Soul Suites

by Hulden Morse

  And then the light in the ceiling, for which he determined there was no switch, suddenly turned off and he was left in darkness. Light from the hallway shown through the tiny window in the door, allowing just enough illumination to make his way around the room, yet his eyes took a while to adjust to the new setting.

  The man assumed that he was being instructed to go to bed, though he found the form of control to be demeaning, leaving him feeling like a child who had just been grounded by his parents. And like a child, he obediently crawled into bed and cried.

  Charles was unsure how long he had been asleep when the door to his room opened. He awoke to find light streaming down from the ceiling once again, having been turned on at some point that morning (he could only assume that it was morning). A strange presence filled the room, and he looked about the small space to find someone standing in his doorway. His roommate seemed to have awoken as well because he heard low groans resonating from the lower bunk.

  Two guards, in their typical all-black garb, entered the tiny space and pulled BJ from his bed. The man writhed in their grip, screaming at them to kill him on the spot. Charles sat up, terrified as the struggle was carried out just a couple feet to his left. The guards yelled at the man to relax, stating that things would be easier on him if he cooperated. Their words only made the delusional BJ fight even more.

  “Kill me! Do it now! I wanna die!” he screamed into the air.

  The man was dragged out the door, kicking everything he could along the way. A chair ended up on its side, and a guard took a nasty blow to the shin, though BJ had no chance of escape.

  “Please! Let me die!”

  As they exited the room, the door began to close once more. Charles heard someone say, “You know we can’t do that,” before he was locked in the room by himself. The CEO could hear yelling from the hallway, though it grew fainter and fainter as BJ was dragged away.

  He feared for his new friend. How low must someone become to want to end his life? Charles wanted nothing more than to help the poor man. He deserved a chance to be happy like everyone else. He climbed down the ladder of the bunk bed and glanced at where BJ had been sleeping. The sheets and pillow had fallen to the ground when he was pulled from his bed. Without giving it a second thought, Charles placed the pillow back on the mattress and neatly repositioned the sheets for when his roommate returned. The least he could do was to provide a bit of stability and comfort amongst insanity and terror.

  But terror of what? What is it that I am to be afraid of? he wondered.

  The worst part was not knowing.

  Chapter 13

  Marlene Pearson had contacted the Chicago Police Department about her husband’s disappearance, wanting to know exactly what the police were doing in order to find Charles. She had been told that all officers had been notified to look out for a man of his description but that the amount of brute force and effort she was expecting to be put into the case was simply impossible.

  “Why can’t it be done? This is my husband! He has children!”

  “Ma’am. We understand. I understand. But he’s a mentally stable adult. He’s not considered a special case.”

  “Not special?”

  “Ma’am. Ma’am. Please. We’re looking for him. We know where he disappeared from, and we have a picture from his place of employment. The local police are actively working on his case.”

  “I want to speak to a detective. We can put up flyers. Talk to the media. Do the damn milk carton thing. Anything!”

  “I understand where you’re coming from. I do. But we’re following procedure. If you want, you can do all those things. Get some volunteers, maybe some family members, talk to the news stations here in Chicago, and get the word out. It certainly won’t hurt.”

  “Okay. Fine. I’ll do that. And you’ll call me if anything comes up?”

  “We have your number. We’ll keep you up to date.”

  “Okay. Yeah. I’ll go to the news.”

  “Good luck, Mrs. Pearson.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Following that conversation, she had immediately driven to the high school and pulled her two boys out of class, wanting to explain the situation herself and assure her children that everything was going to be okay. That had been the first time she’d seen her eldest son cry in many years. It was eerie, almost uncomfortable, because the moment had ceased being surreal and took on a more human, realistic form. Her younger son had retreated to his room and remained in there for several minutes, before emerging with swollen eyes and a demand for his mother’s full embrace.

  She had quickly contacted her own parents, followed by her sister, something that matched every level of difficulty she expected of it. She had then sent text messages to her husband’s close friends informing them of what was occurring and asking that they understand her inability to call every one of them. Marlene had then taken to social media, asking people to pray for his well-being and suggesting that those who wanted to help could change their profile picture to one of Charles.

  It had not been long before a news team in Chicago contacted her, having found out about the disappearance from a Reaching Dreams employee in that district. She had somberly, albeit hopefully, granted them a phone interview during which she answered questions about Charles the husband, Charles the father, and Charles the CEO. Marlene had been stumped by the final question, failing to provide an answer when the reporters asked what she thought could have led to his disappearance. She had stated that it was the job of the police officers to determine who committed the crime and how it was done, while it was her place to spread awareness of Charles and jumpstart search efforts to find him.

  At first, she had felt that those various organizations (the police department, the media, Reaching Dreams) were actively searching for a living person. They would refer to Charles in the present tense. What does he do? Does he have enemies? Is there a place he likes to go? They had been supportive of her and encouraging in their efforts, constantly providing updates with the search and giving tips on how she could help.

