A Guardian of Innocents (10 page)

The battle part of the scene ended, and as I took my place at the rear of the stage, I saw the man walk all the way to the side wall where one of the large theater curtains hung. He leaned against the brick wall with his right shoulder, and surreptitiously slid his right foot behind his left. A deep, horrified part of me knew what he would do next. He would keep moving his right foot higher until his right ankle touched the back of his left knee forming the figure 4 position I’d left Jack in. He knew... but his feet stayed where they were.

In the right pants pocket every cast member carried a small flashlight not much larger than a marker pen. We each snapped on our lights, pointed them out into the empty rows of seats and began slowly marching forward, simultaneously uttering a loud warning/preaching sentiment that would end the play.

We were almost to the front of the stage when I blinked my eyes. It was a normal blink, nothing dramatic. But then the man appeared directly in front of me, the tip of his nose not three inches from my own. I hadn’t detected any movement from where he’d been, nor did I feel any breeze as I knew I should have felt had he rushed towards me. The fog hadn’t even been disturbed.

Startled, I cried out in astonishment and jumped back. My feet slipped and my ass hit the floor—hard. My tailbone protested, shooting a bright bolt of pain up my spine.

He crouched over me and rested his elbows on his knees, interlocking the fingers of his well-manicured hands. They were hands like mine, hands that had probably seen little manual labor and even less sunlight.

Ms. Wunterlynn, our director, called out, “Jeshua, are you okay?”

The man smiled just then, cocking his head to the side as if to hear her voice better.

“Jeshua,” he whispered.

The other cast members were approaching me, concerned.

Bo held out a meaty farmboy’s hand, offering to help me up. “Gotta watch your feet,” he said, “You’ll fuckin’ break your back this stage has got so many levels.”

The visitor’s eyes met mine. And he vanished. No flash, no fade-out, no special effects shit. He was there. I blinked my eyes. Then he wasn’t.

I didn’t have to be a mindreader to know no one else besides me had seen him. The director would have undoubtedly spoken up if she’d seen someone she didn’t know walking around on stage in one of our costumes during a critical tech rehearsal. It would have freaked everyone else out as well. And I felt nothing coming off them except for a moderate but genuine worry that I might be hurt.

I took Bo’s hand and was hefted off the floor a little too quickly for my own personal taste, though I knew he meant well. The small place where my back ended and my ass-crack began was broadcasting a dull pain that was steadily decreasing with every second that passed.

“What happened?” Ms. Wunterlynn asked.

“Guess my feet just slipped out from under me,” I explained, doing my best to look embarrassed, which wasn’t difficult.

*          *          *

Bo and I went to the Hunter’s Den again that night. After rehearsal, I hadn’t really wanted to go home yet and Bo could tell. I accepted his offer to get me in again with much appreciation.

The environment alone was relaxing enough, but the leather swivel chair I sank into felt wonderful on my back. Beautiful women came up and said hi to Bo, especially the ones who hadn’t seen him in awhile.

“So how’s the play going?” a hot brunette asked as she approached from behind and hugged Bo around the neck.

“Doin’ good, doin’ good!” he replied, “Opening night’s Thursday.”

“Really? Me and some of the girls were thinking about checking it out.”

“Please do. We can use all the audience we can get.”

There were several other dancers that night who came up and had similar short conversations with us. Since they were actually
talking
to us, and not
working
us the talks were understandably brief; they were on the clock and had to keep busy.

I was looking around the club, searching for that waitress with the red hair.

Bo looked over at me and smiled, “If you haven’t seen her by now, she’s probably either off tonight or worked the lunch shift.”

Although I was certain Bo possessed no psychic abilities, he did seem to have a sharp intuition when it came to the romantic.

He laughed, “Don’t try to play it off. I saw the way you looked at her. You had all these huge breasts staring you in the face and you were looking at some waitress who was fully-clothed.”

I was silent for a moment, hoping the ridiculously dim lights would hide whatever red flush of embarrassment touched the pale skin of my face.

“It’s not like I’ve fallen in love with her or anything. I just thought I recognized her from somewhere. That’s all—“

And as the words left my mouth, I realized I never should have said them:
That’s all
. Those two words felt like the ultimate guilty plea when they were on my tongue and Bo knew it.

His grin widened as he sat back and enjoyed his correctness. “You know I could ask around for you. See if she’s married or a lesbian or whatnot.”

“Lesbian?”

“Yeah,” Bo explained, “I’d say a little more than half the girls that work in strip clubs are either gay or bi.”

“You’re shitting me,” I replied, even though I knew he wasn’t.

“No, it’s true. Think about it. If you’re an attractive lesbian seeking the company of other. . . let’s say: teammates, what else would make a better occupation? Not to mention it fuckin’ pays great. A lot of these girls can bring home two grand on a busy night, especially the ones who know how to work the guys.”

With that I silently wondered why a pretty redhead would be waiting tables at a strip club rather than dancing in it. I mean, if it has to do with morals or religious values, why not wait tables in a normal restaurant? Why a titty bar?

*          *          *

Our auditorium seats about six hundred and on opening night I could only make out two dozen or so vacant seats, most of them, of course, being in the “nosebleeds” up high in the back.

I’d never performed for an audience anywhere near this size, and my already heightened apprehension was doubled by my near-certainty that the apparition was preparing to make another appearance. If that happened, I would get the privilege of freaking out in front of a multitude of spectators this time.

