"Was the young lady wrong to ask about the people you write about?"
"No, she wasn't wrong, but it's a question I get a lot. I don't really want to answer it, so I don't."
"Ah," he said. "So you give the quip answer to avoid the question."
"It's nothing personal; I just don't like the question."
He put up his hands in defense of his position.
"I didn't mean to touch off anything."
"It's not your fault. It's just a nosy question I would rather not answer."
"That's fine."
Why did she feel like she needed to explain her distaste for the question of whether or not she used real people in her writing? In fact, why was it a problem at all? She did use people she knew, they were friends of hers so she knew them intimately. Truthfully, one of them was based on her husband, a fact he occasionally harped on.
"So is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Smith?" Despite her chattiness, it was her day to get her writing done while she didn't have office hours or anything else mucking up the works.
"One more thing."
He went back to the creamer bar and returned with a napkin. From his coveralls, he produced a pen. "Would you sign it?"
"A napkin?"
"Yes, I can use it as a bookmark." His smile was infectious. Marie found herself grinning back. Then she signed the napkin with all the appropriate flourish of signing an instrument of mouth cleaning. He looked down at the signature, folded the napkin neatly in quarters, and pressed it into his pocket.
"Thank you so much," Stephen said. "It has been a most wonderful afternoon for having met you, Ms. Coren-Ellis."
With that, he slipped away from the table toward the door. Marie watched him go for a little while, but once he was opening the door; her mind went back to the predicament Timothy was in. Was the skull in that room or was he chasing shadows? Sitting back, Marie brought her cup to her lips and rested it there. The warmth invaded her skin. She took a sip. It was a fine cup of coffee.
She was still lost in contemplation when Naomie showed up five minutes later. Not one word more on the screen. Naomie scooted the flowers closer to the center of the table and opened her laptop.
"Do you want to see what I'm working on?" she asked her companion. The question got Marie to look up. Brown eyes met brown eyes and the two women shared a moment before Naomie asked,
"Where'd the flowers come from?"
"His name was Stephen Smith and he's a groundskeeper at Mossy Oak cemetery."
"What's he doing bringing you flowers?"
"He felt compelled because he was a gentleman coming to meet a lady."
"There's a capital bloke." Naomie clicked a few keys and brought up a picture on her screen. "Here it is."
Marie had to get up to see. It was a picture of almost photographic quality, but that wasn't what disturbed her about it. It showed a room Marie was familiar with. Marie remembered to breathe as she covered her mouth.
"It came to me in a dream."
"A dream?"
"Yeah, a dream. One minute I'm standing in a field of flying flowers, the next I'm standing on a glass floor surrounded by mirrors and the face in the mirror is talking to me. I woke up right after that."
Naomie, who hadn't been looking at her, turned and beheld Marie's expression.
"What's the matter, love?"
"Naomie, remember when you told me that you'd never read my books because you don't like the bogies in them and what they might do to the children?"
"Yeah, I remember."
"Well, you just reproduced from a dream the lair of the Mad Princess."
Now Naomie stared at the art before her.
"How can I have dreamed something I never read?"
Dropping back into her chair, Marie thought over what to tell her best friend. They had been friends for some time. She had known Sylvia when she was alive. But would she believe? There was the question: would Naomie believe her if she told her the truth?
"Naomie?"
"Yes, love."
"If I told you I had a strange dream recently, what would you say?"
"Depends on the dream."
"Well, it's something impossible."
"Alright. How impossible?"
Marie's voice dropped to a whisper. "I saw Sylvia die."
Naomie hadn't leaned in to hear, so she puzzled her way to the meaning of the sentence on her own. When she did, her eyes narrowed.
"How?"
"I don't know how. I just know I saw it. Clear as the picture you made."
"That's impossible."
"It was like I was there, Naomie. I watched the whole thing happen and there was nothing I could do to stop it."
