Mad, Mad World

by J. D. Sloane

  Ronan licked his bottom lip in the doorway, watching her turn her head as if she heard something, her profile a perfect white cut-out against the din of activity around her. She took a drag off her cigarette and glanced at the clock, tapping the ashes onto the ground. She was waiting for someone, that much had become obvious, and whoever she was looking for was late and was keeping her waiting.

  Ronan watched her swing one high gold heel girlishly for a moment, standing at the threshold between one room and the next as the agony and rage of her loss competed briefly for top billing before rage won out, like it always did. He started to move and then stopped himself, knowing in some dim half-conscious corner of his mind that the instant he moved the emptiness would be back, an emptiness that hadn’t receded at all since Brooke had gone missing almost a year ago and which he was horrified to discover might never leave. Not if didn’t find her. Not if her disappearance wasn’t exactly what he believed it to be- some elaborate, ill-advised game designed by people who had misjudged him completely and who would live to regret their mistake for many, many years to come.

  Ronan’s hands twitched in his sleep as he watched her brush her long dark hair behind one ear, smiling slightly as she touched her fingers to her lips and the pain of it hit him like a sledgehammer, how real she was, how perfectly he remembered. Every day he tried to convince himself that he had somehow exaggerated her beauty, that his yawning need for her had refined her in some way in his mind, made her cheekbones a little higher maybe, her wide green eyes a little larger, a little brighter. But no, she was exactly as he had imagined her, her face so lush and sweet and beautiful that he stepped forward without thinking like he always did and then froze as the dream changed again, his stomach churning with sudden dread.

  Ronan started walking across the room quickly as he saw the high upper slash of her scar curl into a sudden maze of flowers and leaves that grew beyond the low back of her dress and then broke into a run as he realized that she was bleeding, bleeding down the pale white column of her spine. He looked around rapidly as he started to run, the room filling with bodies inexplicably as if his panic had somehow willed them into existence and then he was running as fast as he could across the floor, anything he could do to reach her, to stop what came next.

  Sometimes he made it farther than others. Sometimes Ronan would reach out his hand as he got to her and Brooke would turn around, the sudden startled delight in her eyes unravelling him in some deep, terrible place in his mind. And then he would look up and see the ceiling turn black around them and some shape, some strange, faceless shape that looked like a man and not a man would descend from the ceiling like a growing shadow. And then the air would shimmer around her, as if she was on a train and then, and then, and then…

  Ronan opened his eyes as he heard the metal slot in his cell door swing shut and looked around the ceiling carefully, the pain of the dream receding as he forced himself to remember where he was at, the reassuring collection of annoyances that separated reality from the world beyond it. He laid in bed without moving, tapping his fingers against his chest as the image of Brooke being swallowed whole by some looming shadow that seemed a little too human for comfort blistered and burned in his mind and then tipped his eyes towards the long white sheet covering his cell window as he heard the mail guard slink past, the wheels of his cart skipping over the grooved tile hallway in a creaky trail of thuds.

  Which makes it almost seven, he thought, twisting his neck to one side slightly before sitting up in bed. Almost time for everyone’s favorite Wonderland host to roll out the morning party favors. Good old Warden Dula does like to keep the trains running on time around here.

  Ronan dragged his fingers through his long, dark blond hair as he stood up and cracked his back, sunlight from the high narrow window on his outside wall washing over his trim, muscular body in alternating currents of darkness and light. He scratched his neck as he paced over to the metal toilet next to the sink and pissed in the general direction of the bowl, looking his face over in the mirror without really seeing it.

  The dream was getting worse. Ronan washed his hands in the sink and then scrubbed his face briskly, his long hair dipping into the bowl as he reached for a towel with one hand. That bothered him, but the truth was that although his dreams about Brooke were painful, the fear and panic he felt in them never seemed to stick around for long, evaporating in the wake of violent rage that hollowed him out like a nuclear blast within minutes of total consciousness.

  No, he thought, brushing his hair away from his eyes with an irritated swipe of one hand. The dreams aren’t really the problem. What worried him a lot more was the fact that Brooke wasn’t exactly confining herself to his dreams anymore. Some mornings he would wake up in a cold sweat after a particularly vivid and awful version of it and she would simply be kneeling in bed in front of him, so achingly real that Ronan would feel all the air rush out of his lungs at once. And then Brooke would reach for him with one hand and smile as if it was a game and he would close his eyes tightly and force himself to remember that it was a dream, just a dream, and when he opened them again she would almost always be gone. Almost always.

  Ronan turned towards the window in his boxers, letting the sun creep across his face and twitched his fingers against his thigh as he waited for the anger to pass, an anger that never seemed to empty out completely these days no matter how often he sent that particular bucket rattling down into the well. He closed his eyes, focusing on the hushed cacophony of the wing stirring to life behind him as he struggled to pull together some semblance of normal adult control and thought about slitting Hax’s throat in the bathroom, the comforting finality of it smoothing out his nerves like an emotional opiate. He allowed himself the brief pleasure of reliving it, forcing himself to remember the painstaking orchestra of motion he was putting into place one reluctant section at a time and found his mind wandering to Alicia, her pouty, schoolgirl’s mouth pulled up in a haughty grin.

