Haze

by E. R. Torre

  “What are your plans?”

  I smiled.

  “I’m going to ski,” I said.

  Jennifer let out a laugh.

  “Seriously.”

  Her laughter died. After a few seconds she said:

  “Are you crazy?”

  It was my turn to laugh.

  “I feel fine.”

  “You were just released from the hospital! When are you going?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Jennifer shook her head.

  “What in the world are you thinking?”

  “I feel fine,” I repeated, this time more seriously. “Look, I was going out of my mind in that hospital. McTeer told me to take my full vacation and sick leave from work, so what else was I going to do for the next three weeks?”

  “How about anything but skiing? You can’t be strong enough for that!”

  “I’ll stick to the bunny hills.”

  “Very funny. How did the Doctor react when you told her about this?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Because?”

  “I didn’t tell her.”

  “Of course. Had you said something, she would have told you not to go.”

  “Most likely,” I acknowledged. “Look, I’ll take it easy. I promise. This is more about the trip than anything else. I need to get out of here.”

  Jennifer thought about that for a few seconds. She knew there was no way to convince me of the error of my ways, because after a few seconds she nodded and said:

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next day after breakfast I called Jennifer. Her answering machine, as usual, took the call.

  "Hey, it’s me," I said. The phone was pinched between my shoulder and head, which allowed me to finish stuffing the last of the clothing into my suitcase. "I'm ready to go. It’s a little past ten and I’ll need you to pick me up any time before eleven. The plane leaves at one. See you soon."

  I replaced the phone in its cradle and did an inventory of what lay in the suitcase. Satisfied nothing more needed to be packed, I closed it up.

  Jennifer arrived at eleven on the dot. She was dressed sharp despite the usually casual Sundays. She walked gracefully into the apartment and examined me. I, in turn, couldn’t help but look right back. It was like looking at a mirror’s reflection. Male, female. She was left-handed, I was right. She was married with kids, I was single. She was successful, I was getting by. The only thing we shared, apart from blood, was that our careers revolved around computers. However, even there we were different: I was an office drone who detested them while she was the business owner who lived and breathed the latest in technology.

  “You look good,” I said. “Off to a wedding or a funeral?”

  “Your funeral,” she said.

  “Hope not.”

  “You don’t have to go.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t have to go.”

  I counted to ten and smiled.

  “Yes I do,” I said.

  Jennifer gave up on the argument. She knew better that waste time with me.

  “Ready?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Jennifer's car ran smooth along the nearly deserted highway. We would make it to the airport with plenty of time to spare.

  "How's Alan doing?" I asked. Alan was her husband of eight years.

  "Pretty good. We got another contact from Nelson and Partner. Could mean a very busy summer.

  "And David and Lory?"

  "They're fine. David wants to join the pee wee league. I don't think he's ready. Lory's discovered crayons and is convinced the walls of the house make the best drawing boards."

  She chuckled and I smiled. Of course things were good. It was a shame that for the past couple of weeks I sucked her away from that life and into mine.

  "I never did thank you for taking care of me. I don't know what I would have done without you."

  Jennifer offered a sly smile.

  "You're welcome," she said. She was silent for a few seconds before adding: "Correct me if I’m wrong, but that's the first time you've thanked me for anything without my having to badger you for it."

  "Don't make this any harder!” I protested not all that seriously. “I do appreciate what you did."

  "You're welcome," she repeated.

  "I didn't screw up any plans you had with Alan?"

  Jennifer shook her head.

  "Not really. The only day that got screwed up was the day I took you to Doctor Dixon’s office.”

  “Oh?”

  “We had a babysitter lined up. We planned to go out, get a quick dinner, and catch a film. It didn’t work out, but it was no big deal. We saw the movie a few days later. Frankly, it wasn’t worth the wait."

  I stared out the window. In the distance a single plane rose silently into the air.

  "Sorry about that," I said abstractly. "Which film were you going to...”

  I paused in mid-thought and turned to look at Jennifer.

  “Have you heard of John Robinson?"

  "The actor?"

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure,” she said. “He was in Collision Course. One of my all time favorite films. "

  "Never heard of it."

  "You wouldn’t,” she said. “It’s from the late fifties or early, early sixties. It’s a cult film. I saw it when I was a kid. Didn’t understand it at the time, but boy did I have a big crush on John Robinson afterwards.”

  “I won’t tell Alan.”

  Jennifer shook her head and giggled.

  “Robinson played a police detective,” she continued. “Not much of a stretch, really. He specialized in those roles. Anyway, in the film he’s searching for stolen money. The big twist is that his partner—”

  Jennifer stopped.

  “What?”

  “I’ll ruin the whole thing,” she said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Well,” Jennifer reluctantly continued. “Robinson’s partner, I forget the actor who played him in the movie, he’s a real old friend of Robinson’s. They met during the war –Korean, I think- and afterwards they settled in New York or Chicago or some other big city and re-connected. They go into law enforcement together and to everyone around them they’re like brothers.”

  “Or lovers.”

