Beyond Anon

by Giglio, Peter

  So Michelle called Laura. The conversation was tense at first. But when Michelle, following her sister’s advice, apologized and asked Laura to come down for the weekend, she was shocked by the answer.

  “Yes,” Laura said.

  6

  Laura had been surprised when she saw the incoming call from Michelle. When she’d heard about the murder of Steve Mann, she feared that Michelle, somehow learning the truth, had something to do with it.

  “That’s irrational,” she’d chided herself in a whisper. “Steve had a lot of enemies.”

  She almost hadn’t answered Michelle’s call, but on the third long chirp from her phone, remembering how much her friend meant to her, she’d pressed TALK.

  After hanging up, she looked around the bleak student center and moaned. Her roommate, Fatima, had brought another boy into their cramped dorm room, forcing Laura, as was frequently the case, to find an alternative place to study. Getting away for the weekend seemed like a great way to spend less time with the whore she’d been cursed to live with.

  She set her phone on the Formica table and tried returning to her dense Sociology textbook. But the chapter on self-fulfilling prophecy did nothing to hold her focus.

  She was glad that Michelle’s sister had returned and more than a little alarmed. Michelle had always spoken of Dawn like she was dead, when she talked about her at all. Just the same, knowing Michelle still had family was promising. Michelle’s voice over the phone had carried greater happiness than ever before.

  Still…

  Laura couldn’t help but worry.

  She pulled her laptop close and brought up the Greyhound website. After booking a roundtrip ticket for Oak Lawn, she snapped the computer shut and returned to the assigned chapter, forcing herself to take notes.

  But worry didn’t fade.

  7

  Contrary to fears, Laura liked Dawn from the moment she met her. A brighter, even-mannered version of Michelle, Dawn was warm and welcoming.

  And Michelle, wearing a Hello Kitty shirt and designer jeans, was different. Her hug at the bus station was tender, not desperate. She smiled often, and she didn’t interrupt Laura when she talked.

  After dinner, which the three of them cooked together, they sat in the backyard and looked up at the clear night sky.

  Michelle turned to Laura and said, “Remember when you made me look at the stars?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I understand what you were trying to tell me now.”

  Filled with warmth, Laura, sitting between the sisters, looked over at Dawn and smiled. “What did you do to my friend?”

  The three of them broke into laughter, and then they enjoyed the rest of the night.

  Through the weekend, there was only one strange moment. Lying in bed, trying to sleep, Laura heard talking coming from Dawn’s room. She couldn’t make out the words above the swirl-swish of Michelle’s ceiling fan, but she could tell the monotone voice belonged to Dawn. The conversation was clearly one-sided. Maybe Dawn talking in her sleep?

  She woke Michelle with a nudge. “Hey, do you hear that?”

  Michelle sat up, rubbing her eyes. A moment of concentration, then she shook her head. The purring kitten looked up from Michelle’s embrace, seemed to decide nothing interesting was going on, and put its head back down.

  “Sounds like your sister is talking to herself,” Laura said.

  Holding the kitten, Michelle got out of bed and put her ear to the wall. Listened for a moment, then said, “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Sorry,” Laura said. Then, still hearing Dawn’s voice, she wondered what she had to be sorry about.

  “Don’t apologize,” Michelle said. She got back in bed and smiled. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

  “You know, there’s always next semester. Have you given any more thought to college? I could use a new roommate.”

  “We’ll see,” Michelle said. “Right now I’m just tired.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Michelle quickly returned to sleep. But Laura had a hard time closing her eyes. Things otherwise perfect during her visit, she didn’t bring up the incident again.

  Then Sunday evening, on the bus ride back to Kansas City, she brooded, unable to feel completely at ease with Michelle’s situation.

  —Chapter Eleven—

  1

  The naked blonde girl draped across Miles Winslow’s lap looked up and cooed, “What do you want to do now?”

  Winslow ignored her.

