Ghost Rider: Stories by Jonathan Lowe

by Jonathan Lowe

  * * * *

  2

  In his nightmare this time Michael was driving across an oddly barren Bryson Christian University campus. As he passed the auditorium, he had to swerve around an abandoned Ford Taurus in the intersection. Then he coasted down toward a strangely silent gymnasium. He stared at the high open windows of the gym, listening for sounds of a basketball game. But there was nothing. All he could hear was shudder of his Mazda as his newly rebuilt carburetor coughed due to bad idle adjustment.

  So real. It all seemed so real.

  Now when he turned left onto the street fronting the gym he even saw—just past the stop sign ahead—that a blue station wagon with one brake light still on had smashed into the science building. As he took the right turn that the station wagon hadn't, he glimpsed the words just below the white dome of the planetarium:

  Night after night showeth knowledge.

  He stomped the pedal hard as the word came to him: Rapture. The car surged forward as the carb opened up.

  Was she gone too? he wondered. He began to yell her name.

  "Julie!"

  His voice echoed off the cold stone of the faculty apartment buildings. But no window curtains parted, and no one appeared on any of the sidewalks.

  No...

  He drove past the dorms and toward the cafeteria. Nothing disturbed the eerie, almost storybook silence until—

  There.

  He heard it. Half expected it. A low rumble in the distance ahead.

  He raced toward the sound, jumping the curb and rolling under the covered sidewalk between the cafeteria and administration building. Beyond, just past all the parked cars—that's where the sound originated. From somewhere on the vast front lawn.

  The parking lot was full, blocking his view. So he edged out onto the front campus street, still seeing no movement ahead or through the open windows of the administration building. Only when he'd made the rise did he finally see what it was.

  A riding lawn mower.

  The mower's wide circular blades glinted in the setting sunlight as it did slow turns and figure eights through the short grass. It had missed a few spots, but it wasn't giving up until it ran out of gas. Riderless, but not quite berserk, the thing plodded along with its own cryptic purpose. Several furrows left behind seemed to form an arrow.

  Yes, an arrow, he realized.

  The arrow lifted his gaze to the highway. Beyond the distance hedge and fence. Toward what was outside the campus.

  Michael looked up, and then he began to scream. He screamed, although he knew it was a dream this time. Because it was so real. Because out there on the somehow oddly slanted highway was traffic. Silent, slow-motion traffic. And the cars on that steep road were all going in one direction.

  Down.

  He screamed again, a shriek that finally woke him.

  So real ... so horribly real...

  Slowly, he reached for his notebook, remembering to write down the dream this time, as his new and pretty psychologist had recommended. Then in the silence, just as he began to write, his alarm clock sounded with a deafening ring that momentarily stopped his heart.

  Two days later, he entered the psychologist's office on Broadway near El Con mall, right on time. He sat in a jade green cloth chair in the lobby as the blond receptionist named Patty-something told Veronica McCord that he was in. It really did feel worse than being at the doctor's, he reconfirmed. The drill used here would be words penetrating into the gray matter of his brain, and he knew it would hurt worse than an operation would under anesthetic. Pain was what it was all about, and there would be no anesthetic used in the removal of this particular tumor, if it—like the real one—could even be removed.

  Michael stared down at his trembling hands as he waited, and wondered what he would do if treatment didn't work, and his secondary ‘disease’ was inoperable as well. There were no bottles at the checkout counters that could deal with this nightmare. No St. Johns Wort or L-Tyrosine at $9.95 on special, with half the bottle packed with cotton. He was contemplating suicide via overdose of Prozac when Patty returned, and ushered him into Veronica's office.

  Once again, he was awed Veronica McCord's simple beauty and casual elegance. Her taste was evident not only by the relaxed but stylish powder blue business suit she wore, with its accompanying delicate gold bracelet, but also by that smile reflected above the deep mahogany shine of her desk. What was it like to be able to smile like that? he wondered. Not the mask of a fake smile, this was the real thing. He saw right into her, not knowing how exactly. He just knew her to be genuine, open, and most of all, trustworthy. It calmed him enough to drop thoughts of suicide, although he could never be serious about that, for other reasons. He was trapped, he knew, and therefore desperate.

