by Kevin Lucia
Way Station – A Clifton Heights Tale
By Kevin Lucia
Copyright 2007 - © Kevin Lucia
Originally Published, 2007 – The Midnight Diner
2013 - Released in Things Slip Through
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Welcome to Clifton Heights, New York. Just another average Adirondack town, and nice enough in its own right.
Except after dark, or under the pale light of the moon. Or in a very private doctor's office at Clifton Heights General Hospital, where no one can hear you scream. Or on a road out of town that never ends, or in an old house sitting on the edge of town with a mind - and will - of its own.
Maybe you shouldn't have left the interstate, my friend. Maybe you should've driven on to the next town.
But you didn't. You saw our sign, turned down our road, figuring on just a short stay. And maybe it will be.
Or maybe you'll never leave.
Anyway, pay a visit to The Skylark Diner. I'll be there. Pull up a chair and let me tell you about our town. It's nice enough, it really is.
Except after dark. Or on cold winter days when no one is around, and you're all alone…
Way Station
It was QuestCon, New Hampshire’s largest SpecFic convention. Attendees packed the main lounge of Portsmouth’s Holiday Inn, bunching up in clots around tables and chairs and the bar, chatting with old friends, hitting up new ones. Con veterans worked the scene, happy to be among colleagues and friends. Younger, more inexperienced folks bounced nervously about, balancing between worshipful awe and their overwhelming desire to be “noticed” by peers and role models, and amongst them drifted fans asking for signatures, wondering respectfully (most of the time) when their next book or comic book would hit the stores.
It was a full house, everyone busily engaged and enjoying themselves and, Jim Goersky couldn’t help but feel, glancing at him and Gavin Patchett from the corner of their eyes.
“Listen, Franklin,” Gavin snapped into his cell phone, “the distribution sucks and you know it. Why the hell weren’t there more copies of Forever War at the Barnes & Noble here in Portsmouth? They only had five in stock!”
“Careful Gav,” Jim muttered as they navigated through the crowded lounge. “Don’t go poking a tiger with a stick, okay?”
Gavin ignored him and continued. “Hell, Franklin, the answer’s simple. My sales are down because there are NO COPIES OF MY BOOKS, ANYWHERE.”
Jim glanced around as he and Gavin approached the sliding glass doors at the rear of the lounge, which lead to a mezzanine overlooking the hotel’s front parking lot. An embarrassed flush rose past his collar. He nodded and smiled weakly at an acquisitions editor he knew standing at the bar. She gave them a look, and it wasn’t a good look, at all; more like a pitying, you sorry bastard kind of look.
“Gav,” Jim whispered as they weaved past tables and chairs, “remember that joke of yours? That my main job is making sure you don’t act like an ass? You’re kinda not letting me do it.”
Gavin frowned and waved him off. Still complaining, he tugged the sliding glass door open and they stepped out into the biting winter air on the thankfully empty mezzanine.
Brittle wind nipped at Jim’s skin. He turned up his blazer’s collar, stuffed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold.
“Listen,” Gavin continued, his tone cutting, “that’s shit and you know it. I never had this distribution problem with the first three books. I showed up at that Barnes & Noble this afternoon and looked like an idiot. My table was almost empty. No, it doesn’t matter how many people actually showed up, it’s the principle of the thing. I’m one of your bestsellers. That’s not how you treat a bestseller.”
They stopped at the mezzanine’s railing. The Holiday Inn sat on a slight hill above the surrounding area and Jim gazed out over the parking lot, past the interstate to the city streets: luminous rivers of headlights, neon signs, and streetlights. The distance muffled the city’s sounds and with just a little effort, Jim could imagine he was looking upon a far off, ethereal world.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m not as focused? What the hell do you mean by that?”
Jim looked at Gavin, who leaned against the mezzanine’s railing, cell phone in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other. Jim tried to remember just how many drinks Gavin had consumed so far and realized he’d lost count hours ago.
“That’s bullshit. You’ve published plenty of science fiction, so marketing mine shouldn’t be… not as good as the first two? What the hell? Then why’d you publish it and offer me a contract for two more, you pompous son of a bitch?”
Jim winced. Gavin only acted this way when drinking, and he’d been drinking a lot the past few months. A few more beers than usual with dinner. A glass of whiskey next to his iBook when writing. Gavin’s fully stocked liquor cabinet had seen quite an upswing in use, recently.
Jim shook his head. Truth was, Gavin had reached a critical mass and was barreling toward a threshold. And, like many authors Jim had worked with over the years this meant only one thing: trouble. A train was roaring down the tracks and Gavin seemed pretty content to stand in its path and stare it down like the stubborn son of a bitch that he was.
“Yes I’ve got a Myspace. And a Facebook Fan Page and a Facebook personal page. I’m Linked In, Foursquared and Twittered to hell. Set that all up myself thanks very much, with no help from you.”
“I did that,” Jim whispered, tapping his chest, “me.”
Gavin waved a preoccupied I know, hold on a minute at Jim, scowling. “You’re right. We do need to meet. Jim’ll put together some numbers on how much money I’ve made you the past few years…”
Jim clapped a hand to his forehead and groaned.
