by Liam Jackson
At 8 a.m., Michael began the search for a doctor. Confiding in his family physician was out of the question. Doc Hanover was okay for giving flu shots or writing scripts for Pepcid, but the gabby old fart had a host of patients who also worked for the P.D. Besides, Hanover was a general practitioner. Michael figured he may as well cut to the chase and find a doctor who specialized in nutcases.
Armed with the Greater Kansas City Metro Directory, he systematically called the physicians found under the listing of Psychiatrists. The first six calls were busts.
"Sorry. The doctor only accepts referrals," or "Yes, we can work you in. How does March sound?"
Pam sat quietly, sipping freshly brewed coffee. Except for moral support, she had little to contribute to the search process, but Michael figured that was more than enough. Giving her a reassuring smile, he dialed another number.
CHAPTER 4
Little Rock, Arkansas
Joseph "Popeye" Turner steered the Kenworth onto the shoulder of the interstate. Coming to a full stop, he glanced at his passenger.
What? Fifteen, maybe? Sixteen, tops. Too young to shave and for damn sure too young to be thumbing rides on the interstate.
A father of four, Popeye wondered what kind of parents let a kid hitch across the country. The kid had a good story, traveling east to take care of a sick relative, but Popeye wasn't sure he bought it. Probably be a runaway, he reasoned. A picture on a milk carton, just waiting to happen, and God knew, Popeye had seen many of them over his career as a crosscountry trucker.
No wonder, really. The whole world is going to straight to hell, he thought sadly. And it's going there fast. Countless wars abroad, murderers and rapists at home, and lately, all these missing kids. It's enough to make a grown man squall.
As he studied the boy from the corner of his eye, he decided there was something else, something peculiar about the boy. Popeye couldn't quite put a finger on it, but there was definitely something to be sure. The scrawny kid with the tangled mop of red hair and the baggy Levis was different from the youngsters that Popeye usually encountered out on the road. The kid had some indefinable quality that made you want to reach out and give him a helping hand. That was one of the reasons Popeye had ignored a strict company policy and took the boy aboard as a passenger back in Amarillo.
It had been snowing to beat the band. Popeye wouldn't let a dog stand out in such weather, much less a kid.
"This exit will put you on the highway you want. There's a Shell Supercenter at the bottom of that off-ramp," he said, pointing to the Exit sign. "If you hang out there for a spell, you'll be able to hitch a ride outta Little Rock and into Memphis."
The boy smiled and nodded, but said nothing. Instead, he opened the door and stepped out onto the running board. Reaching back inside the cab of the truck, he grabbed the strap of a well-worn duffel bag and pitched it to the asphalt below. He started to follow the bag to the ground, then paused and turned back to Popeye.
"Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it."
Checking the breast pocket of his denim jacket and coming up empty, the boy checked his jeans and drew out a small wad of dollar bills.
"I don't have much cash, but—"
Popeye shook his head and smiled. "No, sir, I won't take yer money. In fact"—he drew out his long leather wallet, and unfastened the chain that secured it to his belt. He took out a couple of twenties and handed them to the boy. "Take it, son. You need it a lot worse than I do."
The boy hesitated, but Popeye insisted.
"Son, I don't know where you're headed, or what you're going to do when you get there, but hitching is a hard way to go. I can't help you anymore than what I'm trying to do right now. So, please, take the money."
Smiling, the boy shook his head. "I'm fine, really. Maybe you oughta save it for somebody that really needs it. And it's Sam. My name is Sam."
Popeye nodded. There was more that he wanted to say, and questions that he wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't come.
"You take care, Sam. It's a crazy old world out there."
The boy nodded and flashed another small grin. "I will. And thanks, again." Sam jumped down from the running board and slung the duffel bag over a narrow shoulder.
With a grinding of gears and a cloud of diesel exhaust rising up from twin stacks, the Kenworth pulled out onto the six-lane. Within seconds, Popeye Turner and his truck were out of sight.
