Misisipi

by Michael Reilly

  Slowly, she raised her arms, holding them outstretched, beckoning Scott to come nearer, if he dared.

  Then she winked out of sight, flashed back upside down and once again righted herself.

  Scott groaned. “Oh, that was almost perfect. Lemme guess. Lasers?’

  He walked into the middle of the road and looked back at the clock tower, finally spotting a squat white box fixed high up on it. Backtracking farther into the road, he glimpsed rainbow shards of light emitting from an aperture in the center of the box, directed at the illusion on the wall behind him.

  He stepped onto the far sidewalk and stood toe-to-toe with the edge of the effect, taking care not to step into her.

  The Veiled Lady held her arms open with patient expectation.

  “Sorry Marion, I’m chasing enough shadows.”

  As he walked away, the Veiled Lady dropped her arms, turned, and tailed him. When Scott wheeled round to confront her, she froze.

  “Motion sensors. Now that’s just mean,” he quipped, albeit quickening his pace back to the hotel.

  Chapter 23

  He is dreaming.

  I’m in Williamsport. In Maryland. Its nickname is the Old Line State. I’m in Room 217 of the Red Roof Inn. It is 2005. I am asleep and soon I will be awake.

  He knows he is dreaming.

  But it doesn’t matter. He is still walking toward double-doors in the emergency room of MassGen Hospital. It is December 2003. Sparkled decorations span the ceiling above him.

  Some people are bunched around a small TV at the nurses’ station. A voice from the TV announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, we got him!” Cheering breaks out from the speaker. The watching group joins in. In the throng, Jonathan Putnam turns and catches Scott’s eye.

  “USA! USA!” Jonathan whoops, fist-punching the air. He points to the exit and gives Scott a thumbs-up.

  The doors whoosh apart and Scott moves apprehensively into the next corridor. They judder closed behind him and the hustle of the main ER is replaced by an inexplicable silence. It’s a Sunday night in the run-up to Christmas in downtown Boston. It should be bedlam in here.

  But this is a dream.

  He comes to the open door of an ICU room. His dreaming self catches sight of his own figure standing beside Julianna’s bed. The dreamer carries on by. He doesn’t want to go into the room so he continues past, relieved.

  I won’t have to. He sighs.

  He takes another step, and abruptly, the corridor is gone. Julianna’s bed blocks his path and he is the one now standing inside the room, the figure watching over her, the dreamer become the dream.

  A thought comes to him as a prayer.

  Please, let it happen as it happened. Don’t give me anything more than that.

  Julianna is still groggy from the sedative. As she sleeps, an oxygen cannula is clipped to her nose and a plastic pulse monitor swallows the end of her forefinger.

  Scott takes her hand and cradles it in his own. The monitor is clumsy so he switches it to a finger on his own free-hand. Now he can communicate his love and connection to her without its encumbrance. He grips her hand in his, feels the warmth pass between them.

  This is where I belong.

  He looks at the armchair by the bed. On it, her clothes and effects are stuffed in a clear plastic pouch. Her red dress occupies most of it. Wedged in front of the dress, her black accessory purse presses against the skin of the pouch. Like a bloodshot eye, it stares back at him.

  It’ll get bloodied in there, he thinks. I’ll have to wipe it before she goes looking for it again.

  Her hand draws free from his. She opens her eyes.

  “They told you?” she whispers.

  “You almost died. They were asking me all kinds of questions.”

  “You let me live?” Though her voice is weak, the question almost sounds like… surprise.

  “Jules. I love you. I couldn’t… I dunno what I’d do if anything happened to you.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.” Tears are welling in her eyes.

  “You had a miscarriage. You lost the baby. It was tubal, it was killing you, and they needed to remove it.”

  “That’s how it has to be, Scott,” she yawns indifferently.

  With that, Scott knows his prayer has not been answered. The twisted invention of nightmares is adding its own spin again. He cannot remember how it played before but he is terrified, because he remembers being terrified every other time.

  “That makes two,” she says with a strange satisfaction and turns her back to him.