  This was supposed to be a party, a good time for his men, but their pale expressions told him much. They weren’t impressed.

  A thick but athletic girl with short, dark hair bent down in front of Jim Thompson, her ass in his face. “See anything you like?” she said. The girl was Thompson’s type. And Winslow had hoped she would cheer him up. But it wasn’t working. With a fast and hard slap to her ass, Thompson turned to Winslow and said, “We need to talk.”

  Tom Sanders, fucking his girl in the corner of the room, was the only one getting any enjoyment from the night. But Sanders was simple; kind of an idiot in Winslow’s estimation, but a walking hard-on despite his rapidly advancing age. Winslow admired and pitied him in equal measure.

  Joe Lampe was clearly trying to get into things, an Asian girl grinding in his lap. But his smile kept faltering. Generally a good sport, Lampe was clearly coming up short in the manhood department tonight.

  Winslow clapped his hands a few times and stood, pushing the blonde out of his lap. She toppled to the soft carpet and looked up at him with a lopsided smile. “That wasn’t very nice,” she said.

  “Ladies!” he bellowed.

  Sanders and his slut kept humping.

  “Sanders!” Winslow shouted.

  Everyone’s eyes on him, Winslow said, “I’m sorry, ladies. This was supposed to be a night of merriment. But I see that my associates have pressing matters to discuss, so I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Winslow pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. The girls rushed him.

  “Hey,” Sanders said, “couldn’t that have waited until I finished?”

  Ignoring the question, Winslow peeled off bills and paid the girls. They gathered up their skimpy outfits and headed for the door, some of them dressing as they moved.

  “Pull up your fucking pants,” Lampe sneered at Sanders.

  As Sanders wrestled with his trousers, Winslow poured himself a glass of red wine. Fulfilling his men’s hedonistic appetites was no longer enough. Like most people who’ve tasted too much of a good thing, their palates were changing. And one sip of the vintage, something he’d been drinking far too long, brought a degree of understanding.

  Jim Thompson said, “Why is this taking forever?”

  “It’s not,” Winslow countered. “Phase One and Phase Two both took much longer, if you remember.”

  “But we’re aging twice as fast this time,” Lampe said. “I’m already starting to shake again. Do I need to see a doctor, or are we moving forward to Phase Four soon?”

  Winslow sat in a soft leather chair, placing his wineglass on the table next to him. “The wheels are—”

  “I don’t want to hear about wheels in motion!” barked Jim Thompson. “The rest of you don’t have children, but I haven’t seen my daughter in years. What would she say if she saw me? I look younger than her!”

  “I told you all in the beginning this wouldn’t always be easy,” Winslow said evenly. “But we all agreed that the rewards outweighed the sacrifices.”

  “You don’t see me complaining,” Sanders offered.

  “Shut up!” Thompson snapped at him.

  Joe Lampe, Winslow’s closest advisor and his most helpful ally, leaned forward. “I think we’re still in fundamental agreement, Win. But we do need to know when this ends, don’t we? And the speed we’re aging now, well, that’s terrifying. Sorta implies we’ve got to pick up the pace from now on.”

  Jim Thompson didn’t appear to be in agreement. H
e shook his head and slumped back into his chair.

  “What is it, Jimmy?” Winslow asked.

  “I’m not going to Passage,” he said. “Once upon a time, I commanded power and respect. But not anymore. I’m tired and I can’t think straight. I want to kill or hurt everyone I see. I don’t like it. Don’t like myself.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Winslow asked.

  “Just leave me to my life. I can reconnect with Vera, my daughter, and she’ll understand.”

  “That’s not possible, Jim. You know that,” Lampe said. “Let’s get some sleep and clearer heads will prevail in the morning.”

  “No,” Winslow said. “Let’s talk about this now.”

  Thompson leaned forward, pleading with his eyes. “We’ve been together for a long time,” he said. “But the same game isn’t worth playing over and over again.”