  "Morning, Michael,” Veronica McCord said in a friendly tone, gesturing to the white leather chair opposite her.

  "Hi,” he replied, as cheerfully as he could muster, admiring the way her natural red hair had been braided to one side, the shine of it alive in the natural lighting from the window behind her.

  Veronica looked down at a manila folder, and read something there. She made a note. And then her smile turned subtle and vacillated a bit. A few lines came into her once smooth forehead. The smile was not quite as natural, he could tell. He'd seen the same smile on the face of his medical doctor's. Or on David Letterman's. He braced himself for the worst.

  "For this session,” Veronica suddenly announced, “I'd like to get to the actual reason you're coming to see me each week. You mentioned wanting to stop your dreams, but I want to get to the root of those, okay? We have to know what the problem is before we can ever think of solving it."

  Michael avoided her critical gaze, studying the floor. Dream the impossible dream, he thought, ironically. But he said nothing. Could he tell her the truth?

  "If you'd like to lay down again, if that will help you, feel free.” She motioned to the couch behind him now, and rose momentarily as if to take her place in the Victorian-looking chair beside it there. She was much better looking than either Freud or the inept guidance counsellor from his high school days, who'd resembled Beowulf, still...

  "No, I'm too sleepy right now,” he told her, quickly. “I didn't sleep last night."

  She studied him, her depthless green eyes widening. “You didn't sleep at all?"

  "Not a wink. I didn't even go to bed."

  "You do look awful. So what did you do?"

  He shrugged it off, as best he could. “I went downtown. I took more photos."

  "Did you bring some of them like I asked?"

  "I will next time. Promise.” He saw disappointment in her eyes now. “I did start my journal ... a log of the dreams, and a memory book."

  "That's good, Michael. I want you to date each entry, and write down whatever you remember about your dreams, and if you have memories of your past, write those down too. Keep the journal beside your bed. You might want to keep a small recorder handy too, so you won't have to turn on the light. Light can wake you up, you know."

  "But I want to be awake,” he heard himself say.

  "Yes, but you need your sleep. You're not getting enough of it. I want you to see a doctor, too, for a physical. You seemed jittery last time, and your voice, it's..."

  "What?” he asked. “What?"

  "Intense, but weak. Like you're on drugs or something. Are you taking drugs, Michael?"

  He shook his head, then stopped himself and nodded slowly. “I mean I work at a coffee house. That's the number one drug there is, right? Caffeine? I need it to stay awake, when I—"

  "What? When you what?"

  He paused, looking for clues to understanding and sympathy in her gaze. “When I know it's going to be bad."

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you mean, bad?"

  "Bad, you know. Really bad. Sometimes I just know. It depends on what I'm been thinking about before it's time to go to bed. I try not to think about those things."

  "What things?"r />
  "I said I try not to think about that."

  "You'll have to, when you're with me. That's what I'm here for. Do you mean memories?"

  "Yes, memories.” He paused, trying to frame the words to explain it. Then he said: “When evening comes I go to work and listen to all the college kids that come in to talk about a zillion other things. You know, like exams and dating and sports, or how some idiot barfed up his tacos after he guzzled a pitcher of Coors at the frat party. On those nights, when they're all laughing and telling jokes, I can kinda get into the flow of it, and imagine I went to a college like theirs too. Like I never ran away from going to college. Like there was this other me that had the same experiences they did. This alternate me. You know? Like I'd lived a parallel life that I just couldn't quite remember. On those nights I can just drink decaf. It'd be all right. I was okay. Didn't have to go downtown, then. I can go straight to bed, with the help of a beer, maybe."

