by J. L. Murray
My pulse was still jumping, and I felt something. Not fear exactly, but something like a dark resolve. My chest definitely hurt now, and I wasn't so sure it had anything to do with Dekker being there. I couldn't breathe and the edges of my vision darkened.
"Was there fire?" I said weakly.
"What?"
"In the sky? Or as a wave? Was there fire, Dekker?"
"No," he said frowning. "There wasn't any fire. Why would you ask that? Do you know something?"
I shook my head, trying to pull in air. "It's nothing. Just a dream I had," I rasped. I tried to suck air in hard, making a wet, gasping sound.
Dekker sat up straight. "Frankie?"
He was on the bed in seconds, lifting up my shirt, rolling me onto one side to look at my injuries. I tried to scream, but nothing but the damn wheeze came out.
"Jesus fuck, how are you still walking around? What happened?"
The words came out in hiss. "I was trying to die."
"So you let someone beat you to death?"
"He poisoned me first." I couldn't see through the tears of pain, the room was a dark blur. "I saved her, Dekker. I saved Mirabel." But I couldn't speak any more after that and everything went dark.
I tried to open my eyes, but it was as if time sped up while I stood in the same place. My dreams were scattered with visions of Dekker screaming into the phone. A man in an old 70s army jacket, dirt under his fingernails, holding up a syringe, blinking rapidly behind the greasy lenses of his glasses. Dekker holding my stomach, crooning at me to hold still. The prick of a needle in my arm, then the foggy sweetness of sleep. A voice saying, I can't give her that much, it'll kill her. Then a deeper, familiar voice: Trust me. You're not going to kill her.
THREE
The world lurched as I struggled to regain consciousness. I felt movement, the world sliding beneath me as I lay perfectly still. Nausea swept over me as the pain in my ribs came to the surface, my throat raw and my lungs aching. I opened my eyes, a familiar smell all around me. I was clutching the dash of a car, my car, the Challenger. And when I looked over I saw that Dekker was driving. It was daytime, the hot autumn afternoon sun beating into the car, the smell of my father all around me.
"Dekker," I croaked.
"Morning, sunshine," he said, picking a styrofoam cup out of the console and handing it to me. "I took the liberty of getting you fixed up."
I reached for the cup, but recoiled in pain.
"Oh, right, an explanation. You had a rib sticking right into your lung. He had to cut you open a little."
"He?" I said.
"Yeah, this doctor." He reached over without taking his eyes off the road and slipped the full cup of coffee into my hand. "Well, he was a doctor once. I couldn't really take you to a hospital. I thought you'd appreciate that."
"You should have left me there," I said. I recalled my father's accusing voice: The devil's had his claws in you since the day you were born. I tried to breathe slowly through my nose, but my chest still hurt. I focused on the pain to distract me.
Dekker glanced over. "You'd really rather die than spend a few days with me?"
"It doesn't have anything to do with you." I took a sip of the lukewarm coffee, grimacing a bit at the taste, but happy for the moisture on my throat. I took a longer drink.
"You always have been a terrible liar," he said. I closed my eyes, opened them again, trying to get my bearings. The world was passing by all around us, too dizzyingly fast to comprehend. I felt too strange, too surreal. "What did you give me?"
"Something to stave off infection," he said. "And something for the pain."
"Where the hell are we?"
"Oregon."
"Goddammit, Dekker," I said, my voice still fuzzy. I blinked hard, trying to make my eyes focus. I felt like I could just slip back into sleep. "I had shit to do. I paid for that room in advance."
"Yeah, that was two days ago."
"What?"
"You must have been tired, Frank."
"Don't call me that."
"Why'd you leave?" The question was so abrupt, so sudden that it was a shock. I shook my head, trying to will the fuzziness out. "Before you're thinking clearly enough to lie, I want to know the truth. I know you, Frankie. Better than anyone else in the world, maybe. I know you and I'm willing to bet you did it for a reason. You love me, I know you do. And I told you I was obsessive. So before your mind is clear, I want you to tell me: Why did you leave?"
"I can't," I said, fighting the feeling of sick that was spreading from my stomach down my nerves, my skin sensitive and prickling, the world tilting.