  “I’ve made some moves, and I can tell you that it’s almost over,” Winslow promised.

  “That’s what you told us about Phase Two,” Thompson said with a moan. “You told us that—”

  “We had to leave without the prize,” said Lampe. “You know that, Jim.”

  “And we’re paying the price for it,” added Winslow, nodding. “That’s the reason for our accelerated aging this time—a reminder that we can’t afford to fail again. I promise that—”

  “I’m not moving on,” Thompson said.

  Lampe finished his drink, rattled ice cubes in the empty glass, and started for the bar.

  “Is that your final decision?” Winslow asked.

  “Yes,” Thompson said flatly.

  Lampe scooped a handful of ice into his jigger then snatched Winslow’s corkscrew. Fluidly, though not as fast as he used to, Lampe swung around and jammed the corkscrew into Thompson’s throat. Blood spewing from the wound, Thompson choked a few wheezing gurgles. Twitching, he slumped into the chair. A few moments of silence followed, everyone waiting for Thompson’s body to still.

  Lampe looked at Winslow and said, “Sorry, boss. I’ll clean that up right away.”

  “No worries,” Winslow said, standing. “I’m off to bed. No rush for you boys to leave. Drink your fill and stay the night if you like.” He pulled out the wad of hundreds, smaller than before but still massive, and flung it on a table. “Sanders, call those whores back if you like. It’s on me.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Sanders said.

  With one last glance at Thompson, Winslow shook his head. “Damn shame,” he said. “I trust he’ll be gone when I wake up.”

  Pouring Scotch over ice cubes, Lampe flashed a grin and said, “Never existed.”

  2

  The night before Michelle returned to work, she walked into the living room with a folder in one hand. Dawn, sitting on the couch, looked away from the book she was reading and said, “Going to bed?”

  “Soon,” Michelle replied.

  “What do you have there?”

  Michelle sat down next to her sister, the folder in her lap, and said, “We need to talk.”

  “All right. Let’s talk.”

  “The last few weeks have been great, Dawn. I can’t tell you how much our time together has meant to me.”

  “But…?”

  “But I think you should get away from here, at least for a while.” She handed the folder to Dawn. “You’ll find your Social Security card and a cashier’s check in there. The check is half of everything we have, and if I ever sell this house, I’ll give you half of that, too. I found your Social Security card in Mom’s things last night.”

  “Michelle, I—”

  “You need to get away from me. Protect yourself. You’ll have no problem getting your G.E.D., and then you can look at colleges. There’s more than enough there to take you anywhere you want to go and sustain you for a very long time. I don’t want to know where you go, just go. And when all this is over, if it’s ever over, I’ll find you.”

  Dawn opened the folder and studied the check. “Wow,” she said, “we’re loaded.”

  “So you’ll go?”

  Dawn put a hand on Michelle’s shoulder and said, “Come with me. Fuck the house.”

  “I can’t. There are things I must do, and I need you as far away from here as possible. You’re all I have left.”

  “Michelle, I just got here. I can’t turn and run now.”

  “Trust me. Everything will make sense in time. You’ve already been through enough, and this isn’t your fight.”

  Tears welled in Dawn’s eyes. “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “You have to!” Michelle shouted.

  “But I can’t. Remember, you don’t know everything.”

  “I know enough. I know that our opponents see human bonds as weaknesses, that they leverage those ties. You can’t be here, I’m sorry. I have to face them alone.”

  “I’m not whole without you. Together we’re strong.”

  “We asked Dad to trust us, and he didn’t. I asked Mom to trust me, and she didn’t. Now I’m asking you, and I need you to do more than listen. I need you to act.”

  Dawn became a quivering mass of quietude.

  “Please,” Michelle said, “don’t be here tomorrow when I wake up.”

  With no response from her sister, Michelle, overcome with exhaustion, trudged upstairs and went to bed.

