by V. E. Lemp
Karen ran her fingers through her hair. She knew her straight, shoulder-length bob was scarcely in style. “It’s not important. I keep myself clean and neat and dressed. Nothing more is necessary.”
“Hah. If you want to live like a nun.”
Karen took another long swallow of wine. “Enough, Thea.”
“It’s been ten years, Karen.”
“I know how long it’s been.” Karen swirled the wine in her glass. “So, what do you want to do tonight? Stay in? Go out? What’s your pleasure?”
“Well …” Thea’s hesitation was unusual enough to garner Karen’s attention. “There's this lecture …”
“Not at Woodgrove. Place closes down like a clamshell after spring term. I locked up my studio this afternoon.”
“No, at the university, right here in town. I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but I saw this guy on a morning talk show, and he seems interesting. Strange, but interesting. I thought it’d be fun to go, if only to snark about it later. Over a bottle of wine, of course.”
“What are you talking about? What kind of lecture?”
“Myron Tarrow. He’s some sort of expert on UFOs and psychic powers and stuff like that. Hosts a blog and a radio show and has a bunch of followers. Yeah, sounds like nonsense, but when I saw him on TV he was actually interesting. Thought it might be worth a laugh, at least. And it’s free.”
Karen shook her head. “Really? UFOs? One of those alien-abduction weirdos? Or does he claim we’re being invaded by lizard people from the center of the earth?”
“No, seriously, he isn’t that flakey. Could be amusing. I only get to visit you occasionally, so we might as well have fun. Why not?”
Karen finished off her wine. “All right, Thea, I’ll accompany you to this lecture. As you say, it’ll be worth a good laugh. And I”—a note of sadness crept into her voice—“could use a good laugh.”
They arrived late to the lecture and had to take seats down front. Karen was surprised to see the auditorium so full.
“Must be a lot of people interested in little green men.”
“Hush,” Thea said as the lights dimmed.
Myron Tarrow was tall and very thin, with a shock of white hair brushed back from his high forehead and a face that recalled a monk in a Byzantine icon.
Thea hadn’t lied—his talk was entertaining. Tarrow discussed several theories of alien contact, not explicitly endorsing any one. Instead of pushing a specific agenda, he appeared dedicated to exploring a range of possibilities. It was a lecture Alex would’ve enjoyed. Karen closed her eyes, willing such thoughts away.
She opened her eyes to Tarrow introducing his daughter, Ariel. He claimed she was a psychic. Only fourteen, but her psychic abilities manifested early. Someone in the crowd shouted something about talking to the dead, and Myron Tarrow paused, straightening to his full height.
“My daughter is not a medium,” he said. “She doesn’t receive messages from the dead. I’m not certain if such communication is even possible, but if it is, Ariel doesn’t participate in it. She’s a psychic. The messages she receives are from the living, though perhaps from those separated by great distances.”
He called his daughter to the stage. She was a tiny thing. Slender and very pale, with snow-blond hair pulled into one long plait that fell to the middle of her back, and a face that was all sharp angles and large, gray eyes. Karen shifted in her seat. She longed for a pencil and sketchpad to capture that arresting face.
Ariel Tarrow sat on a chair positioned in the middle of the stage.
“Ariel will now attempt to receive messages for the audience,” Myron Tarrow said.
“Carefully planted, no doubt,” Karen muttered. Thea gave her hand a swift tap.
As Ariel Tarrow spoke, several audience members responded, some exclaiming in surprise, others jumping to their feet. Karen glanced at Thea, mouthing the words “fake, fake, fake.”
“Behave,” Thea whispered. “I know you don’t believe in this stuff, but others do. Just go with it and enjoy something for once.”
Karen sank into her seat.
“And there’s someone who needs to hear a special message.” Ariel Tarrow’s voice was surprisingly strong for so frail a body. Her wide gray eyes surveyed the audience, finally settling on the front row. “Is there a Karen here?”
Thea gasped and pointed at Karen, who sat up and stared at the young psychic.
“I have a message for you, Karen,” Ariel said in a slightly sing-song voice.
“Son of a bitch,” Karen muttered.
“You need to remember. Think and remember and put the pieces together. Don’t be,” the girl said, looking straight into Karen’s eyes, “don’t be so oblivious, Karen.”
The words hit like a fist. Thea looked over with concern as Karen’s hands flew up into the air, pushing against the emptiness, against the nothingness in front of her.
Ariel Tarrow turned away, already speaking of other things.
“I have to get out of here.” Karen’s voice was fraying all around the edges. “Get me out of here.”
Thea stood and helped her to her feet. When they reached the outer hall, Karen laid her hand on Thea’s arm to stop her from leaving the building. “I need to see her.”
Thea opened her mouth as if to protest, but then snapped it shut again and just shook her head with resignation.
They wandered the halls for some time, finally discovering the door that led backstage. Karen charged in front of Thea.
“Do you think this is a good idea?” Thea asked, as they walked into the wings of the stage.
“I have to find out how she knew those words.”
Thea sighed and eyed Karen with concern, but followed her to the prompter’s seat, where the stage manager stopped them.
