Dead Lines

by John Skipp; Craig Spector

  Weren’t we in the bed?

  Scratching her head. “That’s the last thing I remember…”

  Do you have a history of sleepwalking?

  “No.”

  Well, this is weird, then.

  “I guess…” She shook her head to try and clear it. There was a man in there, and he wouldn’t come out. The cognition of it was somewhat startling, like a guy you were dancing with last night that you don’t really remember inviting home. Only worse. “The whole thing is kinda weird, don’t you think?”

  A moment’s pause. Then: Is something wrong?

  “No,” she said, though her thoughts qualified it.

  Her thoughts seemed to lack their accustomed privacy.

  Okay, he said. Just checking.

  Somehow, she didn’t believe him. It certainly didn’t feel okay. The vibe was all wrong, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t all coming from her. “How ‘bout you? Are you okay?” she asked him.

  Yeah, fine. A little disoriented, maybe. She felt him smile inside her, felt his touch move up to work her shoulder blades, just the way she liked it.

  Except that she wasn’t much liking it now. It was making her very uncomfortable. There was something forced about it: the automatic assuaging gesture, empty and overly familiar.

  It started her thinking in unpleasant ways, even as her flesh cringed. After all, she hadn’t just invited him up for some saki and a back rub. She hadn’t even just made the primal mistake of giving him the keys to the apartment. This whole thing ran a little bit deeper than that.

  This was getting just a little bit scary…

  Did you say something? he asked; and as soon as he said it, her spine went cold. The morning’s dream was gone and utterly forgotten, but one sensation lingered, haunting. Lingered in more than memory.

  An itching in her brain.

  And that was when the first inklings of real fear began.

  It was a long-standing paranoia of hers, perhaps her oldest conscious phobia: its roots in tiny childhood, its seeds the light of stern interrogation in her father’s eyes. So many times throughout her life, she’d found herself stuck in a room with a jerk whose simple presence was wiring her out, and even as she tried to be cool and polite and inscrutable, the thought what if he’s reading my mind? would pop up on the wings of pure, inarguable superstitious dread.

  Reason had nothing to do with it, ever; the real bottom line ran much deeper than that. It was pheromones, vibes: things beyond your control. It was a thing you thought or felt so strongly that how could they not know it, reason or not?

  Only this time, there was a reason.

  A very good reason.

  To fear.

  “It’s nothing,” she said.

  It doesn’t feel like nothing.

  “You asked if I said anything. I didn’t say anything

  But you’re shaking.

  “Am I?” Of course she was. How stupid of her to think she could conceal it. She could feel his agitation, and didn’t even have a body.

  No body but hers…

  I’m sorry, he said, suddenly contrite. I guess I woke up neanderthal this morning. This whole thing is still kinda scary for me. I didn’t mean to be a prick …

  “It’s okay.” She said it a second before she began to feel

  it.

  No, it isn’t. Where’s the fucking gratitude in that? Where would I be without you?

  “Oh, J. P, stop…”

  Jack. Call me Jack.

  “Okay. Jack. Stop.” She laughed as she said it, and the thing she referred to as rational mind began to kick in for what seemed like the first time this morning. It regarded her paranoia the same way it regarded any other nascent credulity: it dumped a full shaker of salt upon it.

  It made her remember the simple fact that this wasn’t just some dumbfuck yuppie who’d won his way into her bed on the strength of his pecs or his portfolio. This was the fabled John Paul Rowan: the man whose innermost thoughts she’d spent months hungering, fantasizing, feeding upon. This was the man with whom she’d spent the last and best nearly forty-eight hours of her life. Here he was, in spirit if not in substance. She should be thrilled.

  So what’s on today’s agenda? he asked, derailing her train of thought. I know that you’ve got things to do. Classes? Study? Jack LaLanne?

  “Classes,” she answered. “A particularly scintillating one: ‘The Novel Comes of Age.’ I’m sure you’ll want to sit through that.”

