by Ren Hamilton
“What are you laughing at?”
The stranger looked up at him. “I laugh because I am so happy you ask me this question.”
“Why?”
“Because now I know that you know nothing.”
He was on his feet in a flash with Patrick’s weapon in his hand. Patrick stared dumbfounded at his own empty hand, and at the fireplace poker the blond now held. He’d never seen anyone move so fast. The stranger looked at Patrick with wide green eyes. Like Shep’s, they were a bit too large for his face. He threw the poker into the woods, grabbed Patrick by the shoulders, and shoved him, sending him hurling through the air. Patrick slammed back-first onto the ground, knocking the wind out of him.
For several seconds he couldn’t move, and he was sure his enemy would come to finish him off. But when he was able to sit up, the stranger was gone. He glanced around and realized that he was nearly back to Betsy’s lawn again. The wiry blond man had thrown him an impossible distance. But his back pain testified to it. Once he was able to catch his breath, he made his way gingerly back to the house, wincing in pain.
When Betsy returned from checking the doors and windows, she had a glass of water and two painkillers for Patrick. “Take these. You’re going to be sore tomorrow after that fall you took.”
Patrick stretched back on the couch feeling like a giant bruise. “It wasn’t a fall. I was thrown.”
Betsy frowned. “Patrick, who was that man? What haven’t you told me?”
He told her about the sightings of the curly-haired strangers. He also told her about his visit with Father Carbone and Agent Litner, with all their crazy suggestions and propositions. Betsy stared at him, mouth agape. “Jesus Christ, Patrick.”
“It’s a lot, I know. This is why I’m freaking out. And what led me here, I guess.”
Betsy poured herself another brandy and studied him with pursed lips. “Maybe I ought to tell you my story,” she said. “Then you can decide if you want to go out to Forest Bluffs and bunk down with your old buddy Shepherd.”
“Okay.” Patrick hoped she was about to tell him Shep had banged up the family Volvo or some minor crime like that.
“As you know, at age fifteen Shep came to live with my brother Charlie and his wife Marie, Joey’s parents. He started out as a foster child. Joey’s mom had a big heart. Kids would come and kids would go, but this was different. It became apparent after a very short time that Shep would become a permanent part of the Duvaine family. Marie called him “a keeper”. He and Joey were both freshmen in high school, and they hit it off from the get-go. Joey’s brother Jeffrey was still in grammar school, so it was nice that Joey had someone his own age to spend time with.”
Betsy paused and sipped at her brandy glass. She held it up to the light, as if seeing the past in the golden liquid. “Everyone fell in love with Shep, with his upbeat personality and crazy sense of humor. Everyone thought it was the best thing for Joey. I did too, at first.”
“What changed your mind?”
“I was out of work at the time, so my big brother Charlie hired me to babysit Jeffrey after school every day. Joey was too old for a babysitter, but not quite responsible enough to watch Jeffrey himself.” She shook her head, looking sad. “Poor Jeffrey. He was such a sweet kid.” She wiped a tear away.
“I’m sorry for your loss. For all of your losses lately,” Patrick said.
“Thank you, honey.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “At any rate, I was at the house a lot. Joey started going through changes. It was subtle, but I noticed. He cut himself off from all of his old friends, until it was just Shep in his life. Friends he’d had since early childhood were discarded for no apparent reason. Joey wouldn’t even return their calls. Everyone else in his life was whittled away, until it was just Joey and Shep, in their own private little world. Until you came along, Patrick, I was afraid Joey would never have another good friend. I mentioned the changes to Marie, but she said Joey was happier than he’d ever been, was thriving at school, so why worry?”
Patrick nodded. “So he cut himself off from his friends. What other changes did you see?”
“He stopped acting,” she said.
Patrick sat up, grateful for the painkillers. “Acting?”
“You knew Joey was a child actor, didn’t you?”
“No, but I’m starting to guess there are a lot of things I don’t know about him. What kind of acting? Plays and stuff?”
