Mathis persists and finally gets one eyelid to partly unstick. It is just enough that he can see the shape of Troy approaching the side of the bed. He sidles closer to Sabine, to a spot where Mathis can only see half of his body. From this position, even if he strains his eyeballs hard left, he can’t see Troy’s face. He can’t see Sabine at all.
“How’s this going?” Troy asks, waving a half-assed hand over Mathis’s body.
“If you mean how is he doing, he’s going to be fine.” Sabine’s tone is frosty. “Robert is a very strong man,” she adds, squeezing his hand with reassurance.
“Hm. I see,” Kellen says dismissively. Mathis notes that there is no attempt at charm this time. Troy sounds like his game avatar, Dookie, not the smarmy therapist he usually portrays in reality.
“Well, I hate to bother you again during this difficult time,” Troy continues, saying the right words, entirely void of sincerity. “But has Aislen come back by here tonight?”
“Why do you ask?” Sabine doesn’t give an answer either way.
She doesn’t trust him. Good girl, Mathis thinks.
“She never showed back up at work last night, and she’s not answering her phone. I went by to check your house, but there was no answer at the door. We’re all very concerned.”
Mathis feels the warmth drain from Sabine’s hand. Troy has hooked her.
Mathis tries again to open his eyes, focusing all his brain power toward the front of his face but can only get them to flicker a millimeter.
“Oh. That’s not right,” Sabine says absent-mindedly. Mathis can tell by the tone of her voice that Aislen has not been back to the hospital and that Sabine is already mentally scouring the city for where her daughter could possibly be. He attempts to roll his eyeballs around under his lids. Maybe Sabine will notice and think he is having a seizure, and he can stop what he knows is coming.
“I was afraid of that,” Troy says. “To be honest, I’ve been worried all day.”
Mathis’s hair stands on end at the bald-faced lie.
“I didn’t want to pry or seem like a stalker, but it didn’t feel right to me either. So I had her phone pinged.”
“And?” Sabine radiates with the distinct anxiety of a worried mother, balancing on the edge of panic. Mathis had felt that from countless mothers over the years.
Through the imperceptible slits of his eyes, Mathis watches Troy pull a phone out of his pocket and hears a sharp intake of breath.
“That’s Aislen’s phone!” Sabine tips over into panic, and panic is exactly where Troy wants her.
“Yes. I found it in the bushes at the hospital. And her car is still in the parking lot.”
“Oh my God! That’s not possible!”
Mathis sees Troy lift his hand up and reach toward Sabine. Mathis feels him pull Sabine’s hand away from his.
“I know how alarming this all is, Ms. Walker. But I think I have a lead on where Aislen might be. If you could come with me, I could use your help.”
Nooooo! Mathis yells, but his voice never engages, and the scream echoes in his head. There is another way. Mathis has resources. They could have the whole state looking for Aislen within minutes. If he could only get Sabine to listen. He tries with his eyes again, striving to send an SOS through the flickering of his lids. But he has spent all his energy, and lethargy is creeping back up to pull him back down.
“Absolutely!” Sabine says, already out the door in her head.
Dread floods through Mathis’s body, giving lethargy the upper hand.
Mathis feels Sabine kiss his forehead and hears her say something to him. It is nothing but soft static.
Through the narrowing slit of heavy lids, Mathis watches as Sabine walks away from him. The sinking feeling in his gut gives lethargy the final advantage, and Mathis slips back into the darkness, knowing he will never see her again.
Twenty-Five
A thick, white fog encircled her, billowing and wafting, doing whatever the wind and the weather wanted of it. The hush was thick and heavy, easy to sleep in. But is it really sleep if you are aware?
Her awareness increased, and the thick billows pulled away. Aislen was standing on a hill amidst a lush green sea of hills. The fog rested on their curves like a down blanket, only the forested tops of cypress pines and eucalyptus peeking out. The opaque brume continued its slow drawl back to sea, revealing more of the surroundings. In the distance, two orange vermilion towers pierced through the periwinkle glow of the stratus: the Golden Gate Bridge. She was still in San Francisco. But she was most definitely in a dream. Aislen could tell by the quality of the experience now.