"Tell me anyway."
I took a breath, feeling pain on one side of my rib cage. "Don't make me do this," I said, my vision going dark around the edges again. I was suddenly heavy, too heavy to keep afloat. I closed my eyes.
"Stay with me, Frankie," he said, reaching over and taking the coffee from my hand. "Just answer the question."
"I want to sleep."
"You can sleep after."
"I couldn't stay. I'm sorry," I slurred, my voice thick.
"Why?"
"Because of you," I said. The world was moving oddly again, consciousness failing me again. "Because they want you dead." I started falling then, slipping into sleep, but Dekker shook me.
"Who wants me dead? Frankie!" The car turned, slowing to a stop, the sound of gravel under tires as he pulled over. Dekker turned and I worked to focus on him.
"Thomas Dekker, that's what they said. And they won't shut up about it. They're always there, always." I squeezed my eyes shut. "You shouldn't have drugged me."
"If I hadn't, you'd be screaming in pain. Frankie, look at me." Dekker's voice was loud, even though he said it softly enough. But it resonated in my head in a way that cried out as clear as a bell. I blinked, trying to focus. You’ve done this, Frankie, my father had said. Just dreams, they weren't real. The fire wasn't real, none of it was. My father was rotting in the ground, and there was no fire.
"I don't want to," I said, my lip quivering. "It hurts."
"I know, baby, just one more question. Then you can go to sleep."
"I can't tell you anything. If I tell you, you'll want me to stay. You're supposed to hate me."
"I don't hate you. Well, maybe a little. I'm just mad at you."
"Because I left."
"What happened?"
"I died."
I felt his large hand encompass my smaller one. He was so warm. "I know. I was there when you woke up, remember? Who wants me dead? The wraiths told you that?"
"Abel wants me to kill you. I don't know why. Maybe to punish me. Maybe because the world is foul and mean and full of shit. And because I don't deserve you."
"Frankie, you have to know that's bullshit. You deserve better than me. You saved my life."
"You wouldn't be risking it if you hadn't chased me. You're going to die because of me."
"That's crazy, you can't know that."
"I had a dream," I said. "Everyone's going to die. Poof, in a cloud of smoke." But I was losing my train of thought, sliding from wakefulness.
"You can go to sleep now, Frankie." His voice was soft as he smoothed my hair away from my face. "Just for a little while, you don't have to worry about saving anyone but yourself."
"I can't save myself," I said, my voice far away. "I'm already gone."
I was almost asleep when I heard him say, "Not if I can fucking help it."
When I opened my eyes again, the car was no longer moving and I was alone. A motel stood in front of me, dove gray paint peeling. The sign said Traveler's Rest. Next to the motel was a pancake restaurant, the windows dark, with no sign but the one that said Open for breakfast only! A large picture of a pancake printed on a plastic banner flapped in the wet wind. I could see a fish restaurant on the other side of the pancake house, but couldn't make out the name.
I reached back to grab my leather jacket, which was lying across the back seat, gasping in pain as I moved. I pul
led up my shirt to see that someone had wrapped a bandage tightly just under my breasts. Slowly, turning my body gently, I pulled the jacket from the back seat and eased it around my shoulders. I realized I was shivering, the sky the dark light of either early morning or dusk. It was hard to tell through all the clouds. The parking lot didn't tell me much, but I could smell a wetness in the air, a clean, misty smell that only came from the Pacific Northwest. And when I opened the car door, I could hear the crashing of the waves.
Stepping carefully out of the car, putting my arms through the sleeves of my coat, something on the dash caught my eye. A key with a magenta plastic tag, the number 201 in bold white lettering. I grabbed it, closing the car door, sucking breath through my teeth at the pain that radiated through me. I looked at the rickety wooden staircase set into the side of the motel with trepidation.
"This is bullshit," I said under my breath.
I made my way up the stairs, taking breaks to catch my breath every few steps, key grasped tightly in my hand. By the time I reached the top, the sky had started to darken. Dusk then, not morning. I had just put the key in the lock of 201 when the door of 202 opened.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty," said Dekker, leaning against the doorway. "Thought I'd let you rest." He watched me wrestle with the key.
