Charlie’s use of a word he had expunged from his vocabulary since he’d been born again told Lyle the true depth of his brother’s shock. Looking around, he couldn’t blame him. Glittering slivers and pebbles of glass littered the floor; the big mirror looked as if Shaq had been bouncing a granite basketball against it.
“Wasn’t me.”
“Then who?”
“Don’t know. See if you can find a blanket and throw it on the floor so I can get out of here without making hamburger of my feet.”
While Charlie went looking, Lyle pushed himself to his feet and turned, careful to stay in the glass-free circle of floor under him.
Charlie reappeared with a blanket. “This one pretty thin but–"
He stopped and stared, a look of abject horror stretching his features.
“What?”
Charlie pointed a wavering finger at Lyle’s chest. “Oh, God, Lyle, you – you cut yourself!”
Lyle looked down and felt his knees soften when he saw his T-shirt front soaked in crimson. He pulled up the shirt and this time his knees wouldn’t hold him. They buckled and he crumbled to the floor when he saw the deep gash in his chest, so deep he could see his convulsively beating heart through the opening.
He looked up at Charlie, met his terrified eyes, tried to mouth a word or two but failed. He looked down again at his chest…
And it was whole. Intact. Clean. No hole, no blood, not a drop on his skin or his shirt.
Just like what had happened to Charlie last night.
He looked up at his brother again. “You saw that, right? Tell me you saw it this time.”
Charlie was nodding like a bobble-head doll. “I saw it, I saw it! I thought you was buggin’ last night, but now… I mean, what–?”
“Throw that blanket down. I want to get out of here.”
Charlie held onto one end and tossed the rest toward Lyle. They spread it out atop the glass-littered tile and Lyle crawled – he didn’t trust his legs to support him so he crawled – to the door.
When he reached the carpet Lyle stayed down, huddling, shaking. He wanted to sob, wanted to vomit. Things he’d always disbelieved were proving true. The pillars of his world were crumbling.
“What just happened in there, Lyle?” Charlie said, kneeling beside him and laying an arm across his shaking shoulders. “What this all about?”
Lyle gathered himself, swallowed the bile at the back of his throat, and straightened his spine.
“You know what you said about this house being haunted? I’m beginning to think you’re right.” He looked up at the clock radio which now read 1:11. Who knew how long it had been running backwards. It could be three in the morning for all he knew. “Fuckit, I know you’re right.”
“What we do about it, man?”
Something strange and angry had invaded their house. Was that anger directed at him? At Charlie? He hoped not, because he sensed it ran wide and frighteningly deep. Charlie wanted to know what they were going to do. How could he answer that without even knowing what they were facing?
He grabbed Charlie’s arm and got to his feet.
“I don’t know, Charlie. But I know one thing we’re not doing, and that’s leaving. This is our place now and nobody, living or dead, is chasing us out.”
The rest of the hauntings and sundry mayhem are here… The Haunted Air
September
GATEWAYS
(preliminary study by Harry Morris
for the limited cover)
I decided it was time for a fish-out-of-water story… and more Otherness-twisted humans.
Jack loves NYC and loathes leaving it, so I had to come up with a compelling reason for him to leave. What better than his father hit by a car and in a coma? How can he say no?
I chose a place as unlike NYC as could be: The Florida Everglades. I spent a week down there researching it and it’s beautiful… but the mosquitos! Jack’s not used to horizons and they go one forever there.
He learns all sorts of things about his father (we finally find out what’s in that lock box) and that the apple hasn’t fallen all that far from the tree.
I made the Lady his dad’s neighbor and had a lot of fun with her dog and her name. I think I created some compelling supporting characters to come along for the ride. And of course… Hurricane Elvis.
The things is, how does a man with no official identity board a plane these days. And armed. I mean really, you thing Jack’s gonna let some lame son of a bitch hijack his plane? NFW. So he’s got this ceramic knife taped to his underarm…
GATEWAYS
(sample)
Jack reached the OmniShuttle Airways counter an hour before the next scheduled flight.
Before dropping Gia off, he’d had the cab take him over to Abe’s where he left the package to be overnighted to his father’s place. Abe used a small, exclusive, expensive shipping company that didn’t ask questions. The cab ride had been uneventful, but it felt so odd to be moving about the city without a gun either tucked into the small of his back or strapped to his ankle. He didn’t dare risk trying to sneak one onto the plane, though, even in checked luggage, now that they were x-raying every piece.
The ticket purchase went smoothly: A mocha-skinned woman with an indeterminate accent took the Tyleski Visa card and the Tyleski driver license, punched a lot of keys – an awful lot of keys – then handed them back along with a ticket and a boarding pass. Jack had chosen OmniShuttle because he didn’t want any round-trip-ticket hassles. The airline sold one-way tickets without regard to Saturday stayovers or any of that other nonsense: When you want to go, buy a ticket; when you want to come back, buy another.
Jack’s kind of company.
He asked for an aisle seat but they were all already taken. But he did manage to snag an exit row, giving him more leg room.
