by Dowell, Trey
She took one final step out of the darkness and I closed my eyes. I concentrated until I found her consciousness, the button hanging in the blackness in front of me—but then I went beyond. I’d learned over the last few years that the button wasn’t an impenetrable surface; it was a gateway. A gateway I could move through, to explore the other side. As long as I could endure the pain, I could enter someone else’s consciousness.
The first time, I’d thought about it as mind reading, but realized later it was a piss-poor description. Reading is passive, like when you read a book: you look, the pages give information, but you give nothing in return. This was like becoming the book, using the paper and ink to breathe. I extended my consciousness toward her and braced myself for the pain. Throbbing at first, it spiked sharp when I opened the gate and ventured inside.
Chaos. Paranoia. Fear.
Her thoughts . . . my thoughts now . . . were scattered, impossible to lock in. In the middle of the storm, I saw a small window into the hallway. My body stood there, hand outstretched, concentrating so hard I could see sweat beading on my own forehead. I heard Lyla’s words, separate from her thoughts, but in here, they had no effect on me.
Be mine so I will never be alone again. I give you everything . . . accept it and be loved.
The words bounced and echoed in the space, but underneath them, I heard a deeper murmur. Soft, sinewy, it slithered through my consciousness . . . below the words, underneath the cloud of chaos. Concentrating harder made the snaking, twisting thought coalesce.
Kill me.
Down deep, maybe even below her own train of conscious thought, Lyla wanted to die. I was astonished. Worse, the shock made me lose my connection.
The force of reentering my own consciousness dropped me to my knees. My eyes opened briefly as I collapsed, and I caught a glimpse of her swirling gaze. I squeezed them shut as hard as I could and growled out a long, steady rumble from the bottom of my throat to mask the sound of her voice. Still, the closer she got, the more I risked her strongest influence, pheromones. If I rushed her, tried to be physical in any way, the first time I took a breath would be my last as a free man.
I extended again and put my mental finger on the button . . . gave the tiniest bit of pressure . . . enough to make her woozy.
“Stop! Last warning!” I shouted.
“Drop me now and you had better keep me down,” she said, no hint of wooziness in her voice. “When I wake, I won’t give you a chance to defend yourself. If you run, I will put my plan into motion . . . governments will pay for hunting me, people will die!”
“You won’t do it! I know you, Lyla!!”
She was stepping closer. I could feel the waves intensify, coming at me like sonar pulses of warmth and pleasure. I wanted so badly to give in to them, lay myself bare so I could feel everything.
“You don’t know me now! I’m so angry . . .” She began choking on the words. “So filled with hate . . . I need it to stop, or I will hurt people. You saw me in the alley!”
“I won’t kill you,” I said.
Her voice grew louder, more defiant.
“You’ll do what you have to do! You’ll save innocent lives . . . protect others. It is who you are!” she roared.
Same old Scott. Always worried about the innocent, she’d said in the restaurant when I’d sat down at her table. Now I realized why she’d allowed me to find her. Not because she missed me, not for curiosity, and not for old times’ sake. She brought me to London because locked away in some part of her hyperactive, broken mind rested the most important truth of all. I was the only one who could help her, and if I wasn’t willing to do so, God help me, I was the only one who could stop her.
“You’re not too far gone,” I squeaked before taking in a final gasp of air.
She took her last steps, reached down, and jerked me to my feet. Her arms pistoned me against the closet door at the end of the hall.
“Don’t let me become a monster. Do it now! ”
I cringed in her grip, eyes pinned shut, craning my neck away from her face. I held my breath and tried to fight her raw power. She spoke once more, and I felt her breath against my face.
“You’ll be mine in seconds, my love. Do it of your own free will, or I will embrace you and force you to do it. Kill me and save the world. Last chance.”
My finger rested on her mental button.
Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love. Full of hate and ready to set the world on fire.
“Kill me!” she screamed.
I screamed back, pushed the button, and gave her what she wanted.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 11
I know from experience that if you hold someone’s consciousness down for five seconds, it doesn’t get back up. Funny thing about those seconds—they last a really long time. Part of Fate’s twisted sense of humor, I guess: the most important moments in your life tend to move in slow motion. Five interminable seconds between life and death. And no matter how fast reality actually moves, your brain moves quicker.
One second . . .
How many commandments have you broken?
One of my favorite college drinking games. For every one of the Ten Commandments you’ve broken, the modest punishment was to shotgun a beer. One of the problems with the game (and there were several): if you were a modest offender and had only broken, say, six of the ten, by the time you’d slurped down six beers, you were well fueled and champing at the bit to go break the other four. Not exactly what God had in mind, I’m guessing.
Hell, one of the best parts of the game was to listen to all of the Bud Light scholars try to remember the Ten Commandments, let alone discuss them. A lot of bleary eyes turned to me on those nights for help, not because I was Mr. Religion or anything but mainly because I held my liquor better than most. I’d end up repeating the list five times per game and usually wound up as judge and scorekeeper to boot.
If I take a pen home from work, is that stealing?
One by accident? No. A box of ’em? Yes.
