The Fog of Dreams
Page 17
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He'd woken later than usual that morning. Late enough so the pale yellow sunlight sneaked through the gap in his bedroom blinds, sending a slice of brightness across the dresser and carpeted floor like a luminescent knife blade. As the sun settled, the narrow strip of light settled over William Strickland's somewhat relaxed face, and his eyes darted open.
All at once, he was awake and alert. The noise was in his ears even as his eyes were opening, the sound of tires squelching over soft ground, footsteps thumping quietly over grass, and the muffled sounds of voices, too many voices, somewhere near. His windows were closed, he was up on the second floor in a home in rural Vermont, and even as he heard them, his mind tried to process how or why he was hearing them. Not just that the voices and sounds were there, they clearly were, but how close they must be and how he could possibly be hearing them clearly.
Seconds later he was across the floor and at the blinds, gently splitting the thin plastic slats with two fingers as his eyes narrowed. He stood there, bare chested with a baggy pair of flannel pants and bare feet, muscles tensed, ears and eyes focused. Down at the dirt road next to his front yard several vehicles were lined up, blue coated figures milling about, a mix of crouching figures and standing figures, all roaming around trying to look occupied. Had anyone knocked on his door? He hadn't heard it if so, which seemed surprising, considering he could have sworn he awoke with their voices clear in his head. Voices that were easily a few hundred feet away and now completely inaudible.
He had heard them, hadn't he? Or was that just a dream?
More importantly, why were they here in the first place?
Squinting against the early morning sun, Strickland looked down at the road. A Norwood Police car stood broadside a short distance down the road, an overweight officer leaning backwards against the hood, his hat somewhat crooked on his round, buzzcut head. A light blue button-up shirt was stretched tight across the bulging mid-section of the man, pulled back so it didn't quite drape over his belt and dark blue pants. Thick arms were crossed and rested over the protrusion.
Closer to Strickland's house a dark green pickup truck was parked just on the edge of the lawn, and it was a Vermont State truck, looked like the Department of Wildlife from the tiny words on the driver's side door, which Strickland seemed to be able to read, even though he was one floor up and hundreds of feet away. This truck blocked most of what could be seen beyond, though as he looked an ambulance slowly wound around the sideways police car and approached, dipping slightly in the narrow drainage ditch which separated Strickland's lawn and the soft dirt road. An unfamiliar dark sedan sat on the far side of the road, partially obscured by the wildlife truck, nestled back against the trees, and Strickland thought back to the previous day when he had found that strange telltale stain mixed in with the dried dirt. He thought that stain had been right where the sedan sat now, but he couldn't be sure. Was that important?
Confusion had been the order of the days since Strickland had awoken to this bizarre new life and already it appeared as if today would be no different. Down on the edge of the dirt road, just beyond the police car, another nondescript dark sedan eased its way up the slight muddy grade, and the pot-bellied police officer pulled himself awkwardly from his relaxed lean into a more official posture. Holding up his hand in a 'halt' motion he took a few steps forward, then rounded the hood of the car and leaned towards the driver's side. Strickland could see, but not hear, a short discussion, the policeman nodding a few times, then extending his arm towards where the green truck sat. His stubby index finger extended as he stepped backwards carefully, and the apparently approved dark sedan proceeded forward, rolling clumsily over the green grass of Strickland's yard before easing back onto the dirt road and coming to a slow halt behind the ambulance. The driver's side door opened and a well-dressed man eased his broad-shouldered frame from the car, a dark suit draped over those shoulders, hanging artfully at his waist, his dark blue tie tucked neatly under his hand as he pressed it to his chest.
This newcomer side stepped a particularly muddy patch at the corner of Strickland's driveway, then approached the small crowd on the opposite side of the green truck. The watcher from the window could just see some heads on crouched bodies in the road beyond the truck, with other men in windbreakers combing through the thin trees beyond. It looked like a crime scene out there.
Is that what this was? Some kind of crime scene? And if it was, why hadn't someone knocked on his door? Tried to notify him? It looked as if the past few days of weirdness was going to perpetuate, and already Strickland wasn't sure how much more weirdness he could take.