The mild horror on Naomie's face made Marie wish she kept her mouth shut. It wasn't important that anybody know about this, but since she had told Kevin and he brushed her off, she wanted someone to tell her that she wasn't crazy. Unfortunately, it didn't appear Naomie was going to be the one to do that. The two women sat in silence for a long moment. Lisa called Naomie's name from the counter.
"Do you want your usual?"
Distractedly, Naomie answered, "Yes". Then she got up to go see about her tea. When she came back, she pinned Marie down with a stare.
"How long ago was this?"
"A few days."
"And have you had any other weird dreams since then?"
"No. I've slept pretty quietly."
"What about anyone else? Do you know anyone else having strange dreams?"
"No. Everyone's fine as far as I know."
"So it's just you and me. Then I think we'd better keep this between ourselves for right now."
"Kevin knows, I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't believe me."
"Then that's fine."
Naomie was thinking something and Marie couldn't quite follow. She waited for her friend to bring her up to speed for about ten seconds before asking,
"What are you thinking?"
"There might be something to this. I just don't know what yet. Dreams are funny things."
"What do you mean?"
"You dreamed something you couldn't have seen. I dreamed something I've never seen or read. We're friends. Maybe something is trying to make contact with us."
It was Marie's turn to think Naomie was insane, but it made too much sense to completely discount it. What if someone was trying to make contact with them through their dreams?
"Naomie, that could mean something awful."
"Yes, it could and we won't know for certain until something else happens."
CHAPTER TWELVE
"You want another one, we've got a six pack to finish," Ray said from the kitchen. Kevin had put his feet up on the coffee table and wasn't in any mood to move to get another beer. The show was about to come on anyway.
The intro music for "Do You Believe in Magic," played and the first of the contestants popped up on the screen.
"Come on, Ray. First one's up."
"I don't really care about any of this, you know." Ray sauntered in from the kitchen with two dripping bottles in his hands. "This is your shtick."
"I know, but it's nice of you to let me use your humongous television to watch it on." Kevin accepted one of the bottles with a smirk.
"Only because there's nothing else good on in this time slot. Otherwise, we'd be watching Bass Masters."
"You are the most redneck Mexican I've ever seen."
"Just because I drive a giant truck and enjoy outdoor sports doesn't make me a redneck and I'm not Mexican."
Kevin just smiled and took a sip of his beer. This conversation was ancient. From back in the days when Ray had been a bartender and Kevin was just starting as a stage act. Those were the good old days back before Marie and Naomie and Sylvia, when it had been just the two of them catching Waffle House at ridiculous hours in the morning after closing down the Trubeau.
"What do you think about this whole thing with Sylvia?" Ray asked. He wasn't watching the television, but rather
surfing the net on his phone.
"I know I'm out an assistant. She was at least good at that."
"I don't even want to know what you're alluding to."
"Thanks fine cause I didn't really want to talk about it with you anyway."
Kevin went back to watching the show and mentally critiquing the performances before him. He had never been asked if he wanted to be on it, but that didn't stop him from thinking he was better than half the acts they put on.
"Do you even miss her?"
"Who?" Kevin was only half listening and had pretty much put the previous conversation out of his mind. It wasn't hard to do when he didn't want to think about something he could forget easily.
"Sylvia." Ray's voice had a touch of edge to it.
"Yes." Kevin looked at him with his mouth agape. Of course, he missed her. She had been his assistant for years. Even after she was fired, he'd done what he could for her by talking up her performances to others who might hire her. No matter what, he hadn't given up on her. Even now that he knew she had been pretty obsessed with him from the footage of her apartment, he still thought well of her. Except it was hard for him to be sure how to show that without showing too much. His public persona couldn't handle the damage. He didn't want Marie thinking he was pining for another woman. "Sometimes I can't believe she's gone."