"I could have been murdered," I said. "The car doors weren't even locked."
"Isn't that what you wanted?" There was something goading in his tone, an edginess that irritated me.
"Where the hell are we, anyway?"
"Westport, Oregon."
"Never heard of it."
"It's not a bustling metropolis like Helmsville."
"Are you going to help me with this key, or are you just going to crack wise all day?"
He walked over and turned the key in the lock, grinning like an idiot. "I got us separate rooms," he said, standing too close. I could feel the heat coming off him. I couldn't help but flash on the memory of him pinning me against a wall in Helmsville, our mouths covering our own cries...
"Fine, great," I said curtly. "Look, I just need to get these bandages off. I don't know who did this to me, but you're not supposed to bind broken ribs any more. It causes complications."
"Didn't know you were an expert."
"I have experience," I said. "Can I go in now?" He was leaning toward me, his eyes too intense, too dark, the heat of him almost overwhelming. I felt dizzy from the aftereffects of the drugs, and he wasn't helping.
"Get some sleep," he said. "We have to be up bright and early."
"Why?"
"To go to work, of course. We're not a couple of drifters any more, Frankie. We're upstanding citizens."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Oh, and if anyone asks, your name is Dolores Peck."
"Dolores Peck?" I blinked stupidly at him, his smug grin pissing me off. "Can you please tell me what the hell is going on?"
"You'll see," he said, standing up straight and smiling wider. "Bright and early. That means no wandering around."
"What are you, my mother?"
"Jesus, I hope not. Your mother was horrible."
It was like a slap. But Dekker was already in his room and the door swung shut, the porch shuddering. I pushed open 201 and slammed it behind me, satisfied that the entire building seemed to shake. Maybe it would topple over and I wouldn't have to look at Dekker's smarmy face ever again.
I clicked the light switch, the bulb flickering before filling the room with a garish light. Walking to the large window, I opened the heavy drapes and froze for a moment. We were right on the bay, a low roof in front of the window not obscuring the miraculous view beyond. A cold beach lay below, scattered with driftwood and boulders. A family was drinking out of mugs and had a small fire going in the distance, but it looked as small as a matchstick from where I stood. Waves crashed down, the tide coming up in sudsy, white-tipped bursts onto the sand.
I swallowed hard. Before a week ago, I'd never been to the ocean. I'd been near it once when I was still the Vigilante Killer, but at that time I'd been more concerned with staying hidden than swimming. I had to admit, the view was not unpleasant, but the hallucination on Jason Halloran's beach nagged at me. The wave of fire, setting even the clouds aflame, the water freezing, it had been so vivid. And then Dekker telling me the ocean was freezing in real life, in the real world, in this very town, it all seemed too coincidental to be a fluke. I looked up at the sky and expected it to brighten into a giant plume of flame, but it stayed as sullen and gloomy as I felt.
I closed the curtains, holding my side to turn and look at the room. It was shabby and smelled of mildew, but it wasn't bad. TV, microwave, mini-fridge, and a nice, big bed. I walked over to inspect a heap of something dark on top of the bedspread. I picked up the hanger and realized it was a black pantsuit. I touched the polyester fabric, feeling the unpleasantness of it. A plastic shopping bag lay underneath and I hung the suit up to inspect the items. I pulled out a white button-up shirt, a clearance tag still attached. A package of unflattering underwear, a few bras. At least Dekker realized I needed clothes, but I wasn't sure why he'd gotten the pantsuit. Looking down at my bare feet, I regretted leaving my boots at Jason Halloran's house. My muddy and ripped jeans and shredded shirt were covered in old blood which, to Dekker's credit, looked like someone had tried to wash. Some things don't wash out, though.
I'm going to stay on your skin…
My mother. I was aware that I was going completely insane, the apocalyptic dreams, the hallucinations. But my mother, it was still a shock to see her, even if I knew she wasn't real. I was just a little girl when my mom and sister changed, and it was only a few months ago that I found out why. The thing I'd killed, by that frozen lake in Montana, was not my mother. It was something else, a monster wearing her face. The thought of that thing, that aberration, staying on my skin made me sick to my stomach.
