Black (5 page)

A chorus of screeches filled the air behind him. The black bats.

Fangs sank into his left calf. Pain shot up his spine, and the last threads of reason fell from his mind. Time and space ceased to exist. Only reaction remained. The only messages that managed to get through the buzz in his brain were to his muscles, and they said run or die, kill or be killed.

He smashed at his calf. The black bat fell away but took a chunk of flesh with it.

Twenty yards.

Another bat attached itself to his thigh. Tom clamped his mouth to keep from screaming and pumped his arms with every ounce of strength remaining in his strained muscles.

He plunged into the forest, and immediately the flies cleared.

The bats did not.

His shirt was tattered and his skin was red. Covered in blood. He stumbled through the trees, nauseated, legs numb from the loss of blood.

A black bat landed on his shoulder, but each nerve cut by the beast's sharp teeth was already inflamed with pain, and Tom barely noticed the black lump on his shoulder now. Another attached itself to his buttocks. He ignored the bats and lurched drunkenly through the trees.

Where was the white bat? There. Left. Tom swerved, hit a tree head-on, and dropped to the ground. He tried to catch his fall with his right arm, but his forearm broke with a tremendous snap. White-hot pain flashed up his neck.

The bats lodged on his body lost their places and screeched in protest, beating their wings furiously. He struggled to his feet and lurched forward, right arm dangling uselessly at his side. The bats landed on Tom's jerking body, struggled for footing, and began chewing again.

He stumbled on, vaguely aware that his moccasins and most of his clothes were now gone, leaving only a loincloth. He could feel fangs working on his thigh.

A voice, slippery and deep, echoed quietly through the trees. “You will find your destiny with me, Tom Hunter.”

The voice had come from one of the bats behind him, he could swear it. But then he broke from the forest onto the bank of a river and the thought was lost.

A white bridge spanned the flowing water. A towering, multicolored forest lined the far bank, dazzling like a box of crayons topped with a bright green canopy. The sight stopped him.

Green. A mirage or heaven.

Tom limped toward the bridge, hardly aware of the bats squawking on his back. His breathing came in great gasps. His flesh quivered. The black bats fell from his back. The lone white bat flapped eagerly on a low branch across the river. His ally was large, maybe as high as Tom's knees with a wingspan three times that. Its kind green eyes fixed on him.

He knew this bat as well, didn't he? At least he knew that his hope rested in this creature now.

In his peripheral vision, Tom saw that thousands of the black creatures were lining the stark trees behind him. He wobbled onto the bridge and gripped its rail tightly for support. His mind began to drift with the water below. Slowly but steadily he hauled himself across the bridge, over the rushing waters, all the way to the other side. He collapsed into a thick bed of emerald green grass.

He was dying. That was the last thing he thought before the pain shoved him into the world of unconsciousness.

5

S
omething woke him. A noise or a breeze—something had pulled him from his dreams.

Tom blinked in the darkness. Breathed hard, tried to clear his mind. The bats weren't simply figments of his imagination. Nothing was. His name was Tom Hunter. He'd fallen on a rock and lost his memory, and he'd just escaped the black forest. Barely. Now he'd just passed out and he was dreaming.

Dreaming that he was Tom Hunter, being chased by loan sharks he'd stiffed for $100,000 four years ago in New York.

Problem was, this dream of Denver felt as real as the black forest had. There had to be a way to tell if he really was, at this very moment, physically lying on a bed of green grass or staring at the ceiling of an apartment in Denver, Colorado. He could test the reality of this environment by standing up and walking around, but that wouldn't help if his dreams felt like reality. He would be able to see if his skin was stripped off or if his arm was broken, but since when did dreams reflect reality? He'd broken his arm in the black forest, but here in this dream of Denver, he could be totally healthy. In dreams, the condition of one's body didn't necessarily correlate.

Tom moved his arm. No broken bone. He had to find a way to push past this dream and wake up on the riverbank before he died there, lying on the grass.

The door opened and Tom reacted without thinking. He grabbed the machete, rolled to the ground, and came up in position one, blade extended toward the door.

“Tom?”

Kara stood at the door, facing him with wide eyes. She certainly looked real enough. Standing right there, still wearing her white nurse's outfit, long blonde hair pulled up off her neck, blue eyes as bright and feisty as ever. He straightened.

“Expecting someone?” She flipped the switch.

Light flooded the apartment. If this was real and not a dream, light could attract the night crawlers. The New Yorkers.

“Does it look like I'm expecting someone?” Tom asked.

“What's the machete for?” She nodded at his right hand.

He lowered the blade. This couldn't be a dream, could it? He was here in their apartment, not lying unconscious by some river.

“I had a crazy dream.”

“Yeah, how so?”

“It felt real. I mean
really
real.”

Kara tossed her purse on the end table. “Nightmare, huh? Don't they all?”

“This wasn't like just any dream that feels real. I keep falling asleep in my dream, and then waking up here.”

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“What I'm saying is that I only wake up here if and when I fall asleep there.”

A blank stare. “And?”

“And how do I know I'm not dreaming here, right now?”

“Because I'm standing here, and I can tell you that you're not dreaming right now.”

“'Course you would. You'd be in the dream, wouldn't you? That's why you'd think you're real. That's why I think you're —”

“You've written one too many novels, Thomas. It's late, and I need to get some sleep.”

She was right. And if she was right, their problems weren't as simple as a case of the delusional novelist being chased by black bats.

Kara turned and started for her room.

“Uh, Kara?”

“Please. I don't have the energy for another crisis right now.”

“What makes you think this is a crisis?”

She turned. “You know I love you, brother, but trust me, when you wake up with a machete in your hand, telling me I'm just part of your dream, I think to myself,
Tommy's going off the deep end
.”