  However, after several days of dead ends and no contact from her husband, Marlene got the sense that those organizations began searching for a very different person. They asked questions in a new, unexpected way. Was he a combative person? Was he easily distracted? Did he have a tendency to wander off? Had he been experiencing stress in his life? Friends and family began offering her ways of coping without a husband instead of positive words of hope that he would soon be found. They wondered how she would raise two boys without him. Was she going to get a job to pay for the bills? There was not a doubt in her mind that Charles was still alive and was desperately trying to get home, yet the rest of the world had written him off as another missing person that was decaying at the bottom of a river, his bones to be found years in the future riddled with bite marks from the carnivorous creatures that happened to cross paths with a human delicacy. He was gone forever in their minds, perhaps the victim of a random crime that had nothing to do with his position in Reaching Dreams.

  While the boys tossed and turned painfully in their beds, Marlene remained perched upon the end of hers, clutching a pillow to her chest and soaking it with tears. She cried for her children, for her husband, for her uncertain future, but mostly she cried out of loneliness. Her family and friends had offered support, but no amount of human contact could fill the monstrous chasm that Charles had left behind. This chasm was large enough to support the path of a bird. So immense that, in her vision, a plane flew through the rifting void, carrying within it a gaggle of people who gawked at their widening surroundings, wondering how it was that something so immense could ever be filled. Adventurers scaled the treacherous walls, seeking entertainment from a scar upon the earth. And people fell to their deaths in this chasm, their screams dissipating as they descended deeper into the darkness. They were forever silent thanks to a hunger for illegitimate ple
asure, dead to a world that never gave them a second glance. Marlene watched them slip into her chasm and wondered when she would be blessed with the same fate.

  Chapter 14

  Hamilton stepped into Sam’s Deli for a quick lunch, having only just realized that it was nearly 3 p.m. and she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. That morning, Gutierrez had helped her interview homeless people near the street where Charles had disappeared, but she understood that he had a full-time job to return to and so she had continued the search on her own.

  “Welcome, my lady,” the man behind the counter said cheerfully. “What can I make for you?”

  “Hey there. Can I just get a turkey and swiss on wheat? Lettuce and tomato and nothing else.”

  “Nothin’ else? Alright. Whatever you want.”

  She took a seat near the counter and started swiping through her phone while the man made her sandwich. She had a few emails from headquarters and something from her brother, but nothing that required her immediate attention. Hamilton then brought her focus back to the shop: a tiny, four-table restaurant with a single counter behind which a large man stood, slapping some cheese onto a stack of folded turkey. She could only assume that this person handling her food was Sam. What an honor it was to have the man himself making her sandwich.

  “That enough cheese for ya?” the man said, having noticed that he was being watched.

  “Oh yes. That’s fine. Thanks very much.”

  “Where you from? Haven’t seen you in here before.”

  Hamilton got up from her seat and walked to the counter. She felt more comfortable being able to look at someone in the eyes while they had a conversation, something that served her well in the business world. The guy seemed kind, with a warm smile and a big gut, almost like a St. Nicholas figure, delivering subs instead of toys. She imagined him with a large white beard trudging through thick snow, carrying a red sack filled with Italian beef sandwiches and greasy burgers. It broke the grimace that had become nearly permanent since Charles disappeared and allowed room for a slight grin to break across her face.

  “I’m from San Diego. California,” she said.

  “San Diego! My word. I love that city! Never been there, but I know your zoo. Good stuff. Too warm for me though. I like seasons. Just makes more sense.”

  She allowed herself to chuckle and relax a bit. The man asked if she wanted her sandwich toasted and she quickly accepted, mentioning that she liked a bit of crunch in her bread.

  “So what brings you all the way to Chicago? Business? Pleasure? A boyfriend?”

  Hamilton blushed. She sensed that such a breed of man was completely harmless, a talker, a teaser, and hoped that her instincts were not fooling her.

  “I’m here on business. Kind of. Well, yeah. Business.”

  “Kind of business?” he said after placing the sandwich into a large oven. He then leaned against a wall adjacent to the counter, watching her curiously. “How is it kind of business?”

  “Well, you heard about Charles Pearson? The man that disappeared? Reaching Dreams?”

  “Sure. Big news here in Chicago. Not every day we get a big executive gone missin’.”

  “Well, he’s my boss. I’m his assistant. So I’m here to look for him. The police aren’t doing much, so I’m just kind of doing whatever I can to increase his odds of being found.”

  The man nodded his head with respect and then stared at the ground, a pained look breaking across his face. He seemed stunned into silence as if he were unsure how to respond in such a situation to a complete stranger.

  “Um, sir?”

  “Sam. Call me Sam.”

  “Ah. Sam. Uh, you didn’t happen to see anything strange, did you? A bunch of homeless people disappeared that night. Not just Mr. Pearson. That’s why I think this is somehow an organized crime.”