  My secret dream. This time, they laughed together. You know, I never went to college. Who knows? I might learn something.

  “Yeah, right. More boring shit. They could learn more listening to you.”

  I’ve never written a novel.

  “You should.”

  That’s true. Maybe I will.

  “I’d help.”

  I couldn’t do it without you.

  “That’s true.” All the while, he continued to inwardly rub her shoulders. The distaste she’d been feeling had all but receded; it was starting to feel real good again.

  It was a lesson that she’d flirted with time and time again, but never really internalized successfully: relationships take time. Of course there would be moments of uncertainty. Of course there would be moments of profound discomfort. Of course there would be fights: there would always be two sets of will and self-esteem at stake.

  But if you’d found the right partner, the one with whom you could spend your life, then all of that shit was manageable. It was simply part and parcel of building the life that you wanted to have. From there, all you really needed was the will to stick it out.

  That and mutual trust, of course.

  There was nothing more important than trust. Right?

  “Well, we’d better get ready,” Meryl said, standing and stretching.

  What about breakfast?

  “Breakfast?” she asked incredulously.

  Most important meal of the day, he offered. Remember, you’re eating for two now. “Oh. Right.”

  Only kidding. Jolly Mister Sunshine.

  Meryl looked at her watch: 8:55.

  We’d better get ready, he said.

  18

  THE DRIVER’S SEAT

  I’d like to ask you a little favor, he said, much later. They had just finished breakfast at a diner on Seventh Avenue that he swore was one of his favorites, though she couldn’t for the life of her figure that out. The food was dreadful, the service even worse.

  “What?”

  I was wondering if…we might be able to stop by this place for a second.

  “What place?”

  An apartment. It’s right in the neighborhood.

  “Jack, wait a minute. I’m confused.”

  I understand, but it’s real simple. It’s just a couple of friends of mine. I just want to check and see that they’re okay.

  “But…”

  I know it’s kind of awkward, but believe me, it’ll only take a second. We don’t even have to go in. See, they were having some health problems when I…left. I’ve been worried about them.

  “Yeah, but…”

  I know what you’re thinking. A complete stranger knocks on their door. What are they supposed to think?

  “No, I was thinking more about my profound embarrassment. I mean, what am I supposed to do… ?”

  Tell you what. How about if you let me handle it? I think I’ve got a strategy …

  “Whoa, wait a minute.” It was her turn to slap on the brakes. “What do you mean, ‘let you handle it’? You mean… ?”

  I mean let me do the talking, what little there is.

  “Can you do that?”

  I could try. He smiled. You wanna do a little test run?

  “I’m not sure,” she said, and meant it completely. The whole concept gave her the serious willies. “You’ve got to understand; I’m a bit of a control freak…”

  I noticed.

  “Yeah, well.” She wasn’t sure she liked the tone of that. Perhaps it was time for
a little dreaded honesty. “It’s one thing to share my body; and believe me, there’s no one I’d rather share it with. But to give up that much control is just…”

  A little unnerving.

  “So to speak.”

  I understand. Believe me. I mean, I’m here on the flip side of the situation. I have no mouth of my own. It’s a little unnerving, it’s a little bit frustrating, but it’s the hand that I’ve been dealt.

  She was tempted to point out that he’d been more than a little involved in the dealing, but let it go. Too much honesty at this stage of the relationship could be counterproductive.

  “I understand, too…”

  Then trust me. Please. I swear to God, I wouldn’t do anything to hurt us.

  “I know that.”

  I think.

  Then just relax a second, okay? Let’s see…

  “… if this works,” he concluded, out loud, with her lips. He made them smile. “Okay!”

  Jack? she said.

  “What?”

  Jack, this is making me nervous.

  “Relax, okay? This will only take a minute.”

  Jack, I want my mouth back. Please.

  She felt the perturbed expression play across her face. It was not the expression she would have made; hers would have been far more emphatic.

  “Meryl, calm down,” he said. “Really. Trust me. Come on.”