  Veronica wrote herself another note, then looked up. “At some point, we'll have to talk about what happened in your past, so I can see how your memories affect you. But you should know that drinking too much coffee isn't good for you either, Michael. Caffeine is a stimulant to the central nervous system, and dilates the coronary blood vessels while constricting cerebral vessels. Do you get migraine headaches? Caffeine is also a diuretic, you know. Causes insomnia, restlessness, increased anxiety, gastrointestinal distress, and the need to urinate."

  "Speaking of that,” he said, “may I use your restroom?"

  Her look hardened. “I'm not kidding,” she insisted.

  "Neither am I,” he lied, and rose.

  She directed him.

  Once in the restroom, with the door closed, he stared into the mirror at his pale face. He ran some hot water, and put both clammy hands under it. It was obvious, he realized. He had been drinking way, way too much coffee. But it kept him awake, that was the important thing. Plus it helped with the headaches. As a supplemental drug of choice, it was better to him than straight vodka or even medical marijuana. The pressure that has brought his dreams back radiated from the middle of his brain, and caffeine helped him cope to an extent. Not completely, though, of course.

  He took out a small bottle of green pills, extracted one, and swallowed it, chasing it with a handful of water. No coffee here, he realized. No coffee maker in these offices that he'd seen, so the pretty shrink probably didn't understand what a good cup of coffee—a great cup of joe—was really like. Was she one of those insipid tea drinkers who ate scones and English muffins while discussing Freud and P.G. Wodehouse? he wondered. Or was the conversation more about her nutty clients, their names changed for legal purposes? Maybe his own name would become Walter Mitty, in that case. You know, Stella, instead of taking so much Valium, you should try what my wacky patient Walter does to cope with his miserably tortured soul.

  Would that be her? He hoped not.

  He splashed hot water up into his face from the sink, and then gave the toilet a flush on his way out. When he resumed the hot seat, the good doctor tried to disarm him with a question about his hobbies and friends.

  "I don't have either of those,” he replied evenly, “except at the Java House. But they're all too busy outside of work. I don't like people generally, anyway, and they generally don't like me. So it works out.” He shrugged, feigning indifference.

  She paused to digest that. “Maybe if you took the time to let someone know you, you'd find someone you'd be compatible with, and enjoy knowing."

  He spread his hands, playing along. “I don't hate people, it's them understanding me that's the problem. No one really gives me a chance. I guess it's too hard, and others are easier to figure out, so they move on."

  "Find someone with a shared interest, then. Photography, for instance."

  He smiled sadly. “Most amateurs go to Sabino Canyon to shoot saguaros and hummingbirds, Doc. Sunsets too, so they have pictures to mail all their relatives in Michigan. You know, all those paunchy, balding types nearing their golden years, who haven't moved down here yet to live in one of those new subdivisions raping the desert. As for the pros, they're too busy shooting weddings and birthdays."

  Veronica was edging toward exasperation. He'd seen the look before. “How about a hiking club?"

  "Bunch of retired codgers wishing their gossipy wives would let them play more golf."

  "So you don't like sports at all, then?"

  "Why are sports so important, anyway? What me to analyze that for you? Okay, doc ... Well, here you have two teams, or squads, trying to advance a ball toward a goal that the other group defends, right? Both teams have decided that this is an important endeavor, a worthy goal. The people watching also tend to identify with one side or the other. It never ever in a million years occurs to them that it's just guys running back and forth with a ball, wearing baggy shorts. They've all paid cold hard cash to be there, see, and if their team makes enough goals, they will also be declared legends in their own minds. Even better, the other team, which by the way represents everybody keeping them from success, gets declared the loser ... as in any combat situation where one squad maims and kills and plunders, and the other squad bleeds and dies. So in a way it's kinda like a mystical identification, as if a coronation was taking place. You know—where the flat part of the sword is tapped on each shoulder, conferring knighthood, and where the same blade lifts the heads off the shoulders of the enemy?"

  He paused to gauge her stoic reaction before rambling on ... “Symbolically, then, what you get from the game is title, gold, and a renewed sense of virility and power, with all the implied pillage, rape, and bloodshed. Instant catharsis! No seven years in therapy, trying to understand why daddy never hugged you. For the price of a ticket you get these gladiators to bear your alter ego into the arena, where survival goes to the fittest. Then you get to see your enemies symbolically laid in shallow graves with all the poets, philosophers, loners, and vegetarians. People like me."

