Perennial

by Potter, Ryan

  He extends his right palm toward the left side of my face. My heart pounds, but I don’t fight it. Lewis Wilde stops himself at the last possible moment and pulls his hand away just before his fingertips touch my skin.

  Then he turns and walks away.

  Chapter 6

  Dad walks in twenty minutes after Lewis leaves. I’m sitting at the kitchen table in a confused daze as I leaf through course information my teachers flooded me with today. I stored my tablet and phone upstairs in my bedroom, but bed is the last place I want to be right now. Truth is I’m afraid of falling asleep because of what I might dream about.

  I smell the evidence of beer and cigarettes the moment Dad enters the kitchen. I’ve never been the partying type. I’ve tried different types of alcohol, but I hate the taste. More importantly, I hate the way alcohol makes me feel, and the smell of any kind of tobacco gags me. Call me boring, but I enjoy being the viceless geek I am. Dad knows all of this, meaning he’s had a horrible day if he’s blatantly exposing me to his occasional vices.

  “You stink,” I say, not looking up from my math syllabus.

  “I know,” he says, slightly slurring his words. Not totally drunk, but definitely buzzed. “Sorry, Alix. You’re usually in bed by now on a school night. Anyway, I had a bad day. Really bad. The kind of day that makes me wonder if I can do this for five more years.”

  He crosses the kitchen and pours a tall glass of water from the refrigerator dispenser, leaving behind an invisible cloud of bar stench. I scrunch my nose and wave a hand in front of my face as he leans against the sink and stares at me through bloodshot eyes. He usually doesn’t say much when he’s in one of his dark moods, but tonight is different. I can tell he wants to share some things.

  “The school is devastated about Mr. Watkins,” I say. “The administration is doing everything it’s supposed to do in a situation like this, I suppose, but it was surreal being there today. Nobody really knew what to say to anybody. Teachers included. My first day at Beaconsfield High was memorable for all the wrong reasons.” I think back to the custodial closet experience. “Trust me.”

  “Marc Watkins is the reason for my bad day too,” he says, rubbing his eyelids with his fingertips. “I’m guessing you know the details by now.”

  I nod. “Execution style. Multiple shots. Found in a building in some place called Oval City.”

  “How do you know the Oval City part?” he says. “That wasn’t in the news.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Um … I heard kids at school talking about it.”

  He buys it and says, “They tied his hands and feet together like he was nothing more than a hog.”

  “Thanks,” I say, raising my eyebrows, “you could have kept that one to yourself.”

  “Sorry.” He downs the water in one extended gulp.

  Dad places the empty glass on the granite countertop and puts his face in his hands. At first I think he’s about to cry, something he’s never done around me, and which he didn’t even do after Mom passed, but instead he lets out a frustrated grunt before tugging on his unsightly beard and emitting a loud exhale—Dad trying to calm himself.

  “There’s stuff you can’t talk about but wish you could,” I say. “I get it, Dad.”

  “I saw Watkins’s wife and two little boys today,” he says, shaking his head. “All three of them are beautiful. The boys are six and eight. It doesn’t make sense why a solid guy like Marc Watkins, a guy who seemed to have it all, would go and …” He cuts himself short.

  “Go and what?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “I can’t say anything for certain yet.”

  “What is Oval City anyway?”

  “You’ve never heard of it?” Dad sounding surprised.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Not until today.”

  “That’s probably a good thing,” he says, managing a smile. “Remember when your mother and I used to take you down to Eastern Market on Saturdays?”

  “Eastern Market,” I say, smiling at the memories. “Oh my God, I love that place. All the vendors yelling out their prices. All those food smells. It’s been so long. We need to go down one Saturday morning. It can’t be more than twenty-five minutes from here.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, “but what I’m getting at is that Eastern Market is a perfect example of what a lot of cops call Mythical Detroit. Most people who shop there are suburbanites. People like you and me. We feel safe as long as we stay along the Russell Street corridor and shop the market sheds or surrounding stores. Plenty of beat cops patrol there to keep everybody feeling safe too, especially the tourists. It’s one of the last places in the city where you can see a cop on horseback.”

