by Edward Lee
“—this is what you want—”
Then he looked at the shotgun—
“—this is what you get—”
That said it all.
Walter sat back down with the gun. He jacked a round. He turned off the safety by pushing the pin from left to right through the housing behind the trigger. He placed the end of the barrel against his forehead, leaned over, and put his thumb against the trigger.
“—this is what you want—”
I love you, Candice...
“—this is what you get—”
BAM!
Chapter Seven
(I)
Cassie brushed strands of lemon hair off her forehead. She felt agitated but mostly uncomfortable, squirmy in the hard chair opposite R.J.’s office desk. His Notre Dame hat was pulled lower over his eyes, which gave him a stern cast.
“You know what you look like?” he finally said, arms crossed behind the desk.
“Like a crazy whacked-out Goth chick sitting in a psych ward?”
“No, like a mousy little girl sitting in the principal’s office because she was bad at school.”
She wished it were that simple. Take a note home to her parents and get grounded for a week. What could she say?
R.J. sighed now, leaning over the blotter on his desk. “All right. Why beat around the bush? I’ll just ask and you can answer. Why did you break all the lights in the shower room?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“I’m your doctor. Why can’t you tell me?”
“ ’Cos you wouldn’t believe it. You’d think I was crazy and put me on meds.”
“Cassie, I might put you on meds anyway, given that outburst. Now why did you do it?”
“I ... have a fear of fluorescent lights?”
“Funny. You scared Sadie half to death. She thought you were in there killing yourself.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t kill myself,” Cassie said, “at least not before the next Rob Zombie tour.”
R.J. maintained the stern gaze.
“Jeez, it’s a joke!” Cassie complained. “Can’t anyone in this place take a joke?”
“It’s no place for joking. We don’t know what’s wrong with you, Cassie, and that puts us in a very precarious situation. Your father’s executors are paying us a lot of money to see to your well-being and to keep you away from the state prosecutor’s office while they prepare for your trial.”
“The trial doesn’t mean squat. There’s no evidence.”
“No, there isn’t, and so far your tests and your behavior have indicated a stable, social person who isn’t capable of arson and murder. That’s what I’ve been putting in your psychiatric profile. But you tell me. What am I supposed to think now? What am I supposed to put in the remarks column of your daily report today? After what you did in the shower room, how can I possibly continue to claim that there’s nothing wrong with you?”
“Maybe there is nothing wrong with me.”
R.J. opened his hands in a clear frustration. “Then help me out here. Why did you trash the shower room?”
For the briefest moment, she considered actually telling him; she considered saying, An Umbra-Specter was torturing my guardian angel, so I broke all the lights because I thought less light would decrease the Specter’s power. The reason she was being tortured is because she was divulging forbidden information to me, and whenever she does that, she gets punished.
Instead, she lied: “I freaked out. I have weird dreams that freak me out and sometimes I get too high-strung. Plus I’m having my period. Plus, I’m a real bitch in the morning before I have my coffee.”
R.J. betrayed a smile. “Really? You’re not B.S.-ing me?”
“Nope.”
“That was quite an outburst.”
“Sure. You ever had one? Ever had a day when nothing’s going right and you just want to bust stuff?”
“Yeah, everybody has days like that.”
“It’s normal, right?”
“Yes, I suppose it is, to an extent. You get mad, you get road rage in rush-hour, stuff like that, and sometimes, yeah, you just want to snap and bust stuff. You want to, but you don’t actually do it.”
“Hey, until you have PMS like I do, I don’t think you can make a judgement like that.”
Another smile. “Your point is taken. Sadie said she heard you talking to someone? Who? Are you hearing voices?”
“Just yours.”
“So Sadie was lying?”
“I talk to myself sometimes! Big deal!” she almost shouted. “You want to pump me up with Thorazine and straitjacket me ’cos I got a case of PMS and I talk to myself?”
R.J. laxed back in his chair, pushed the visor of his hat up a little. “Finally! We’re communicating. So let me ask you something else. A minute ago you said you’re still having bad dreams. Are they dreams about your sister’s suicide?”
“No, those stopped a while ago. Just nightmares.”
“About what?”
“About Hell.”
“You mean the place you talk about during your polygraphs and narco-analysis? This big city, in Hell. The Mephistopolis.”
“Yeah. They’re just dreams, screwed up dreams. Me being an Etheress and all that.”
“So now you’re telling me that you’re not really an Etheress, that was just a dream?”
“Yeah. Take some of that—what is it? Sodium—”
“The hypnotic? Sodium amitol?”
“Yeah, take some of that stuff yourself, doc. See if it doesn’t put a little bit of a whack on you. See if you don’t spout some wild shit with an armful of that. I have weird dreams to begin with and that stuff makes them weirder, and, yeah, maybe I confused the dreams with reality for a little while. I’m still trying to get over my father’s death and the fact that I’m stuck in this looney bin—no offense. You ever have weird dreams? You ever been confused, ever in your life?”
A sharper smile this time. “You always try to defend yourself by challenging me.”
“Why shouldn’t I? Sometimes I have screwy dreams. Everybody does. So how come everybody isn’t in this joint?”