  Veronica took in and then let out a long slow breath. Finally, she knit her beautiful brows, studying him. “You're a vegetarian?"

  "Not anymore."

  "Can we talk about your dreams now, Michael?” she asked wearily.

  After a moment she lifted both her ledger and one eyebrow, ready to take notes. Michael studied her for a moment, then sighed in defeat. Misdirection failed, reversal of roles reversed again, now he didn't know where to begin.

  POSTMARKED FOR DEATH

  (originally in hardcover from Write Way Press, and an audiobook narrated by Frank Muller. Now an e-book from Fictionwise.com.

  About a politically-motivated letter bomber hunted by a rookie postal inspector, who is the only person who suspects the police are looking for the wrong man.)

  * * * *

  Prologue

  He pushed through the swinging back doors into the carrier station. People he'd seen every day for years were there, busy as usual. He walked past them. When he got to the big fan set up near the stairwell, he paused and stared into it. Taking off his sunglasses for a moment, he gazed into the polished and spinning surface of the fan's convex center hub.

  It was like a circus mirror.

  His face appeared fat, and drenched with sweat. His bloodshot eyes stared back at him like a clown's whose makeup had run. He turned to look back at the others, wondering if they saw too, but no one cared for sideshows.

  The stairwell's doorknob beckoned. Gleaming. Seeing a tiny but headless reflection of his body mirrored in it, he reached out his hand in fascination. Then he gripped it. Suddenly, resolutely. Like a handshake. Finally, he opened the door and stepped inside.

  Once on the staircase, he began to climb methodically, one step at a time. Having come to return his postal carrier pack as he'd been instructed, he now opened the pack and withdrew the .45 automatic inside. When he arrived at the top of the stairs, he opened the door into the office hallway, and could hear the secretaries chatting together. Laughing.

  It was cooler up here
. Much cooler.

  He ran his hand across his matted hair, feeling for a moment the cold air streaming down from the vent nearest him. Then he lifted his gun, and started down the hallway. Walking past the offices, he fired as he went. When he got to the corner office, he found station manager Ollie Westover behind his mahogany desk, on the phone. A cup of black coffee was spilled across several papers.

  Ollie looked up and said, “No—don't do it ... Thompson, right?"

  "Right,” Thompson said. And fired.

  Afterward, he went to the window, and gazed down at the street fronting the postal station. As he waited, he felt the air conditioning coming from the vent above Ollie's slowly cooling body. Then, in the distance, he heard the expected sirens approach. At last, several police cars and an unmarked white Cavalier arrived, screeching into the front lot, narrowly missing several patrons.

  He smiled sadly as he put the .45 to his own head.

  "Vaya con Dios," he whispered.

  * * * *

  1

  Calvin folded the afternoon's Tucson Citizen, and sighed. Another loser, he thought. What was next? He pushed the paper back across his kitchen table, and picked up his own postal I.D.:

  United States Postal Service, Tucson Arizona 85726.

  Calvin Beach, Data Kee 1A-84937.

  His face in the photo was humorless, the expression of a man who'd just been to a funeral. And he had. His father's on that go around. His thick black hair had been shorter then. In the photo, he was squinting. That was before he started wearing sunglasses inside ... before he'd started growing more and more sensitive to light, a side effect of the diabetes which had also left him impotent. Surprisingly, the photo showed him wearing a Madras shirt—a shirt he no longer owned because he wore mostly fatigues now. His usual clothes were Army surplus, and fit his short, stocky frame better than most of the K-Mart or men's store clothes he'd tried. He still had the white shirt he'd worn to his mother's funeral the day after he'd graduated from Rincon High, but he hadn't worn that lately. He wondered if it even fit him, now. He didn't look fat. He was just wider these days. Fireplug, they called him at work, mostly behind his back.