by Mark Tufo
“Web. I took a picture home. I’ll tell you before you ask.”
“You’re smarter than that, Ally.” Peter slid a chair close to her bed and sat down, reaching for her hand. She squeezed back. “Where’s your father?”
“I’m surprised he’s not here yet. There’s—”
A man appeared at the door and glared at Peter. He hesitated for a moment, checked the room number again, and walked in quickly, looking at Allyson.
“Allyson, what in the hell happened?”
“I’m okay, Daddy. I had some kind of . . . episode. I passed out.”
“Who is this?”
Peter stood and held out his hand. “I’m Peter Webster, Mr. Newland. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
The man, while not small or of slight build in any way, stood a good four inches shorter than Peter, but did not show that it bothered him in the least. He ignored Peter’s outstretched hand, instead wedging into the space between him and the hospital bed, forcing Peter to move the chair and step backward.
Newland lowered the rail and sat on the bed beside his daughter. “What does he mean by that? Are you seeing him?”
Allyson’s eyes closed. Peter knew she did not want to look at her father, see his disapproving glare. “We’ve been out a few times, Daddy,” she said, her voice sounding instantly tired.
Newland gave him a quick once-over, his narrow face and icy, steel blue eyes supplying an easy-to-read report of his instant evaluation. From the look, Peter knew three things without question. One, he’d been pegged as a non-cop. Two, he wasn’t worthy of seeing Allyson, and as for three, Newland would like it just fine if Peter left the room now.
Instead, Peter analyzed Newland. A vain in his forehead throbbed, well up onto his bald, oval-shaped head. Dark-rimmed glasses sat on his nose, and a standard-issue police mustache, perfectly trimmed, decorated his upper lip. His clothing was by no means shabby like a common movie detective; each article of clothing was pressed and starched, his tie was staid and serious.
Peter knew without a doubt that he could approach any man who looked like this on the street, rummage around in the guy’s interior jacket pocket, and likely withdraw a police ID.
The rummaging part was likely to result in a police chokehold.
“I’ll go find Emma,” Peter said. “You’ll probably want to speak with her, Mr. Newland.”
“Who’s Emma?” he asked Allyson, still acting like Peter Webster was not really there.
“She’s a friend, and the doctor that examined me when I arrived.”
“Where were you when this happened?” He looked at Peter again, and though he wanted to leave, he also wanted to know the answers to the questions Newland was asking his daughter.
“They found me at home. From what I understand, the hospital was paging me, and I didn’t answer.”
“Why would they come to your house just because you didn’t answer your page? How did they know you were even home?”
“My answering machine’s on if I’m not home. It wasn’t picking up, either.”
“Well, thank God they did come.” He turned toward Peter again. “Were you going to get that doctor or weren’t you?”
“Daddy! Don’t you treat him that way!”
Newland stood bolt upright and drew his hand back as if to slap Allyson across the face. Peter didn't hesitate, grabbing Newland's arm and holding it firmly. “I'm sure you weren't about to do what I thought, Mr. Newland.”
“He's—he's done—” Allyson broke into tears.
“It’s okay, Ally,” Peter said.
Newland did not turn to look at Peter, but Peter was well aware that he was fooling with a trained police officer. Perhaps the only thing in Peter's advantage was that Newland clearly loved his daughter, no matter how he showed it. “I'll send Emma to see you in a few minutes, Ally. I'll be right outside the door.” He stared at Lawson Newland with growing contempt, then turned and left the room, his mind churning with the implications of what he'd just seen.
He told Emma to pay a visit to Allyson’s room and called the school to let Holly know he wouldn’t be in. It was already past seven-thirty.
* * * * *
The noise was unbearable. Matt could not take it anymore, and if they had to be late to school, then it had to be. He pulled the bus to the curb, shifted into neutral and set the brake. In his hand he held the boat horn.
The kids hated the boat horn.
“What did I tell you?” he shouted over the din. “This is my only defense against you guys.”
The noise dropped to a level just above what his head could stand, and his eyes met those of little Amy Lee. She was a tiny thing, always considerate, saying hello to him every day with a sweet smile. She never joined in the raucous activities of the other kids, and she even brought him a card for Valentine’s Day.
I wish they were all like you, kid, he said to himself, squeezing his finger on the button. The shrill, ear-piercing shriek followed.
His eyesight grew blurry for a moment as the sound jiggled his brain. The noise was followed by silence, though. Pure silence.
“Thank you, children,” he said, rubbing his temple. “Hey, what the hell’s going on?”
The children followed his eyes, but it couldn’t be. The scenery outside seemed to be moving past the windows along the entire length of the bus.
The Bluebird was rolling into the intersection! Matt panicked, dropping the compressed air horn on the floor of the school bus. He dove for the seat, but knew it was too late. Just outside the window where little Amy sat, a cement truck barreled toward the unmanned bus with no hope of stopping before impact.
Slow motion. He’d heard of it happening. Everything was slowing down, down. He reached for the steering wheel but his eyes could not leave Amy Lee. Matt’s legs were lead, unable to slide in front of the seat and hit the brake or the gas or even to brace himself. Amy stared at the oncoming truck with a look of absolute terror, her little hands—the same ones that had passed him the sweet Valentine’s Day card—raising up to cover her frightened brown eyes.