“More than that. He was in commercials and a couple of television specials. His acting coach said he was a natural. He loved it. We all thought it was his calling. Then he met Shep, and he just stopped. He told his parents he wasn’t interested in it anymore.”
Patrick considered the way Joey had been able to sit in front of a camera and spew bullshit on national television. “Betsy, I have to be honest. Lots of kids go through weird changes at that age. So far you haven’t told me anything that can’t be explained as teen angst or rebellion.”
Betsy smiled sourly. “Yes. So far. Until that afternoon.”
Patrick leaned forward, listening intently.
“At that time, I didn’t blame Shep for the changes in Joey. Shep and I actually got along well. But that week, Joey’s aura started to change. I know everyone thinks I’m a nut, but I really can see auras. Joey’s became clouded with something I couldn’t quite place.” She grimaced, as if tasting something sour.
“I was set to babysit over the weekend so Charlie and Marie could go down to the beach house for their anniversary. I got there a little early on Friday afternoon so I could do some studying for a class I was taking. The house was supposed to be empty, because all the kids were supposed to be in school.” She rubbed her arms.
“What happened?”
“I was settled in at the kitchen table, studying, when I heard a noise coming from below. Joey’s bedroom was down in the finished basement. He kind of had his own little pad down there. I went to the top of the stairs and listened. It sounded like Shep’s voice, but he seemed to be speaking in another language.”
Patrick’s blood chilled, remembering the blond stranger in the shrubs. Was there a connection? Was Betsy completely full of shit? He just didn’t know. “What did you do?”
“I went down there.”
“Were Joey and Shep down there?”
“They were down there all right, and I surprised the hell out of them. I saw that Joey’s bedroom door was closed, but the light was on. Something made me push that door open. To this day, I don’t know why. Normally I’d have knocked, respecting his privacy. But I didn’t. I pushed the door open, and Joey looked up and yelled my name. He said, “Betsy! Get the hell out of here!”
She fell silent, looking off into the distance. “He was shocked as hell to see me. And I was shocked as hell at what I saw. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor, both shirtless. There was a plastic tarp underneath them, presumably to save the rug. A dagger sat on the floor, and Shep had bleeding wounds sliced into one of his arms. I told you that Joey yelled my name when I opened the door and startled him. He also spit out the blood he was drinking from one of his mother’s crystal wine glasses.”
Patrick laughed. “Blood? No way. Are you sure?”
Betsy nodded. “Quite sure.”
“But…maybe he was rehearsing for a play or something?”
“No. I snatched the glass from him and sniffed it. It was blood. I think it was Shep’s blood. Joey stared up at me, half-naked with blood dripping down his chin, clearly horrified that I’d walked in on whatever they were doing. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked me. I looked at the glass of blood in my hand, and said, ‘Maybe you should tell me what exactly you are doing here, Joey.”
Betsy’s face flushed pink at the memory. She shook her head, looking down at her lap. “The part that really killed me happened next. Joey turned away from me. My Joey, my nephew whose diapers I used to change. He turned to Shep, like Shep was the all-fucking-mighty and he said, ‘What do we do?’ He asks
Shep this! Like I wasn’t even in the room! So Shep stands up and snatches the glass from me. He says ‘Mind your own business,’ and he shoves me out the door and slams it in my face.”
Patrick shook his head. “That’s fucked up. Could they have been going through…I don’t know, a goth phase or something? I know it’s weird as fuck, but a lot of kids our age were into vampires and death in high school.”
Betsy blinked slowly. “You need to let me finish.”
“Okay, sorry. What did you do when he slammed the door on you?”