  “They know you had your tubes tied. That’s why it happened. You didn’t want it anyway, did you? You killed this one, just like you killed Josh.”

  “I didn’t kill this one,” she corrects him. “It’s right here, under the bed.”

  He crouches slowly, daring to look in the space under her. The pulse monitor is still on his finger and the machine now starts beeping with greater alarm.

  There is a familiar metal plate in the floor beneath the bed. Scott belly-crawls to it and seizes the red ribbon. Under the plate, the hole is stuffed with grey plastic bags.

  “You can keep it,” Julianna hisses. “I don’t want it. But Scott, don’t ever let me see you with it. Not ever.”

  Scott unfurls the top of a bag and spreads it open.

  “I want to go home now,” she moans.

  He peers inside. The thing in the bag stirs.

  With feral speed, it rushes out to its father. Its scream follows Scott out of the dream, as he bolts up in bed, as his own lungs give birth to his unborn’s wail.

  Chapter 24

  AP: This interview is being conducted in Room 18 of the Winchester Police Department, Commonwealth of Virginia. The date is Friday, August 26, 2005. The time is 12:13pm. My name is Officer Anthony Parcells, arresting officer, case 4-0-5-7-3. Please state your name for the benefit of the tape, Sir.

  SJ: (coughs) Scott Jameson.

  AP: Please acknowledge that you are aware of the tape for the purpose of this interview and that you consent to its use.

  SJ: Yes.

  AP: You are aware and you do consent, Mister Jameson?

  SJ: Yes. And yes.

  AP: Please acknowledge that you were informed of your rights at the time of your arrest.

  SJ: Yes. I was.

  AP: And do you still decline representation at this time and do you consent to this interview in the absence of said representation?

  SJ: Yes. I don’t have anything to hide.

  AP: We’ll sure hope it pans out that way, Sir.

  SJ: I hope so too.

  AP: State your address and date of birth for the tape, please.

  SJ: Emerson Avenue, Peabody, Massachusetts. November 18th, 1973. Do you need a zip?

  AP: No Sir. You’re a ways from home, aren’t you?

  SJ: Yes.

  AP: What’s the purpose of your visit to Winchester?

  SJ: I’m not—visiting, I mean. I’m passing through, is all.

  AP: From Massachusetts?

  SJ: Yes.

  AP: To where?

  SJ: Dallas.

  AP: What’s the purpose of your trip to Dallas then?

  SJ: I’m meeting my wife. She went to visit friends. She asked me to come down, help out with some personal crisis they got going on there.

  AP: You going non-stop?

  SJ: No, I stopped last night.

  AP: Where?

  SJ: Williamsport.

  AP: Nice town.

  SJ: Yeah.

  AP: Where did you spend the night?

  SJ: The Red Roof Inn. I checked out about Six this morning.

  Friday August 26

  He woke with no memory of the dream. Still, a vague unease dogged Scott as he showered and dressed. He seized on the positives. Answers about the broach would follow and he intended to be at journey’s end by the time they did. With serious mileage, it was Dallas by Midnight.

  When he reached the lobby, his mood was lighter. He even
thought to jot a note to Marion on motel stationery, to drop on his way out of town. Met your lady but I prefer a woman with a bit more substance! It seemed sporting to report that he had gamely subjected himself to the local prank, payback for her help to come.

  It was still dark when he slipped the note under the store door. Even the Veiled Lady had turned in for the night.

  AP: And you drove straight here, to Winchester?

  SJ: Yes.

  AP: You’re travelling alone?

  SJ: Yes. By myself.

  He gunned downhill toward the Route 11 bridge out of Williamsport. As he crossed the Potomac, he drove into the wispy edges of a sitting fog bank. Coming off the bridge, it quickly enveloped him, a dense cotton-wool wall in his hi-beams.

  The road suddenly bent left. He barely registered the curve in time, as the corner crash barrier glinted ahead. He yanked the wheel to match. Movement in the rear-view caught his eye as the car jerked to the turn. In the seat behind, a dark shape, an arm darting toward him, a black sleeve snatching for his shoulder.