If I bet on Sunday’s Dolphins game, but I place the bet on Friday . . .
Yeah, uh, still not keeping the Sabbath holy.
If I tell my boyfriend he’s the best lover I’ve ever had, and he’s really not . . .
I think God sees the value of little white lies. And on a side note, you should consider an upgrade . . .
By the end of the game, the whole group is hammered and the scores all look the same. Everybody covets, everybody lies, and nobody always honors their parents. Back then, most of us had cheated on our girlfriends/boyfriends—the college version of adultery—and we sure as hell used the Lord’s name in vain when they found out. And during an all-night Organic Chemistry cram session (when you’ve blown off half the semester’s lectures) even the best of us lose faith and question whether there’s a God up there listening to our desperate prayers.
But we never had a score higher than nine.
Thou shall not kill. Easiest one to remember, hardest one to break. Little words with gigantic impact, but ironically a quiet one: the words are so sacred, so unassailable that normal people brush them away without thought.
Of COURSE I haven’t killed anyone.
The Sixth Commandment is so obvious, it’s silly. When the scorekeeper brings it up, you laugh.
Until you break it.
Then you’ll be amazed how tough it is to laugh at anything ever again.
Two seconds . . .
Carsten’s death—pardon me, Carsten’s murder—taught me a lot of things. First, “thou shall not kill” is only four words long. There’s no “unless you have a good reason” addendum. No “it’s him or me” clause. No matter what justification others try to ascribe, everything still boils down to those four words.
After Carsten died, people went out of their way to convince me it wasn’t my fault—God’s will,
I was just the instrument, it was his time, self-defense, blah-blah-blah. I heard them all perfectly fine, I just didn’t listen. I was too busy attaching the lead ball and heavy chain to my ankle—which I proceeded to drag along behind me for the next five years. Another lesson learned: if you’re responsible for someone’s death, you carry the guilt with you always, like really hideous luggage.
The extra weight pulls on you constantly, plus has a nasty habit of whispering in your ear whenever it wants, instantly transforming good times into bad, and bad ones into nightmares of despair.
Cardinals won the World Series? Congratulations! Murderer.
That cute girl was definitely flirting with you. Think she’d still be interested if she knew you were a killer?
Your dad died? Well, at least he no longer has to deal with the disappointment of having you as a son.
Guilt is like having your worst enemy for a best friend. He walks along beside you all day, every day, and he never shuts up. The passage of time might throw a gag on the little fucker, but he chews his way through it with glee, and he loves giving the finger to all those people who spew the god-awful “Time heals all wounds” nonsense.
I’ve got news for you, my friends . . . time heals nothing. The reason things don’t hurt so bad after a while is that you get used to feeling shitty.
Three . . .
Then after you’ve spent five years carting around that heavy, miserable son of a bitch, a beautiful woman looks at you with sad eyes and says, “Does it make you feel better to know your burden is shared?” You reply, “Not even a little bit,” and it’s the worst kind of lie, because you’re lying to yourself. It does feel better.
To know the person you loved once upon a time feels the weight, too.
To know you’re not alone.
To finally hope—what time can’t heal, Lyla just might.
Deep under the murmur of a Swiss restaurant, beneath the sounds of men in body armor, beyond the persistence of your own panicked arguments, you hear a soft click, a chain unlocks, and a lead ball rolls away.
Powerful stuff, self-forgiveness.
Four . . .
I stand in a dark hallway, one second from killing a human being. Again.
The lead ball’s rolling back toward me, now the size of a boulder, with jagged spikes like a World War II ocean mine. My old friend Guilt peeks out from behind the metal behemoth and he can barely contain himself. With a smile like the Cheshire Cat, he’s holding the manacle at the end of the chain, clicking it open and shut, open and shut. His gleaming eyes tell me all I need to know: I put those shackles on, they’re never coming off.
I look at Lyla’s unconscious body and consider her threats to enslave me, but they pale next to my gremlin with the big metal ball. I picture myself chained to the mine as it yanks me below the waves. The weight drags my clawing, screaming body down into cold, dark depths, where I finally understand a fundamental truth.
There are worse things than being enslaved.
I never get to five.
CHAPTER 12
Lyla didn’t die, thank God, but she didn’t wake up, either. She slept, for twenty-seven straight hours.
The first hour was a little tense. Concerned that my efforts might have triggered an unintentional coma, I did a lot of watching and fretting. It wasn’t so difficult to believe; this was unexplored territory. With the exception of Carsten, I’d never subjected anyone to a prolonged break in brain function—coming so close to the five-second barrier might have consequences.
Luckily, after an hour of nervous staring I caught the first flickers of movement. Her eyes moved side to side underneath the lids, a telltale sign of REM stage onset. In short, she was dreaming.
After that, my vigil got a lot easier. Her deep slumber even allowed me to take care of some outstanding housekeeping activities. I drove our getaway car a couple of blocks down the street and around the corner before placing the owner back in the driver’s seat. After buckling him in, I roused the guy with a couple of hard knocks on his window and explained I found him asleep at the wheel as I strolled past the car. He had more than a few moments of disorientation before thanking me and driving off. I saw his brake lights flash and the car lurch forward in short stutters as he no doubt tried to figure out where the hell he was. The only lasting effect of his missing night would be a strange story to tell his wife and friends.