Sam thought about the trucker as he made his way down the exit ramp. The truck driver was dead-on the mark about one thing. This was a crazy old world.
CHAPTER 5
Kansas City, Missouri
Michael thanked the person on the other end of the line and hung up. "Finally." Michael felt as if a house had been lifted from his shoulders.
Pam smiled and said, "What time is your appointment?" Michael stood, stretched, and glanced at the clock. "One fifteen. I have just enough time to grab a shower and shave. I still can't believe there's a shrink willing to work me in on two hours' notice."
Pam stood and wrapped her arms tightly around her husband. Michael was a large man, a former college athlete, and still powerfully built. At five feet ten, Pam was tall but the top of her head barely reached his chin.
"I knew you'd find a doctor today," she whispered. "And he's going to tell you that you have a chemical imbalance or some other perfectly ordinary problem, and he's going to give you a big old shot in your cute little butt and make you all better."
Michael chuckled and kissed the top of her head. "First of all, I think 'he' is a 'she.' Dr. Uriel Justice. And I'm not letting any strange woman give me anything in my cute little butt."
Pam gave him another squeeze and giggled. "You're no fun!" Drawing slightly away, Pam turned serious. "You want me to come with you? I mean, will it help if I'm there?"
Michael shook his head and grinned. "It doesn't matter. I don't think I'll have any trouble telling a perfect stranger that I'm cracking up."
Pam gave him her infamous, no-nonsense "Michael Price Collier, enough of that!" glare. "I'm being serious!"
Michael burst out laughing. Damn. Almost forgot what laughing feels like.
At one o'clock, Michael pulled into the crowded parking lot of the prestigious Paxton Medical Tower. Ten minutes later, he stepped out of an elevator and into a long, plush corridor filled with colorful flower arrangements and other small shrubbery. Michael sighed, squared his shoulders, and set off in pursuit of suite 1134.
He moved along the corridor, examining doors with brass and onyx nameplates that displayed a vast array of medical specialties. After a few seconds, he realized the entire floor was a who's who of diseases, most of which he couldn't pronounce.
Walking the length of the hall, Michael noticed an Exit sign that led to the stairwell. Across the hall from the exit was a polished door made of oak and trimmed in burnished copper. Riveted to this door was a simple brass plate bearing the name of dr. uriel justice and associates.
Finally!
As he reached for the door handle, Michael realized his hand was trembling. "Shake it off, Collier," he muttered, and with a final exaggerated sigh, he pushed open the door and stepped into... an empty office.
He quickly checked the address on the slip of paper in his hand. "Damn it! It would have been nice if the receptionist had mentioned they moved the frigging office!"
Frustrated but resolved, Michael glanced at his watch and started for the door. He still had time to find a pay phone and track down the new office location. He jerked open the door and stepped out into the hall, and promptly ran broadside into a janitor's cart, upsetting the cart and the janitor with it.
Michael reached out and simultaneously grabbed both the cart and the old man before either could hit the carpet. The cart looked none the worse for wear from the impact. The old man, on the other hand, looked like he had seen better days.
"Hey, I'm really sorry about that," stammered Michael. "You okay?"
The old man chuckled as he rested agai
nst the cart. "Oh, Ah'm fine, jez fine. No harm done."
Michael nodded, but he wasn't so sure. The old-timer was holding his ribs and politely trying to hide a grimace. A name tag was sewn onto the man's dark blue shirt, bearing the name of Horace.
"Horace, are you sure you're okay? I mean, should I get you a doctor or something?"
The old man grinned and waved a thin arm in a grand sweeping motion.
"Not to worry, son. If I need a doctor, I believe I can find one 'round here."
Nodding, Michael released his grip on Horace's emaciated arm.
Nothing but skin and bones in that sleeve. A damn wonder I didn't break him in half. "Well, if you're sure..."
Horace nodded and gave Michael a quick wink. "I'm fine as rain, son. Don't you worry none. You got more important things to be doin' right now."