Raziel would be upset. She was supposed to be resting, not Traveling, but the view and the surreal quiet were so tranquil that it felt deeply restorative, so she didn’t make any attempt to wake. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, she reasoned.
Aislen noticed she was on a sidewalk and was compelled to stroll down the street. As she reached the corner, a row of the most picturesque Victorian houses lined the street. Unlike the gaudy belles of Haight, each of these was a pristine white, each gabled rooftop crowned in red to match the bridge towers not far below.
One house in particular felt familiar, although Aislen had never actually seen these houses before. She walked toward it, drawn by curiosity and a need to explore. She was alone on the street, and of course, in a Viewing, no one would see her taking a peek. It really was quite lovely.
As she walked up the sidewalk toward the wrap-around porch, an inkling of nostalgia turned in her belly, but she couldn’t place it. There was no reason for such a feeling.
She continued up the steps and noticed two black numbers nailed to the wall: 59. Random numbers, but somehow they felt significant. She walked across the wooden porch toward the door, each step increasing the curdling dread in her stomach. She would have turned back, but the dream had her now.
She reached for the doorknob, then stopped. It didn’t need to be opened. Aislen concentrated all her energy, pulled herself together into a compact force, and pushed her way through the portal. There was a deafening pop. She hoped it was only that loud in her ears because that one would wake the neighbors.
Once inside, she unfolded her awareness and surveyed the foyer. Her stomach lurched with revulsion as she instantly recognized where she was. Sigmund’s house! The stairwell was on her left, the hallway to the kitchen stretched out before her, and the doorway to the basement on the right.
Aislen didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to see the aftermath of Sigmund’s confrontation with Astrid and Thomas. She turned to fly back out the door, back to a place where she could find pure sleep instead.
“Mommy?” a thin little voice called out: scared, confused, and again, familiar. Its timbre carried a frequency that collided with Aislen’s, triggering a matching response, like a tuning fork hitting just the right note.
“Mommy? Open the door.” There were some soft knocks against wood coming from the top of the stairs.
Aislen slowly pivoted back around, searching the top of the stairs for the source of the scared voice. There was a child up there, half in shadow, half obstructed by a banister. Aislen couldn’t tell if it was a little boy or little girl by its shape or its voice. But a fugue pulled back in her brain and she knew exactly who it was going to be. She moved up the stairs, drawn to the small boy who was going to be her father.
He was standing before the door, staring at it, hoping it would open. He was tow-headed, the pale, spun-gold locks not yet darkened by age. He wore a short-sleeved, button-down shirt with navy blue vertical stripes tucked into creased, navy slacks. He had a little belt with a shiny silver buckle and black leather shoes. The clothes looked handmade or like something out of a Sears catalog. He was only about five years old.
Little Preston turned and looked up at Aislen directly. The pupils of his dark blue eyes contracted as he focused on Aislen’s face. He didn’t just feel her there–he actually saw her!
“Mommy
is in there,” Preston whispered extra softly, pointing a pudgy finger at the door. He looked at the door and back at Aislen. “And someone else,” he said. “A bad man.”
Aislen looked at the door and back down at the little version of her father. “Do you want me to go in there?”
Preston nodded. “Yes, please.”
Aislen didn’t want to. She had no idea what she would find behind the door. She feared Sigmund would be there and didn’t want to witness any of the disgusting things he was capable of. But Preston stood there so alone and helpless, needing his mom, that Aislen felt compelled to try to get Astrid to come out of the bathroom and take care of him.
Aislen contracted herself, consolidating her energy field, and pushed through the keyhole of the door so she wouldn’t make any startling noises and call attention to her presence.
She expanded and took in the view: that bathroom, that tub, and Astrid lying in it, fully dressed. Water leaked over the top of the tub, the faucet a slow, steady trickle, keeping it filled to the brim.