He had some time so he treated himself to a container of coffee with a trendoid name like mocha-latte-java-kaka-kookoo or something like that; it tasted pretty good. He bought some gum and then, steeling himself, headed for the metal detectors with their attendant body inspectors.
He made sure to get on the end of the longest line, to give him a chance to see how they conducted the screening process. He noticed that a much higher percentage of the people who set off the metal alarm were taken aside for more thorough screening than the ones who didn’t. Jack wanted to be in the latter category.
This is how a terrorist must feel, he realized. Standing on line, sweating, praying that no one sees through his bogus identity. Except I’m not looking to hurt anyone. I’m just looking to get to Florida.
When it came his time, he placed his bag on the belt and watched as it was swallowed by the maw of the fluoroscope. Then it was his turn to step through the metal detector. He put his watch, change, and keys into a little bowl that was passed around the detector, then stepped through.
His heart skipped a beat and jumped into high gear when a loud beep sounded. Damn!
“Sir, have you emptied your pockets?” said a busty bottle blonde woman in a white shirt with epaulettes, a gold badge, and a name tag that read “Delores.” She was armed with a metal detecting wand. A dozen feet behind her, two security guards stood with carbines slung over their shoulders.
“I thought I did. Let me check again.” He patted his pants pockets front and rear but, except for his wallet, they were empty. He pulled out the wallet. “Could this be the culprit?”
She waved her wand past it without a beep. “No, sir. Step over here, please.”
“What for?”
“I have to wand you.”
When had “wand” become a verb?
“Is something wrong?”
“Probably just your belt buckle or jewelry. Stand here, back to the table. Good. Now spread your legs and raise your arms out from your body.”
Jack assumed the position. The moisture deserting his mouth seemed to be migr
ating to his palms. She waved the wand up and down the inside and outside of his legs, then across his waist where she got a beep from his belt buckle – no problem – and then she started on his arms. Right one first – inside and outside, okay; then the left – outside okay, but a loud beep as the wand approached his armpit.
Oh shit, oh hell, oh Christ. Abe you promised me, you swore to me the knife would pass the detectors. What’s happening?
Without moving his head, Jack checked out the two security guards from the corner of his right eye. They looked bored, and certainly weren’t paying attention to him. To his left a handful of unarmed security personnel were busy screening – wanding – other travelers. He could barrel past them and dash back out into the terminal, but where to go from there? His chances of escaping were nil, he knew, but he damn well wasn’t simply going to stand here and put his hands out for the cuffs. If they wanted him, they were going to have to catch him.
“Sir?”
“Hmmm? What?” Jack could feel the sweat breaking out on his forehead. Had she noticed?
“I said, do you have anything in your breast pocket?”
“My–?”
He jammed his hand into the pocket and came out with his package of Dentyne Ice. Gum in a blister pack… sealed with foil…
She ran her wand over it and was rewarded with a beep. She took the pack, opened it to make sure it was only gum, then dropped it on the table. The rest of the wanding was beepless.
The future that had been telescoping closed at warp-11 now opened wide again. Feeling as giddy as a man with a reprieve from death row, Jack retrieved his watch, keys, and chain, but he left the damn gum. It had put him on a train to heart attack city. Let Delores have it.
As he hefted his gym bag strap onto his shoulder he fought an urge to ask Delores if she wanted to inspect that too. Inspect anything you want! The mad inspectee strikes again!
But he said nothing, contenting himself with a friendly nod as he started toward his gate. He reached it with just enough time to make a quick to call Gia.
“I made it,” he said when she answered. “I board the plane in a couple of minutes.”
“Thank God! Now I won’t have to figure out how to bake a cake with a file inside.”
“Well, there’s still the flight home.”
“Let’s not think about that yet. Call me when you’ve seen your father, and let me know how he is.”
“Will do. Love ya.”
“Love you too, Jack. Very much. Just be careful. Don’t talk to strangers or go riding in strange cars, or take candy from–"
“Gotta run.”
He wound up in a window seat in the left emergency row with the perfect traveling companion: the guy fell asleep before takeoff and didn’t wake up until they were on the Miami tarmac. No small talk and Jack got to eat the guy’s complimentary bag of peanuts.
The only glitch in the trip was a slight westward alteration of the usual flight path due to tropical storm Elvis. Elvis… when Jack had heard the name announced on TV the other night he’d done a double-take that would have put Lou Costello to shame.
He wondered now if there’d ever been a tropical storm named Elliott. If so, had it been designated on the maps as T.S. Elliott?
Elvis was not expected to graduate to hurricane status, but was presently off the coast near Jacksonville, cruising landward and stirring things up, just as its namesake had in the fifties. Though the plane swung westward to avoid the turbulence, Jack could see it churning away to the east. From his high perch he looked out over the rugged terrain of cloud tops broken dramatically here and there by fluffy white buttes from violent updrafts. Elvis was just entering the building.
You can accompany Jack on his Florida trip here… Gateways
November
Crisscross
(the color version of the
Gauntlet Press chapbook cover)
This is one of the darkest Jack novels… and where the Compendium of Srem makes its first appearance in modern times.