“Because everybody isn’t being charged with arson and premeditated murder. Because everybody isn’t suicidal, and everybody didn’t break all the lights in the shower room.”
“I’ll pay for the friggin’ lights.”
“No, but your father’s lawyers will,” R.J. corrected. “Let me ask you something else.”
Cassie was getting bored, bending her flip-flops under her heels. “Shoot.”
“Who burned your house down with your father in it?”
“I don’t know. I only know it wasn’t me. I loved my father.” She shot him a frown. “You already know I didn’t do it. You don’t believe for a minute that I did it.”
“No, Cassie, I don’t. But who did? Who do you think did it?”
“Probably some stoner from town, some redneck all jigged up on PCP or something.”
“I like that answer. But I just keep getting this feeling that you’re only saying it.”
“What do you mean?”
“That you’re saying what you think I want to hear.”
“I never do that,” Cassie countered. “You’re my shrink, you should know that. And what does Dr. Morse think? Does he think I had a psycho outburst? Does he think I’m a head-case?”
“No, but he’s very confused about your case. So am I.”
“Hey, I’m just a bitchy Goth girl from D.C. There’s not much to be confused about.” She did feel a bit foolish now. “I’m sorry I busted your dumb shower lights. Does it help to say it won’t happen again?”
“Probably.”
Cassie looked at her watch. “I got my occupational therapy class in five minutes. Can I go now?”
“Yes.”
She stood up from the chair, suddenly remembering. “Oh, can I ask a favor?”
R.J. looked sarcastically quizzical. “Maybe.”
“Can I move to the ro
om at the end of the hall, on the left?”
“Why?”
“ ’Cos there’s a view of the garden.”
“Why should I give you privileges after what you did in the shower?”
“Because you’re a cool guy.”
“You think you can manipulate me with flattery?”
“You’re also probably the best shrink I’ve ever had.”
“That won’t work—”
“And handsome.”
R.J. smiled. “I’m disappointed, Cassie. I thought you were a lot more sophisticated than that. And the answer is no.”
“I’m glad you said that.” Cassie smiled a great big smile. She pointed to his Notre Dame hat. “They play University of Maryland tonight, don’t they? Maryland’s supposed to kick their butts bad?”
R.J. looked immediately enthused. “How do you know that? You’re a college football fan?”
Cassie scoffed. “Jeez, no—football’s for morons. Come on, a bunch of steroid-bloated idiots running back and forth with a leather bag full of air, makin’ five million a year.”
Now R.J. frowned. “Then how do you know that Notre Dame’s slated to lose big to Maryland?”
“I just know.”
“And your point?”
“Are you a betting man?”
R.J. shook his head, leaning back in the chair. “So that’s it. You want to bet—for a new room assignment. Ain’t gonna happen, Cassie. I’m a doctor. I can’t make bets with patients.”
“It’s not really a bet. What would you say if I told you Maryland’s gonna lose 22-0?”
“I’d laugh hard.”
“You wouldn’t believe it ‘cos Notre Dame kind’a sucks, right?”
R.J. took an instant offense. “They don’t suck. They’re... having a rebuilding year.”
“Fine. They suck. So that’s the deal. If Maryland loses 22-0, you move me to the new room, okay?”
R.J. laughed. “Okay, Cassie, you’ve got a deal.”
She could still hear him laughing by the time she got off the admin wing.
Later that night, R.J. moved Cassie into the new room.
“Thanks,” she said.
He cast her the sharpest frown. “I don’t know how you pulled that off. And don’t tell me you’re clairvoyant. I’m a behavioral psychiatrist, I don’t believe in crap like that.”
“Believe,” Cassie intoned. She sat down on the stiff bed, bouncing her butt on it a few times. “You should be happy. Your team won.”
“Yeah. 22-0. When every sportswriter in the country said they’d get their tails kicked. I should’ve called my bookie and bet my life savings.”
“You behavioral psychiatrists are too skeptical.”
He stood at the door, looking down at her as she sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re a very interesting young woman, Cassie.”
“Yeah. Interesting. But not crazy.”
“You’re probably right. Goodnight. See you at breakfast.”
“Go, Fighting Irish!”
R.J. left, locked the door behind her. Immediately she got up and looked out the decoratively barred window. Yep, there’s a garden, all right. A spotlight lit up the small fenced court but it wasn’t much. This time of the year, in Florida? A couple of short palm trees and a couple of flowerbeds that were turning brown. Better than nothing, she conceded. But the garden wasn’t the genuine reason she’d wanted this room.
“All right. So where are you?” she said to the air.
Angelese’s voice wafted into the room like smoke. “Right here... You just didn’t see me.” At this hour, only one emergency light remained on in the room, leaving three corners dark. From the darkness in one of those corners, Angelese emerged, like a lapse-dissolve in reverse.
“I’m glad you got the room,” the angel said.
“It was easy. Thanks for the tip on the football game.”
“Men really are easy to manipulate, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but I think he would’ve given it to me anyway eventually. He was just busting my chops a little about the business in the shower.” Cassie peered more intently as the angel fully revealed herself. “So you’ve been there the whole time, in the dark?”