He barely heard the sound of the cement truck ripping the school bus in half.
The boat horn blared once more, jammed in the wreckage, until it finally faded like a slowly dying scream.
* * * * *
Isabel knocked her cup of tea from the table, her hand twitching, her head pierced by a screeching sound. The blasting shriek drowned out her thoughts and her ability to concentrate on the meaning of this audible vision.
She felt deep fear.
Her inner peace had always come out the victor over any fears that threatened to creep into her life. But this was different. Something terrible had happened.
She stood, steadying her hand with the other, and went to her favorite chair. It was where she did her readings, where she felt most at peace. From the drawer of the small, wood table, she removed the smooth, onyx stone, slightly larger than the palm of her hand, and held it as tightly as her arthritis would allow. Its texture, like curved glass, soothed her. Unshaped by man, the stone was perfect and calming, as though somewhere within its blackness lay a path to all things peaceful.
But it did not last. Screams penetrated her mind, distant, disjointed prayers met her ears, sirens wailed. But she knew the sounds were from within, not from without. The street itself was silent.
It was her soul that was not now at rest.
Emma. Peter. Matthew. Allyson. These names came to her.
Lillian. Chris . . . someone else, she couldn't be sure who. And Ellen. These people were the same.
Someone else, too. Another name that was not coming to her.
Isabel put the stone down and moved to the phone. She called the hospital and left a message for Emma.
She had to see Emma—and her friends—right away.
* * * * *
Peter checked his watch. It was almost three in the afternoon, and he had been at the hospital all day. Matt had been brought in at eight o’
clock that morning, and it seemed his world had begun to deteriorate. Injured children filled the ER, worried parents paced back and forth, reporters hounded everyone.
Earlier, when Peter had rushed in, many of the parents stood and moved toward him, their expressions hopeful, as though he may be a doctor coming to tell them the status of their children, or that everything would be just fine. The light of hope in their eyes faded quickly, though, when they saw his equally worried expression, a face not usually worn by doctors. If they had realized his worry was for the driver of the bus, their expressions might have changed again, this time to anger, even hatred.
Emma finally emerged from Matt’s room and Peter rushed toward her. “How is he, Em?”
She glanced around the waiting room, filled with concerned faces. She whispered.
“I don't think many of these parents care right now, but he’s awake, and there are no serious injuries. Cuts, bruises. A pretty good head laceration, but he’s perfectly coherent and I don’t see a reason for further tests.”
“My God, what’s happening?” Peter paced back and forth in the hospital corridor, his cuticles bleeding from his nervous biting. “Am I nuts, or did all this begin with the finding of those pictures?”
Emma shook her head. “Even if it seems that way, coincidences do happen, Web. How could the pictures relate to what happened to Matt?”
“I might chalk it up to coincidence, but too much is happening,” Peter told Emma, his concern for Matt easing since learning that no children were killed in the bus accident. One child, Amy Lee, had suffered a broken arm, but the rest had made it through without life-threatening injuries. The bus Matt had been driving was one of several in the county school district involved in a test, and seat belts had been installed. When the bus split in half, each end had spun in a half circle, but remained upright, and no fire had ensued. Amazing, Peter thought. Unlikely and amazing.
“No alcohol was found in his blood, Web. Even if it was operator error, that should help his case.”
Peter shrugged. “Maybe this is what it took to give him a kick in the ass. I should’ve done it myself.”
“Intervention will be easier now, anyway. He might be willing to listen.”
Peter nodded. “True. How’s Ally doing? You get the results from her tests yet?”
“I was just going to tell you,” she said, her mood happy and relieved at the same time, “and the good news is we’ll release her today. The tests didn’t show anything unusual, and she feels fine.”
“I’m going to talk to her,” Peter said. “Find out exactly what happened.”
“Go see your brother first. He asked for you.”
“Thanks, Em. I’m glad you’re here for me.”
“Always, Web. Count on it.”
Peter squeezed her hand for a moment and walked down the hall to Matt’s room. When he opened the door, Matt lay there looking out the window. As Peter closed the door, Matt looked at him. “Hey, brother.”
“Matt,” Peter said. “They tell you you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t feel okay.”
“You got pain somewhere?”
Matt shook his head and tears ran from his eyes as he choked out the words. “No, man. My life hurts. I got it so fucked up there’s no coming back. How are the kids, Pete? My God. The bus started rolling and I—”
“The kids are shaken up, but otherwise they’re okay. Your blood test came out negative for alcohol, Matt. You don’t know what a relief that was.”
Matt looked up at him, his eyes watery, his expression grim. “I swear I’ve never driven those children drunk, Pete. Never.”
“Not directly, Matt. But you aren’t in the best shape after a typical night. I’ve seen you plenty of times. You can’t dismiss alcohol or this means nothing. Next time someone will die, and it might be you.”
“I know. Fuck, I know.” Matt looked out the window again for a long moment, the distant ocean looming large, yet silent on the horizon. “I was tired, man. Out late, as usual.”
