Dead Lines

by John Skipp; Craig Spector

  Growing stronger.

  They moved on the big bed, high up in her loft, facing the mirror that leaned against the wall, watching as two became one to the nth degree. And his touch was her touch: her hands guided him to her most secret places, showed him the subtle codes that unlocked the fortress around her heart. And he, in turn, brought light to the chambers long hidden, blew the dust away and rescued the treasure long buried there.

  Jack opened the box…

  And her memories flew, mercurial bursts of thought given fleeting shadow form. She saw herself as the first-and last-born survivor of a difficult pregnancy, marred by the second-trimester miscarriage that revealed that there had in fact been fraternal twins and only one had been lost; she saw herself as the little girl, perfect only child of the perfect couple: deeply prized and adorably precocious, if somewhat overprotected. She saw herself as the prepubescent, at the tearing point of innocence: just old enough to have a grip on her will, just young enough to still believe that mommy and daddy were something like gods.

  Then she saw herself in her early teens, when the first real clues to her parents’ fallibility grew appallingly clear. She saw herself in the early stages of quashed adolescent rebellion, when the fact that they’d never really under stood her at all made their authoritarian regime an object of rage and scorn. She saw herself fighting to become who she was; she saw herself crimped by the world they embodied; she saw herself as the round peg being hammered into the square holes in their logic, in their worldview, in the plans they had for the life she owned.

  She saw her father: distant, imposing, successful son of successful son, always driven, always pressing her to be an achiever, be a winner, be like the son he would never have…

  She saw her mother: unfulfilled in her position as domestic ornament, growing older as her child grew farther away, coming unraveled one drink and one Darvon at a time, forever reminding her daughter of the sacrifices made on her behalf, of the child victoriously snatched from death’s door only to disappoint them so later in life…

  And she saw herself: playing the game until she could buy her escape: graduating high school with honors, attending the ivy league school of their choice, making the grades to appease and then, boldly, refusing to come home on the weekends. She saw herself: arguing on the dorm phone as they guilt-tripped her half to death, wishing only the chance to be allowed to meet the world on her own terms, to be finally and forever out of their smothering clutches…

  She saw herself, the day the dorm phone summoned her, like some demented fairy godmother, to grant exactly one-half her wish: the voice on the other end informing her that her mother had died…

  And the tears came then, blurring the memories of what proceeded, of the wake and the funeral, the reading of the will and the downward spiral that followed, ending in that tomb in a tiny dusty town in Mexico, in a wash of emotion that came as first a trickle, then a torrent, then a flood of feelings too long denied: guilt and anger, remorse and regret, and the cursed realization of things said that could never be taken back, the sensation of feeling the cord irrevocably cut, now and forever, amen.

  She finally found the tears to cry for these things, and cry she did: deep heart-wracking sobs that shook her body and soul. She cried, and she was not alone. Her arms were his arms and together they encircled her, rocking her gently back and forth, back and forth. In her mind’s eye she saw her lover, holding her so sweetly and whispering in low, soothing tones; the Keeper, keeping her safe from her own darkest secrets. And Meryl allowed herself, at ‘ long last, to surrender to the great hot waves of joy and sorrow and love once lost, then found.

  And her walls came tumbling down…

  Sleep claimed them eventually, and the need for rest. The energy expenditure of being so intensely intertwined proved exhausting; Meryl found herself falling into a deep, dreamless slumber, dark and inviting as a return to the womb. She gave in to the need, and her last conscious thoughts were of drifting away into a peaceful black sea.

  Leaving Jack behind.

  To contemplate his new home.

  16

  THE PULL

  skin

  touching skin

  feeling hone underneath feeling

  muscles

  contracting and releasing

  contracting and releasing

  feeling cool sheets on warm skin

  feeling soft small breasts heave

  up and down

  in sleep

  fingertips tap

  in time with her heart

  beating deep

  in the darkness

  pumping hot black

  blood through veins

  fine as lace

  spun beneath the surface

  of the sleeping girl’s

  skin

  touching skin

  feeling the life inside feeling

  alive again feeling

  alive

  It was a long crawl back from hell, and he really wished he could feel as good about being there as she did. But laying in the bed, alone in Meryl’s supine form, he couldn’t escape the painful truth of the matter. He could not stay here like this forever.

  And Jack had no intention of going back.

  Which doesn’t leave me much in the way of choices, he thought. God, I really fucked up this time. Nestled snug inside her willing flesh it should have been easy, dammit— easy!—to feel contented, relieved even, with the prospect of just staying there, sharing the rest of her life together, living and loving and maybe righting every wrong he’d left undone.

  Maybe even writing again. Yeah, that would be something, wouldn’t it? Writing again: stories, books, whole libraries filled with a whole new perspective, a bold new angle that blew trance-channeling clear off the metaphysical map, a direct link to life after death, could you imagine the talk show circuit? Jesus. Oprah would shit.

  It was a great plan, alright.

  Except.

