Desert Son Trilogy: Desert Son, Wayward Soul, Spiritual Intervention (Books 1-3)

by Glenn Maynard

  He kept peeking at her, battling the headaches until he looked away. He felt like he needed to get away from the mountains. He was cornered. Although he wanted so badly to follow signs and reconnect with Brenda, maybe her guy’s presence was a sign for him to stay away. As attracted as he was to her, he needed to be smart about it, so he reluctantly retreated. He just couldn’t get himself to leave, though, and actually found a better spot for viewing.

  Carter could not help but glare at the sight before his eyes. He saw Brenda sitting on a blanket on the green with this guy. They appeared to be in the middle of a heated argument. The guy seemed to be pushing her onto her side, and it did not appear to be an amicable push.

  Carter made sure that he kept his presence blocked by the crowd. He wanted so badly to intervene, but he hardly even knew Brenda, and didn’t want to appear foolish. What if they were just playing around or the situation was less serious than Carter imagined? He certainly did not want Brenda to see him. She may think he’s been stalking her since the gas station.

  He watched Brenda take something out of her purse and rush it to her mouth. Carter, at first, thought it was a pipe, but it couldn’t have been more out of context. The guy again pushed her hard to the blanket, and Brenda began kicking her feet in the air seemingly to keep her attacker at bay. Carter made his way through the crowd for closer viewing. He could now see that Brenda was suffering from an asthma attack, seeking relief with her inhaler. He was too far away from them to determine if they were fighting, so he moved a bit closer.

  Carter felt some of the pain she felt. It was almost as if he was getting attacked himself. He kept moving closer, but he could not get himself to jump into the situation and perhaps get his ass kicked in front of the girl he was enamored with. That thought was almost as painful as witnessing this scene. He could also embarrass himself if it was merely a little spat or no spat at all. That would be the worst case scenario, he believed.

  The guy finally eased up on Brenda as she fought to regain her breath, and Carter thought this to be a good time to remove himself from her presence. He turned his back and made his way away from the mall, not even looking back for fear that she would connect eyes with him upon his retreat. He had his regrets. He just wanted to say hello to her. He felt confident that this guy was the “friend” Brenda had spoken of one day prior.

  For some reason unbeknownst to Carter, this shattered his heart. As much as he believed he hadn’t a chance with Brenda, and he’d never see her again in all likelihood, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t hanging around in the city of Boulder for her sake. She made a huge impression on Carter in such short time, so he just wanted to experience what she experienced. He tried to convince himself that that was the only reason for him staying in Boulder. He could go back to Boston at least having walked where she walked. Additional thoughts crept through his mind about Brenda, such as why she was attempting to walk home from another state. Something didn’t add up, but he just cast it away as not having all of the details.

  As Carter returned to his car, he had pretty much given up. Did he really love the city of Boulder or did he love the idea of Brenda loving the city of Boulder? Sure it was a breathtaking experience at first sight, but maybe it was just the girl.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Pulling out of downtown on this late afternoon, Carter could think of only one thing: Brenda. That face of hers remained etched in his mind, and he thought that could be the reason he wasn’t exactly speeding out of Boulder. This could very likely be the first time Carter was not a candidate for a speeding ticket. He was heavy-footed by nature.

  As Carter impulsively turned right onto 28th Avenue, he convinced himself that Brenda was history, but his mind fought, struggling over the reality of it. He never remembered feeling that way about any girl, and he hardly even knew her. But as 28th Avenue turned onto Arapahoe, Carter realized that Boulder was pretty much behind him. He sank further into his seat, motoring along through the city and beyond, and actually feeling sadness.

  His thoughts still captured the amazing city, holding it hostage while mellow tunes buzzed softly from his radio. He tried to be at peace with himself, but still wondered where the road would lead him. He was so far from Boston at this point, and although he should have been consumed by a lost feeling, he was not. There was something about this place beyond the girl that enraptured him.

  Carter had been so consumed in thought as he left town via back roads that he totally spaced out on a very important consideration about auto travel, and that’s when his engine sputtered and quit. He rolled to a slow stop, fighting the wheel, which had stiffened.

  “Damn it!” he screamed, smacking his right palm on the steering wheel, then having yet another problem with a sore right palm. He opened his door after seeing no cars around, and pushed his car to the right side of the road. Once the strenuous and slow push brought the car out of the lane enough to eliminate immediate danger, he slammed the door shut and took a look around, while trying to recapture his breath. Ahead on the right side of the road he noticed an old white house. There was a small shed to the right, back a few feet, and trees scattered all around.

  He could see an old man on the porch rocking in a chair, having witnessed Carter’s stupidity. Carter slowly walked towards the house, seemingly the only house around, and thought that maybe he could ask the old man if he could use the phone to call for assistance. Maybe the old man had a container of gas. He needed just a gallon or so to enable him to get to a gas station.