“I need to talk to Ariel Tarrow,” Karen said.
The stage manager directed them to the Green Room. “You’ll have to wait. The lecture is just about to finish. Once they come off the stage, I’ll tell Miss Tarrow you’re here, but I can’t guarantee she’ll be willing to speak with you.”
“Just tell her one of her messages has hit its target.”
In the actors’ lounge, Karen sank down onto one of the padded benches. “I think I may be going mad again.” She grasped for Thea’s hand.
“Nonsense.” Thea gripped Karen’s fingers firmly.
Several minutes later, Myron Tarrow entered the room, followed by his daughter. He examined Karen and Thea as if they were two of his alien entities. “You wanted to speak to us?”
“Yes,” Karen said eagerly. “Your daughter said something tonight, something I don’t understand.”
“It was a message for you.” Ariel Tarrow stepped out from her father’s shadow. “I don’t know where it came from, but I know it’s true.”
“How old are you again?” Karen asked.
“Fourteen.” Ariel Tarrow tossed her head, and her blond plait swung over her shoulder.
“You couldn’t know him, then. How could you know him?”
“Know who?”
“Never mind. Where do your messages come from?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never known.”
“But not from the dead?” Karen could sense Thea’s distress but chose to ignore it.
“No, I’ve never felt that.”
Karen sat back and closed her eyes. “There’s no way you could’ve known that, what you said.”
“Ariel only reports what she receives, nothing more,” Myron Tarrow said.
After a few moments, Karen opened her eyes. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I was just shocked by your words. It must be a coincidence.”
“There are no such coincidences,” Ariel Tarrow said. “But you know that, Karen Foster.”
Karen rose to her feet and left the room, Thea trailing in her wake. She walked without stopping, until she reached her car. Thea slid into the passenger’s seat without a word, shooting anxious glances over at Karen, who drove to the condo without speaking.
“Well, that was interesting,” she finally said as she pulled into her parking space.
“What was it all about?” Thea asked carefully.
“Oh, nothing. Just a message from the beyond. Or not. I don’t know.” Karen laid her head on her arms and began to cry, without making a sound, until Thea took her hand and guided her up to the condo.
There, she sat Karen on the sofa and placed a small glass of water on the coffee table.
“Something to do with Alex?” She settled next to Karen and handed her a wad of tissues.
“Yes.”
“Those words—something he said?”
“Yes.” Karen’s voice was thick with tears. “A private joke, really.” She wiped her face with the tissues. “No one should’ve known that. Certainly not a fourteen-year-old girl who was just a toddler when he died.”
“But Myron Tarrow isn’t fourteen. Maybe he had some connection to Alex? Something you never knew?”
“There was a lot I didn’t know about Alex, so I suppose it’s possible he knew Tarrow. But I don’t think Alex would’ve told him that, no matter what. And how would Tarrow guess I’d be in the audience tonight? No, it isn’t possible. Has to be some terrible coincidence.”
“So much for laughing over it afterwards.”
“No, that didn’t work out too well, did it?” Karen smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry, Thea. I know your weekend plans didn’t include babysitting a mess of a friend.”
“No need to apologize.”
Thea, looking baffled when Karen burst into tears again, left the room and returned with an entire box of tissues. “You really have to do something about this, Karen.” She placed the tissues on the coffee table next to the untouched glass of water. “This living on a knife’s edge. I’ve watched you for ten years, and it’s time you got closure. I don’t know what that'll take, but you can’t go on like this.”
“There’s nothing to be done. I have to manage, that’s all.”
“Yes, but you aren’t managing. Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to make a change. You haven’t been really living for so long, you don’t remember what you’re missing. Oh, you put on a good show—teaching, painting, taking care of daily chores ... But you aren’t happy. You have such a good heart. I hate to see it wither from lack of use.”
Karen toyed with her necklace. “My heart’s my own concern.”
“Not true. I care about you, so that makes it my business. And I don’t believe”—Thea lifted her chin and stared Karen straight in the eyes—“Alex would be happy to see you living like this.”
“If you weren’t my best friend, my only real friend, I’d have to kill you for that remark.”
“I know. That’s why I have to be the one to say it.” Thea stood and carried the glass into the kitchen. “I’m opening a bottle,” she called out, “and we’re going to start drinking.”
Karen sat quietly on the sofa, staring blankly about the room, until her gaze came to rest on the watercolor hung on the opposite wall. The waterfall. She’d shoved it in a closet after she moved back into the condo, but eventually rehung it. Every time she looked at the painting she saw Alex standing in that clearing.
Thea walked into the living room carrying two full glasses of wine. “You need to get some information.” She handed one glass to Karen and settled in the armchair with the other. “I know you’ve always felt there was something more to that explosion than a simple gas leak. That’s what’s been eating away at you all these years. If you could gather all the facts, if you could make sense of it in your mind, maybe it would free you somehow.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“There has to be someone who knows something. Let’s face it, you were out of commission for quite a while. Who’s to say there weren’t things you were never told? By the time you were ready to deal with it, the people involved had probably moved on.”