We took to the stage and the show went well. But halfway through, I felt the gentle, telepathic touch of the woman from the Hunter’s Den. Although, I couldn’t pick her out in the audience, I knew it had to be her. With the exception of the front two rows, the faces of the auditorium’s occupants were nothing but rows of floating black heads. Besides, I never really got a chance to look out into the audience because I was constantly moving ninety percent of the time, with the rest of the cast.

The mental caress lasted only a few seconds, but the memory of it lingered. It was like soft fingers sliding up the back of my neck and sifting through my hair. The kind of touch that forces you to shiver while your whole body breaks out in goose bumps.

I almost fucked up my lines twice because of it.

When the play was over, I crossed through the backstage area, went across the hall into our large dressing room/make-up area (commonly called a Green Room by theatre people) thankful the phantom stranger had decided not to play with my head tonight. While I was leaning over a sink, scrubbing the make-up off my face, I closed my eyes and attempted to scan the entire performance hall.

I expected what I received: a bunch of jumbled voices talking over each other like in a crowded party. Trying to pick out one person’s thoughts was damn near pointless. But the woman must have felt me trying to reach out. I heard her voice echoing out of the din of the exiting audience.

Is that you?
she asked, seemingly from the bottom of a well.

I was hesitant to answer back. Not only was I unsure if I was capable of telepathic communication, but I was also leery of letting this girl know who I was. She’d seen my thoughts. She knew I was planning a murder and I had no idea what else she’d observed when she scanned me. And let’s not even mention that she has a mind powerful enough to mentally bitchslap me from about thirty feet away. Is she capable of more? What if she concentrated a little harder?

Cautiously, I answered her,
If you can hear me, meet me in the hallway to your right as you walk out of the ground floor exit. . . You know what I look like. . . Walk up to me and . . .  Shake my hand.

I looked into the mirror over the sink, dried my face with an old bleach-stained towel and moved my head up and down, and side to side to make sure there were no remnants of make-up anywhere on my neck or around my ears.

As I was tying my shoes after changing clothes, Bo walks in, “You lucky son of a bitch! When did you even get a chance to talk to her?”

“Huh?”

“The hot redhead you were lookin’ at the night before—she’s out there in the hallway asking for you by name.”

As my stomach sank, I asked him, “Did she ask for Jeshua or. . .”

Since I had wanted college to be a fresh start, I’d started going by Jeshua as soon as my first semester had begun. No one here knew my real name.

“Well shit, son,” he answered, “How many names do you go by? Of course she asked for Jeshua. Now getchyoor ass out there and lay your mack down and report back to me. I want details!”

Bo sent me out of the Green Room with a hard slap on the back, right between the shoulder blades, knocking some of the air out of my lungs.

I felt her stare fall upon me as I pushed the door open. I turned my head to the right and observed some of the girls from the club conversing with a pair of guys who appeared downright gleeful such beautiful women were talking to them. I saw the redhead a few yards away, already approaching me with a knowing smile.

There was something about her walk that just
did
things
for me. The long legs coming out of the short skirt were great, sure, but there was just something about the sum of all her movements that just screamed
female
.

She stood in front of me and crossed her arms, not uttering a word. I didn’t feel any contempt emanating from her and there was a silly smirk on her face I found both endearing and unsettling.

She held out her hand, ready to shake.

“Is this good enough for you?” she asked out loud.

When I didn’t respond, she sighed and reached inside her purse and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights. There was a little plastic lighter tucked into the cellophane wrapping.

“C’mon, babe,” she said as she drew a cigarette out, “Let’s go outside and find a place to talk.”

I lead her outside to a place I hoped wouldn’t be too crowded. It was the school employees’ parking lot behind the auditorium.

It was early March and the air was cool and calm. She lit her cigarette and offered me one. I had smoked before a few times at the numerous post-rehearsal get-togethers, and my anxiety was making me crave one anyways, so I gladly placed the cigarette between my lips and sucked air through it like a straw (the way I’d been taught) while Desiree—

Is that her name? I think so.

--held the flame of her lighter to the end of it.

I’ve been addicted ever since.

We walked a little ways down the side of the brick building. The alcove we’d just exited was a popular smoking spot for the theatre people and we wanted to be left alone. She seemed to understand the show’s cast and crew was about to come flooding through those doors just as well as I did.

“So what’s your name?” she asked.

“Thought you already knew,” I replied.

“Jeshua’s just your made-up name,” she said, “You got a real one?”

“Why? Are you gonna give it to the cops?”

“Yeah. I’m going to say, ‘Hey, Mr. Policeman, I wait tables at a tit bar and had a psychic vision that one of my customers is planning to kill one of our regulars in the near future.’”

I was both horrified and amused. Her tone was sarcastic but it also gave me verbal confirmation she’d seen into my mind. All those times I’d done it to other people, and just now was I starting to realize how invaded it makes you feel.

“Name’s Phil,” I mumbled.

She smiled, “I like Jeshua. Fits you better. I’m Desiree.”

I half-expected her to offer her hand to me again, but she didn’t She stood silent for several seconds, enjoying her cigarette and gazing up into the clear night sky.

“Is there any talking you out of it? I’ll know if you’re lying.”

I leaned against the brick wall and felt its brisk coolness through my t-shirt. With my hands in my pockets, I shook my head slowly once from left to right.  

She sighed, yet I didn’t detect any disappointment coming from her, “So how’d you find out about all the shit he’s pulled?”

I thought about Kimber and Isaac and the vision. Then, as I felt her mind accessing my own, I realized how stupid I was to think of such things in her presence.

“Family,” Desiree whispered.