The old man pushed the cart against the wall, then ambled a short way down the long hall to a waiting upright vacuum. Untangling the machine's long cord, he plugged it into an empty wall socket.
Following along behind the old man, Michael said, "I'm looking for Dr. Justice's office. Dr. Uriel Justice. Can tell you tell me where he... or she, moved?"
Horace, now singing some nonsensical ditty about a cat in a bathtub, was busy inspecting the vacuum cleaner's collection bag and never looked up.
"Doc Uriel was a he. That's his office, right behind you."
Speaking loudly, as if the old man was deaf instead of simple, Michael said, "It was his office. It's empty now. Can you tell me where he moved?"
Horace turned to face Michael, both eyes nearly white with cataracts. "Son, you lookin' for old Doc Justice?"
Michael decided this was going nowhere, fast. "Look, uh, Horace. I have an appointment with Dr. Justice. Can you just tell me where I can find his office?"
Horace grinned and scratched his chin. "Son, I done told you. That was his office right behin' you. 'Course, he ain't in, on account he passed on sometime ago."
Speechless, Michael stared at the old man. "But I talked to his receptionist this morning! So, all I want to know is... forget it. This is nuts. You take care, old-timer." Michael turned and headed for the elevator.
Just as he reached for the button that would summon his ride to the ground floor, Horace called out cheerfully, "Glad I could help, son."
Michael waved over his shoulder, then punched the Down button. "Yeah, thanks!"
"Crazy old fart," he muttered under his breath.
Three minutes later, he was still waiting, with nothing but the distant irritating drone of a vacuum cleaner to keep him company. The elevator lights indicated that both elevators were sitting on the top floor and neither showed any signs of moving. Glancing impatiently at his watch, Michael headed back down the long corridor toward the stairwell exit.
The old man, his back to Michael, was pushing and then dragging the heavy-duty upright across the thick pile carpet. As Michael made his way past, he cast a glance in Horace's direction, then froze. It wasn't Horace.
Instead, a young Hispanic man, wearing the same blue uniform, was sprinkling copious amounts of Carpet Helper over the floor, and methodically vacuuming it up. A familiar wave of vertigo washed over Michael and he placed his hand on the wall to steady himself.
"Sir? Hey. You okay?"
As Michael's vision cleared, he saw the janitor was speaking to him. Nodding, he said, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."
The young man smiled doubtfully, but started to walk away when Michael stopped him and said, "Where did Horace go?"
The young man turned off the vacuum with the toe of his shoe. "Who?"
"Horace," repeated Michael. "You know, the old janitor that was just up here. He was pushing that cart."
The young man shook his head. "I've been using that cart all day."
Michael's fear and confusion evaporated, giving way to rage. He took an unsteady step toward the confused janitor. "Don't try to game me, asshole! Where is the old man?"
The janitor, intimidated by Michael's size, and even more so by the wild glint he saw in Michael's eyes, slowly backed away.
"Look, man, I swear we don't have anyone by that name on staff. I oughta know. I'm the supervisor on this site!"
Michael stopped, and his anger faded as rapidly as it had appeared. Once more, he was nearly overcome by the self-realization that he was losing his mind. "I... I'm sorry. So... sorry." Michael turned and stumbled down the corridor.
As he reached the double doors that led to the stairwell, he glanced at Dr. Uriel's old office. This time, a large yellow envelope was taped to the door beneath the nameplate. Confused, Michael stared at it for several seconds. His name was printed on the envelope in large, block letters. Beneath his name, a signature, scrawled in red ink, read: From your friend, Horace.
Tentatively, Michael reached for the envelope, half expecting it to disappear before his eyes. When it didn't, he pulled the envelope from the door and tore it open. Turning the envelope upside down, he gave it a shake. A cheap U.S. road map slid out into his hand. Carefully, Michael unfolded it and saw that the state of Tennessee had been outlined with a felt marker. As Michael studied the map, he noticed that someone had drawn a small circle in red ink around a tiny community just east of Knoxville. Abbotsville.
