“No.” Beatrice said. But then she bit her lip. “But I think you should open it.”
With a shrug Adam reached over and grabbed the box.
Opening it was tricky, but with some manly banging, Adam eventually popped off the rusty lid. Inside were the remains of what looked like an old, polyester raincoat. Adam gently unraveled it, revealing an odd assortment of childhood memorabilia: a hand-carved magic wand, several toy horses, some tinfoil stars, and metal pieces of an ERECTOR Set. Beatrice found a plastic butterfly with a missing wing, and smiled.
“Hey, just like your dream,” Adam said. He picked up a strange-looking object. “I think it’s a piece of wax,” he said, examining it. “Any idea what this is?”
Beatrice looked at it. “I have no idea. Maybe—” Before she could finish her sentence, Adam saw tears welling up in her eyes as she placed the piece of wax flat on his palm. Now he noticed the impressions of little fingers. He flipped it over. More grooves, more fingers. The shape of a palm, another small hand pressed into the wax.
Suddenly Adam recalled the bizarre microfiche dream he’d had after meeting Beatrice on the cliffs. One of the images he’d seen had been a memory of Beatrice as a child, leaning over a lit candle, her green eyes sparkling, her matted, red hair pulled back in a ponytail. He saw her again now, slowly tilting a candle, allowing wax to drip onto his left hand. He could still feel the sharp sting of it hitting his skin.
“We made it the day your parents showed up to take you away,” Beatrice said.
Adam was still inside their tree-cave in his mind, watching young Beatrice as she pressed her own hand into his, allowing the hot wax to slowly encase their hands, making them into one. “My magic spell,” Beatrice whispered. “To bind us together forever.”
The distant blare of a foghorn brought Adam back to the present. He blinked at the gnarled piece of wax in his hand and then looked up to Beatrice.
“Maybe this is the real reason you came back,” Beatrice said. “Maybe it’s why I came back.”
Adam set the wax back down and reached for Beatrice’s hand, the same hand that had been melted into his over 30 years ago. She was leaning in toward him, her lips trembling slightly, tinted blue from the cold. Adam touched her face, and she responded by rubbing her cheek into his hand. Their lips slowly met. “I don’t want to lose you again . . .” Beatrice whispered between kisses.
“What if—” Adam stopped himself.
“What if what?”
Adam shook his head. It was something he’d been thinking about all day but hadn’t found the courage to express. Besides, there were those things Coates had warned him about—trying to change too quickly, the currents of his past, some kind of sacrifice.
“Say it, Adam. What?” Beatrice pressed herself against him.
“What if . . . I came with you?”
Beatrice stared at Adam.
“I know, maybe that’s impossible . . . Maybe I’m not even welcome, but my life here means nothing to me anymore, and—”
Beatrice silenced Adam by covering his mouth with hers. “Yes,” she whispered as she pushed him down into the comforter. “Yes.”
Dorothy had a special method for eating potato chips while working at Reception. By placing the open bag on the shelf beneath the desk next to her left knee, she never had to touch the chips with her right hand, which was needed for the computer mouse and the phone receiver. And next to the chips she kept a cloth napkin that she occasionally squeezed to remove grease from her fingertips before handling any paperwork.
Just as Dorothy bit into her first chip of her second bag of LAY’S Garden Tomato & Basil, the phone rang. She quickly finished her chip before picking up.
“Mendocino Hotel, may I help you?” Occasionally Dorothy risked eating during a phone conversation, but the tone of the person on the other end of the line made her forget about her chips entirely.
“Yes, I charged his credit card,” Dorothy responded defensively, her face reddening. “My computer shows that the guest took items from his minibar, and so it’s, like, my job to charge him for it. Just because he didn’t want anything to appear on his company card, that is not my problem, okay? And he has been very unclear with me, so—” The person on the other end of the line cut Dorothy off. It took her a moment to understand that she wasn’t the one in trouble.
“Yes. Adam Smith . . . or Sheppard or whatever.” Her voice was now calmer. “Yes, of course, he’s staying here. For three days. In the same room, thanks to me.”