  The Veiled Lady was in the back, about to have her man before he skipped town.

  Scott flinched, whipped himself half-around. “No way,” he yelled. He let go of the wheel and threw a blind punch through the gap in the seats. His foot buried itself onto the accelerator as he levered himself to lash out.

  The engine yelped, the steering wheel whipped to opposite-lock. The whole car began to swerve as it lost traction. Scott jammed on the brake, deciding the bitch in the back could take a headfirst through the windshield instead.

  In the total whiteout of the fog, the only sensation was of coming completely about, a reverse skid off the road and onto a grassy verge. The car bobbled on the uneven ground.

  A thud as it connected with something.

  It slid back some more to a dead stop. The engine cut out.

  Scott bolted out his door and snatched open the rear, fist primed, a Neanderthal grunt to spook whatever waited.

  The seat was empty, save for his suit suspended from the coat hook—his black suit—jacket sleeves now innocently hanging at the sides.

  “Oh for Chrissakes,” he snapped.

  There was nothing at the rear of the car. The soft ground underfoot had effected its stop. He was relieved for all of a second before he remembered the sensation of an impact. The fender was immaculate though. Had he hit a mail box? Nothing under it either, when he checked there too.

  He walked along the passenger side.

  Foggy moisture beaded the windows but the door panels showed a wet-wiped swathe, as though glanced against by something substantial.

  Leaves? Branches? Hardly. Any greenery Scott glimpsed through the fog was set well back from the road.

  The passenger-side mirror was folded back on itself. Scott crouched and examined it. In the reflection, a shadow played against the hi-beams somewhere out on the road. Unsteady footsteps scuffed within the fog.

  “Hey!” Scott straightened.

  Silence.

  “Are you hurt?” Jesus, did I hit someone?

  He walked away from the car, supposing the road lay that way. Everything was eclipsed by the mire.

  “I can’t see you. Can you let me know where you are. Make a sound.”

  Scott’s feet found the road.

  “If you’re hurt, we need to get you to the ER.” What is anyone doing out in this anyway?

  The footsteps returned, now steady and strong. Running, but from where and where to? The pacing thuds seemed to sound above, around, echoing off the fog. Scott headed to where he made the middle of the road to be.

  His foot found a cats eye. He stopped. The sound of the runner strengthened, becoming more distinct, focused, determinedly heading Scott’s way.

  This better not be Bambi, he thought, as a shape emerged from the gloom to his left.

  Scott lunged, wrapped his arms around it, and seized it tight.

  The boy he’d snagged tried to pull free. Even when Scott lifted him, the lad flailed his legs, catching Scott in the crotch and thighs.

  “Hold still, Jesus!” Scott puffed.

  “Get offa me!” the boy yelped.

  “You’re in shock. Stop flapping!”

  “Lemme go! Lemme go!”

  “I will. Just calm down a second.”

  “Don’t take me back! I ain’t going back.”

  Another heel to the balls convinced Scott to set the boy back on his more-than-capable feet. He took firm hold of the boy’s elbows and spun him round, looking anxiously to any sign of injury.

  “Did I hit you? With my car? I couldn’t see anything.”

  “I wasn’t doing nothing bad.”

  “No, no. You didn’t. I’m sorry. It was my fault. You look ok. Do you feel any pain anywhere?”

  “I have to go! I gotta get away.”

  A wall of light appeared on the fog, back beyond the bend in the direction of the bridge.

  “Is someone looking for you?” Scott asked.

  He pulled the boy back to the verge as a vehicle approached from the bridge. Clutching the boy’s shoulder, he waved his other arm as the vehicle came around, bringing a blinding wall of light from what had to be a cop car looking for the boy.

  “Hey. Here,” Scott yelled. The boy struggled to break free as Scott held firm.

  The vehicle seemed to slow as it came on them, igniting the fog all around to sheet-paper white.

  “Thank God,” Scott said.

  He was about to step into the road to meet it when an engine roared behind the beams and the shape of a large SUV sped past.