CHAPTER 6
Chicago, Illinois
Paul fidgeted with his watch as Rita finished packing the last of her bags. Rita just couldn't deal with his growing insanity any longer, and that was that. She had tried; he had to give her that. Oh, how she had tried. But in the end, it all came down to a single, simple fact. She couldn't bear to watch helplessly as her husband lost his mind.
Having stuffed the last of her clothes into an oversized Samsonite, Rita struggled with the zipper. Paul saw that her hand was shaking and it nearly broke his heart. He walked across the room and gently moved her hand. "Here. Let me do that."
He carefully drew the zipper around the edge of the suitcase, and stood it upright near the edge of the bed, beside her other bags.
"I guess that's everything," she said. Paul nodded and moved back near the window. Rita played with the catch on a small overnight bag, careful to avoid eye contact with the man she had shared a bed with for the past twelve years.
Paul cleared his throat and said, "I can help you move everything downstairs if you like."
Rita shook her head and said, "Dad will be here in a few minutes. He'll help me load it all into the car so there's really no reason for you to wait around if you have other things to do."
Rita started to say more, but turned away instead. Paul knew that she didn't want him in the house when the time came for her to drive away. Leaving would be hard enough without his presence complicating matters. Paul decided to make it easier for her.
"That's great... I mean, that your dad is going to help you load the car. I... I do have some errands to run." Rita nodded and brushed a tear from her cheek. Paul moved to hug her a final time, but stopped.
Instead, he said in a quiet voice, "Take care, Rita. I... take care." With that, he walked out of the house without looking back.
Downstairs, he brushed the tears from his eyes. There was nothing more to say. Oh, there were things he wanted to say. He wanted to hold her and whisper that everything would be fine, that he was just going through a rough time. That eventually, everything would return to normal. He wanted to tell her that he understood why she had to go, but to keep her bags packed because she would be coming home soon. He wanted to beg her to put her clothes back in the closet, that he would get help.
He said none of those things, because he didn't believe any of them. He knew there was no help for his problem, at least not the kind provided by a doctor or a bottle of pills. Paul Young knew that he wasn't sick.
For weeks, leading up to the here and now, he had endured loss of sleep, nervous anxiety, and one hell of a case of cabin fever. Even his staff recognized that he was having trouble concentrating, a particularly alarming condition for a certified public ac
countant. At first, he thought the nightly visitations were nothing more than vivid nightmares. Horrible to be sure, but still, dreams and nothing more.
A few days later, the daydreams started. Bizarre images came without warning, flashing before his eyes like a slide show. Sometimes, the images were of people he had never met, but he knew in his heart that they were real. Other times, the images were of distant places, familiar in a way, but without names. And sometimes... sometimes, the images were of things, terrible things, grotesque creatures caught in the act of committing unspeakable deeds.
So real, so vivid, the episodes were more hallucination than dream, and for a few days, Paul had shared Rita's concern that he was losing his mind. The images always left him filled with a strange mix of emotions, but the strongest reactions always involved a contemptuous loathing for the things-with-wings. Instinctively he hated these creatures, and he knew they hated him.
Then, one morning, two weeks ago today, he had an epiphany. Well, perhaps not so much an epiphany, he decided, but rather an acceptance. He finally understood and accepted that he hadn't been dreaming at all. He had been seeing. The nightmares were visions of the past, present, and future, and all without benefit of peyote or 'shrooms.
Initially, Paul struggled with the concept. He wasn't an especially religious man, nor was he even remotely interested in the metaphysical. However, he believed his newfound understanding to be the truth as surely as he believed the earth was round. He even tried to explain it all to Rita. He remembered watching her face as he talked, her expressions running the gamut from polite interest to genuine concern, then to a fear bordering on terror. That had been the beginning of the end.
He raised the garage door, looked at the remote control in his hand, then pitched it onto the lawn. Paul knew he was never coming back. He gave his gear a final check, tightening a strap here or a buckle there. His meager belongings had been packed for hours. He would travel light and everything he needed was already secured to the back of the Harley Roadster.