She made a good point. Tom glanced at the window. No signs of anything.

“Have I gone off the deep end before?” he asked. “I don't remember doing that.”

“You
live
off the deep end.” She paused. “I'm sorry, that's not fair. Apart from buying $20,000 worth of statues you can't sell and trying to smuggle crocodile skins in them and—”

“You knew about that?”

“Please.” She smiled. “Good night, Thomas.”

“I was shot in the head tonight.” His urgency suddenly returned. He ran to the window and peered past the curtain. “If this isn't a dream, then we have a very big problem.”

“Now you
are
dreaming,” she said.

He yanked off his hat. The cut must have been obvious, because her eyes went wide.

“I kid you not. I was chased by some guys from New York and got shot in the head. I passed out in a garbage can but escaped before they could find me. And you're right, I'm not dead.”

Kara hurried over, incredulous. “You got shot in the head?” She touched his scalp gently, as a nurse would.

“It's fine. But we may not be.”

“It's a head wound! You need a dressing on this.”

“It's just a surface wound.”

“I'm so sorry, Tommy. I had no idea.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “If you only knew. I'm the one who should be sorry.” Then under his breath, “I can't believe this is happening.”

“You can't believe
what's
happening?”

“We have a problem, Kara,” he said, pacing. She was going to kill him, but he was beyond that now. “Remember when Mom lost it after the divorce?”

“And?”

“I was there with her in New York. She couldn't work, she got into some serious debt, and they were going to take everything away from her.”

“You helped her out,” Kara said. “You sold out your end of the tour company and bailed her out.”

“Well, I helped her out. And then I came to help you out.”

She tilted her head. “But you
didn't
sell your end of the tour company. Is that what you're going to say?”

“No, I didn't sell out. It was already a bust.”

“Don't tell me you borrowed money from those crooks you used to talk about.”

He didn't answer.

“Thomas? No!” She lifted her hands in exasperation and turned away. “No.” She spun back. “How much?”

“Too much to pay back right away. I'm working on it.”

“How
much?”

He dug out the receipt, handed it to her, and walked back to the curtain, as much now to avoid her eyes as to check the perimeter again.

“One hundred dollars?”

“Thousand,” he said.

She gasped. “One hundred thousand? That's insane!”

“Well, unless I'm dreaming, it's real. Mom needed sixty to come clean, you needed a new car, and I needed twenty-five for my new business. The carvings.”

“And you just took off from New York, hoping they would be fine with that?”

“I didn't just take off. I left a trail to South America and then split with full intention to pay them back in time. I have a buyer in Los Angeles who's interested in the carvings—should bring in fifty, and that's without the contraband. Just took a little longer than I expected.”

“A
little
longer? What about Mom? You're endangering her?”

“No. No connection they ever knew about. As far as the records go, she got her money from the divorce settlement. But that's not important. What is important is that they found me, and I doubt they're interested in anything other than cash. Now.”

The full meaning of what he was saying settled over Kara. Any sympathy she'd felt for his bullet wound vanished. “Of course they found you, you idiot! What do you think this is—Manila? You can't just walk away with $100,000 of the mob's money and expect to live happily ever after. They let one person get away with it, and every Tom, Dick, and Harriet will be robbing them blind!”

“I know! I just got shot, for crying out loud!”

“We'll be lucky if we
both
don't get shot! What were you thinking, moving here?”

Her statement hit him broadside. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The whole business suddenly felt impossibly heavy to him. He'd risked more than she could ever know to help out their mother. He'd left a life behind in New York to protect her, to make a clean break, to get back on his feet with the import business. That he would endanger Kara by bringing this debt to Denver had never occurred to him.

What was he thinking moving here, she wanted to know? He was thinking that they'd both been abandoned by their parents. That they didn't have any real friends. Or any real home. That they were suspended between countries and societies and left wondering where they fit in. He wanted to be Kara's brother—to help her and to be helped by her.

“I was twenty-one,” he said.

“So?”

“So I wasn't thinking. You were having a tough time.”

Her hands dropped to her thighs with a slap. “I know. And You've always been there for me. But this . . . I just can't believe you were so stupid.”

“I'm sorry. Really, I'm sorry.”

Kara looked at him and began to pace. She was steaming all right, but she couldn't bring herself to take his head off. They'd been through too much together. Being raised as outcasts in a foreign land had woven an inseverable bond between them.

“You can be
an idiot, Thomas.”

Then again, the bond wasn't beyond being stretched now and then.

“Look,” he said, “I know this isn't good, but it's not all bad.”

“Of course not. We're still alive, right? We should be eternally grateful. We're walking and breathing. You have a cut on your head, but it could have been much worse. We should be toasting our good fortune!”

“They don't know where we live.”

“See, that's the problem here,” she said. “It's already gone from
I
to
we
. And there's nothing
we
can do about it.”

The pain in Tom's head was making a strong comeback. A wave of dizziness swept over him, and he walked unsteadily for the chaise lounge. He sat hard and groaned.

Kara sighed and disappeared into her room. She came out a few seconds later with some gauze, a bottle of peroxide, and a tube of Neosporin and sat by him.

“Let me see that.”

He faced the wall and let her dab the wound with peroxide.

“If they knew where we lived, they would be here already,” he said.

“Hold still.”

“I don't know how long we have.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” she said emphatically.

“We can't stay here, and you know that. They found me in Denver, probably through the dinner theater. I should've thought about that—the theater advertises all over the country. My name's in the credits.”

She wound the gauze around his head and taped it. “Seems appropriate that a production of
Alice in Wonderland
would end up being your demise, don't you think?”