I needed a cult for this, but I wanted to make up my own rather than horn in on someone else’s. I’m a recovering Catholic and don’t understand how they buy into the transubstantiation myth, but they do. I didn’t know if I could sell something that far out, so I started researching and was astounded by what people believe. I’m not talking small-time kook clubs like Heaven’s Gate. Big-time religions too. Mormonism was so obviously built on a scam. And Scientology… wow.
I came up with the Otherness-inspired Dormentalism which has upset many Scientologists who think it’s a swipe at their cult. Well, if the shoe fits…
Authors talk about falling in love with their characters, and that has happened to me. (Weezy Connell, for instance.) But Richie Cordova is the first of my own characters I’ve ever come to loathe. As a result, I had Jack off him in a nasty way. When I looked at the result I wondered if cold-blooded first-degree murder, even for an anti-hero, was going too far. When I later asked readers about it, to a man and a woman they said I didn’t go far enough. As one sweet little woman said, “He shoulda gut shot him and left him. Take him three days to die.” Ooookay. (Gotta love my readers.)
Here Jack meets with a customer (he refuses to call them “clients”) in Julio’s…
CRISSCROSS
(sample)
Jack was late. As he entered the bar, Julio pointed out Maggie – no last name, which was fine with Jack – sitting at a rear table, talking to Patsy. Well, more like listening. Patsy was a semi-regular at Julio’s and a Patsy conversation usually consisted of him talking and the other party trying fruitlessly to get a word in. Jack could see Maggie nodding and looking uncomfortable in the rear dimness.
Jack ambled over and laid a hand on Patsy’s shoulder.
“This guy bothering you, lady?”
Patsy jumped, then smiled when he saw Jack. “Hey, Jacko, how’s it goin’? I been keepin’ her company while she’s waitin’ for you.”
He had a round face and a comb-over that started behind his ear. He wore double-knit slacks and watched the world through aviator glasses day and night, indoors and out. Wouldn’t surprise Jack if he wore them to bed.
“That’s great, Patsy. What a guy. But now we’ve got some private talk, so if you don’t mind…
“Sure, sure.” As he began backing away he pointed to Maggie. “I’ll be at the bar. Think on what I said about dinner.”
Maggie shook her head. “Really, I can’t. I have to be–"
“Just think about it, that’s all I’m askin’.”
Oh, and somehow along the way Patsy had got the idea that he was quite the ladies’ man.
“I wish we didn’t have to meet in a bar,” Maggie said as Patsy sauntered away and Jack pulled up a chair.
With a minimum of effort she could have looked okay. Fortyish with a pale face, so pale that if she told Jack she’d never been out in the sun, he’d believe her. Not a speck of makeup, thin lips, a nice nose, hazel eyes. She’d tucked her gray-streaked blond hair under a light blue knit hat that looked like flapperwear from the Roaring Twenties. As for her body, she appeared slim, but a bulky sweater and shapeless blue slacks smothered whatever moved beneath. Beat-up Reboks completed the picture. She sat stiff and straight, as if her vertebrae had been switched for a steel rod. Her whole look seemed calculated to deflect male attention.
If that was the case, it hadn’t worked with Patsy. But then, Patsy was game for anyone without a Y chromosome.
“You don’t like Julio’s?” Jack said.
“I don’t like bars – I don’t go to them and I don’t think they’re a good thing. Too many wives and children go hungry because of paychecks wasted in places like this, too many are beaten when the drinker comes home drunk.”
Jack nodded. “Can’t argue with you on that, but I don’t think it happens much with these folk.”
“What makes them so special?”
“Most of them are single or divorced. They work hard but don’t have too many people to spend on but themselves. When they go home there’s no one to beat. Or love.”
“What’s wrong with giving their drink money to charity?”
Jack shook his head. This lady was no fun with a capital NO.
“Because they’d rather spend it hanging out with friends.”
“I can think of lots of ways to be with friends besides drinking.”
Jack looked around at the bright afternoon sun angling through the front windows past the bare branches of the dead ficus and the desiccated hanging plants, so long deceased they’d become mummified. Smoke layered the air. “Another Brick in the Wall” wafted from the jukebox, its metronomic beat augmented by Lou’s hammering at the Gopher Bash in the corner.
What’s not to like?
She’d been just as uptight yesterday at their first meeting. He found it hard to believe that this priss was being blackmailed. What had she ever done that would let someone get a hook into her?
Her hands were clasped together on the table before her in an interlocking deathgrip. Jack reached over and gave them a gentle pat.
“I’m not the enemy here, Maggie.”
Her shoulders slumped as she closed her eyes and leaned back. Tears rimmed her lids when she looked at him again.
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s just that I’m not a bad person. I’ve been good, I’ve lived a clean life, I’ve sacrificed for others, done good works, given to charity. Criminals, mobsters, drug dealers, they commit crimes every day and go about their lives unscathed. Me, I make one little mistake, just one, and my whole world is threatened.”
If she was telling the truth, and Jack believed she was, he was sorry for her. He couldn’t help responding to the hurt, fright, and vulnerability seeping through her façade.
“That’s because you’ve got something to protect – a job, a family, a reputation, your dignity. They don’t.”
Scenes from the Secret History Page 23