Whatever Ray thought of that, he kept to himself. They watched the flickers on the television set in silence. The commercial break sent Kevin looking for another beer even as the urge for something stronger surfaced. One question haunted him: was it his fault? Sure he'd fired her, which started her into a downward spiral, but he couldn't be blamed for someone deciding to murder her in cold blood. Or could he? Guilt surfaced like a shark and he was a drowning swimmer.
He hadn't done enough.
The popped top on the beer skittered across the floor and Kevin left it there. Naomie would probably be the one to find it. He stalked back into the living room and dropped into his chair.
"It's been a rough couple weeks for me," Kevin finally said. "First Sylvia is killed and then someone steals my escape cabinet. My act is taking hits from all sides."
"Is that seriously how you're going to look at it? Like it's all about you?"
Kevin didn't cower, but Ray's words stung.
"We all lost a friend and you don't use that cabinet that often anymore anyway. Half your show is working the crowd with up close tricks. You can be one conceited prick."
"Thanks for that."
"No charge."
On TV the judges were looking incredibly bored at a contestant who was sawing a woman in half. It was a classic trick, but they weren't interested in classic tricks, they wanted to see more inventiveness. Kevin watched to see if the player was going to execute without giving his secret away.
"Ray."
"Yeah."
"Sylvia was more my friend than yours."
"From the way you're acting, it sure doesn't seem like it. Did you even go to her funeral?"
Sylvia Bridge had been laid to rest in Mossy Oak cemetery. Kevin knew because he had gone. Didn't sign anything or identify himself, but went just the same. Sylvia would have appreciated his presence even if he didn't make a three ring circus out of it.
"Yes."
There was an edge of something there. The guilt shark chomped down on him. Inside, Kevin screamed. Yet he held his chin up and stared at the television screen. The prick of tears at the edge of his eyes was something he could ignore. If he ignored it long enough, it would go away.
"Kevin."
The magician looked away.
"What did Marie say?"
"About Sylvia?"
"Yeah."
"Nothing. She hasn't said a word about it and I haven't tried to bring it up. It's a fight that is just waiting for a good place to happen."
"Why a fight?"
"Because I miss Sylvia. She wouldn't have been alone when she died, if I hadn't made a stupid mistake."
"You couldn't have saved her."
"We don't know that. They're not even one hundred percent sure how she got the way she was." The pricking increased and his vision blurred. One heavy tear streaked down his cheek. "Someone could have helped her."
"You don't know that."
"But I feel that."
There they stopped and Kevin was glad for it. He needed to compose himself. He couldn't break down. He needed to hold it together. For Marie's sake. Even though she wasn't there, it was impossible for him to do anything that might get back to her. He scratched his nails along the arms of the chair and listened to the zipping sound it made. Ray was sipping his beer and watching him out of the corner of his eyes, Kevin was sure of it. Waiting for him to slip. He would tell Naomie and Naomie would tell Marie and the next thing he knew they would be fighting again. All he wanted was for the fighting to stop.
Another thick tear skirted the edge of his jaw. He was losing it. He grabbed his composure with both hands and called up the face of his wife. They would be happy together again, if he would just hold it together.
"I think I need to go."
"Running so soon?"
"It's been good. I just need to clear my head."
"Or rather to have another drink."
"Maybe that too."
"I've got some vodka in the freezer. We could drink that and you can stay here tonight."
"I really shouldn't be crashing on your couch when I have a home and a wife."
"Yeah and I've got a couch you can crash on after you've given yourself a terrific hangover."
"Thanks, Ray, but I'm going to go straight home to my wife."
"Okay."
That 'okay' was the last thing they said to one another. Kevin didn't dash out the door like a frightened rabbit, but he did make some haste. Marie would be home. They could have a drink together. Maybe more than one.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The boom of thunder broke Ray's sleep and he knew without moving he was not lying in his bed. Beneath him was hard ground. He'd lain on it a time or two, usually while either drunk or knocked to a stupor which he was neither at the moment. Among his last memories were him putting aside a book he'd been reading and Naomie climbing into bed. The lingering warmth of her body was being stolen by a chill wind blowing in from the east. He sat up. His hand investigated his chest to find he was in one of his cotton work shirts. His eyes went to his legs clad in jeans, but he had no shoes.
