The Open Channel

by Jill Morrow

  She was not the only one to succumb. Other students dotted the lawn and sidewalks, their sweatshirts and books strewn everywhere. Campus looked more like a beach than an institution of learning.

  Julia reached back a lazy hand to adjust the knapsack beneath her head. That beach idea was worth keeping. On days like this she liked to pretend she was spending the summer on her own in Ocean City. She could see herself now, stretched luxuriously across a blanket against the scorching sand, the tiniest of bathing suits showing off her deep tan. Okay, so tanning wasn’t good for you, but if she slathered on enough sunscreen, she could emerge a bronzed goddess by the end of one day.

  A corner of her mouth turned up. At least she’d inherited her mother’s olive complexion. Her father’s fair Irish skin burned in less than half an hour.

  Oh, brother. Did her parents have to invade even her best daydreams?

  She sighed. Ever since that night she’d stupidly blurted out, “Illusion food,” she’d felt herself under scrutiny. Sure, life had gone on in the usual way. There was still the typical hustle in the morning as everyone flew out the front door to various destinations. Her mom and dad continued to work hard. They were, if possible, working even longer hours than they’d worked at the beginning of the school year. Lately the family’s dinners had been completely hodgepodge, ranging from chicken marsala from Angel Café to cans of condensed soup and scrambled eggs. Beneath the rhythm of family life, though, Julia could tell that something had changed.

  In the weeks since that fateful supper, Julia had felt her mother’s eyes following her. She would glance up at dinner to find Kat studying her. She’d catch the living room curtain falling back into place as she turned from the mailbox. Just last week, she’d lifted her head from tying a shoe to see her mother poised at the bedroom doorway as if awaiting an invitation.

  “What?” Julia had asked, tossing her head.

  Kat had hesitated, then forced a bright smile. “Nothing, sweetheart,” she’d said before retreating down the hall.

  Nothing. Only her mother could make that word drip with so much “something.”

  Maybe her mom wasn’t acting any weirder than usual. Kat got into moods sometimes, and even her daughter could tell that she was working way too hard these days. A case she’d hoped would settle was heading for court. Never was she more brittle than when juggling fifteen hours a day of trial work plus all the responsibilities of home, too. Julia sighed. It wasn’t unusual for her mother to go a little manic at times like this.

  But her dad had no excuse. Stephen Carmichael, always so laid-back, was usually as cool as a father could ever be. He’d kept his wits during that awful hundred-degree August week when both Carmichael girls got poison ivy. He’d even managed to stay calm last year when Claire had wandered away and gotten lost at the mall. As far as Julia was concerned, her dad was the first person she’d call in an emergency.

  Not lately, though. Her father wasn’t around the house a lot these days, but his questions certainly were. He’d taken to calling home just as she walked through the door after school.

  “How are you?” he’d ask, a tight edge to his voice crackling through the phone wires. “Anything happen today?”

  Like, what was supposed to happen? He didn’t seem to be looking for a schedule of tests and presentations. She always ran the parade of schoolday events past him. He’d pause at the end of it, apparently waiting for something else.

  Of course, there was something else.

  Julia flung an arm across her face. The sun, so comfortable a moment ago, had begun to bore a hole through her forehead.

  She was such a phony.

  At least there’d been no more unexpected images blending in with her day-to-day scenery. That was a relief. While the mystery of the unknown still intrigued her, she certainly didn’t want to “see” misplaced stuff.

  She was far more comfortable with the pictures that now visited her dreams.

  Bedtime was almost as good as a movie these days, although Julia had to admit that there wasn’t much of a plot. Once or twice a week the same characters showed up in her dreams. Sometimes they stood in the woods, but usually they emerged from soft fog. Julia could not see their faces clearly, but their blond hair gleamed through the strange fuzziness. She didn’t think it would be long before she’d see them better. Their features seemed to grow a little sharper with each visit. More important, she had the oddest feeling that these people had something to say.