  As Carter approached the house, he stopped on a dime as flashes of swerving, the crash scene, and the rest of the accident blinded his vision. He tried to pull himself out of it before the man began to wonder, but he was unsure as to how much time had elapsed. He hated when this happened, and it happened at the oddest of times. He felt his face growing red from embarrassment.

  Carter again saw the shot of the mountains and quickly averted his eyes, but the headaches continued like clockwork, even with his precautionary measures. Carter was fairly certain that the range that triggered his headaches was the same range he had in his visions, but from a different perspective.

  This time Carter had to battle through this ailment and carry on a conversation without letting on that something really freaky was happening to him. He had to speak to the old man and turn away, but not towards the mountains. He could not show his twitching face or he may not get the assistance he needed. After all, Carter would shy away from helping someone who was freaking him out.

  “You’re broke down, I see,” hollered the old man from his rocker, oblivious to Carter’s issues.

  Carter kept walking closer so he wouldn’t have to yell. “I ran out of gas,” he explained. “I was wondering if I could buy some gas from you if you had a gas can lying around.”

  Right as Carter said this he got another flash of the accident, followed by the rest of the events that had transpired. He stepped back and held his forehead in his hands. Two flashes in a row. That had not yet happened. Usually the flashes came once a day, at the most, but Carter just ignored and dismissed them. He hoped that a pattern wasn’t developing. Once he snapped out of his fog, he felt he had some explaining to do.

  “Oh this car is giving me a headache,” he said loudly for the man to hear.

  The old man did not respond, but just looked at Carter from 10 feet away. Carter then felt the old man’s eyes nearly burning through him. This was an awkward feeling for Carter. He actually felt eyes on him. The sensation was unusual, extraordinary, as if he could detect the flight path of the old man’s line of vision. Carter was convinced that the man caught him spacing out, and needed to say something to fill in the uncomfortable silence.

  “Beautiful area,” he said, turning and looking at the surroundings responsible for his comment. His view sto
pped at a mountain beyond the left side of the house. As Carter focused on this mountain, intensely checking out the details of this peak, he again was overcome by dizziness, and again, from beginning to end, he had to relive the scene of the accident.

  “Beautiful area,” he repeated, trying to make like everything was okay with his world. He knew that was not the case. He knew that there was more to this, and there was a reason for his headaches time and time again in a five minute span, and he decided that he was going to follow through with this.

  “Sorry, kid,” said the old man. “I don’t have no gas around. No need.”

  Carter kept glancing at the old house, then at the mountains beyond. His head swiveled back and forth until he wondered if the old man was getting freaked out by him.

  The old man leaned forward in his chair. “You’re from ‘round here, ain’t ya kid?” he said.

  Carter snapped to life. “No, actually no I’m not. Sort of feels like it though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh nothing, really,” Carter responded, not wanting to open up a can of worms, or create any suspicions.

  “You wanna call someone?” asked the old man.

  “Ah, yeah, if I could,” Carter replied spontaneously, curious as to what the inside of the house looked like, and feeling that there could be signs that could help him.

  The old man got up in his chair very slowly, grabbed his cane, and made his way to the front door. Carter followed, but not before he gave the porch another look. He saw the rocking chair, the windows, and even the chips in the paint. If ever there was a case for déjà vu, Carter would use this moment to explain the phenomenon. As he felt the headache and dizziness return, he took his mind off the subjects and followed the old man through the door and into the house.

  Once Carter stepped into the house, the headache he tried to beat got the best of him and his knees buckled. It was excruciating and debilitating. He grabbed onto the wicker chair to his immediate left, and tried to regain his composure. His old friend continued to ramble on as Carter attempted to stand up straight. Only with great pain was he able to do so, but the old man never even looked, all the while having his back to Carter.

  “I’m Martin,” said the old man whose impaired senses were very much convenient as far as Carter was concerned.

  “Carter,” he said, managing to straighten up in a split second before Martin turned to him. He didn’t want Martin to know that something was amiss.

  Carter followed his tour guide through the different rooms. The messy living room led to the cluttered dining room, the claustrophobic study, and then into the disheveled kitchen. Carter just could not compose himself. The headache and dizziness persisted, and he went from room to room feeling as though he’d been in this house before, but he knew he had not. He’d never even been west of Pennsylvania.

  Carter did his best to conceal his pain as he listened to Martin ramble on about Boulder and the age of the house, and how he’d seen so much growth in Boulder since he was a young lad. He was as enthusiastic about Boulder as Brenda had been. But Carter could barely hear the old man. It was all he could do to remain on his feet. The house did seem familiar to Carter, but he wrote it off as probably having been in a similar style and layout in houses in Boston. After all, there were many variations of houses, but once in a while, there would have to be a duplicate.