Peter wondered then whether he should share the story of the pictures with his youngest brother. He would want to see if the pictures affected his brother, anyway. He decided to wait until he was released. “You’re quitting drinking, Matt. It’s over.”
Matt nodded. “Yeah. I’m done.”
“No, you don't understand, Matt. It's not going to be as easy as saying it. You are done, but not without help. Em and I will help you. So will Mom.”
“I can handle it myself—”
“The hell you can!” Peter shouted. “What do I have to do, Matt? Drag you to the morgue like a fucking teenager to see dead bodies pulled out of car accidents? Take you over to Skid Row to see the rows of bums who're in the process of wasting their lives?”
“I’m done with you now, too,” Matt said. “Thanks for visiting.”
“You’re done. You are done. Whether you believe it or not. I won’t stand by anymore and watch it happen.”
Matt closed his eyes and Peter stood there in the room, listening to the machines, thinking about the work ahead. It wouldn’t be easy. But with Em’s help, and, he was sure, Allyson’s, it would be easier. Peter knew if he could get his mother to believe the problem existed, she’d do what she could, too.
“I love you, Matt,” he said, the last two words spoken through broken sobs and a constricting throat. And while Matt did not respond, tears ran from beneath his closed eyelids and his mouth quivered involuntarily.
Peter left the room. He felt more burdened with grief and responsibility than ever before in his life.
* * * * *
CHAPTER SIX
Peter stopped to pick up Emma, whose VW was still in the shop, and as they hit Laguna Canyon road, Peter’s Toyota Highlander ended up just ahead of Allyson’s Audi. They pulled into Isabel’s gravel drive and parked.
Peter was relieved they were all there, and that Matt was going to come, too. Emma had called Peter’s brother and asked him to come, and she managed to avoid giving him the reason. He still agreed.
Matt was suspended from driving until the investigation into the crash was complete. The school district still had legal battles to face from some of the parents, but the defective parking brake on the bus had been verified already. It could not be proven that Matt failed to perform the checklist, because the problem with the parking brake was intermittent. It would hold six times in a row, and on the seventh would pop out as though released by a ghost foot.
Because no alcohol was found in his system, it also appeared Matt would keep his job. It helped that by some miracle, none of the children were badly injured or killed.
Allyson threw a wave at Emma and went to Peter, who took her by the hand as they approached the old, ramshackle house.
Isabel, apparently impatient, pushed open the screen door, which creaked like the door to a haunted house.
“Please, come in, come in! I wanted to see you yesterday, Emma. I even used the phone to call you. Sit right here, all of you, around my table.”
Isabel rarely used what she referred to as modern appliances in her home, though she had a few for emergencies. Telephone, fire extinguisher, clocks. All she needed to know could be gleaned from the look of the sky and feel of the wind, and she claimed she had only to think of a person hard enough and they would appear on her doorstep within a few days. Emma didn't doubt it at all.
“I had a feeling you were in trouble,” the old medium said.
“You don't know the half of it, Isabel,” Emma said.
“You'll tell me, then. I must know, because it involves me now.”
Peter looked at the woman, guessing she was somewhere in her sixties. She was pretty though, and seemed to be playing up the part of the gypsy medium. Her hair fell long past her shoulders and hung in ringlets, streaks of grey intertwined with the dark brown curls. She lacked the typical headband, but wore large, silver hoop earrings with turquoise stones dangling.
“What do you mean? Involve
s you?” Peter leaned forward, curious. Allyson sat beside him, and they held hands under the table. Matthew was due to show up, but hadn't yet. Peter checked his watch and noted he was now ten minutes late.
“What time did the bus crash?” Isabel asked.
“Around 7:45 In the morning.”
“That's when I felt it. The horror. The fear. I felt Matthew's shame and fright.”
“I just met you, Isabel,” Peter said. “I don't want to be disrespectful, but you don't know me and you know my brother even less, if that's possible. Why would you feel anything or know anything about him? Couldn't it just be coincidence?”
Isabel laughed. A dusty, yet melodic sound. Despite the serious tone of the conversation, they all smiled. “I do not believe in coincidence,” she said. “I rarely utter the word, except to discredit it. My feelings are based on experiences, either of now, or of a time I do not fully recall. We all have them. Your brother is here.”
The three turned and listened. The sounds of traffic on the distant Laguna Canyon swished by, but nothing more. Just as Peter was about to tell her she was mistaken, the sound of car tires on a gravel road met their ears. Peter went to the window and saw Matthew's old Toyota Corolla rolling to a stop. “You're good,” he said, turning to Isabel.
She smiled and nodded her head.
“I supposed now the fun really begins,” Allyson said. “Emma, did you bring the box?”
“She left the things with me,” Isabel said. “Let me get them and we can begin.”
* * * * *
“Matthew,” Isabel said. “You're experiencing some times now that are hard for you. The things I shall propose you experience will be much harder. You must be ready to face them.”
“So you want me to quit drinking, too. What is this, some crazy intervention? Is having a psychic join in some new age twist on an old bunch of bullshit?”