Multiples of Six
Chapter 1
Agnes Richardson knew as soon as she saw the curtain out of place that she wasn’t alone. Years of living in fear had attuned her to the slightest details of her house. She knew where everything was supposed to be. She didn’t have animals because she knew the constant variables they would present. That was why she knew that her curtain had not been ruffled before she left for the store. She hated that she knew that. She hated that she had lived in a silent fear for twenty-four years. And, a part of her was actually happy to finally see something amiss. It would be a release. She was finally going to pay the price for taking part. She spoke out loud.
“You don’t have to hide. I’d prefer to see you.”
The response came from her bedroom.
“Agnes Richardson?”
The voice was a man’s.
“Why ask when you know the answer?”
“I wanted to see if you’d lie.”
“Why bother. I’m dead either way,” she said, then added “Right?” She heard him chuckle.
“There it is. That faint hope beyond hope. You know you’re dead, and yet you cling to that last thread. That chance that somehow I’ll change my mind, or that maybe fate has had a last minute change of heart. Hope all you want, Agnes. See what good it does.”
The voice was closer, but she still could not see the speaker. She assumed that he could see her clearly.
“Hope is all I’ve had over the years.”
“Oh…boo…hoo. It’s too late to shed tears about the past now, Agnes. Too fucking late! All you’ve had. Good God, woman. By the looks of it, you’ve had it pretty damn easy over the years.”
The man walked out of her bedroom as he said this and she dropped the bag of groceries she had been holding. He walked right up to her, the gun held loosely in his hand. Everything about him told her she was looking at an elderly person. A lanky, almost gaunt man, he wore something she expected to see in a Florida retirement community; a straw fedora with a red plaid band sat atop a crop of thinning white hair. He wore a collared white shirt and white slacks that didn’t quite reach his ankles. The tight white socks only helped to emphasize the white boat shoes he wore. All this was topped off with a lightweight cherry red sport coat. The only things that defied his age were his bouncy step and something about his eyes. The insanity was clear, even through the strong prescription glasses and the apparent beginnings of a cataract in his left eye. He stood before her, slightly hunched, staring into her eyes. Then he smiled, a crooked-mouthed, toothy smile with what appeared to be perfect false teeth. Her mouth dropped open.
“Oh, yes. See…that’s the kind of response I was looking for. Yes…let it sink in, Agnes. Because, you do recognize me now, don’t you?”
Agnes could do nothing but raise a trembling hand to her mouth and nod slowly. His voice rose in a crescendo as he spoke.
“Do you see this? Do you see this mockery of a man before you? Do you see what your precious doctors created, Agnes? I’ve had arthritis since I was six. My teeth started falling out the first time at 8 months, the second time at thirteen years. Thirteen years old and wearing dentures! My hair turned white by the time I was sixteen. Not exactly a big turn on for the girls, let me tell you.”
He wiped away the spittle that had trickled out over his bottom lip.
“I…”
“You couldn’t possibly have anything to say about this, Agnes, so save your breath. Do you see what you helped to create? Do you see the precious life you helped to create? Have you enjoyed your life? It doesn’t look half bad. Judging by the extra pounds, life has been ok for the last twenty-four years. Me, not so much. And, after all these years, it’s time someone paid for what was done. Someone’s idea of a science project created me, molded me into what I am today…and now the Frankenstein is loose! Bring on the torches and pitchforks! But, the townsfolk won’t arrive in time for you, Agnes. No…I’m afraid they won’t arrive in time to rescue you. But don’t worry…you won’t have died in vain. You’ll be the shot they all hear. And, when they run…I’ll be there.”
Agnes bowed her head and sobbed lightly.
“Look at me, Agnes.”
She shook her head. He grabbed her chin and forced it up with alarming ease.
“Look at me! Look at me and know that your life…your simple, everyday life has been a lie. Do you have a god, Agnes? Agnes? Stay with me here. Do… you… have… a…god?”