  “Don’t laugh,” Jennifer said. “That’s one of the movie’s more subtle subplots. If you ever see it, you’ll find that there’s more than enough evidence to suggest they probably were.”

  “I’m not so sure I want to see it anymore.”

  “Don’t be so uptight. The movie’s big twist is that Robinson’s partner turns out to be a real sleaze. In fact, he was in on the theft. Robinson, and the audience, doesn’t know it of course, but as he investigates, each clue leads him closer and closer to his friend. By the end, when he confronts him, it’s high melodrama. Pretty surprising for a hard-boiled detective story."

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “About what?”

  “You ruined it.”

  Jennifer laughed.

  “Why were you interested in him?”

  "One night back at the hospital I caught the news. They mentioned he had just died."

  "John Robinson?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jennifer looked at me as if I were crazy.

  “Are you kidding?"

  "About what?"

  "John Robinson didn’t ‘just’ die. He’s been dead for something like four or five years."

  For some reason, a chill ran through my bones.

  A dead anchor talking about a dead actor.

  It was so silly. But the feeling lingered and, after a while, I realized my sister was still staring at me.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “You aren’t confusing him with some other actor?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I must have been confused. How did he die?”

  “It was a skiing accident.”

&
nbsp; The chill abruptly vanished, leaving my head feeling light. I closed my eyes and all was dark. A distant, almost forgotten dream re-emerged from somewhere in that darkness.

  You’re standing alone, at the top of the mountain. The air is so cold it leaves you numb. The sun peeks out of the horizon. It’s early morning, and your breath leaves your body in puffs of smoke.

  You look down at the long path that extends before you. Beyond it lies the town and your distant home. Only a few lights twinkle from below. The early risers…

  You’re drawn there. You want so desperately to get back. Yet you’re exhausted and uncertain if you have the strength to make this long journey. Despite the doubts, you lean forward and begin your descent. Even as you do, a tiny voice in the back of your mind tells you you’ll never see home again.

  Your trip ends in violence and blood. Your body twists unnaturally and your bones shatter. There is the bitter taste of blood in your mouth and that is all you feel. Your head rolls back. You see the stars above, shining as they have since the beginning of time...

  Then you see nothing at all.

  “It was big news back when it happened,” Jennifer continued. “Robert? You’re pale. Are you all right?"

  “Sure, fine,” I said, perhaps a little too strongly.

  “You could have looked up this information online.”

  I rubbed my chin.

  “Sure I could have,” I said. There was sarcasm in my voice.

  “Right, I forgot,” Jennifer said. “Computers are for work, not leisure. I suppose you aren’t taking the laptop?”

  “Nope.”

  “How about a cell phone?”

  “No. I spend eight hours each day staring into a computer screen or talking into a cell phone. The last thing I need is to go on vacation and do the same.”

  I grabbed the suitcase from the trunk of Jennifer’s car and said goodbye. She waved but didn’t look back as she drove off. I then turned from the curb and joined a group of travelers making their way into the terminal. Most of them were headed to colder climates. They carried heavy jackets despite the balmy seventy five degree weather. A select few also carried skis tucked away in long, obvious canvas cases.

  It took only a few minutes to check my luggage in. Once done, I was free to walk the main concourse. There were no direct flights to Manville and, if all went according to schedule, I was looking at a two and a half hour trip to Houston followed by an hour layover. The final leg of the trip, Houston to Manville, would take another couple of hours. In total, I was looking at maybe six hours of tedium.

  I headed to a book and magazine kiosk. I needed something I could take to kill those long hours. I scanned the bookrack and examined the latest best sellers. There were action novels, mysteries, legal thrillers, and popular childhood fantasies. Sandwiched between the fantasy and science fiction section were the current crops of political propaganda texts masquerading as investigative research. Next to those books were self help manuals. It was amazing how many people knew the secret to getting rich. It probably involved selling a lot of books.

  I searched for several minutes but nothing in the book section looked particularly interesting. Moving along, I turned my attention to the newspaper and magazine racks. There were the magazines aimed at women, followed by similar magazines aimed at men. There was the news and economic section. Next to it was a section devoted to computers and technology.

  I’ll pass.

  This was followed by puzzle books and children’s magazines. I spent a few moments looking at some of the puzzle books, but couldn’t see myself spending a few minutes, much less several hours, working with numbers or crosswords. Next to that shelf was the largest magazine section. It was devoted to the entertainment industry.

  I lingered there.

  I scanned the magazine covers slowly, looking at each and reading their headlines. As I did, I felt the chill from Jennifer’s car return. Without realizing it, I held my breath, as if I knew I’d find it here…

  What are you looking for?

  I wasn’t exactly sure.

  Entertainment Weekly carried a piece on the coming summer movies. No. Variety dealt with the latest entertainment deals. No. People magazine had an article on a young starlet’s latest foray into self-annihilation. Behind the big magazines were the lurid gossip tabloids. Headlines detailed the big stars’ latest failings. Who was sleeping with whom. Who was cheating on whom. Who was getting too fat, who was looking alarmingly skinny. Who was found drunk or stoned or passed out and where and how.