“I know Ian Vance did,” Karen said. “He left the university less than a year later, and Rebani and James followed him. They supposedly work for some private corporation, but I’ve never been able to locate them, despite many internet searches. All I get are hits on their older work.” She took a long drink from her wine glass. “Nothing recent.”
“Isn’t there anyone else? Anyone you can track down?” Thea curled her legs up under her in the chair. “Who else was involved, besides the students, I mean?”
“There was Mark Hallam.” Karen hadn’t thought of that name in quite some time. “The government liaison for the project. He was also at the accident scene, and I told him about Vance and that dark-haired stranger being on the street before the explosion. If he’s still working for the government I might be able to find him. But I don’t know, Thea. Do I want to do this? I’ve been pushing these questions down for all these years. Should I dredge them up again?”
“What’s the alternative? Curl up in the fetal position every time someone says something that sounds like Alex is speaking to you from the grave? Oh, don’t give me that look. I know he isn’t. But if you interpret every crazy coincidence that way …”
“I could try to speak to Hallam, I suppose.”
Thea bounded to her feet. “Then fire up your laptop, girl. We’re on the hunt for a certain Mr. Mark Hallam.”
They were able to locate him fairly quickly, as he was listed in several government agency databases. “So, tomorrow you’ll give him a ring, right?” Thea asked.
“Well, sooner or later.” Karen was feeling less and less like making such a call.
“Tomorrow,” Thea said.
Despite her assurances, Karen wouldn’t have called Mark Hallam the next day, except for one singular fact. She, who hadn’t recalled a dream in ten years, woke to the memory of a very distinctive one. She sat up in bed and instinctively reached for a notebook and a pen, then realized the nightstand was bare except for a digital clock. She jumped out of bed and ran into the living room. Thea, asleep on the sofa, rolled over but didn’t wake. After searching through the desk, Karen found a notebook and recorded the dream. When Thea woke, Karen was sitting at the small writing desk, her head resting on the notebook.
She raised her head when she heard Thea’s footsteps on the wooden floor. “I had a dream,” she said in wonderment. “I had a dream, Thea.”
“Hallelujah,” Thea said. “Now call Mark Hallam.”
Dream Journal, May 20th:
I moved silently, gliding above the surface of the floor, through some type of mysterious facility. My surroundings were bleak. All the surfaces were metallic, lending the halls a clinical atmosphere. Several dark figures passed me, indistinct as shadows. They didn’t notice me.
As I approached an open doorway, one of the figures moved toward me. It was a man. One of the dark-haired men I recalled from other dreams.
“Karen Foster,” he said, “why have you come here?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve been called to this place.”
“You should not be here. You should not be able to see this, unless there has been a change. And I was never told of such a thing.”
“Are you told everything?”
“No.” He looked me over. “Very well, come with me.”
I followed him down a flight of stairs into an open area that held a variety of computer stations. It appeared to be a laboratory—there were banks of equipment I couldn’t identify. The man paused at the bottom of the steps and stretched out his arm to prevent me from walking into the room.
“We must stop here. You may observe and nothing more.”
At the far end of the room I spied a shadowy figure seated in front of a screen. At first I thought the screen was a large computer monitor, then an image appeared, and I realized it must be some type of holographic technology. The image was a three-dimensional projection of a man. Something about the projection compelled me to run into the lab, but I couldn’t move beyond the dark-haired man’s outstretched arm.
“I know those men,” I said,
as the figure in front of the screen stood and walked around the image. “Let me go, let me take a closer look.”
“No, you cannot,” said my guide. “You must only observe.”
The figure in the lab and the projection spoke for several minutes, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Then the holographic image flashed and disappeared.
“Why am I seeing this? I feel I should know these people, and yet I can’t see them clearly. Why are you showing me this?”
“I am showing you nothing,” the dark-haired man said. “You came here of your own free will. What is it you came to see, Karen Foster?”
“I don’t know. Something drew me here.”
At that moment, the figure at the far end of the lab turned and looked in our direction, as if aware of our presence.
“This cannot happen,” my guide said. “We must leave now.” He took my hand, and I found myself standing in an empty room, alone.
“Where have you gone?” I ran to one of the blank white walls. When my hands touched the smooth surface, darkness appeared under my palm. I swept my hands across the wall, as if wiping frost from a winter windowpane. A view appeared—a sky full of stars. I pressed my head against the wall and fell forward, tumbling into the night, until I woke in the solitude of my bedroom.
TWO
Mark Hallam sounded as if he’d almost expected her call. That was baffling and a bit unnerving.
“Of course we can meet,” he said, as soon as she posed the question. “But not at my office. Doubt you’d want to drive into the city. Come to my home. It’s in a small town about an hour out, so traffic won’t be a problem.”
A few days later, Karen followed Mark’s detailed directions and found the address without missing too many turns. She sat in her car for a moment, admiring the fine lines of the brick bungalow. It was not what Karen expected. She’d imagined a contemporary house rather than this Craftsman-style cottage. She wondered if historian Emma had insisted on this property rather than something more modern.
The fine woodwork was evident even in the rafters of the porch ceiling. Karen pressed the antique bronze doorbell, and a melodic chime rang through the house.