  Carter tried hard to believe his theory, but the uncertainty scared him somewhat. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the headaches and dizziness spells. They seemed to happen whenever he saw the mountains, but also whenever something felt familiar to him. He would get very dizzy, suddenly, and feel like he could tumble to the floor. When they happened, they felt like seizures to Carter. It’s a good thing they never occurred while he was driving, he thought. They were mind games. This dizziness was like when you get up too fast and you’re frozen in a kind of blackout. You remain still until the picture before you comes into focus.

  The accompanying headaches were uncanny. He knew that the spells he felt would be viewed as an obvious handicap in the eyes of his witness. Perhaps he was starting to have migraines. He would do all he could to cover up his condition whenever he felt its onset. He knew that he wouldn’t always go unnoticed, but Carter was thankful that he might have pulled it off up to this point.

  Carter found himself captivated by this old white house and this old white man. He was never much driven by impulse, but then again he had never been assaulted by such attachment in his life. He was sure that Brenda had nothing to do with his needing to discover this old white house on the outskirts of Boulder. There had to be additional reasons, he thought. He felt that he had to keep plugging away.

  He viewed this as a case of having the freedom to do whatever his heart desired and for however long it took. Incorporated in this plan was to investigate any signs that could recreate his true past. Perhaps he was grasping at straws, but he’d have no straws to grasp should he ignore any or all signs.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Carter seemed convinced that there was something about this place in Boulder beyond just a phone that he could use to call for gas. He was not a member of an automobile club or anything of the sort, so his mission at this moment in time was to buy time. Besides, he was fascinated by this house and by this man. Every aspect of this entire experience fascinated him.

  Martin plunked down a phone book onto the counter in front of Carter, and the Yellow Pages opened up.

  “This is a wonderful place you have here,” said Carter. “How long have you lived here? Are you the original owner?”

  “Oh thank you, kid,” replied Martin. “My father helped me build this house in the 1950’s after my marriage.”

  Carter’s eyes began to wander, and he hadn’t the slightest interest in the yellow pages before him. He scanned a portrait of a woman on the wall in another room. The faded black and white revealed a distant time to Carter, who could only assume that the portrait was that of his wife, sister or mother, or maybe just the product of an artist for aesthetic purposes. If nothing else, this older lady got his attention, and real fast. He found that he could not take his eyes away. She was very plain looking, but there was something about the picture that Carter found fascinating.

  “This is a great city, I think,” said Carter.

  “I like it,” said Martin, looking up at Carter. “I been in Boulder my whole life, kid. I’ll never leave…never leave this house. Too many memories…some good. But you know what, kid? You have to take the bad with the good. You’re young, but maybe old enough to understand what I mean. This house holds something dear to me, kid, and it’s something no price tag could ever sway. Just me and the misses here for the longest. She always wanted kids. I liked it just the way it was. We never did see eye to eye on that one. Never did. Never would.”

  Carter watched as Martin fidgeted with his hands. He intertwined his fingers like he was washing his hands with soap. It was a nervous habit that Carter had seen a couple of times already, but a pattern was developing.

  Carter could see Martin’s ashen complexion turn even paler. Martin’s eyes connected with his, rendering Carter speechless. He didn’t know how to react to comments about expanding families, and was uncomfortable commenting one way or another. He decided to say nothing, but smiled silently.

  “Always hated the babies,” Martin continued with a chuckle. “No siree,” he said, slamming his point home.

  Carter tried to figure out if that was his cue to ask about the woman, and just as the words began to leave his lips…

  “You must be hungry, kid,” said Martin. “I was just going to reheat some leftover chicken. Got potatoes and corn to add to it. Was good all week long. You hungry?”

  “Thank you,”
said Carter. “That would be very nice.”

  Carter wasn’t so much hungry for food than he was for answers, and just bought himself another hour at least. He wondered how long he could prolong that phone call, and hadn’t the slightest clue as to who to call anyway.

  “Then get yourself washed up,” said Martin. “Won’t take but a minute till it’s ready. Let me show you to the washroom.”

  Martin walked out of the kitchen and through the house to the washroom, which was down a small hallway off from the living room. He followed Martin’s slow leadership. This gave Carter enough time to check the place out, which included the chipped paint on the inside. It was apparent to him that Martin was too old to maintain the place, and wasn’t too interested in paying to have somebody do the work.

  As they made their way through the living room, Carter again gazed at the portrait. This thing just pulled him in. He felt himself losing his focus, and pulled his eyes away from the art, reducing the pressure in his head. These days he noticed that his mind was either over-interested or not interested in the least with things around him, and there was no middle ground.

  He prepared to make a comment about the portrait, though. He just wanted a one-line answer as to its origin. He needed to know. He did wonder if the inquiry would be too rude, too intrusive, or just too soon, but he stopped Martin with the first question he could think of in order to stop him at the appropriate spot.

  “How long ago did you paint the walls?” he asked, then he squeezed his eyes closed tight when he thought of how rude that sounded, and he hoped that it would not be taken as such.