  “Nah. Sorry. If I had any information, I would have said something right away. But I don’t know anything. I actually don’t think it’s that weird that those guys all disappeared. Your boss, yeah. That’s weird. But not really the others.”

  Hamilton stepped closer to where the man was standing. She leaned against the glass that covered the counter where sandwiches were prepared, now very interested in the conversation.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it happens all the time. You see, I volunteer at a homeless shelter over that way. I come in on weekends with leftovers from here, and I make sandwiches for everyone at the shelter. Me and some other restaurant owners do it. Lot of fun. I love talking to—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. What do you mean it happens all the time? People disappear from the street?”

  “Well, not disappear,” he said, giving her a strange look as if he could not fathom why a high-up of Reaching Dreams would have any interest in a small, local shelter.

  “They don’t really just disappear,” he continued. “They just stop showing up. Large groups of them. We figure that they kind of travel together and that they go between the different shelters. Trying new places. New things or somethin’.”

  “And do they ever come back?”

  “Uh, not really. Not that I can think of.” The oven dinged, and he quickly pulled her sandwich out. He set the steaming sub on the counter and cut it in half while the woman continued to stare at him intently, as if he were showing her how to make the most opulent sandwich in the world.

  “So, every once in a while, a group of people just stop coming to the shelter?”

  “Sure. Same thing at this other shelter I helped out. But I was only there for a bit. I assumed it was normal. Everyone else acts like it’s normal.”

  Hamilton was getting excited. She fought to keep her voice from rising above an acceptable indoor level, ecstatic as the possibility of discovery hung precariously in the air.

  “Do they disappear overnight? From the shelter?”

  “No, no. No one disappears while they’re at the shelter. They just don’t come in anymore. It’s like they try other places and decide that they like another one and so they just keep going there. I’m sure it’s totally normal.”

  “What’s the name of the shelter you volunteer at?”

  “Father Brown’s. It’s on Jackson.”

  “Okay. Thank you. Thank you.”

  Hamilton turned from the counter and started to hurry out of the deli.

  “Wait! My lady! Your sandwich!” Sam called after her.

  “Shit,” she said, running back to the counter and pulling out her wallet. “What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing at all. On me. You go find your boss.”

  “Oh. Thank you. Truly, thank you.”

  She grabbed her sub and then sprinted out of the restaurant and down the street. She had no idea where Jackson was or what that Father Brown’s place was, so she waved down a taxi, hopped in, and told the driver where to go.

  “You know where Father Brown’s is?”

  “Um, I have GPS. I can look it up, you know,” the man said with a hint of sass.

  “Right. Fine. Well, take me there. Please.”

  Hamilton then pulled out her phone and called a friend that operated a homeless shelter in downtown San Diego.

  “Hey, Paula,” a man answered, his deep voice vibrating pleasantly in Hamilton’s ear.

  “Elias! I have a quick question. You ever have people just stop showing up to your shelter?”

  “Uh, sure. Happens all the time. They move on. People pass away. RD gets ahold of them. Things happen.”

  “No. I mean, a lot of people. Like, all at once a group just stops showing up. Is that a thing?”

  “Not really. I’m sure it happens, but I would definitely question it. Most people are pretty loyal. One or two people not showing up is just how it works. But a group of people is kind of odd.”

  “Okay. Thanks!”

  “You
alright? You get anything on Charles?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet. But I’m working on it. Okay, gotta go. Thanks! Bye.”

  She ended the call and then immediately phoned the director of the Chicago district for Reaching Dreams, Salvador Moreau. He was a man that people either admired or strongly disliked. He was a go-getter, a firm negotiator, a person with which no one dared to mess. That was why Charles had appointed him as the head of the Chicago district. He was someone that could bring about change in the area. Chicago had long proven to be a difficult place for Reaching Dreams, not because of the immense homeless population there, but because a large number of shelters would emerge when the weather became inclement, taking in a good portion of those living on the streets when they most needed a roof and a bed. This obstacle made it difficult to convince investors and the government that Reaching Dreams was needed in the area. It also made it difficult to convince the homeless population that kicking poor habits, undergoing rehabilitation, and training for a job was far better than hanging out on the streets with no responsibilities. But somehow, Moreau made it happen. He was able to get the permits they needed, obtain the funding necessary, and open up the first district office in Chicago. He was a brutal businessman. Hamilton didn’t necessarily enjoy working with him, but, damn, he was good.

  The phone rang three times before she heard that familiar, slightly accented voice say, “This is Salvador.”

  “Hey. It’s Paula Hamilton. I’ve got a question.”

  “Sure, Paula. What is it?”

  “Have you ever noticed that a group of Residents goes missing all at once?”

  “From the apartments? Never.”

  “Okay. How about from the streets? Maybe a camp you were tracking and then all of a sudden they’re gone.”