  “What does Eastern Market have to do with Oval City?”

  “I’m getting there,” he says. “The past ten years or so everybody’s been talking about the rebirth of Detroit. I mean, Alix, I’ve lost count of how many stories the New York Times has done about young hipsters moving to Detroit to start their little artsy projects, urban gardens, and foodie restaurants for cheap. Hey, great. More power to them. I wish them the best of luck. But here’s the thing,” he says, Dad getting worked up now. “At the end of the day, Detroit, Michigan, is still one of the most violent cities in the country. Anybody who has ever lived here knows that, which is why people who live in Detroit—and I’m talking black, white, Hispanic, Arabic, you name it—they get the hell out and move to the suburbs as soon as they can, because the suburban garbage gets collected every week and the suburban police show up when people call them.

  “Anyway, it’s a warzone at night, Alix. Detroit is a dangerous, decaying, poison-filled city at night. Oval City popped up a few years ago. It’s the bottom of the cesspool. It’s right next door to Eastern Market too, on the other side of the I-75 Service Drive. There’s an abandoned housing project there. It’s a huge, oval-shaped space. The mayor promised to demolish the buildings when they closed the complex three years ago, but they’re still there, a collection of gutted, graffiti-tagged, redbrick eyesores across the street from one of the city’s biggest points of pride.” He shakes his head. “Oval City’s nothing but bottom feeders—addicts, dealers, prostitutes, violent offenders, you name it. If it’s illegal, Oval City probably has it. At the moment it’s the most dangerous part of Detroit.”

  “How come I’ve never heard about it?”

  “Because it’s a public embarrassment,” he says. “Everybody talks about Eastern Market, Midtown, the Stadium District, the Riverfront—places like that. That’s what we mean by Mythical Detroit. There’s a myth of safety in Detroit now, but it’s not a safe place, which is why I don’t ever want you to set foot in that city unless I’m with you. Understand?”

  “Yes,” I say, nodding.

  “Promise?”

  “I promise,” I say. “Why was Mr. Watkins in Oval City?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “But what we do know is that two different worlds are colliding in Detroit. We’re seeing a lot of cases involving younger people new to the city who think they can ride their customized bicycles anywhere they want, even at night.” He pauses. “More than a few have paid dearly for their little joyrides to go see abandoned buildings. We had a young guy and his girlfriend beaten nearly to death in Oval City in the middle of the day last week. They were on bikes, scouting locations for some film project. You feel bad for what happened to them, but on the other hand … Well, have some common sense and don’t ride bikes through Oval City, you know?”

  “Why don’t you guys just raid the place and clean it up?” I say. “Use a SWAT team or something.”

  “We’ve raided it more times than you know,” he says. “But the monsters always come back. The problem won’t disappear until the buildings come down.” He rubs his eyelids again. “You get this sort of problem whenever individual neighborhoods are in transition. Usually, when legit money moves in, crime moves out. The problem with Detroit is that it’s a huge city, and there’s nowhere near enough legi
t money moving in, just random little pockets of progress here and there. The monsters don’t feel threatened enough to leave, so they fight back to keep their criminal lifestyle, and they fight back violently, like it’s one giant prison riot. It’s not just Oval City either. It’s the whole city.” He leans his forearms on the counter, exhausted. “The bad guys are winning in Detroit, Alix. There’s evil there. I see it every day.” He studies me through glossy eyes, but I can’t tell if the glossiness is from alcohol, fear, or sadness. Maybe all three. “When I think about you and your future,” he says. “College. Career. Marriage. Kids.”

  “Ugh,” I say, unable to bear the thought of childbirth. “Please stop.”