“Yeah. I told you. Caliginauts like the dark. We were bred to exist in it. Angels who go where devils go.”
“So if R.J. walked back in right now,” Cassie asked, “he wouldn’t see you?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cos he’s human.”
“So am I,” Cassie felt she needed to point out.
“You’re more than that.” Angelese’s voice reverberated.
“You’re an Etheress.”
I keep forgetting that, Cassie thought. “I was scared. After the shower thing, I didn’t hear from you for hours. After what that thing did to you? I thought you were dead.”
Angelese had never looked so real before. The sheer white gown nearly glowed, as did her equally white hair. She shimmered, but she was flesh this time, not a projection through some spell. She sat down on the bed. “Angels are immortal in the Netherplanes: Heaven, Hell, and some other places. But here in the Living World we can die. It takes a lot.”
“You went through a lot.” Cassie gulped, remembering how viciously the angel had been savaged by the Umbra-Specter’s talons and teeth. The blood had poured out of her, blood like red neon light.
“But an Umbra-Specter doesn’t pull much weight,” Angelese continued with her explanation. “It can’t kill anybody—it’s one of the Rules. An incantation is what gives it life, but it’s not a powerful enough incantation to allow it to kill outside of its realm. All it can do is hurt.” One of the angel’s fingers unconsciously traced one of the scars that rose past the neckline of her gown. Cassie noted more scars around her ankles and arms.
“Angels are stronger than humans, physically and mentally. When we feel pleasure, it’s ten times greater than the pleasure you’d feel.”
“But the same goes for pain, too, I guess.”
Angelese nodded, smiling. “But the scars heal pretty quickly. They never fully go away, but almost.” She pulled the hem of her gown up to her knees. Cassie gulped again. The angel was a mural of varying degrees of wounds. Some were lines full of clotted blood, others like heavy tracks of flesh-colored wax, and beneath all that were the faintest threads, like spider webs.
“So this room is—what?” Cassie asked. “A Dead-Point?”
“A Death-Point. Don’t confuse it with a Deadpass. A Dead-Point’s just a place where tragedy accumulates—I told you what used to happen in this room a long time ago. Caliginauts thrive in Dead-Points, but certain other kinds of angels wouldn’t be able to come near this room. That’s why we get duty like this.”
Duty, Cassie thought. “You’re not here because you want to be, right. I mean, who could want to be tortured by that shadow thing? You’re here to do a job. You were ordered to come here, right?”
“Right.”
“By who?”
Angelese’s smile peaked, and the room’s dark corners seemed to brighten when she said: “God.”
I’m not touching that one, Cassie thought. She was tired and not in a very good mood. She lay down on the cot. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“I think you do.”
“No I don’t. I’m going to sleep.”
“You can go to sleep.”
“What about you?” The sudden question nagged. Damn, there’s only one bed. She hitched over. “You can sleep here too. You don’t have to worry, I’m not a lesbian if that’s what you think.”
Angelese’s laughter fluttered. “Oh, I know...” Now her arms were outspread; she was levitating facedown, floating up into the air. “And besides, angels don’t sleep.”
Tired as she was, Cassie’s curiosity kicked back in. “Do angels ... have sex?”
“There are many different kinds and orders of angels. Most have to deny their desires as a gesture of love toward God. Th
ere are some angels that can breed, and several other orders of angels who don’t have any genitals, and a few others that have both.”
The image threw Cassie’s mind for a loop. “That’s a little too much information, thank you!”
“And as for my order, we have to be celibate, like Jesus. It’s easy.”
Cassie frowned, hugging the pillow. Easy! “I’m twenty-three years old and I haven’t even had sex. I think about it all the friggin’ time. Anytime I meet a guy I like I wind up just saying to hell with it ’cos if I did have sex, I’d lose all my Etheric Powers. If I’m not a virgin, I can’t be an Etheress, right?”
“Right. It’s a supreme sacrifice that you’re making for God.”
Cassie ground her teeth. “You want me to be honest? I’m not even making it for God. I’m making it for me, I’m making it for my sister. I have to stay an Etheress or I’ll never see my sister again. So how do you like that? It’s not for God.”
“Oh, yes it is. It’s just very complex. You’re not sophisticated enough to understand.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“No human being is.”
Cassie felt flustered, huddled on the cot. “I just don’t know how long I can keep this up. It pisses me off sometimes.”
Angelese was floating off her feet, smiling down. “We all have our trials, Cassie. You face yours very well.”
Crap on that, Cassie thought. “How can not ever having sex be easy? How can it be easy to deny all sexual desire?”
“It’s very easy. I’m celibate because it’s a sign of the Kingdom where all of our love will be universal as God is universal. I’m celibate in the imitation of Jesus, who elected to be bound to no one in particular so that he might be embraced by all, in an eternal covenant of living sacrifice.”
That’s some answer! Cassie thought.
“Let me put it this way,” Angelese added. “All you’d have to do is see Heaven just one time and you’d know ...”
Cassie had no comeback for that. “Lissa should be in Heaven.”
“She should be, but she’s not. She committed suicide.”
“She wasn’t sinful, she was a good person.”
“I know, but it’s one of the Rules.”