There was a man in the room with her, an apparition really, and it wasn’t Sigmund Lange. The ghosted version of a man hovered over Astrid in the tub, his head bent down by hers. He whispered in her ear, a steady stream of hushed sounds that Aislen could not make out.
Her entrance hadn’t interrupted him, and her presence didn’t seem to garner his attention. She dared to move closer to eavesdrop on what he was saying.
Astrid’s head was barely above the water, only her eyes, nose and upper lip above the water line. Her hair was soaking wet, like she had already been under several times. Aislen couldn’t tell if it was tears or water from her wet locks streaming down her face.
Aislen’s presence still hadn’t disturbed the man looming over Astrid. Aislen evaluated him. He looked to be about thirty and wore a tan suit with wide lapels and a wide black tie around his neck. His brown hair was groomed but too long to be called clean-cut, and he sported thick side burns down the arch of his jaw line.
As she moved closer, Aislen was able to make out what he was saying.
“You can do it,” he mumbled. “C’mon Astrid, you know you want to.”
Wants to what? Aislen thought. The man had a dew of perspiration across his forehead though there was no steam in the room or coming off the bathwater. He was working hard at whatever he was doing.
“Just go ahead and slip under that water, Astrid,” he continued. “But hold yourself under this time. Join Thomas. He’s waiting for you…just on the other side. You know you want to see him again.”
Aislen went cold. Was this man trying to get Astrid to kill herself? Why? What purpose did that serve? Was Thomas actually dead? The sick feeling in her stomach cranked up a notch. Whatever happened with Thomas would not have been an accident. And Aislen realized this man was a Viewer, an earlier version of what Raziel was.
“Go on, Astrid. He’s right here waiting for you.”
Astrid slipped under the water of her own volition. Aislen almost screamed out but stifled it. She didn’t want the man to notice her. But why not? If she could scare him off, Astrid could have a chance to snap out of her suicidal stupor. But Raziel had said something…something about altering the future if you changed the past.
She wanted to scream, wanted to disrupt the room enough to eject this man. But if she changed the course of events as they happened on this day, she would change the course of her father’s life, and she could alter herself out of existence.
Aislen hesitated. Astrid lay at the bottom of the tub looking up through the ripples of the bath water, her face placid and emotionless.
“Mommy?” Preston whimpered outside the door, tapping his soft knuckles against the wood again.
Astrid slid up to the surface, gasping for breath. Preston was her lifeline, calling her back from the brink of self-destruction.
“God damn it, Astrid!” The Viewer growled, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand.
How long had this been going on? Aislen wondered. Astrid looked drained; tired lines etched her face, dark circles weighted her eyes. The past few years had aged her, and the past few hours hadn’t helped. Aislen’s heart broke for her, broke for her father outside the door.
She needed to do something now–for the sake of her father. He deserved a happy childhood, a normal life. She took a deep breath, preparing to unleash a storm of energy in the room, but the sound of a key in the lock downstairs stopped her. The menacing sound of hard footsteps followed, marching up the stairs. The particular rhythm of its gait was well-known to her. She knew who it would be. As another key slipped into the lock of the bathroom door, Aislen flung herself across the room to hide her presence. The door flung open, and Sigmund Lange strolled in. He was holding Preston’s small hand in his, bringing him into the bathroom with him. The Viewer stepped back from the tub, pure, unadulterated fear on his face.
“C’mon, Preston. Let’s have a looky now, shall we?” Sigmund’s voice oozed saccharine.
Preston followed, looking up at his grandfather with distrust.
“Yep. Just like I figured,” he said, looking down at Astrid in the tub. She continued staring blankly straight ahead. “Look at her, Preston. This weak bitch is your mother.”
He let go of Preston’s hand and went closer to the tub, towering over the helpless, broken women in the water. “I knew she would never amount to anything the moment I cut her out of her mother. I knew she was nothing like me. I should have let her die in that ratchet whore.”
Aislen was horrified. What kind of person would talk like that to a child about his mother?