  “I’m serious,” he says. “Your life’s just beginning. I’d like to be part of it for as long as possible. I’ve never felt more at risk on the job than I do these days. Part of me wants to quit tomorrow. Another part of me can’t stand the thought of the bad guys winning.”

  “What about just quitting the undercover stuff?” I say. “I know that’s what you’re doing whenever you grow a beard like that.”

  “That’s the problem,” he says. “In my line of work, when you’re deep into something you can’t just walk away.”

  “I understand,” I say. “But what about when this … assignment or whatever you call it is over?”

  He straightens and smiles. “You’re reading my mind, kid. I’m thinking this might be the last one for me.” He takes a few steps toward me but pulls up short. “I was about to give you a hug but I stink, remember?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Good night, Dad. Tomorrow will be better.”

  I’m leaving the kitchen when he says, “Alix?” I stop and turn. Dad says, “Is there anything else you want to tell me about today? As in your first day as a senior and all that?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “It was just one strange day.”

  “If something was bothering you, you’d tell me, right?”

  “Of course,” I say. “Always.”

  He stares at me with his Dad-the-Cop eyes for a few moments, giving me a look that always means he’s suspicious of something and trying to determine if I’m being totally honest. He’s so good at this. It’s his job to be good at reading people of course, which is why I hate lying to him. I’m always convinced he knows when I’m untruthful or hiding the complete story.

  “Okay,” he finally says. “Go get some sleep.” He turns to refill his water glass.

  I’m assuming Dad knows about William Weed dying upstairs two years ago. Part of me wants to ask him why he didn’t tell me about it, but I know the answer. Death is often a sensitive topic, especially when your own mother passed unexpectedly one year ago. Dad is protecting me as usual. He sees no need to tell me about a troubled boy who allegedly took his own life in what is now my bedroom. Why stir up unneeded emotions about something that has no connection to our family?

  Part of me also wants to tell him about the closet attack, the Vagabond’s Warrior blog, and the scary text message, but as I listened to my father this evening, I realized Clint Keener is fighting battles far more troubling and dangerous than whatever it is I’m going through.

  Me, I’m just a girl who had one weird dream and one very weird first day of school.

  Chapter 7

  He returns for the second straight night. As much as I feared falling asleep, I find myself thrilled as I float toward his presence through the now-familiar ocean of cloudy white light. There’s a yearning inside of me, a yearning to feel his touch and see his physical form. I sense so many things coming from him—among the strongest, strength, weakness, kindness, anger, courage, and fear.

  A flash of white light. I see the clearing and stop. He’s here. Right in front of me. Inches away. His presence sends tingles through my body. Looking down, I’m surprised to see my own fully clothed body as opposed to last night’s orb of white light. This excites me. Maybe he’ll appear in his physical form as well.

  Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen, but communication is easier tonight. He knows how to message me without the initial inaudible sounds of our first session. I know he has to initiate the conversation, and as I wait I squint hard through my glasses in a failed attempt to catch a glimpse of what he looks like. Nothing, just that perfectly beautiful, warm white light as far as my eyes can see. I notice the smells too, a mixture of spring rain and delicate but fragrant flowers. If this is heaven, all the good people in the world have something wonderful to look forward to.

  He’s taking his time. I feel him watching me, looking me up and down. Conflicting thoughts rage inside me. Despite my clothing, I feel exposed, like he can see anything and everything he wants beneath the layers. But he likes me. I can tell. I have no experience in the romance department, but it feels good knowing that he’s attracted to me.

  Thank you, Alix Keener.

  His voice. In my head. He’s waiting for a response. Tonight his voice sounds like layers of different voices at different pitches, but every word is crisp and clear. It sounds as if a beautiful choir is speaking to me.

  “Thank you for what?” I say, realizing my mouth is moving and I don’t have to mentally message my responses.

  For breaking ground. For starting to dig.

  I take a few calming breaths to collect my thoughts. There are so many things I need to ask him.

  “The Vagabond’s Warrior blog. That was you?”