She nodded.
“Did you ever ask your god for forgiveness? Did you ever cry out in the middle of the night, hoping to your god that your actions were for the best? Well, there’s that hope word again. Maybe you didn’t pray hard enough. Oh, wait, yeah, I know you didn’t pray hard enough. Or, maybe I wouldn’t be standing here right now.”
“I had a family to take care of.”
He struck out at her with the gun, knocking her to the ground. He raged over her, his eyes rolling madly.
“At any cost? How dare you say something like that? Do you hear how insane that response is? If they had a job flipping the switch at a puppy burning mill, would you have taken that instead? Good God, woman!”
“I didn’t know…that…this…I didn’t know you…”
“Oh, save it, Agnes! It’s too late to play the innocent card. It’s not worth anything,” he said. He stepped back from her, straightened up, adjusted his collar, tidied his jacket and continued in a calm voice.
“Besides, I’m not the jury. I wouldn’t be here if you were innocent. You wouldn’t have run away and adopted a new name if you were innocent. You knew what they were doing. You read the reports that came across the good doctor’s desk. You signed every goddamn one of them. But, I digress.”
The man relaxed and stood before her, the gun hanging limply in his hand at his side. He was breathing heavily, as if the exertion of shouting had tapped his reserves more than he’d expected.
“If it’s worth anything to you…I’m sorry. I was too ignorant and afraid to do anything back then,” she said looking at him. She looked away and wiped the blood from the corner of her lip.
“It might be the only apology I hear, Agnes, so yes…it is worth something.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a metal tube and began fitting it to the end of the gun. She had seen enough movies to know a silencer when she saw it. He wasted no time and she quickly looked out the window at the blue of the Texas sky before it all went black.
Chapter 2
The clock on his mother’s dresser said it was 6:37 AM. James Masterson knew better. He knew that the clock had never been set back from daylight savings since the last time his mother had used the room almost two years ago. Now, as it beamed its lie into the darkness of that December morning, it stood as an incorrect anomaly; an incorrect clock in a room where time no longer mattered.
Leaning against the doorway, James glanced around the room. From the time she had been unable to use it, James had entered it little without her permission. He made sure to dust the woodwork per her request on a biweekly basis. He’d retrieved clothes when she requested them. Two weeks ago, she’d asked him to get her the necklace his father had given her on her birthday before he had passed away. It consisted of a small silver feather with a turquoise stone at one end. She died that night in the hospital bed that had been erected in the living room of their house; the cancer finally wearing away the last of her constitution. Even now, as he stood in the doorway, he felt like he was intruding.
After his mother’s death, James had been overcome with the guilt of feeling relieved. It had sickened him to the point of exhaustion. But his girlfriend, Nicole, insisted that it was all part of the process of grieving. It was natural to feel relief. He had taken on a lot of responsibility at the age of twenty-two and there was nothing wrong with the way he was feeling now.
James made his way down the hall and peered in at her still form in his bed. She had only stayed with him these last two nights. Although she hadn’t said it, he got the feeling that she didn’t want him to feel like she was pressuring him to move in. And though that was exactly what he wanted her to do, he just couldn’t bring himself to admit that he loved having her there. Knowing she was there made the silence of the house more tolerable. But, strangely, her words of reassurance had done little to comfort him. And, though he was able to fall asleep better at night, he still found himself staring at the ceiling by two or three in the morning, his mind racing and his body unable to relax back into unconsciousness, despite his exhaustion.
Nicole had suggested anti-anxiety pills. Something to take the edge off; let him sleep through the night. James wasn’t a fan of drugs he didn’t absolutely need. He’d seen enough of what the drugs had done to his mother…and they were meant to cure her. But, Nicole knew all about
head cases
like him. She worked with them every day. Wanted to work with them for the rest of her life and put that psych degree to good use. James often told her that she only stuck with him because he’d make a good test subject someday. She invariably shrugged and said, “That’s not the
only
reason,” then laughed and kissed him.