  Ronan rolled his neck slightly as he thought her over, her body so slender and narrow-hipped he could make out the sharp outer curve of her ribs when she spread her legs and smirked slightly as he thought of the way she had brushed her fingers across the wide band of her necklace, turning at the table just quick enough for him to catch a glimpse of her lacy black underwear.

  Ronan turned towards the door as he heard the first faint sounds of Dula’s morning pit crew making the rounds down the hall and scooped up the mail in front of his door, his mood rising slightly as he flipped through an open stack of handwritten correspondence. He glanced through the top few letters casually, plucking the photos out one by one and then flicked through them with a critical eye, still surprised and amused by the endless supply of amateur pornography his status as a criminal celebrity awarded him. He danced his fingers over the three photos on top of the pile, shrugging as he discarded the rest and then walked his favorites over to the sink, spreading them out under the mirror as he turned on the faucet.

  Ronan ran his finger over the one closest to him, a photo of a young girl sitting up on her knees as she dragged her underwear down around her thighs and gave the camera a bright, empty smile. He brushed his fingertips over her face, the heavy make-up around her eyes making her look younger rather than older and lathered his hands up slowly as he remembered the way Alicia had reached for his cock in the treatment room, stroking him with a careless, easy rhythm after almost no provocation whatsoever.

  Ronan slid his cock out of his boxers with one hand as he began to pump himself slowly, his brow furrowing as he tried to remember the exact way her round gold eyes had looked when she slid to the floor in front of him, meeting his gaze with a calculation so shameless and naïve that he moaned under his breath. Ronan pumped himself harder as he remembered how she had run her tongue around the head of his cock, something low and debased dancing behind her practiced, schoolgirl fluster and then flinched as Brooke’s face rushed out of the darkness to meet him, the image so lu
sh and vivid that he opened his eyes.

  She was laying on the bed behind him, naked except for her high gold heels and the custom-made bracelet he had bought her for her birthday, the one the kidnapper had left behind in a pool of her blood.

  Ronan watched Brooke in the vanity mirror, his entire body freezing as she gave him a sweet smile and rolled onto her back, unravelling the metal chain slowly from its leather sleeve as she laced it through his headboard. Ronan tried to look away and couldn’t, terrified by how real she seemed, his eyes flying over her large breasts and narrow waist with a sudden wave of desperate hunger as she fastened the chain with a solid click. Ronan ran his tongue over his bottom lip, fascinated as she stretched out her back idly for a moment and then watched her run her hand down her body slowly, dipping her fingers between her open legs before touching herself and spreading them wider.

  Ronan felt his hunger for her escalate wildly as Brooke opened her eyes, watching him sweetly as she wet her full red lips and felt the rage in him double and double again as he stroked himself quickly over the sink, closing his eyes tightly as he tried to force her out of his mind. She smiled at him and he lit on fire. She reached for him and he lit it on fire. He tried to change the image into something else and couldn’t. She was still there beckoning him over, begging him to come find her so she could slide into his lap as naturally as breathing and bury her hands into the back of his hair. Whispering that she loved him, she loved him, she would always love him…

  Ronan made a low, strangled noise in the back of his throat as he came into his hand and shuddered deeply as the pain raced through him in a sudden wave, the rage that followed it so acute he felt like screaming. He ran his tongue over his lips, washing his hands slowly in the sink and then looked down at the row of photos in front of him with sudden contempt and swept them into the wastebasket with one furious backhand, spitting into the pile before kicking the entire basket across the floor. Ronan shut his eyes as the sunlight dropped across his pale, handsome face, trying not to see Brooke’s image in every unused corner of his mind and then rolled his shoulders as he opened them, his wide dark eyes so hollow and hate-filled that the potential for unused movement seemed to fill the space around him like an electric charge.

  Brooke wasn’t dead. They were keeping her from him. She was still alive somewhere and he was going to get her back. Anyone who thought they could keep them apart, anyone who honestly believed it was possible, didn’t know a thing about him at all. But they’d learn. Too late they’d learn everything they’d ever wanted to know about him. And the penalty for trying to head off the random, unstoppable trajectory of fate.

  And then we’ll see, Ronan thought, reaching for a small yellow envelope that had skittered out of the basket beneath the sink. We’ll see just much revenge this city can take. And who knows? It may be a bigger party than you think. Never underestimate the power of suggestion to motivate a desperate, unemployed mob.

  Ronan flipped the envelope over, the fact that it seemed to be the only unopened piece of mail in the pile pricking his interest in spite of himself. He tore it open as he paced towards the windows and raised his brows as he saw that it was a deck of playing cards, cracking the pack open carefully before tapping it out into his hand. He fanned the cards out in his palm, looking over the suggestive vintage pin-ups with a mixture of amusement and curiosity and then paused as he came to a small sheet of paper in the middle of the deck, the edges of it folded so carefully it resembled a small bird.

  Ronan’s cocked his head towards the windows as he pulled it out of the deck, his dark eyes twirling with sudden electric energy and then felt his face stiffen as Brooke smiled at him from the center of his bed, swinging her legs at him girlishly as she twirled her long dark hair. Ronan blinked rapidly for a moment, watching her wink at him with a coyness that twisted his heart like razor wire and then set the deck down on the window sill as he reached for his dark gray shirt.