The wind, blowing fitful, snatched at his hair dragging it in a parade off his shoulders. Ray got up and combed it back from his face. Before him stood a gate with a wrought iron sign. It towered above him and wrote 'Rosewood Cemetery' in the air. As if to underscore the point of his reading, lightning flashed and thunder rolled.
"Rosewood," Ray said. He knew that name. The recollection settled at the edge of his thoughts without making itself known. One handed he pushed on the gate and it squealed inward. He took a few experimental steps inward and looked around. Several headstones sat uneven in the ground. Beyond them, there were a few mausoleums. The buildings looked as if they were forgotten, moss and ivy growing up the sides. From his vantage point, he could even tell some of the doors were set uneven. Was it old age or just shoddy workmanship? Above him, a net of lightning spread and thunder trumpeted through the air.
"Red lightning. Heavy thunder." Before him, silhouetted by the light was a tree. Seeing it, his mouth gaped. "The Rosewood." Then he was running. The ground disappeared beneath him. His motion came to a sudden stop when he skidded on something soft beneath his feet. Then came the pain.
"Ow." Looking down, he picked up his foot. A stubborn thorn clung to the bottom of his foot holding up a petite rose. Ray plucked it out and tossed it away. It wasn't the only flower littering around the tree. There were dozens and they lay turning brown and gray from their vibrant red on the stony ground. He looked up. More clung to their places in the high branches, but it was clear the bush was sick. As his eyes tracked down from the high limbs to the t
runk, he could see why it was suffering. Several deep scars tracked down one side, severing the rose bush and the oak tree. Picking his footsteps, Ray drew closer. When he put his hand out to touch the scar, he could feel heat radiating from it. He snatched his hand back as the fever of the tree grew hotter.
It was dying. It had a fever because it was trying to heal. He turned on the balls of his feet when another flash of lightning illuminated a thin figure close at hand and shone off a slender blade. As he watched, the blade moved. It came at him in a long arc. Yet he wasn't the target. Instead it bit into the skin of the tree, splitting its flesh again.
Ray covered his ears as the tree cried out.
With a start, he sat up. Naomie rolled over and put her hand on his chest. His heart was hammering.
"You alright?"
"Yes." The word came out in a gasp. Blinking did nothing for the ringing in his ears. Naomie laid back down offering him a beautiful view of her form clad in a pair of silk pajamas. With one hand, he investigated her belly button.
"Bad dream?"
"Yeah. Shadows and trees and lightning." He wiped his eyes with his free hand. "And roses."
"Any flowers for me?" she asked.
"They weren't good roses, but if you want, I'll buy you a bouquet and have it sent to work." Leaning over, he kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth. "I'll buy you flowers until you're sick of them."
"That might take a while." Her lips curled into a smile and she kissed the tip of his nose.
"Then I guess I'll just have to keep buying." He kissed her mouth again. "You make me want to buy you flowers, Naomie."
"And I'll be more than happy to receive, Ray."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kevin came to standing in the back of a theater. Before him were rows of seats leading to the stage. Everything was done in red with gilt; it was gaudy in his eyes, but familiar. He turned in a circle. To his left were large double doors. They stood taller than a man and without approaching them he knew they would be stuck tight. As he looked around, he could see a mural on the wall. It looked so real that he walked up to it and ran his fingers across it. It was a painting of marching children. They were all going somewhere, but he couldn't see where. As he inspected it, he noted the many faces. Some were asleep. Others stared out at him with wide eyes and almost comic expressions of terror. Kevin moved until he was eye to eye with one of the terrified boys. Bending his ear to it, he thought he heard it breath. Then it spoke.
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