  “What the…? Hey! Godammit.” Scott watched the rear lights quickly recede in the distance. “They had to see us. What gives?”

  “She sent them. She won’t let me go,” the boy panted.

  “Who? Who’s ‘She’?”

  “Her. The lady. She wants to hurt me!”

  “There is no lady,” Scott snapped. “It’s just a stupid light show. Were you out on a dare last night? Do your parents know where you are?”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Sure you do. They’re probably worried—”

  The boy went limp. His arms hung defeatedly at his sides while he wept quietly—no, manfully, Scott decided.

  “Hey. Hey?” Scott hushed. “ It’s ok. I’m sorry if I shouted.” He rubbed the boy’s arm.

  “Can’t I go with you, please? I won’t be any trouble, I swear.”

  “I know, buddy. I’m just worried about you. I thought I had hurt you. And your folks at home are gonna be so pleased to see you again.”

  “I don’t belong anywhere. I don’t have a home.”

  “We all have a home. Don’t you know home is where they have to take you in when nowhere else will have you?”

  That drew an uncertain smile beneath the tears and Scott felt relief for the first time on this side of the Potomac.

  “So, help me out here. Where do we need to go? Back into town? Somewhere round here? Do you remember how you got here?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “K. What do you remember?”

  “I dunno. I was sleeping and then my dog woke me. He was barking. When I went to get him, he ran off. I came looking for him. Then you came along.”

  “Ok. So maybe he’s out here somewhere in the fog. We can call out and see if he comes. What’s his name?”

  “Boomer.”

  Scott’s face stiffened. “Say again?”

  “His name is Boomer. He’s a black Lab.”

  Scott took a faltering step back. His skin crawled as though the fog had put its tendrils under the very layers he wore.

  “What… what’s your name?”

  The boy smiled up at Scott. “Joshua. My name is Joshua.”

  “Maybe we should get in the car now,” Scott whispered. “I promise I won’t take you back to the lady. Deal?”

  “Okie.”

  AP: What time did you arrive in Winchester?

  SJ: (pause) I’m not sure
. Sometime after Nine?

  AP: We’re about 40 miles south of Williamsport, Mister Jameson. Stick to the limit, it ought to take no more than an hour. You look like the law-abiding type but three hours for 40 miles? Well, that’s abiding in the extreme. Would you like to think some more about how long it took you?

  Every so often, Scott glanced discretely at the boy. He couldn’t be older than five or six. Short and slight, sat fully back in the passenger seat, his legs were lost within the flattened folds of his tan chinos. His velcro-close sneakers dangled over the seat edge. He had no jacket and the tails of his check-pattern shirt lay loose outside his pants.

  Sitting unnaturally still, hands clasped in his lap, only the boy’s face showed any animation. Barely able to see above the dash, he studied the passing heavens instead, with the wonderment of a new-born. The fog began to brighten, then thin, until they emerged in clear open country, a rising blue sky above the endless green fields.

  It was another mile before Scott summoned the nerve to speak.

  “I’m Scott.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sir.” Joshua pumped Scott’s hand with old-soul firmness. “You can call me Josh. That means kiddin round but I won’t be any bother, promise.”

  “Ok. Good to know.”

  “Don’t be worried about Boomer. He knows to find his own way back. Do you think there’s a Heaven?” he added, without skipping a beat.

  “Huh? Heaven? Jeez. Yeah, I guess so. Why?”

  “D’ya think we go there?” Joshua pointed up.

  “I dunno, Bud. Maybe. Maybe we stay down here too. Both places, that could work, right? Heaven could be everywhere.”

  “Hmmm,” Joshua considered the possibility. “I dunno. Wouldn’t it get awful full here then? Is that why they put people in the ground, so you don’t keep falling over em when they lie down?”

  Scott snorted. “That could be it. Seems you gave this a lot of thought. You think something bad happened to Boomer?”

  “Naw. Everyone knows dogs don’t go to Heaven. They have plenty heart, no soul. When they die, you bury em in the yard and get a new one.”