  Soon, he thought, pulling it on with a roll of his shoulders as he closed his eyes. Soon, soon, soon, soon, soon, soon…

  “Once upon a time,” he said under his breath, whispering their story to himself like a mantra as he patiently beat the madness back to the outer edges of his mind.

  “Once upon a time there was a girl with long dark hair. And eyes like the ocean right before a storm…”

  “Chief Nolan?”

  The former police chief looked up from his paper as Alicia spoke and then looked around the small, deli-sized breakfast restaurant before taking a sip of his coffee, dismissing her almost instantly as he glanced back down at the sports section.

  “Nope,” he said, his low voice barely inflecting as he adjusted his glasses and gave her a quick sidelong glance. “Not any more. You’re looking for Roger Welsh. He’s your guy.”

  He checked his watch and then cleared his throat as he turned the page.

  “And should be rolling into work right about now, if memory serves.”

  Alicia took a step forward, pausing as some waitress in a green apron slid past her without stopping.

  “I’m sorry, old habit. It’s kind of like being the president, right? Once you’re the police chief of a city like this, it feels wrong to call you anything else.”

  Nolan glanced up again, this time with more curiosity and Alicia felt a cool thrill of premonition run through her as he looked down at her hands, his eyes running up and down her body as if scanning for a weapon.

  Correction, she thought, giving him a chance to size her up as she watched him mildly. A concealed weapon. This guy has seen more action than he lets on. And I’m going to guess that some of it came from around some very familiar corners.

  Nolan adjusted his glasses again, a ghost of a smile crinkling the corner of his eyes, but she noticed that the expression in them didn’t change at all. He just kept regarding her with that same curious cop stare, as if he couldn’t decide what she wanted from him and long experience had taught him that that was a very bad thing indeed.

  “You’re Alicia Gale,” he said, giving her a little nod. “The ah- Channel Six weathergirl, right?”

  Alicia pressed her lips together and then shrugged, giving him a wide, girlish smile as he set his paper down.

  “Guilty. Well, I was. I’m actually working as a reporter now. Special reports, that sort of thing.”

  Jack nodded again, his eyes narrowing slightly as his gaze shifted from her eyes to her hair and back again.

  “I’m going to guess you’re not here for an autograph, Miss Gale,” he said, waving his hand towards the vinyl seat opposite him almost as an afterthought. “Mind telling me what you are here for?”

  Alicia nodded and slid into the seat across from him, reaching for the untouched glass of water at the edge of the table as Nolan watched her without speaking.

  “I could lie to you, Mr. Nolan,” she said, tapping the glass between her fingers as she glanced out the window to the street beyond. “I could tell you that I’ve been researching a story, a story you were a part of, and that I just looked up today and there you were in the window. Having breakfast and reading the paper the same way always you do, three days out of seven, at Lauren’s Café.”

  Jack raised his brows as she twirled her glass between her palms and then looked down at it for a moment, his expression lifting into one of ironic amusement.

  “I could tell you that. I could tell you that in a way that was so convincing you wouldn’t know if I were lying or not. But I need real answers from you. And something tells me you’ll be a lot less likely to give them to me if I start lying now.”

  “That’s a pretty good guess, Miss Gale. But if you’ve done that much research on me already you also know that I don’t talk to reporters. Not about old cases, not about anything.”

  ‘You have something against the media, Mr. Nolan?”

  Nolan bit back a laugh and then coughed into the back of his hand, tapping his cup as the waitress swung past.

 
; “Everyone has something against the media, Miss Gale. If you can’t live with being disliked, you should find yourself another line of work. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “No thanks, I’m fine.”

  “She’ll buy mine then,” Nolan said, giving the waitress a friendly wink as she refilled his cup. “And my doughnut.”

  Alicia dragged her fingers through her hair as the waitress disappeared into the crowd and tried to hide her impatience as Nolan ruffled his paper again, his pale blue eyes almost amused.

  “You seem like you’re in a hurry.”

  “I’m not. I’m just curious why you don’t talk to reporters, that’s all.”

  “Because good habits die hard, Miss Gale. The same as bad ones. And no one in my line of work talks to someone in your line of work unless it’s absolutely necessary. Unless it’s just a friendly chat between friends, that is.”

  Alicia looked around the floor of the bright, colorful little diner, most of the booths along the windows still standing empty at ten o’clock in the morning.

  “Do you like being retired, Mr. Nolan?”

  “Yes I do. More than I thought I would, frankly. I find it very relaxing. And it gives me time to focus on my hobbies.”

  “Your hobbies? Like what?”

  “You’re looking at one of them, Miss Gale. And I’ve also had a chance to catch up my reading, visit with my daughter, annoy my wife. I even started writing a little bit recently. Just to pass the time.”

  Alicia grinned and took a drink of her water as the waitress set down a large chocolate glazed doughnut, barely breaking stride before she turned around and whirled back towards the cash register.

  “The great American Novel? That’s a retirement classic.”