The voice on the line was talking again, telling Dorothy things that at first didn’t sound possible. She almost thought that this might be a practical joke, as the voice described what was sounding like the plot to one of her favorite mystery shows. Unconsciously, Dorothy slipped a potato chip into her mouth as she listened.
“Oh my God!” she suddenly blurted out, bits of Garden Tomato & Basil flavored saliva showering the once-clean phone receiver. The voice on the phone warned her to stay calm. “Right, yes. Sorry,” Dorothy said in hushed, secretive tones. “Of course, I want to help. Just tell me what to do.”
The kerosene lamp had run out of fuel, but a scattered few Virgin Mary candles were still holding vigil. Adam and Beatrice lay snuggled in the comforter together, looking up at the circle of night sky visible from the bottom of the sinkhole.
It was no longer high tide, but Adam still felt the soft breaths of ocean air being pushed into the sinkhole from the waves inside the tunnel. He remembered the first time he had seen this strange place, spying down on Beatrice as she stood half-naked not far from where they were now lying. That was before she knew he was her childhood friend, her thief. It was before their dinner on Paradiso 9 and the surreal night of lovemaking that followed. Before their carefree morning on the cliffs the next day, their picnic, the sailing lessons, and their journey north. Before Adam knew that Beatrice’s father was Virgil Coates, the man who wrote Navigations of the Hidden Domain. It all seemed so fantastical, and yet it was real, so much more so than the past few decades of his life.
Adam felt Beatrice’s breath against his ear as she nuzzled into his neck. “The first leg of the trip will take about two weeks,” she whispered. “We’ll travel as an ocean-going caravan, meeting up with boats from other countries along the way. Once we arrive, you’ll see, it’s like another world—”
“Where skies grow thin?” Adam whispered back.
Beatrice touched Adam’s cheek with her pinkie, brushing away specks of sand. “Where skies grow thin,” she repeated.
Adam felt himself drifting toward sleep. There was so much he needed to think about, to figure out before leaving. Jane, the kids, Blake, Pixilate. Could he really just walk away from his life completely? He’d already taken the first steps, that was for sure. But he knew he should at least e-mail someone. Blake, maybe. Jane would of course think it was heartless of him to abandon the kids. But would they even notice? There was just too much to think about . . .
Adam pushed his head down into the comforter, arching his neck slightly so he could look up over his forehead toward the tunnel behind them. He could see one last jar candle still flickering in the sand between him and the mouth of the cave. As his eyes strained to stay focused on the small flame, he felt as if he was falling. His eyes fluttered shut, and then he strained to open them again. Then shut . . . then open . . .
“Sometimes when I’m out on the open water,” Beatrice was saying softly in his ear, “I’ll lay on the deck of my boat like this. And I look up at the night sky . . . until it feels as if I’m floating in a sea of infinite space.”
Adam’s breath had fallen in rhythm with the breath of the ocean echoing up through the mouth of the tunnel. The flickering candlelight now seemed to be inside his forehead, the flame growing, filling his body with a heavy vibration. Overtones of subtler vibrations began to appear, and Adam imagined them lifting him up, out of his body. He imagined himself drifting down toward the ocean tunnel, gliding into it. Looking around inside,
he saw everything with incredible clarity: the wet rock walls, the white mark on the ceiling, the alcove off to one side where they had dug. He continued moving toward the ocean, faster now, the opposite mouth of the cave approaching quickly. Then suddenly he emerged on the opposite side, gliding along the surface of the ocean. Slowly he turned his attention upward, toward the endless stars that arched around him on all sides.
“The sky out there,” Beatrice whispered, “is like an enormous fishbowl. Inside it are all the things people give their attention to, all the things we believe in, all the things we know. And I like to imagine that all those twinkling lights up there aren’t really stars, but actually tiny holes. Pores. And the light coming through them is the light from an unknown world . . . just waiting to be revealed, waiting for us to reach it.”
The candle had flickered out, and Adam was suddenly aware that he was back in the sinkhole, back in the container of his physical body, lying completely still in the darkness. His eyes were open but he could see nothing, not even Beatrice beside him. He still heard her voice, though, as if she were inside his head now.
“Once you’ve learned to see beyond the stars,” she whispered. “You begin to understand that anything we give our attention to, anything we dream, can become real.”