I couldn’t help but whistle on the walk back to the house. Sometimes it’s fun to have superpowers.
Before the sun came up a few hours later, it was time to wake our host as well. Just as prim and proper as I hoped she might be, Mrs. Alice Barstow (husband deceased) was forthcoming about herself and surprisingly accepting of my presence, even before I explained the situation.
“Dear boy, you could have just asked to come in, you know,” she said from the couch after straightening an afghan over her lap.
I nodded and chuckled. “I guess I’m not accustomed to dealing with agreeable people.”
Alice chuffed and adjusted the shawl around her small shoulders. “Welcome to the U.K., then, my young friend. Although not all Englishmen and women are as steadfast as this one,” she said, thumbing in her own direction.
“Of that I have no doubt.”
“So why does a superhero sweep into my home and render me unconscious?”
I was taken aback. “You know who I am?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Of course, dear. I watched the BBC special like the rest of the country. You’re the American who can put people to sleep. I’m only glad you neglected to make my nap permanent!”
“I would never do such a thing,” I said, the irony of the last few hours not escaping me. “As for why I’m here, it involves the person who is currently asleep in your master bedroom. I apologize for the intrusion and the inconvenience.”
She waved a hand in the air. “Nonsense! It’s the most excitement that bedroom’s seen since my Edward passed.”
My face reddened. “Ma’am, I assure you . . .”
“Ha! So easily flustered, you superhero lot.”
Without question, Mrs. Barstow handled forced unconsciousness better than most.
She listened to my predicament and the fact that my guest and I required transportation out of the city, to which she had a solution: borrow her car and be on our way. Since I’d already been leaning in that direction, I expressed my sincere thanks and promised (against her arguments) to compensate her for the favor. I told her there’d be money hidden under the driver’s seat when the police found her car. My only request was that she not mention me or my traveling companion when she reported the vehicle stolen. She frowned and slapped my hand, as if to say Silly boy, I would never.
We sat silent for a few moments, as I plotted out the immediate future. The longer I thought, the more limited my options became. I liked her, and she seemed honest, but . . .
My reluctance to open my mouth spoke volumes.
“You don’t trust me,” she said. A statement, not a question.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mrs. Barstow . . . it’s more like I can’t afford for you to have a change of heart. I’ll have to put you out for a few hours.” I considered potential destinations for a second. “No more than eight. After that, you can call whomever you want, and tell them whatever you’d like.”
She took it like a champion. “Well, then, the stakes are quite serious in order to question the word of an old woman, aren’t they?”
“They are, ma’am.”
She held her head high. “Then do what you must.”
“Well hold on just a second. You’re not going to the firing squad. Would you like a glass of water first? Or a bathroom visit?”
She glared at me, but there was no malice in her stare.
I raised my hands in surrender. “Hey, just asking!”
Her expression sof
tened. “I’ll be fine. I shall lie back and think of England . . . although I assume it won’t be as unpleasant as all that?”
I raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t the first time, was it?”
“I suppose not.”
She lay on the sofa and positioned a pillow under her head. She exhaled and gave me a beaming smile. “This is the most exciting thing to happen to me in years, you know?”
“Believe it or not, me, too.”
“May I ask you a question?” Her voice was much softer now. I nodded. “The telly says you’re the master of sleep—can you control people’s dreams as well? If so, I would very much like to dream of Edward, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Her face was so kind, so full of hope, I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.
“I’ll do my best.”
She clasped one of my hands between her own wrinkled palms, warm to the touch. “Thank you, dear. And good luck on your adventure.”
I raised one of her hands to my lips and kissed the back. The skin was soft and smelled like honeysuckle. “Thank you, Mrs. Barstow.”
I dropped her and she immediately fell into a heavy slumber, a smile still on her lined face. I watched her sleeping form for a moment before easing off the couch to check on Lyla. She was as before—sprawled out while in the midst of twitchy-eyed REM sleep.
I yearned to leave her in Mrs. Barstow’s bed for as long as she needed, but once again I was starting to detect the far-off baying of sniffing bloodhounds. My dropping an entire city block seemed like a victory at the time, but with benefit of hindsight I was discouraged and irritated. Blanket wipes were a double-edged sword: increased area of effect meant a sacrifice in control—I couldn’t determine how long anyone’s unconsciousness would last. Most of the victims, MI5 and civilians alike, were probably awake within twenty minutes; others, an hour at most—which meant government spooks were already fanning out, searching. Wouldn’t take long for Britain’s internal security force to rebound from our alley rendezvous; although my presence came as a surprise then, it wasn’t anymore. They’d be looking for Aphrodite and Knockout, and plan accordingly. It also meant I could forget about the airport, trains to Europe, or any other conventional means out of the country. There was only one method available and one direction to point. It was time to put as much distance as possible between us and the city of London.