“I was stunned. I just stared at the closed door, listening to Joey have a panic attack. He kept screaming at Shep, asking him what they were going to do now. Shep kept telling him to calm down, that he would handle it. So I pounded on the door, demanding that Joey come out and talk to me. But it was Shep who finally stepped outside the door. I asked him what the hell was going on in there. He told me that nothing was going on. ‘You didn’t see anything,’ he said to me. Of course I told him to kiss my ass, that I did see something, and that Joey’s parents were going to hear about it. Shep said, ‘Do what you have to do, and I’ll do what I have to do.’ He started to turn back toward the bedroom when I grabbed his arm. I grabbed the arm with the bleeding cuts. Then something happened.”
Her shoulders trembled, and Patrick took her hand. “It’s okay, Betsy. Tell me.”
“I saw something when I grabbed him. A vision. I can’t even describe how terrifying it was.”
“But I thought you didn’t get random psychic impressions. I thought you had to sit down and concentrate the way you did with me.”
She nodded. “Normally that’s true. I don’t know why it happened. I assume it was because the arm I grabbed had the wounds. I got Shep’s blood all over my hand.”
“So what did you see?”
“It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Everything flashed white, then I was transported to another place. I saw blackness so dark it blotted out all light. It felt…lifeless is the only word I can use to describe it. Like anything living was so far away it was impossible to even fathom its existence. I lost my breath, overwhelmed with the feeling of being trapped, imprisoned, hopeless. I pulled my hand back and the vision ended, but I was left with a feeling of such deep, deep sorrow and desperation, that I almost collapsed. I stared at Shep and he stared back at me. Then he said something I’ll never forget. He waved his finger at me as you would to a naughty child, and he said, ‘You peeked.’” She shook her head, her eyes distant. “You peeked,” she repeated.
“So it was like he knew what you had seen?” Patrick asked.
“I think he definitely knew. I said, ‘If you bring any harm to Joey, I’ll see that you pay.’”
“Did he say anything to that?”
Betsy chuckled. “He smiled. The little bastard actually smiled at me, and he said, ‘Joey doesn’t belong to you anymore. He belongs to me now.’”
Patrick was torn between two emotions. One was the almost irresistible desire to write Betsy off as a nut case. The other was the cold fear that he didn’t know the friends he’d lived side by side with for the past ten years. That he didn’t know them at all. How well do you know your friends? The agent’s words tried to surface but Patrick forced them away. After a few sips of brandy, Betsy continued.
“When Charlie and Marie got home from the beach house on Sunday, I told them all about it. But Shep had gotten to them first, conniving little bastard. He’d called them down at Forest Bluffs and told them this bullshit story about how he and Joey had gone hiking in the woods and gotten scraped up. He said when they got home from their hike, the house was all smoky and it smelled funny like marijuana. He told them I was acting all paranoid and accused him and Joey of devil worship. Of course I denied it, but Joey confirmed the bogus story. Two days later, Marie was cleaning the bedroom I had stayed in. She found a bag of marijuana and a bag of cocaine in the dresser drawer. Shep obviously planted the drugs there, but Charlie and Marie told me I could no longer babysit the children. I was afraid I’d never see the kids again, but eventually it blew over. Shep and I never spoke of the incident. We both just pretend it never happened.”
The room fell silent as Patrick tried to choke down the story. The clock on the mantle chimed. Finally, he stood. “Jesus, Betsy. What did you have to tell me that for?”
She frowned. “You asked me to.”
He ran a hand across his forehead and circled the room. “Jesus, Betsy,” he said again. “I mean, this is too much.”
“It’s the God’s honest truth. I swear it.”
Patrick shook his head. “I lived with those guys in college. I’ve seen at least one of them nearly every day for the past ten years. If they were into any weird ritualistic shit, I would have known. I would have known!”
“Maybe you don’t know your friends as well as you think you do,” Betsy said.
Patrick huffed. “Yeah. I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.”
Betsy stood and went to Patrick, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about at any rate, tough guy. The little psycho seems to actually like you.”
“Nothing to worry about?” Patrick rolled up his sleeve, showing Betsy his newly formed scar. “I let that little psycho do this to me.”
Betsy examined the tiny half-moon scar and ran a finger over it. The scar tingled. She looked up at him. “You have to go see that priest again. You have to ask him what he meant about a blood ceremony.”