When Adam pulled up in front of the Mendocino Hotel, the sun wasn’t quite visible yet, but the sky had begun to glow gray-blue. A thin layer of dew sparkled everywhere. Beneath the water towers, massive spiderwebs glistened like crystalline chandeliers. Adam barreled through the front door of the hotel, his hair matted, his face dirty, the stained, sandy comforter wrapped around his shoulders.
Dorothy stared wide-eyed as Adam approached with a huge grin.
“Morning, Dorothy!”
“Good morning, Mr. Smith,” Dorothy said with a forced smile.
“I’m sorry to have to leave you, but I’ll be checking out today.”
“Okeydokey.” Dorothy looked over to her computer screen.
“I just need to clean up, send a few e-mails, and then . . . Let’s see, what time is it?”
“Almost six thirty.” Dorothy’s smile was fixed firmly in place.
“You know, I might want to rest for just a bit, a little nap maybe, but I need to make sure I’m out of here by nine at the latest. Do you think—”
“Would you like a wake-up call?”
“Perfect. Can we make it for eight fifteen?”
“No problem.” Dorothy pretended to make a note on a piece of paper. “Are you heading home today?”
“Nope. Taking a trip.” Adam smiled. “Going sailing.”
Reaching the door to his room, Adam fumbled for his key-card, finally finding it in his back pocket. As he brushed sand off it, he noticed something odd. The room door wasn’t completely shut. And the Do-Not-Disturb sign was no longer hanging on the door where he was sure he had hung it when he left with the bedding and towels.
Adam pushed open the door and stepped inside. In his room stood a man Adam had never seen before. He was in his late 50s, muscular build but with a potbelly, military-style cropped hair, and wearing a Mendocino County sheriff’s uniform. The sheriff was not alone. On the couch sat Dr. Mendelson, flipping through Adam’s copy of Navigations of the Hidden Domain. Looking up at Adam, he gently set the book aside.
“Adam.” Dr. Mendelson’s voice conveyed gravity and concern.
“Dr. M.,” was all Adam could respond with. The incongruity of seeing Dr. M. sitting in this room was like running into a high school teacher at the mall.
“Come in, Adam. And shut the door, if you don’t mind.”
Adam didn’t move. The sheriff took a step forward. The movement wasn’t threatening, but it was enough to convince Adam to reach behind him and close the door.
“A lot of people are very worried about you,” Dr. Mendelson said.
This was not the scene that was meant to take place right now. Adam was supposed to be sprawled out on the bed, falling like an anvil into a hard, dreamless sleep.
“I’m sorry to . . . hear that,” Adam replied. “However, I can’t really stay and talk with you about it right now—”
“No, Adam. I’m afraid right now is the moment when we must talk about it.”
CHAPTER 24
CAUGHT IN A SUBSTATION
Blake Dorsey was so focused on negotiating Highway 128’s twists and turns that he didn’t even notice as his BMW sped past the nondescript dirt road on his left. Had he noticed the turnoff and been inclined to take it, he would have driven up a hill, around a bend, past an old car frame with blackberry bushes growing out of it, and eventually arrived at the front door of Art Stout’s one-bedroom house. Art had kept Adam’s iPhone on top of his refrigerator next to Nellie’s chew toys, just in case that upset man he had spoken to showed up.
Today would not be that day. Today Blake and Jane were en route to Mendocino, where according to the police, Adam had used a credit card to buy six bottles of water from a hotel minibar. Jane sat quietly in the passenger seat, earbuds in, staring at her phone. As they rounded a bend, she saw the reception bars suddenly fill in and she quickly hit Dr. Mendelson’s contact number.
The phone rang several times before someone picked up.
“Hello? Hello, Dr. M., can you hear me?” Jane held the phone out toward the windshield in an attempt to improve reception. “What’s going on? Did you find him?”
Blake waited anxiously through the long pause that followed.
“Oh, thank God! Thank God you found him!”
“Yes! I knew it!” Blake slapped the steering wheel. “Adam, you fucking crazy bastard!”
“Yes, I think we’re getting pretty close. The last sign said twenty-seven miles.”
“Does he have his laptop with him?” Blake half whispered at Jane.