  She’d had repetitious dreams all through her childhood—dreams about houses, monsters, and chases. No dreams had ever carried the sense of intrigue that these did. These dreams drew her in, made her want to know more. Although she couldn’t deny that they made her nervous, she couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

  The strident clang of a bell pierced her thoughts. Julia groaned as she pressed herself into the grass. Time to hustle to her next class.

  Rush, rush, rush. She felt like a mindless ant scurrying in circles around an anthill.

  She clenched her eyes shut.

  It was there. That weird ringing sound that usually filled her ears before the blond people appeared. Julia stiffened. Those people were only supposed to show up in her dreams. What were they doing here, in broad daylight?

  The bells rang more clearly than usual, high and sweet, with pure, open tones. Now Julia heard a man’s voice as well, mellow as a woodwind as it intertwined with the bells.

  She could open her eyes. She could tell the bells, the voice, and everything else to come back at night when expected.

  But here came the people, imprinted against the back of her eyelids, and she found it hard to tear herself away.

  It was the blond man and the girl again. This time, an iron gate separated them. The girl strained against it, arms stretched through the bars toward the man. He faced her, both feet firmly planted on the hard dirt ground. Then, with an indifferent shrug, he reached out a long finger. He aimed it toward the keyhole on the gate, stuck it in, and turned the lock. To Julia’s amazement, the gate flapped wide open. The girl tumbled forward with the force of the swing and ended up crumpled at the man’s feet.

  Julia watched, transfixed, as the girl wrapped her hands around the man’s leg. Slowly, hand span by hand span, she pulled herself up until she stood before him, arms wrapped around his waist.

  The man studied her, hooking her gaze in his for a moment. Then he pulled her hands from his body and took a firm step backward.

  For the first time, his face grew focused in Julia’s mind’s eye. He sneered…not at the girl before him, but at the girl relaxing on the school lawn.

  Julia’s eyes flew open. A clammy mist of sweat covered her forehead as she struggled to regain her bearings.

  It was a dumb soap opera dredged up from the depths of an overactive imagination. She would call it The Young and the Hopeless or All My Morons and sell it to Hollywood for a fortune.

  “Hey.”

  Her pulse pounded through her temples as she whipped toward the voice. Her friend Meredith stood above her, sweatshirt tied around her waist and knapsack dragging on the ground. She looked sloppy and real. Julia felt absurdly grateful.

  “So are you coming to French, or what?” Meredith asked.

  “Yes.” Julia scrambled to her feet. “Yes.”

  “Check your locker,” Meredith said. “There’s a pink telephone message slip sticking out of it.”

  Message slip. Good. Something else real. There’d been so many of those slips in the past few weeks that Julia already knew what this one would say: “Please pick up your sister at the lower school after class—Dad” or “I may be a little late. Love, Mom.”

  Ordinarily Julia would roll her eyes at this imposition. It irked her that her parents could not handle their own schedules without her help. At this moment, however, the shelter of routine was downright appealing.

  She swallowed hard.

  Damn. She was going to have to get those blond people back into her dreams where th
ey belonged.

  Too bad she didn’t know how.

  6

  THE WOMAN AT TABLE A-6 HAD LIPSTICK ON HER TEETH AND A voice that reminded Stephen of ground glass. He’d stopped by because he’d recognized her as a regular lunch customer. He’d had no intention of standing tableside for what seemed like hours, listening to her drone on and on about mushrooms. Even her dining companion, a stout man in his fifties, looked as if he longed to stuff a forkful of arugula into her mouth.

  “Well,” Stephen said when the woman finally paused for a breath, “since you’re so fond of mushrooms, I recommend the grilled portobello sandwich. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Oh, Mr. Carmichael, I know I’d enjoy anything you’d care to serve me.” She actually batted her eyelashes. Stephen thought that sort of thing had gone out with cigarette holders and white gloves. “Tell me, do you brush the mushrooms with olive oil?”