  Yes. Don’t worry about your tablet. It’s safe to use.

  “What about the text message? And the person who attacked me at school?”

  I don’t know about those things, but you’ll always be in danger if you continue to dig for Perennial.

  “There’s the word again. What is Perennial?”

  As I said last night, Perennial is all around you.

  “Please stop being so cryptic,” I say. “I never asked for any of this. Who are you? What do you want with me?”

  Come on, Alix. You know who I am.

  A long silence passes. I swallow hard. My heart pounds rapidly against my ribs.

  “William?” I finally say, fear rippling through me at the thought of communicating with a dead person. “William Weed?”

  The chorus of sounds comes to an end. I now hear a single, seductive, strong-sounding male voice: Ah. Well done, Alix. Well done indeed.

  Episode 2

  Chapter 8

  “Let me leave,” I say, body shaking. I squeeze my eyes shut to avoid the sea of white light. “It’s a dream, William. Wake me up and stay away from me.”

  His laugh is loud and unpleasant. I open my eyes and consider throwing a punch into the light.

  I mean you no harm, Alix. I used the word “timing” last night. That’s what you are. Perfect timing. Well, for me anyway. Hopefully, for you too. The verdict is still out on that.

  “My bedroom,” I say. “Where you died.”

  Where I died. Hmm. You make it sound almost peaceful.

  An unseen force takes me by the wrists and squeezes hard, pinning my arms to my sides. I realize I’m being gripped by William’s powerful hands, and his invisible body is so close to my own that I can feel his warm, pleasant breath against my face and neck, spiking my pulse at a dangerously high rate.

  I was murdered in my own bedroom, Alix. You’re the first person to use the room since it happened. I’ve been waiting two years for you. I need your help. You’re special. Vagabond gave me until the end of Friday.

  “Until the end of Friday for what?” I say, wincing from the pain in my wrists.

  There’s a long silence.

  I have until the end of Friday to figure out who killed me.

  “Stop it,” I say, trying to pull away but knowing I’m no match for his strength. “You’re hurting me.”

  He releases me but stays close.

  I’m sorry. The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but my emotions are running high right now.

  “Who’s Vagabond?”

  Somebody you can trust. If y
ou meet him, you won’t like him. Nobody does. But you can trust him.

  “What do you mean by if I meet him?”

  I’m following Vagabond’s orders. It means you have a choice. He gave me until the end of Friday, but I can’t make you help me. You have a developing gift, Alix. ESP. Extrasensory perception. It’s not like I can make contact with anybody I choose. Vagabond’s interested in you. He wants to see how good you can become. That’s why he let me make contact. He says it’s no coincidence that you ended up moving into my bedroom. I know you like school. Think of this as a test. If you can help me find my killer, you’ll pass, and I’ll have peace in my world.

  So many feelings and emotions race through me. Fear. Confusion. Disbelief. Overall, I’m still convinced this is all a dream. Problem is I want to experience William Weed for as long as possible, so instead of demanding to awaken in my own bed I decide to play along.

  “So, I don’t have to do it,” I say. “I can say no and call it a day.”

  Vagabond doesn’t want people who aren’t interested in developing and enhancing their abilities. So yes, you can say no and never have contact with me again. Tomorrow your life goes back to its boring, predictable course. A boring senior year, followed by four years of boring lectures in Ann Arbor, followed by a boring job and a boring husband and kids you don’t want but will have because you want your father to be a happy grandpa. That’s really what your life has been and always will be about. Pleasing your daddy.

  “Screw you, William,” I say, squinting and jabbing an index finger into his light. It’s useless of course. My finger strikes nothing solid. “Maybe those are exactly the things I want, you idiot. Maybe you’re just jealous because you were nothing but a drug addict with stupid tattoos and shitty parents.” I pause. He doesn’t message a reply. “No. Wait,” I say. “I bet your parents were awesome and you were just a spoiled-asshole son who was too weak to say no to pills, needles, and powder.”