Jane shushed Blake with her free hand and then reached for her purse in the backseat. “The sheriff’s station? Okay.” Jane dug out a pen, but there was no paper.
Blake popped open the glove box and pulled out a flyer for an after-hours club. It was laminated, but Jane did her best etching on it.
“One-five-two Seacliff, right behind the post office. Dr. M.? I’m losing you, Dr. Mendelson . . .” The bars on her phone were dropping. “IF YOU CAN HEAR ME—WE’LL MEET YOU THERE. TELL ADAM WE’RE ON OUR WAY.”
Dr. Mendelson hung up the phone. He didn’t catch the last bit, but Jane had repeated the address, and that was all that mattered. They had taken Adam to a sheriff’s station only a half-dozen blocks from the hotel, which was convenient, but it was also small. “A substation,” the sheriff had warned. “And it’s a bit of a mess. We don’t really see much action up here.” When they arrived, the receptionist, the sheriff’s aunt, was clearing her jars of canned pears out of the holding room Adam was to be placed in.
Dr. Mendelson peered in through the window of the door at Adam sitting quietly at a metal table. He had just been searched over by the sheriff, who was now heading for the door, holding a plastic tray.
“Keys, some papers, lot of sand,” the sheriff said as he exited the room. He shook the tray like a skillet. “No sharps, no drugs.”
As Dr. Mendelson examined the contents of the tray, the sheriff added sympathetically, “You know, he seemed pretty passive to me, but if you think you might need them, we do have a set of restraints somewhere around here.”
“No, no,” Dr. Mendelson said. “At least, not yet.”
The few pieces of paper in the tray were all badly water-stained and mostly illegible, except for a receipt from a hardware store that showed the purchase of a shovel for $40 and something listed as a “Bounty Hunter VLF MD” for $79.95. Dr. Mendelson frowned, scribbled something on his notepad, and then stepped into the holding room.
Adam was staring at his shoes. The sheriff had taken his shoelaces, explaining that California State Law required him to remove any object that Adam could conceivably harm himself with. Adam couldn’t imagine how the hell he could hurt himself with shoelaces.
Regardless, they were now gone, a fact he was not thrilled about.
Dr. Mendelson sat in the chair opposite Adam, positioning his notepad and pen on the table just to his right. Then, as Adam had seen him do thousands of times before, Dr. M. steepled his hands, brought them to his lips, and began to lightly tap. He inhaled through his nose, his eyes locked on Adam’s. All that was missing was the chessboard, Adam thought, and they could reenact Bobby Fischer versus Boris Spassky, game one.
Dr. Mendelson made the first move. “How many days have you been off your meds, Adam?”
Adam glanced at the clock—7:55 A.M. Another fact he was contending with.
“This has nothing to do with my medications,” was Adam’s response.
“I think that’s for me to judge. When did you stop taking them?”
“A few days ago, I guess . . . but they weren’t helping me. In fact, I feel better now than I’ve felt in years. I feel great, I . . . Look, Dr. M., I know what you think, but—”
“Adam, slow down.”
Adam knew he was playing sloppily, giving away too much material too quickly, but he couldn’t stop himself. “No, listen. Everything that’s happened this time, it’s different from before. I just needed to get away. To be able to hear myself think, and—”
“Adam.” Dr. Mendelson lowered his hands, exposing his thin, pursed lips. “Slow down and talk to me, not at me. We’re on the same team. And, as I hope you know by now, I am here to help you.”
“Fine. You want to help me? Then help me get out of here.”
Dr. Mendelson pressed his fingers back to his lips.
“You can’t just keep me against my will. I haven’t done anything wrong—”
“Actually, Adam, I can. You’ve shown intent to harm yourself.”
“To what? What are you talking about?”
Dr. Mendelson reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, slowly produced a small, rose-colored envelope. Adam watched speechless as his therapist began to read aloud the private letter he had written to his wife. “I’m sorry, I can no longer go on living like this . . . You and the kids are better off without me . . . Please don’t try to find me. I need to be alone now. To find my peace . . .” Dr. Mendelson set the letter down and calmly looked back at Adam. “I think your intent is pretty clear.”
What Lies Beyond the Stars Page 23