  3

  Dawn and her things were gone in the morning. Conflicting feelings—relief and sadness—flooded Michelle as she prepared for work, time seeming to grind to a crawl. Dressed, she ate a bowl of cereal and downed two cups of coffee, not really tasting either. Checking the garage, she found the car gone. Good, she thought. She didn’t want it anyway.

  A fine, chill mist greeted her outside. She locked the door, regarded the gray, ominous sky, brow furrowing, and did something she hadn’t in a long time.

  She prayed.

  4

  Since Michelle didn’t have a name placard on any of the tables, she sat in the mostly empty back row. Keeping her head low, she wrote down everything Megan Willis, the trainer who she’d talked to on the phone, said. And she listened closely, desperate for answers within the madness of numbers and procedures. She came up empty. Though Megan Willis delivered the litany in a more convincing manner than Conner, the message was still the same. Meaningless.

  The morning slogged. And Michelle felt weak. Had sending her sister away been the right move? She didn’t know. She was more than a little hurt, angry with herself for not giving her sister a proper goodbye. She was tired of goodbyes.

  A few minutes before lunch break, the training room door cracked open. Miles Winslow—looking older than the last time Michelle had seen him—peeked his head into the room. “Excuse me,” he said. “Ms. Willis?”

  Megan turned away from the class and beamed at him. “Why, hello, Mr. Winslow.”

  “Is it okay if I interrupt for just a moment?”

  “Certainly,” she replied.

  The door opened wider and Winslow moved in front of the class. “I’d like to introduce someone who will be sitting in on the rest of today’s session.” He looked back at Megan. “I might have to borrow her from time to time, if that’s all right?”

  The trainer nodded.

  “Class, I’d like to introduce our new Vice President of Operations.” He motioned for the person on the other side of the door to enter. “Come on,” he said with a smile. “They won’t bite.” Then he locked eyes with Michelle—her breathing quickening—and said, “Dawn Breedlove.”

  Everyone but Michelle applauded as Dawn pensively entered the room.

  “There seem to be some empty seats in the back,” Winslow said, pointing at Michelle.

  Coffee-rich bile rose in Michelle’s throat, her stomach a mess of knots.

  Dawn sat next to Michelle, putting a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Michelle tried to respond, but words were as distant as hope. Closing her eyes, she wished herself dead.

  “Hey, are you two sisters?” Megan
Willis said cheerfully.

  A massaging hand on Michelle’s back, Dawn replied, “Twin sisters.”

  —Chapter Twelve—

  Under a red sky, brightening and dimming with the cadence of a clumsy toddler, the floor of the room teetered like a see-saw. Above Reggie, sharp, severe angles constantly shifted, casting blade-like shadows over everything. Azure images of coiled serpents eating themselves glowed from slow-moving stone walls.

  Bound upside-down to a pillar, Reggie listened to the nearby screams of his father. He tried to think about Michelle, tried to formulate a plan to get out of this vile place and help her. But it was useless. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even think clearly. And with each fresh scream, his mind was sidetracked, forcing him to start over.

  Blue serpents began to swirl on the walls. Slow at first. Then faster. Faster. Until the images became more. Four thick pythons, eyes gleaming orange, dropped from the walls and began slithering toward Reggie on the shifting floor. The closer they came to him, the closer they came to each other, finally merging a few feet from Reggie’s head.

  Eight eyes blazed hypnotically, and Reggie couldn’t look away. The rest of the room faded, leaving only those burning orbs, which began swimming through the darkness in odd patterns.

  Eight merged into two, burning now with greater intensity. The room slowly bled into focus, the owner of the eyes taking a familiar shape.

  “Rory?” Reggie cried.

  Reggie’s brother stepped out of the shadows, expressionless.

  “You were supposed to enter The Void,” Reggie said.

  “I did,” Rory said. “For a while, at least. A world of darkness. Nothingness. But that was a real drag. So when visited by a voice, offering me the opportunity to be a god, who was I to resist?”