  As he opened his mouth to respond, he felt the light pressure of fingertips in the crook of his arm. He looked down to his right to see his wife. Her presence was so unexpected that for one moment his mind did not register who this elegant woman in the navy blue suit was.

  “Excuse us, please.” Kat smiled sweetly at the diners and led her husband toward the lobby.

  Stephen quickly covered her hand with his. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everyone’s safe, if that’s what you mean.” She pursed her lips. “It seems that you and I are going on a little field trip this afternoon.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aunt Frannie’s waiting out in her car. She’s taking us to the cathedral.”

  He stopped short. “What for?”

  Kat slammed an exasperated hand to her hip. “Why, Stephen, to pray, of course. What else?”

  He was momentarily speechless. They’d reached the lobby, and his gaze swam over a crowd of people. The restaurant was running ten to fifteen minutes behind with reservations, and there were still several parties hoping for a break in the rush so that they, too, could be seated.

  “I can’t leave now,” he said, amazed that anyone would think he could.

  “Gee, what a coincidence. Neither could I.” Kat pressed against him to make way for the hostess to lead a party of six into dining room C. “I’m doing my best to settle that Mowery case, and I’m sure not going to accomplish much from a pew. I need this expedition like I need head lice.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Then why are we going?”

  “Like we have a choice.”

  “Just say no. Postpone it. Tell Frannie we’ll call her tonight.”

  She stared at him as though he’d spoken in tongues.

  “Okay,” he said. “So she doesn’t take refusal well. All the same—”

  “I suggest you come, Stephen.” Her hand was in his, tugging him toward the door. “She says it’s extremely important. She also said that if we’re not out the door in five minutes, she’s going to barge into the lobby and start complaining about how high your prices are.”

  Jesus Christ. Stephen passed his free hand across his forehead and closed his eyes. He could barely remember missing Frannie during those long months she’d spent in England. She’d been so odd lately that he was ready to personally finance a return trip.

  Her weighty pronouncements about Asteroth had turned him into the kind of parent who checked on every breath his kids took. Julia had begun to throw him those pained expressions that marked him as a totally uncool father. Even Claire, usually so easygoing, had pointedly informed him that she was perfectly capable of walking across the street to her friend’s house without his help.

  All this, and he’d still seen nothing to indicate that Francesca’s fears were on the mark.

  “All right,” he said, arm dropping to his side. “Let me tell Laura that I’m leaving, and we’ll go. It’s time to end this stupidity once and for all.”

  “God, Stephen, I wish we could.” An errant lock of hair escaped Kat’s chignon and trailed against the soft curve of her cheek. She looked so forlorn that he couldn’t help brushing a quick kiss across her brow before weaving through the crowded lobby in search of his assistant manager.

  Francesca ignored the car horns honking at her. She was double-parked in the middle of Light Street, but since her flashers were on, she felt little responsibility for the annoyed drivers stalled behind her. The lane of oncoming traffic cleared regularly enough. Those over-wrought people could simply wait for a break and drive around her.

  She leaned back against the headrest. This was why she hated to drive. Everybody on the road seemed to think that the most important goal in life was to arrive as quickly as possible at the next destination. It would do them all good to slow down a little.

  Her gaze returned to the entrance of Angel Café. As if on cue, Kat peered around the heavy oak door. She made an “okay” circle with her fingers, then ducked back inside the restaurant.

  Good. Francesca let out a long breath as another car sped around her with an angry squeal of wheels.

  Kidnapping both Stephen and Kat had been a risky proposition, one that had demanded every ounce of starch she possessed. Even the openmouthed expression on Kat’s face as her aunt barged into her office had not deterred her. In fact, the secretary’s patronizing “I’m so sorry, Ms. Piretti, but the lady insisted!” had only strengthened Francesca’s resolve. How could Katerina sit in the sterile trappings of that stodgy law firm while total chaos rolled and bucked beneath her feet? How could she ignore the obvious: that her reality was not “business as usual”?