Dammit, Gavin. What the hell?
“… and we can discuss how much you want this next book…”
Which you haven’t even started yet, you fucking idiot.
“… and whether or not I’m even going to give it to Hammer-Fiske, or instead maybe approach Titan or TOR, take them up on the deals they’ve been offering for years. See you Tuesday.”
With that, he flipped his phone shut, stuffed it into his jeans pocket and took a deep swig of whiskey. He emptied the glass and met Jim’s gaze defiantly. “What?”
Jim struggled to keep his tone light. “Well. That went well. Hey listen, remember our conversation on the drive up here, about being subtle with Franklin? Just wondering… what does the word ‘subtle’ mean to you, exactly?”
Gavin’s face stiffened. “Don’t start, Jim.”
“Hey, hey.” Jim raised his hands. “I’m on your side. You know that. I agree with you, Hammer-Fiske is mishandling this project. But,” he folded his arms, leaning back against the mezzanine’s cold railing, “if you’ll remember, I told you three years ago you’d be better off sending Forever War to either TOR, Titan, Baen or Pocket Books, someone with an established name in science fiction.”
Gavin shook his glass and looked into it, as if searching for answers there. “Hammer-Fiske has published four science fiction novels in the past five years. They should know how the hell to market my science fiction novel.”
Jim sighed.
Seemed he’d been doing that a lot lately because Gavin had done nothing but ignore him. “Those other novels were commercial techno-thrillers, video game and television series tie-ins. Not classic, epic space ope
ras… which Forever War is. It’s a great novel. You’ll get no argument from me. But they don’t really know what to do with it, which I warned you about three years ago.”
“Fine. We’ll solve that Tuesday morning, or we’ll bid Franklin and Hammer-Fiske sayonara.”
Jim clucked his teeth with his tongue and looked away into the snow-speckled night, debating what to say next. Apparently, Gavin wasn’t that drunk, because he asked in a tight voice, “Hey. You’re not telling me something. What is it?”
Jim fought with himself for several more seconds, then said regretfully, “Listen. Before you march into the Pinnacle Building Tuesday morning ready to kick ass, you gotta know about the rumors floating around the office.”
Gavin’s eyes narrowed.
And even though Jim knew Gavin wasn’t really dangerous or violent, he couldn’t help but feel a little threatened. “And?”
Jim took a deep breath, released it slowly and said, “Word is Franklin’s pissed about your public bitching.”
“Bitching?” Gavin’s face reddened in the pale glow of the mezzanine’s halogen lights. “But you agreed with me!”
Jim shot Gavin a look, deciding it was time to show some claws of his own. “I do. But you have been bitching, for a long time and very loudly.” He raised an eyebrow. “How about all your blogs, Gavin? All sorts of folks read them. Your fans, casual readers, genre fans, industry-people. My personal favorite? The one entitled, ‘Hammer-Fiske Hammer-Heads and Other Publishing Assholes.’”
Gavin smiled weakly. “Oh, come on. Every author’s gotta complain about his publisher now and then. It’s how we maintain our street cred.”
Jim shrugged. “Well, Franklin’s been reading up and I can’t say he agrees.”
Gavin smirked and patted Jim’s shoulder good-naturedly. “Like I’m really worried. They’ll slap me on the wrist, and then…”
All right, Jim thought. Enough screwing around.
Time to drop the bomb.
“They’re done with you, Gav. They’re calling your bluff before you can even make it. They want to terminate this contract, all your other contracts and sue for breach of contract because they know you haven’t even started the next book you owe them, the next book that’s three months late. They want to wash their hands of you, completely.”
Gavin gaped at him for several wordless seconds until he finally managed, “That’s crazy. I’m one of their bestsellers!”
“But you’re not Stephen King. Or Peter Straub or Dean Koontz or someone with a rabid fan base, like Brian Keene. Not a flashy newcomer, either. You’re a burned-out mid-list author with a big fat drinking problem to boot.”
Gavin’s eyes flashed. “Hey. That’s not fair. You’ve got no right to dig me because I enjoy an occasional drink now and then.”
Jim snorted. He was dangerously close to tripping Gavin’s hot-wire but he didn’t care. “Sure, you enjoy an occasional drink. Occasionally at lunch and dinner. At parties and conventions. While you write. Before and after you write. Before going to bed. Occasionally. At all these occasions, all the time.”
“You’re not my mother, Jim, so stop bitching at me like I’m some snot-nosed–”
“Gavin. Listen.”
Jim’s urgent tone brought Gavin up short. Thinking this could very well be his last chance, Jim plunged ahead. “You’re right. I’m not your mother. I’m your friend and your agent. So not only do I care about you as a person, I care about you as a professional. I don’t want you to throw away your career, and you’re this close,” he held up his thumb and forefinger, spread an inch, “this close.”
He paused, folded his arms and said with as much concern as he could muster, “I want to help, Gav. Let me help. Please.”
A shadow passed over Gavin’s face.
And Jim saw an emotion he’d never seen in Gavin’s eyes before: fear.
Gavin looked away into the night, clenching his glass so tightly his knuckles whitened. “You can’t help, Jim,” he rasped, “no one can.”