I shook my head, returning to the task at hand. I pulled out an ugly pair of tan loafers from the bag, dropping them on the bed. There was one more item left and I pulled it out, my heart beating fast as I felt it. I dropped the empty bag.
"Dekker, what are you doing?"
It was leather, but I knew what was inside, should I dare to flip it open. I set it on the bed and looked at it. After a moment, I reached down and opened it fast, as if it were a poisonous snake. It was a badge. I picked it up. A picture of someone who looked vaguely like me was on one side, an official ID card. There was a gold badge on the other side. I picked it up to look at it.
Dolores Peck.
The letters were unmistakable on both the badge and the ID. Three large letters, one set in blue, the other in black. Both sent a wave of dread spiraling through me.
FBI.
FOUR
I didn't fall asleep on purpose. I sat down on the bed and leaned back, and then I was standing at a familiar crossroads.
I looked down at myself, realizing I wasn't in pain, and I was wearing boots again. I squinted into the darkness all around me, feeling a crackle of energy that made the fine hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end. Then the sky shifted and moonlight spilled down over the crossroads, illuminating the dead tree against the sky. A figure was standing on the road. A man in a duster, his coattails dragging in the dirt as he approached, the scuff of his cowboy boots echoing around me.
"This is a dream," I said. "I'm not crazy, this is a dream."
"You're not crazy, you're just starting to see," said the man, his voice soft, with a Spanish accent. He was closer now, walking slowly toward me, as if wary. There was something strange about the shape of his head, but he stopped and stared at me, his face shadowed by an oddly lumpy Stetson with a wide brim. "You know this place, don't you, Frankie?"
"Yeah," I said, narrowing my eyes. "How do you know me? Is this another hallucination?"
"It's not a hallucination, you're really here. Well, I'm really here. You are traveling."
"Traveling?" I said. "What the fuck does
that mean?"
"And as for how I know you," he continued, "well. Everyone knows you. At least, they're starting to. You're quite a point of contention, if you were wondering. We're all quite curious about what you're going to do. But this place, you do know it, don't you?"
"It's where I came when I died," I said, unsure why I was telling him. "The first time."
"It wasn't the first time," he said, and he held out his hands, his palms facing the sky. Something started to form there in his outstretched arms. And after a moment, the bundle began to mewl. A baby. But as I watched, I wasn't sure it was a baby. From the blankets, points began to form, stretching down toward the road, and after a moment, the blanket fell away and a naked child was left squirming in the man's hands. Something was stretching out from the baby's back and I made out two bony appendages covered in thin black skin, translucent in the moonlight. Wings. I gasped and stumbled back. The man laughed and shook his arms out and the child vanished in a plume of smoke.
"What the fuck was that?" I said.
"Just a glimpse," he said. "Did they tell you this was Hell?"
"Who?" I said.
"Don't be obtuse, corazoncita. Whoever brought you here. Whoever claimed to wake you up."
"The wraiths," I said. I didn't trust this man, I didn't have any clue who he was. Yet, I found myself convinced he was telling the truth. I found myself sure that I needed to listen. "They said if I stepped out of the crossroads, I'd fall into Hell."
He laughed softly. "Bunch of fuckers. Do you believe them?"
I stepped toward the man and he shifted uncomfortably. A raven screamed and landed in the tree and the man jumped. "Who are you?" I said.
"I have many names," he said slowly, looking over at the raven then back at me. "You may call me Ome. But my other half might go by something else."
"Your other half?" I said. "You have a wife?"
Straightening, the man suddenly took a step toward me, pushing his hat back, and his face came into view. My mouth dropped open when I saw why the shape of his head had seemed wrong before. He looked back at me with rueful eyes in a handsome face; and his other face laughed, echoing into the night. Two faces on one head, each as different from the other as it was possible to be. The face that I'd been speaking with looked sad, his straight nose and high cheekbones giving him the look of a doll, too beautiful and fragile. The other face had cruel lines around its mouth, and fatigue streaked around his eyes. When the cruel face opened his mouth to laugh again, I could see his teeth were stained brown.