mood, shouting out orders for drinks and appetizers every time they caught her eye. It took concentration to keep up and tonight she'd be the first to admit that she wasn't able to keep two thoughts strung together for more than a second. She stopped near the bar and closed her eyes, just for a second to get her head straight. Those damn dreams. A busboy bumped her from the side saying, "Come on move." She opened her eyes and took a step back, mumbling an apology, and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
Taking a deep breath, she tore the businessman's dinner order off her tablet and moved toward the kitchen. With the order in she started toward the bar for his beer and then abruptly turned around, slipping through the busy kitchen that smelled of frying onions and seared beef as she headed for the back office. The lecher could wait on his beer. She needed to sit down. Only for a second. But she really needed to sit down right now.
The office was empty, as she knew i
t would be. The manager was always needed out on the floor, in the kitchen, or behind the bar this time of the night. Normally she would've worried that someone would see her taking an unscheduled break, but not tonight. She walked right into the office and didn't even bother to close the door behind her. Easing down into one of the chairs in front of the manager's desk, she pinched the bridge of her nose again and closed her eyes, trying to drown out the din of the cooks and waitresses working the back end of the dinner rush.
It was bad. Not pain really, but something that, for her, was even worse. She leaned back in the chair and breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, trying to calm herself. Problem was that it had been an all at once thing. Like a burst artery. There had been no time to prepare herself, as she had been able to do in the past when her dreams had gotten progressively worse. But that was the problem, really. The dreams happened at night, never during the day. The light of day was her time to feel normal - just a waitress trying to put together enough money to go to college. A waitress, not a witch or any of the other labels (lunatic, psychic, mystic) she sometimes hung on herself during her private moments. Something had changed for the worse - it was the daytime for God's sake - and she covered her face in her hands, feeling as if she were coming undone. One second she had been walking a bottle of wine over to a table of middle-aged women, and the next her mind snapped to attention, filled with images and feelings of dread that nearly dropped her to the floor. She took her hands from her face and looked at them. When the episode hit her, they had started shaking so badly she'd barely been able to keep from dropping the bottle of wine. Only after stepping outside for a moment had she been able to contain her emotion and get her mind back on track enough to go back in and get the order from the lecherous businessman. But now, away from all the people calling for her attention, she saw that they had begun to shake again. She folded them in her lap, curling them into fists, and closed her eyes.