Patrick nodded. “I’ll go see him tomorrow.”
“Patrick, if you can get Joey back, I mean…get him away from Shep…”
“I’ll do what I can, Betsy.”
“You’ll go out to Forest Bluffs?”
She looked hopeful. Patrick wanted to do what Betsy asked of him, but the thought of going out to Forest Bluffs still made him want to go hide under a rock. Even more so now that he’d heard Betsy’s macabre tale of Joey and Shep’s happy blood play.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said, and wished her goodnight. It was the best answer he could give.
Chapter Eighteen
Copie double-checked the door to the photo lab to make sure it was locked, though the chances of someone coming around this late at night were slim. Most of the other students were home sleeping or out partying, but he took precautions anyway. He’d grown increasingly paranoid since the erupting coverage of the apparition. Given the obvious value of the photo he possessed, he’d chosen not to include it in his portfolio for his final grade. He got a B minus instead of the A he’d wanted, but it was of no concern to him now. He had something that might help launch his career, sitting on a piece of film.
After locking the door, he went back and sat before the image on the computer screen. When he’d first developed the film, the apparition appeared only vaguely within the white light, and he cursed. But it was visible at least, the outline of the girl. So he scanned the image and did his best to clean it up, sharpening it and removing much of the light. He played with the shadows until conjuring a version he was happy with. It wasn’t perfect, but it was there. Or rather, she was there.
It was a woman, her hands clasped just below her chest, her head covered with a glowing drape of veil. The body was indecipherable from the waist down, where it became translucent. A garment was visible, a vague line of fabric just above the chest. Her face was serene, lips curved at the corners in a maternal smile. It was perfect.
Except that it was wrong. He made himself dizzy staring at the photograph, trying to determine what it was that screamed out ‘fake’ to his subconscious mind. Copie liked to think he had a good eye, and he trusted his instincts. Something about the picture told him the apparition was bogus. He examined the photo until his eyes burned. Finally, he had to walk away and clear his head.
He went down the hall and poured himself a cup of coffee. He returned with his mug and locked himself in again. After several minutes of musing he decided that staring at the photo for another hour
would make him crazy and probably blind as well. He resigned to give it one more perusal, then put it away for the night. Tomorrow he would call the local news station and let them make of it what they wanted, as long as they gave him the credit. He grinned, imagining the blind envy of his colleagues.
He seated himself in front of the computer screen once more and gazed at the image of the glowing woman. “What are you hiding?” he whispered. As if in answer to his question, his eyes were drawn to something on the apparition’s body, something he hadn’t noticed before. At the top of her breasts, where the scoop of fabric met the flesh, was a tiny, X-shaped blur, right in the center. “Wait a minute. What the hell is that?”
He closed in on the object and magnified it. The image became clearer. He boxed it off and magnified it again. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered. “Or perhaps not.” He printed out a copy of the image. With a pencil he traced the line of the object on the garment. There was no question—It was a decorative bow, the kind one might see on a modern woman’s bra or nightgown.
Copie stood up, grinning at the photo he held. “That’s a pretty fancy nighty for a divine being,” he said to the picture. “Is that Victoria’s Secret?” He laughed, tapping the image with his finger. “I’ve got you. Whoever you are, I’ve got you.”
He picked up the phone and dialed the news station he’d chosen. He was thrilled. This definitely upped the stakes. Not only did he have the only clear photograph taken of Joey Duvaine’s miracle, but he now had proof it was a fake. “I’m going to be famous at the tender age of nineteen,” he said to the empty room.
A male voice answered. “News desk, how may I help you?”
Copie explained his situation to the man on the phone. He described the nature of the photo he possessed, along with his suspicions about the Virgin Mary showing up wearing the latest in fashion sleepwear. The melodious young voice was cooperative and chatty. He asked Copie for his name, address, and personal information, and Copie stated his wishes that he be given full credit for the photograph.