  Except for the feeling at his back. Except for the Pull. He didn’t know what it was, and he was afraid to find out. All he knew was that it wanted him, that resisting it was like trying to move upstream through white-water rapids, was like being sucked through an airplane window at thirty thousand feet. All he had to do was look behind him…

  .. . and there it was, the long black spinning vortex with the terrifying light at the end, threatening to tear him from his fragile moorings inside this sleeping girl, to suck him spinning back into… what?

  Into itself, whatever that was.

  Into nothingness, and whatever lay beyond it…

  .. . and he cursed himself for being so stupid, for betting his miserable fucking life that death was end of the line. Because now he was stuck, with one foot in either world and a howling abyss behind him, and only this girl’s devotion to hold him here and that wasn’t enough, dammit, that just wasn’t enough. He needed more.

  He needed form. He had none of his own.

  So hers would have to do.

  He started with her hands. Easy enough; she’d already relinquished enough control that dexterity was not a problem. Her hands found each other in the darkness, blind fingertips running over each other like old men reading braille. So far, so good. But he wondered just how far he could go, without her express permission.

  Only one way to be sure.

  It took him a few studious moments there in the darkness, tracing his way along the ganglia until he felt comfortable enough that he could try an experiment. He flattened both her palms against the surface of the bed, tensed her arms, and pushed…

  . .. and her torso lifted up off the bed, head tilting forward and then snapping back from lack of support.

  Whoa, shit! He let her body drop back to the bed with a muted thwump. Damn, he cursed himself. Forget all about her head.

  He lay still for several excruciating moments, listening to see if she would awaken. But his luck held: the distant murmur of her dreams remained a constant thing, unfazed by the disruption. Sur
reptitiously, he felt his way along the interlacing nerve fabric where arms and shoulder, neck and head converged. Tracing the threads. Pulling together.

  Pulling as one.

  Now, he whispered.

  Her body rose.

  The bad news was that there were a lot of things to account for along the lines of basic motor control, things that he’d taken for granted since he was maybe three years old, that now required a major refresher course to keep from ramming her into the stereo system or pitching her through the glass-topped coffee table and hurting her, and himself in the bargain.

  The good news was that he got better with practice.

  A lot better.

  Within the hour, he could stand. Her legs felt fawnlike, wobbly, for the first several minutes. But that, too, wore off fairly quickly, receding with the prickling itch of sleeping limbs coming awake. And soon, very soon, he felt good enough to take his first hesitant steps. Good enough to leave the room.

  Meryl emerged naked into the living room, her skin glowing a soft blue-white in the cool night air. Jack felt a thrillrush of pure adrenaline at the relatively simple act of standing and walking in her tight young form. It was the ultimate arcade ride and Halloween costume, all rolled into one. It was an amazing act of manipulation.

  Jack was into it.

  And he had to admit that, sweet as she was, he almost preferred her asleep. It was the difference between having a chauffeur slash tour guide and being in the driver’s seat. Ultimately, he preferred to be the one at the wheel. The one in control.

  And control he did: while Meryl’s soul was far away, Meryl’s body was moving more and more, exuding a surprising amount of near-feline grace. Jack was pleased as could be; he sure didn’t recall his old body having such a high degree of alacrity and lightness to it. He bade it move across the expanse of the room, and it responded to his overtures, revealing a tremendous reserve of pent-up energy. Shoulda been a dancer, he mused, feeling the eagerness of the musculature. But who knows? Maybe we’ll take a class.

  The world, he realized, was full of possibilities.

  New sensations bombarded him; there was a slightly askew feeling to her internal organs, the way they sat in her bones. Different from a man’s body in so many ways. It was sort of like walking around in someone else’s pair of well-worn shoes; everything seemed a little off, somehow. But he figured he would adjust, in time. After all, he chuckled to himself, what choice do I have?

  Uh-oh. Jack stopped to do another internal inventory. South of the navel, it would appear that somebody needed to take a pretty fearsome leak. Well, this ought to be interesting.

  He started toward the bathroom, taking in the sights and sounds along the way. All of his senses seemed overamplified, as though he was sensing things just a little beyond the normal boundaries of the spectrum. The shadows seemed darker, the lights brighter. He could hear things: vast rumblings like the sound of the earth turning, the high trilling cycles of synapses connecting in her brain. Even tactile things: her breasts felt the tiniest bit heavy and tender to the touch, and her skin seemed infused with a kind of prefeverish tingle all over. PMS, maybe? What a rush. He giggled to himself; her lips responded in kind.

  Have to get used to tampons, he guessed. And women’s intuition. Oh well.

  Comes with the territory.

  He couldn’t clearly say whether it was novelty or vanity that stopped him as they passed the door. He was fresh back from a victorious episode of adventures in modern hygiene, sure in his assessment that yes, they would soon be flowing heavy. He was guiding her past the doorway, when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.

  And stopped.