He made his way down the stairs, glancing at the photos adorning the wall: his father and mother smiling in the peak of health, thankfully oblivious of any future pain; little James on his father’s shoulders in the back yard, mere feet from where the man would someday collapse and die from a massive heart attack at the age of fifty-two, two weeks after James’ high school graduation.
He walked to the kitchen and mechanically prepared a cup of tea, not really even knowing if he really wanted one. James found himself standing with a spoonful of sugar hovering over the cup, unable to remember if he had already added it to the tea or not. He glanced into the cup, sloshing the hot liquid around, then decided to err on the side of caution and dumped it in; too sweet, he could handle.
As an only child, adopted shortly after he was born, James could hardly remember a time that didn’t include at least one of them. Now that they were gone, he wondered if the house would ever feel complete again.
Uncle Ted, his father’s brother, was the only “blood” relation left. A hulk of a man, he had commanded respect with his sheer presence. Ted had spent a few days with James after the funeral to make sure everything was in order. The will had been straightforward; James got everything. Ted hugged him the day he left. It was quick and left James feeling more lonely than ever. “Take care, boyo,” he had said, then left without looking back. “Call if you need something. Otherwise, I’ll give you a call at Christmas.”
James found himself at the bottom of the stairs looking up into the darkness, cup of tea in hand. He wanted to go up and crawl back into bed with Nicole, but a feeling of guilt held him in place. He ran his hand along the wood at the end of the worn handrail. It was worn. He could remember thinking, as a teenager, that someone should replace it, or refinish it. Now he was that someone. No one else would replace it; it was his alone.
He made his way back into the kitchen. The back door window was coated in a thin layer of frost. The warped wood groaned and the hinges sounded ancient as he pulled it open. He pushed at the storm door and stepped out onto the porch. The air was crisp, and there was little to disturb the peace. He watched his breath float out into the morning. The light from the coming sun was chasing the stars away and just starting to tint the sky a pale blue in the East. He leaned back into the door and turned out the kitchen light, allowing his eyes adjust to the darkness.
There had been many a winter day when James would wake up, come downstairs and find one or both of his parents on the back porch, sipping tea and talking, or just taking in some morning air. He would join them, but only briefly before being shooed back into the warmth of the house. Even now, he fought the urge to return to the warmth of the kitchen. This morning, the cold felt good, even cleansing. He needed that.
He was just able to make out a squirrel darting out from under the oak and running across the back yard to the maple when three things seemed to happen at once. Someone spoke over his left shoulder, something cold and metallic was pressed against his left temple, and he was fairly certain his heart skipped a beat.
“I…” James began.
“Shut up, just shut up, and keep your hands on the railing where I can see them,” came a man’s nervous voice from next to him.
He emphasized each word with a push of whatever it was against his temple. It had to be a gun, James thought. He thought he could see a metal shaft in what little light there was.
“James Masterson?” The man said.
“Yes,” James said.
“James Devon Masterson?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Jeee…sus. Jesus Christ. He didn’t say…you…this if fucked up. Fucked up!” He had been whispering, up until the last two words. The words carried through the back yard. Not that anyone would hear. The neighbors were too far away to notice, and the lot backed to woods.
So, this was it, James thought. He would die on his back porch. At his home…where his parents had died. His mother in her rented hospital bed. His father in the garden, clutching his chest on that sweltering August day. He would leave Nicole as his parents had left him. Except James would die having done nothing more in life than existed. He had graduated high school and college in unspectacular fashion. He’d managed to get a job that he had kept for two years. He was vanilla. He had simply been. His grave marker could read “James Masterson was.” He managed to chuckle at this thought.
“I’ve got a…gun…to your head and you’re laughing?”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” the man said, and James might have heard a hint of doubt had he not been focusing so hard on the barrel pressed against his head.
“I don’t get it,” James said.