This kind: Sigmund Lange.
Aislen felt a scratching at her skull: the memory of Sigmund’s gnarly finger at her head. She shuddered violently, throwing him off. Thank God he was dead! She couldn’t believe she’d actually felt pity as Troy choked the life out of him. Good riddance!
“She is a feeble, cowardly, witless slut,” Sigmund spat down on her. Each insult made Aislen flinch, but Astrid didn’t react. After so many years of suffering them, she was immune.
“Grant!” Sigmund shouted sharply, and the apparition in the corner jumped. “Where are you?!”
The Viewer reluctantly brought his hand to the window next to him and placed it on the glass. It frosted over. Sigmund marched over to the empty space where the phantom was standing.
“You idiot! You are almost as worthless as she is!” Even though Sigmund was harmless to him, the man shrank. “You’ve been at this for hours! What the fuck is taking so long? You have got to start making this work! I’ve promised the board that this is possible, and I need that funding!”
Sigmund’s rage was unbridled, Astrid still lay unresponsive, and Preston focused only on his mother, ignoring the antics of his grandfather. Preston quietly inched closer to the side of the tub, reaching his hand up to the rim, lightly touching the water.
“We can’t wait for Preston to grow up to do this! We need results! NOW!” Sigmund screamed in Grant’s face.
Astrid finally showed signs of life, her head slowly lolling over toward Preston. Tears slipped over the corners of her eyes and rolled down her face into the bath water. She mustered enough strength to lift a hand from the water and stretched a finger toward Preston. Preston reached out and grabbed it, holding on to his mother’s index finger for dear life…her life.
“I am not going to be a government shill the rest of my life! I have worked too hard and too long for this!” Grant’s head hung low as Sigmund continued pouring his wrath upon him.
Preston’s gaze became more intense as though he was willing his mother to come back to him. And it worked. Astrid slowly scooted herself up from the water, regaining some of her presence of mind. The bath rippled. The drips from her hair and clothing tinkled in the water. Sigmund’s head snapped Astrid’s direction.
“Don’t you dare!” Sigmund roared violently, not at Astrid but at Preston.
It almost shocked Aislen out of the Vi
ewing, but the boy who would someday be her father was unfazed, concentrating on his mother, she on him.
“God damn it! If you want something done right…”
Sigmund took off his suit coat and neatly laid it on a chair. He carefully rolled up his sleeves past his elbows while he eyed Preston and Astrid. He stopped for a moment, taking in the view, a slow smile working on his mouth as if he were anticipating the pleasure of a good meal. He loosened his tie and marched to the tub, ripping Preston’s hand away from his mother’s and pushing him back roughly.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you are up to, you little brat!” Sigmund snarled. He turned back to Astrid in the tub. She shrank back down, trying to protect herself in the water.
Sigmund snorted with derision. “You’ve outlasted your purpose here, Astrid. It’s time for you to join Thomas.”
He reached down and grabbed Astrid’s head, clenching a mass of her hair in his fist. She cried out.
“Pappy?” Preston whimpered, eyes flooding with tears.
Sigmund glanced back over his shoulder at his grandson. “Watch and learn, boy.”
He shoved Astrid under the water. Astrid tried to resist, kicking and clawing at his arm, but she was no match for the fury of Sigmund Lange. He shoved her deeper into the water, pinning her head to the bottom of the tub.
“Pappy?” Preston tried again softly, but Sigmund was caught up, his eyes alight with a pleasure verging on ecstasy.
Astrid’s body began to shudder and jerk involuntarily. Water sloshed out of the tub in waves, falling on the floor and through the fissures in the wood slats. Her body finally went limp, except for a few final death twitches.
“Mmmmm, that’s right,” Sigmund moaned, his rage finally spent.
“Mommy,” Preston whispered softly, closing his eyes, letting the tears spill over.
Sigmund released her hair and straightened up, watching her body rest on the bottom.
Time Walker: Episode 2 of The Walker Saga Page 18