  She was staring back at him, but that wasn’t what caught his eye. It was by the sense of recognition: of the mirror itself, the beaten-up cheval with the scarves draped across it, and the funky junk jewelry, and the plants behind it and the clothes around it and the scent, god yPSs, the scent of the room itself: the lingering air of tea rose and patchouli, of sachets and cinnamon and Nat Sherman cigarettes, all blended together by a bond of sweet musky sweat at once distinct and disquieting. It was a sensation beyond simple deja vu, for it didn’t end in an elongated second or two. It hung around, taunting him.

  Because Jack had the undeniable feeling of having seen this room before. Yes, Jack knew this room very very well. Jack had seen this room in another place, in another time, in a whole ‘nother life.

  Omigod, Jack whispered as Meryl’s hand reached out toward the mirror, delicately unhooking the strap of the silk undershirt that hung from the side. It was a fine washable, and clearly between wearings. Jack watched spellbound as Meryl’s hand brought it up til it was right beneath her nostrils.

  Omigod.

  And the scent that filled his memory then was the same as the word that fell from her lips.

  “Katie…”

  Jack felt a wave of vertigo, twin fists of tension curling tight into the small of Meryl’s back. “What the fuck is she doing here?”

  He felt the pounding at the back of her skull that was the Pull, trying to snatch him back, send him hurtling back into the hell that he’d made. He held on, feeling the nausea rise, fighting back the memory of the fall, and the rope, and the snap…

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  And the long crawl back…

  “Why?” he asked the reflection in the mirror. Sweat was beading across her brow. “Why did you have to hide it?”

  The stranger in the mirror gave away no secrets. Jack stared at the reflection, shaking with agitation and rage, wanting to punch it, to smash it into bits, to grind glass into smooth knuckle skin. He watched as her tiny hand curled into a tiny fist, considering the option.

  And instead watched as her fingers dug nails into the bare flesh of her palm and squeezed, leaving five angry crescents to turn red in the moonlight. He felt her stir inside and cry out, caught in the throes of an all-too-real nightmare. Jack backed off, letting her slip back beneath the waves, trying to smooth the turbulence of his outburst. The pain had done its job, acting as a grounding force, a small reminder of where he was and how he got there… and what he might wish to do about it.

  He calmed her, and himself in the bargain, and noticed that the force at his back slackened as her body settled into a less agitated state. It was weird, and he didn’t understand it, but the implication of causality was crystal clear.

  “Shh-shhhhhhh, everything’s okay,” he purred. Yes. Much better. Self-fulfilling prophecy, i am that i am, doo-dah, doo-dah. “Everything’s fine.”

  He spoke to the reflection facing him, and for the first time realized that her lips had begun to move as he spoke. More causality in motion.

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” Jack said. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

  He walked her out to the living room and plopped down on the sofa. He began to massage the angry red marks, rubbing them into submission. Staring up at the ceiling he could just make out the leftover, painted-over stub of rope. Right where he’d left it.

  He stared at the stub for a long time, until long after the throbbing at the back of her skull had receded, and he contemplated the nature of deceit, and control, and the long long night ahead. Yeah, sure, he thought, you don’t have to tell me anything at all.

  There were, after all, other ways to find out.

  17

  A SLIVER OF DOUBT

  In the dream, they were picking her brain apart, one layer at a time. Like onion skins, peeled back to reveal the juicier layer just beneath, peeled back again.

  In the dream, she could feel her mind invaded.

  She couldn’t scream, of course. That had been seen to. She remembered the electric shocks, the twitching galvanic responses. She knew that they could make her body do whatever they wanted.

  Now they wanted it to stay, and it did; they wanted it to be silent, and it was; they wanted to rifle through its memory banks, peruse the gray matter for fingerprints, and they
did.

  She looked at the table before her. They had the top of her head upside-down in a bowl. It looked like a blood-spattered, hair-matted, flesh-covered section of coconut shell, face up and brimming red. Bits of herself were floating there.

  Bits of herself they were throwing away.

  She couldn’t see their faces. It didn’t matter. She’d always known. They had her right where they’d always wanted her: utterly helpless, completely exposed.

  They were picking apart her brain.

  And she couldn’t even scream…

  ■

  Meryl’s alarm went off at 8:45 in the morning, as usual. The distant bleating tone bled into her dream; the dream faded out and vanished completely, the room faded in and persisted. The light in the room was too bright, tor some reason; it burrowed, unwelcome, through her eyelids, bid her keep them shut as she groped with her left hand for the alarm, didn’t find it, instead found herself alarmed by the fact that she was sitting upright on the living room couch, her eyes already open and staring at the ceiling.

  Good morning, he said.

  “What? Jesus Christ!” she replied, one hand coming up by itself to swab at her eyes. Disorientation was the word she was looking for; it took her a moment to find it.

  Remember me?

  “Oh. Hi.” It all came back. She felt the beginnings of a pleasure rush, felt it curiously subverted. It came to her that her body ached, pretty much all over. She wondered why. She also noticed that she didn’t have to pee immediately upon waking, which was a first.

  She also wondered what they were doing on the living room couch.

  She asked.

  I don’t know, he said. I just woke up. What’s wrong?

  “I don’t know.” An honest reply.