  The turmoil Francesca had felt since her return to Baltimore had intensified, grown nearly mocking in its ability to evade definition. Prayer and meditation were disturbed by singsong chants and taunting laughter. She tossed in her sleep, images of death and destruction branded on her mind. Although she could not pinpoint the exact source of the disturbance, neither could she deny her sense of it. She’d experienced this greasy tinge of darkness before. She recognized a challenge when it was thrown her way. She couldn’t believe that Kat and Stephen did not.

  The car door opened, and Stephen slid into the passenger seat beside her.

  “Okay, Frannie,” he said, mouth set in a tight line. “You win this one. What gives?”

  She pulled the car into traffic before Kat could even slam the back door. “What can I say, Stephen? Thank you for working me into your busy schedule.”

  “This isn’t convenient,” Kat said for at least the fourth time since they’d left her office.

  “Buckle your seat belt.” Francesca executed a sharp right that sent her niece tumbling against her seat.

  They rode in silence for a few minutes, through the congestion of cars at Harborplace and up Calvert Street. Francesca glanced at her rearview mirror in time to see Kat canvass the front entrances of both city circuit court buildings. Pavlov’s little dog was programmed to feel guilt for every second spent away from the practice of law. Stephen, too, looked tense. His arms were wrapped tightly across his chest, the fingers of his right hand tapping an uneven rhythm against his left elbow.

  She waited until they’d turned onto Charles Street before relenting. “I suppose you’d like an explanation.”

  “Damn straight,” Stephen said.

  “This wouldn’t, by any chance, have anything to do with your belief that the forces of darkness are upon us?” The brittle edge to Kat’s voice told Francesca that her niece was ready to dismiss any possibility of danger.

  Stephen twisted in his seat. “Because if it does, Frannie, we need to talk. Kat and I have watched the kids like hawks this past month. There is nothing…I repeat, nothing…happening to them.”

  “Oh?” Francesca’s eyebrows rose. “And how can you say that with such assurance?”

  He set his jaw. “I just know.”

  “Just as you knew there was nothing happening fifteen years ago when you began receiving vague messages to pass on to Katerina?”

  He colored. “That was different.
”

  “Asteroth is incarnate. I know this. If you two aren’t willing to protect yourselves and your children, at least let me try to do it for you.”

  “But, Aunt Frannie, what’s the point in stirring all this up if it isn’t necessary?”

  “Humor me, Katerina.”

  They drove in silence past the campuses of Johns Hopkins University, Loyola College, and the College of Notre Dame. The Cathedral of Mary Our Queen rose majestically before them on the left, its white spires climbing high into the clear, blue sky.

  Francesca glided into a parking spot in front of the massive building and alighted from the car. Stephen and Kat exchanged one last glance before reluctantly following her up the steps and through the heavy metal doors.

  Although it was warm outside, the cavernous cathedral always felt cool and subterranean. Francesca did not come here often, but she knew exactly where she wanted to be today. She strode briskly down the left aisle, accompanied by the echoed tap of Kat’s high heels as she and Stephen hurried to keep up. They passed through the blue, scarlet, and golden beams of light that filtered through the tall stained-glass windows. Statues gazed down at them in benevolent silence. Francesca sailed past, stopping before only one: Saint Michael the Archangel. He towered above them, clothed in full armor, sword upraised for battle.

  “We’re going to need him,” Francesca murmured.

  Kat laid a hand on her aunt’s wrist. “Aunt Frannie, why are we here?”

  “We’re here because I need a clue about what’s happening, Katerina. I need to return to that vision I had fifteen years ago.”

  Stephen’s brow furrowed. “The baby?”

  “Yes, the baby.” With one last, lingering look at Saint Michael, Francesca turned and continued toward the back of the church.

  “How do you return to a vision?” Kat asked. “Can you actually do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Francesca admitted. “But I think I can. Meditation and prayer transcend time and space. Haven’t you ever been lifted, catapulted into an entirely different realm?”