  No, no, and no.

  I was about to give up when I noted, just behind the latest National Enquirer or Star or some such, the wrinkled cover of yet another tabloid magazine. On its upper right corner was a photograph of a snowy mountain. Like a kid in a supermarket parking lot, I found the discarded penny.

  Whoever took the picture was looking down the snowy path of a mountain. A ski slope.

  Behind him lies the town. He’s looking down at the trail.

  My hand shook as I reached for the tabloid. Hollywood Insider Press. Never heard of it. Below the picture of the mountain, and taking up no more than a sixth of the page, was a black and white photograph of John Robinson. He looked relaxed and very young.

  John Robinson, dead at 72, the headline read. A crudely drawn arrow pointed from the actor to the mountain. Within the arrow was written: The Fatal Site!

  Robinson’s death merited no more attention than that. The rest of the tabloid’s cover trumpeted the latest teenage movie vixens and their assorted troubles. Boyfriends, booze, and drugs. John Robinson seemed out of place in this setting.

  I opened the paper and found the article on Robinson’s death. It took up a full page and included more pictures of the mountain he was skiing on. The slopes looked so damn familiar. But then again, were skiing slopes ever all that different?

  I looked around some more. There were pictures of his mansion and a couple of photographs of the actor in various stages of his life. The text wasn’t very long and I could well have read it all standing right there, but didn’t.

  Instead, I closed the paper and headed for the counter.

  The Vendor looked me over for a second or two and said: “You O.K.?” His weathered face masked any trace of real concern.

  I placed the tabloid on the counter. The Vendor shrugged and picked it up. He searched for the price and, after a few seconds, frowned.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "Must've been some mistake."

  "A mistake?"

  "This paper. It must have gotten thrown in with the new stuff. Happens now and again."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You didn’t notice? This paper is old,” he said. “As I said, it happens now and again. Our distributors sometimes accidentally package a couple of last week’s papers in with todays. Sometimes, but rarely, I find a month old paper among the new ones. I gotta admit, this is the first time they've sent in a paper that's...what? Nearly six years old?"

  I took the paper back and glanced at the date printed on its upper corner. The Vendor was right. The tabloid was just a few days shy of six years old.

  "You mind if I take it anyway?"

  "Go ahead. I was going to throw it away."

  I removed change from my pocket. The Vendor shook it off.

  "This one's on the house."

  I didn’t argue the point. In spite of the chill that made my teeth chatter, I managed a weak smile. I thanked him and moved away from the kiosk and directly to the boarding gate.

  The flight to Houston and Colorado proved long but routine. I requested a window seat but spent the entire trip staring at the article in the Hollywood Insider Press. By the time we were an hour into the second leg of the flight, I had memorized the story’s details.

  I never considered myself religious, nor did I subscribe to new age philosophies or the inevitability of fate. I did, however, believe in my boss’ philosophy of looking at the big picture. To do so, one had to pay attention to pat
terns.

  These patterns were clear. Either someone was playing a very elaborate joke, or I was...

  Despite my unease, I stifled a laugh.

  ...I was what?

  What purpose was there in discovering the facts behind an old, almost forgotten movie star’s death?

  What could possibly be the big picture?

  My mind was locked in on that question up until the "Fasten Your Seat Belt" sign lit up. The plane descended and Manville was only minutes away. I should have felt relaxed and ready to start my vacation. Instead, I felt drained. The same thoughts and questions repeated themselves over and over in my mind. And every so often the chill would return, to remind me it never actually left.

  The plane landed on a beautiful white winter day. In the distance and through the window, I glimpsed the mountains I was supposed to ski during my vacation. But after disembarking and claiming my luggage, and as I approached the car rental agency, I knew my vacation in Manville was over before it began.

  For as I walked from the luggage pick up and felt the cold of winter invade the artificial warmth of the terminal, I was drawn to a large map painted on one of the airport's walls. At the map's center was the airport. A large, rectangular block to the north of the airport was labeled “Manville”. Farther to the south and west of the Manville Airport, a tiny black dot represented a small town.

  It was identified as "Viktor."

  I knew the name. I knew it well. I pulled the tabloid paper from my coat pocket and opened it. I knew, but I had to be sure.

  John Robinson died in the small town of Viktor.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I rented one of a fleet of available small blue utility sport trucks from the car rental agency and, within the hour, was on my way.

  I didn’t know what to expect, but as I approached Viktor I could feel a growing anxiety. I was both eager and afraid to see this small town. When I finally arrived, I was disappointed.

  As expected, Viktor was a very small town. A single road, the one that I was driving on, cut through the town’s heart. Some seven or eight blocks later Viktor abruptly ended. In between were a handful of quaint, well groomed, and ritzy shops. There was an Inn at the west-end of town followed by a couple of antique/souvenir shops, a cinema, a book store, a couple of restaurants, a small food market/pharmacy, a police station, and, at the east end, Viktor’s one and only gas station.