  Jack … she began, and then they were standing, her body was standing all by itself, a vertiginous rush that would have been bad enough if it weren’t for the fact that she was helpless to stop it. Jack!

  “Up, up, and away,” he said, smiling as he moved rapidly up to the door, out of the diner, out onto the sidewalk. He seemed to know exactly where he was going.

  Please, Jack! Stop! What are you doing? she cried out, and realized in horror that no one could hear her. She was staring right at the people she passed on the sidewalk— she was making fucking eye contact—and none of them could see that anything was wrong, because Jack was giving everyone her cutest little smile and wiggle and wave as he scurried her around the corner.

  At that point, she began to get angry: a hallucinatory, anchor-and-rudderless anger, but genuine nonetheless. Jack, this is crazy! You’re scaring me!

  “I thought you said you trusted me.”

  Goddam it, Jack! Cut it out! I’m not kidding!

  “I’m not kidding, either, Meryl. Now would you just try and fucking relax for a minute? Jesus!” He came to a short set of front steps, proceeded to ascend.

  JACK, YOU STOP RIGHT NOW! she hollered, putting her foot down once and for all.

  There was only one problem.

  She no longer had one.

  She no longer had one, because Jack was using it now; and if there had been any malingering doubts about that, 1 he squashed them in a second, because he felt her try to reassert eminence, and the force of his newfound control slapped her back so hard and fast that her consciousness reeled, unmoored from her skin.

  “You don’t like it?” he said, throwing open the door and stepping inside. “Well, then how the hell do you think I felt? Being completely powerless like that? Being completely subjugated to somebody else’s will?”

  Please …

  “It’s a fucking thrill a minute, wouldn’t you say? Never knowing what’s going to happen next?”

  Please … She was starting to cry now. The tears made no impact on her face whatsoever.

  “Meryl, relax. Enjoy the ride.” He pushed against the inner security door. It gave. He seemed genuinely pleased. “This really shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes, and then we can get right back on schedule. Wouldn’t want to miss out on ‘The Novel Comes of Age,’ now, would we?”

  But it’s my body…! she wailed, her last clear shot at reason. The thought seemed to amuse him. He stopped and smiled.

  “Ah. Well, that’s not exactly true, though, is it?”

  And then they were climbing up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. She couldn’t believe how strong he felt, how completely he had taken over. Even words were eluding her now; she just cowered inside herself, like a tiny animal trapped inside a puppet’s wooden skull.

  “No, we wouldn’t want to jeopardize those monthly checks from Daddy, right?” he continued, grunting slightly from her body’s exertion. “Maybe if we learn how to kiss up properly, we can even up the ante some. I’ll tell ya, I can’t wait to meet him. He just won’t believe the change that’s come over you.”

  Wh-what? She wanted to believe that she hadn’t heard him right. She wanted to believe that this was just a very very realistic nightmare.

  “I’m talking about your motivation, darling. I’m talking about your drive to succeed. You know, that thing that you’ve never had so much as a nodding acquaintance with in your life?”

  Jack, Jesus Christ, what are you saying?

  “I’m saying that Daddy’s gonna be so impressed with your new career as a brilliant and successful writer, he won’t know what to do! He’ll probably say, ‘Dear God, I never even knew she had it in her!’”

  Then they reached the third floor landing, and he stopped, fell silent, appraising the doors that lined the hall. It only took a moment for him to make his selection.

  And Meryl watched the door approach, watched it helplessly through her eyes, drowning under the implicu tions of his words, drowning under the full weight of I H I incredible stupid gullibility, his even more incredible be trayal. She watched her hand ball into a fist, watched it rap upon the door, felt the panic overtaking her.