Jim sighed. “You’re destroying yourself. You know that, right? You walk into Franklin’s office Tuesday morning with a list of demands, you’re done.”
Still not looking at him, Gavin murmured, “You won’t be there?”
Jim shook his head. He felt sorry in a way, but he was also out of patience. “If I back you on this, I can kiss a lot of my street-cred good-bye.”
“If you were my friend,” Gavin whispered, “you would.”
“I’m sorry, Gav. This is one grenade I’m not jumping on.” He patted Gavin’s shoulder lightly. “Go up to the room and sleep it off. We’ll hash this thing out tomorrow on the ride home. Okay?”
He paused, letting the silence draw out between them, but when Gavin said nothing, he said, “Night, Gav,” turned and walked away.
#
Gavin’s Prius flew along North Portsmouth I-95, far too fast for the icy conditions and his altered state. His eyes itched and the dark road swam before his eyes. His stomach glowed with warm liquor. More than once, he’d caught himself nodding off before lurching awake, heart pounding after he’d almost veered into the median.
This is stupid. Get off the road before you kill yourself or someone else. Go back to the hotel and sleep it off.
This is crazy… it’s fucking suicide.
The steering wheel jerked as the right front tire hit a patch of ice. For a second, he felt the vehicle fishtail. Cursing, he lifted his foot off the gas, lightly tapped the brake and brought the car back under control. He sighed and wiped his tired eyes with the heel of his palm.
After Jim had left him on the Holiday Inn’s cold, wind-blown mezzanine, a crippling sense of loathing had overwhelmed him. He was destroying himself, ruining everything he loved about writing. Deep inside, he knew Jim was right. He’d treated everyone miserably, biting the hands that had fed him, stomping on the feet of those who’d helped him into the writing world. However, he’d stumbled on. Drinking, back-biting and burning every single bridge behind him, seemingly hell-bent on self-destruction. It had been that way for so long that he could hardly remember how it was before.
Confronted with this stark truth he’d fled the Con, not speaking to anyone. He’d gotten into his Prius, squealed out of the parking lot, roaring onto the highway, driving… nowhere.
Nowhere.
“Screw this,” he mumbled, “I need some music.” He fumbled with the radio, jerking the wheel in the process, causing the Prius to jink back and forth. After several shaky attempts, he finally punched the music on.
Instantly, the loud twang of country music filled the car.
“Oh, hell no.”
He pressed ‘search’ for several seconds until he found some loud but at least tolerable techno. “There,” he grunted, tapping the steering wheel, “that’s a beat you can drive to.”
With the bass pounding he fled down the ice-slicked highway, his ego taking over and pushing aside his self-loathing as he hummed to the music. Twenty minutes away from the Holiday Inn had put distance between him and his fears; making them vague, indistinct.
“When I get back to New York, I’ll cut down the booze,” he chattered as he drove, “get my shit together. I’ll sleep it off, call Franklin, sort him out, or I’ll take my act elsewhere.”
Yeah.
Right.
And where exactly will you take it, dumbass? You heard Jim. He’s not going to back your play and if you hit Franklin with this you’re just gonna get your ass handed to you.
You’re destroying yourself.
And you don’t even care.
“No I’m not,” he muttered, reaching to turn the music up louder, “I’m doing just fine.”
It happened in a heartbeat.
He missed the radio’s volume button.
Leaned forward to try again, his grip on the steering wheel loosening as he rounded a curve to the left that banked slightly, and the car’s front wheels hit a patch of ice. The steering wheel jerked out of Gavin’s numb g
rip. He grabbed the wheel with both hands, but it was too late.
Panic filled him as the Prius swished back and forth, and in his frenzy he slammed on the brakes. The car shuddered and slowed just for a moment, then the steering wheel jerked to the right, the guardrail looming in the car’s headlights. Gavin twisted the wheel one last time…
a heartbeat
a breath
impact
screeching metal, roaring engine, him screaming
His forehead slammed into the air bag exploding from the steering wheel. The world spun away into darkness and as he struggled on the edge of unconsciousness, he realized dimly he’d ricocheted off the guardrail and was now spinning across the highway toward the median.
Tires skidded and gravel crunched on the highway’s shoulder. The engine revved, the car thumped off-road and for a moment, he flew.
A final jerk, a rending of metal.
Then…
#
… darkness. Cloying, suffocating darkness everywhere, so perfect and total that even though he felt his muscles and tendons work and flex, he couldn’t be sure they were really there. The dark felt alive, liquid, pressing against him...
swallowing him
And in the distance, whispers uttered secret, unknowable things. He turned but saw nothing, only more darkness. His throat constricted, panic swelling, and his teeth grinding as
the whispers came and went, came and went…
mene, mene
tekel upsharin
There.
A light.
Flaring in the distance, piercing the darkness around him. He glimpsed only lurching shadows in the flares but as each grew brighter, fragile hope blossomed in his heart.
And then he heard it.
A sliding beyond the dark.
Some awful thing waited for him out there, a beast hungering to tear the skin and muscle off his bones. He shuddered and crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly feeling cold.