“Neither do I,” the man said. “You…shouldn’t be here. I mean, he told me that you were here, but not this you…I mean, not a you that
looks
like you. You shouldn’t…can’t…exist.” The metal scraped his temple and James flinched.
“I don’t understand what you mean,” James said, then added, “Any chance I could get you to remove the gun from my head?”
“Can’t. You might turn around and eat me or something, man. You’re like my worst nightmare.”
“Are you high?”
“No, man. No way. You’re real.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you should just walk away. Maybe if you kill me, it’ll turn out to be your mom or something.”
“Fuck you, dude. You got a lot of balls sayin’ shit like that with a gun to your head.”
“What do I have to lose?” The hand steadied and resumed its pressure against his temple.
“What’s your birthday?” the man said.
“What is this…?”
“Just answer the question, dude,” the man said and poked James’ temple with the gun.
“September eleventh, nineteen eighty-two.”
“You’re lying. You’re fuckin’ lying!”
“Friend, why would I lie, and what the hell does that…?”
“Shut up. Just shut up…I gotta think about this,” he said and pulled the gun away from James head. The sinking feeling in his chest subsided a little. James kept his head forward but could see that the man was gazing at him, peering around him like James was some sort of oddity. True dawn was still hours away and what little light there was, was coming up on the wrong side of the house. The best he could judge was that the man was about his height with a cap on and smelled a bit like a wet dog. He shivered.
“Are you alone?” the man asked.
“No.”
“Who?”
“My girl is upstairs, sleeping.”
“Why didn’t you lie?”
“What good would that do me now? Besides, you would have killed me if that’s what you came to do.”
“I still could.”
“I know,” James said, and his head turned ever so slightly.
“Don’t! Not yet…don’t turn yet.”
“Ok, I won’t!” James said, waving his hands.
“Tell me your name again. I need to hear you say it.”
“My name is James Devon Masterson.”
“And, you’re twenty-four years old.”
“And, I’m twenty-four years old.”
“And, you were born on February eleventh, nineteen eighty-two.”
“And, I was born on February twelfth, nineteen eighty-two.”
“Now listen to me and try for a moment to understand why I feel the need to keep this gun on you.”
“Ok.”
“My name is Kevin Powers and I was sent here by a man…a doctor who told me I would find…someone. A member of my family. I’m twenty-four years old as well and born in February of eighty-two. Now turn around.”
James turned around and looked into the darkness that was the face shadowed beneath the cap. The man was his height, maybe a few pounds less, with a familiar roll to his shoulders. His eyes adjusted and it was like looking in a funhouse mirror. There was his nose, his high cheekbones, the narrow chin, thin lips, only this face was covered in a thin mustache and goatee. He held a short metal tube in his hand, tucking it into his jacket apologetically. The man removed his cap, and James’ head swam. The sinking feeling shot through his stomach to his knees and he reached for the porch railing. Kevin leaned forward and grabbed his shoulder, squeezing it a little, as if to make sure that James was real.
“You see why I freaked out a bit? I came looking for a family member, maybe a long lost cousin. But…not you…not this…not like this.”
“I…you…” James managed.
“Exactly,” Kevin said, “Fucked up.”
“Why the gun trick,” James said, pointing to where Kevin had tucked away the tube.
“Oh…yeah…my bad…”
“My bad?” James asked.
“I--,” Kevin began.
The storm door flew open and, before either one of them could react, a jumble-haired brunette had swung the biggest caste iron frying pan Kevin had ever seen at his head. He didn’t react in time and the blow landed with a resounding “Gong!” square on his right temple. Kevin crumpled to the porch floor in a heap.
“Nicole! No!” James shouted too late.
“He had a gun! I heard you two talking. He said he could kill you.”
“It wasn’t a gun…he was lying!”
“I…oh, James…”
“Jesus, Nic…”
“Oh my God…did I kill him?”
“I hope not. I think he’s my brother.”