  And for the first time, felt the Pull…

  … as if some brutal force of nature suddenly had elected to grab her medulla oblongata like the head of a cane and yank, separating it from her spine, the spasming neuron cord popping out of the shell of its bone-sheath like a hunk of steamed shrimp. It was, she realized, a wholly interior experience, as she noted Jack was still using her hand upon the scarred wooden door with impunity. She took in the details of the act as if from an ever-increasing distance, as she felt her consciousness de-rezzing, unmoored and adrift within a swirling black tunnel: the world she knew receding swiftly before her…

  … as the howling abyss beckoned greedily at her back. She was terrified to turn and look at it, to behold what it was that pulled at her with such blind, brutal abandon. Meryl screamed, feeling it sucking her farther and farther in, and fought it with strength she never even knew she possessed. She screamed and slid, fought grabbed and slid…

  … and finally found purchase. A scrap to hold on to. A place to withstand the battering that besieged her…

  Jack felt it, too; and for a moment, he almost lost control of her bowels, so extreme was his terror. Then he felt the good solid mooring of her flesh, felt himself moving securely within it, and his terror shifted gears into something more like distinctly pleasant surprise.

  He was stronger, suddenly. Much, much stronger.

  Almost as if he owned the place.

  Very faintly, from within, he could hear her tiny screams. Of course they >nade him feel badly. Of course. He wasn’t a heartless bastard, no matter what anyone thought. He really liked Meryl, too, when it came right down to it: was more than happy to share, if that wound up the bottom line. I mean, he thought, what do they think I am, some land of monster?

  But that was the problem. That had always been the problem. If only they could have understood where he was coming from, they’d understand: understand that he really had no choice in the matter, and never really did.

  But no. It always comes down to the same thing, doesn’t it? Her body—his body—swelled with the anger he’d come to know so well. Mean old Jack against the world, man. Every fucking time. Isn’t that right… ?

  He was about to answer his own question, as he so often had to do.

  When the door creaked open. And Colin appeared.

  19

  HERE’S TO GOOD FRIENDS

  There was no denying the power of ghosts.

&
nbsp; It was nearly 7:30 a.m., Pacific Standard Time, when Glen finally got the message. It had been a long night, to say the least: the video he was shooting for Clenched White Flesh was already threatening to overshoot the deadline, and last night had just been one of those sessions when everything and its ugly cousin subscribed to some turbocharged variation of Murphy’s Law: the smoke pots would misfire just as the lead guitar player was getting ready to take his big air solo (which took him thirty-nine punch-ins in the studio to finally get right), or they’d lay down mist with the fog machine and just as the continuity was right something would jam or someone would miss their mark and they’d have to set it up and do it all over again, and then the lead singer tried to do one of his patented flying V-kicks off the scaffolding and ended up damn near herniating himself.

  To top it all off, some faceless veep from the record company was hanging around all night, trying to look important and making dumb-assed suggestions and generally getting in the way. In other words, a long night. By the time Glen hauled his tired bones home, it was all he could do to toss his bag at the couch, drop his mail on the table, and hit the message playback button on his answering machine before he bolted for the bathroom. The tape squealed as its load of messages began to rewind. The number six glowed red in the darkness of the hall.

  He passed the bedroom, taking note of the fact that Mia wasn’t back yet. Still in New York, on location. The pain of being bicoastal. She’d probably be there for the rest of the week; he would most certainly be here.

  He pushed open the bathroom door and fumbled in, foregoing the light switch and finding the toilet by braille. He’d had to pee for roughly the last thirty-five miles, and it was all he could do to refrain from starting a white-water ride down the inside of his left leg. He unzipped, aimed, and let fly.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhh … ouch!”

  Glen had a bad feeling right then. He flicked on the light, and let sight confirm what touch conveyed. All that stress had paid off.

  “Oh, great,” he mumbled. “Just what I need.”

  Hard to believe, he often thought, that something with such a cute little name could be so fucking painful. Herpes. Herpes, the Love Bug. And don’t forget the wacky sequel: Herpes Rides Again! It was like Walt Disney’s revenge on the sexual revolution: all those moist crusty little Volkswagen-shaped clusters…