Otherworld (11 page)

 

Mike Walsh had a poor aim. On Sunday afternoon, he slouched in a tattered fold-up lawn chair borrowed from his mother and, in the middle of a vast vacant lot near the woods, held his father's forty-five caliber Llama pistol perpendicular to his body. His targets were four empty beer bottles, the contents of which happened to be picking a fight with his stomach at that very moment. He squinted with his left eye, keeping the right tightly shut. He squeezed the trigger and fired his last bullet. Another complete miss. That made eight. He wondered how Gary Newsome had been able to pull off the spectacular feat of firing (and hitting his target) in the course of a brisk foot race. So many years had passed, and Mike still believed he could feel the bruises on his back. The punishment came not from being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but from just being himself—Mike Walsh, perpetual victim. Everybody's doormat, footstool, scapegoat, what-have-you. The born loser. And it hurt. It hurt so bad. Worse than pellets in the back. Worse than the nightmares, the vivid nightmares where he was a child again, watching the bloated corpse drift to shore right in front of him, floating on the currents of the river. Floating on the cyclical currents of his mind. It even hurt worse than the fact that the wife he thought he adored left and, for all he knew, was gaining a tan on a thin band of white flesh around her ring finger and was getting a job and was scouring the personal ads for a man who adored her and actually
proved
it. The overwhelmingly painful epiphany was this: he hated himself.

He slowly lowered the gun, and it fell from his hand to the withered ground. The winter sun cast its brilliant gaze downward but offered no warmth. He laid his head down upon his own shoulder and breathed deep, the chilly air tingling in his lungs. It was thin and suffocating. He looked out at the lot before him. It was an interminable expanse of browns and whites, and the sun's glare gave it the illusion of a field of ice. And so he stood alone in this tundra, a fitting natural reflection of the desolate landscape of his life, and wrestled with overpowering thoughts of self-loathing and self-depredation.

 

The Sunday evening service was cut short due to the lack of heat in the church building. The offering from the morning service would handle that problem in no time, though. Steve took advantage of his night off and lay on his couch, safe and secure in the comforts of his own Victorian home, watching a news program on television. It was one of the major networks' overproduced news magazine shows with exclusive interviews and hidden-camera investigations, and he was not even half-interested. Carla was in the kitchen but had joined him briefly when she overheard the anchorman introduce a segment on supermarkets that pasted false expiration date labels on meat and dairy products.

“Can you believe that?” she asked.

“No, I sure can't,” he replied, not caring in the least.

And then she walked back to the kitchen, shaking her head. (Steve heard her rustling through the refrigerator, and he had no doubt she was inspecting the contents and taking care to smell each package of meat.) Steve looked at the screen but did not receive its signal. He pressed his remote control's CHANNEL UP button and held it down, watching the stations blip by in one-second intervals. The incoherent noise of channel surfing, each channel emitting a split second's worth of dialogue or music (like the effect achieved by quickly rotating a radio's tuner), filled the room. Steve caught a bit of bass fishing. A tiny moment of the Sunday Night Movie. A splinter of what might have been a rock video. One special second of “a very special episode” of some sitcom. An infomercial. Many commercials. A dozen images unregistered. He was miles away. Away from the television screen. Away from his Victorian house on the corner of a block of Yard of the Month winners in a suburban subdivision in the northwest part of the big modern city of Houston, Texas. He and his wife stood together, away from what he had become, and in the middle of the treasure he, in his days of youthful naiveté and innocent aspirations, once sought.

 

The cold night hung over Houston like sackcloth. Over one house in the city, the air was electric and thick with miserable darkness. It was the darkness of back alleys inexplicably darker than the streets around them despite the same night overhead, darker because of the passing of strange, ominous shadows and the presence of fear, as abundant as the very atoms in the air. And inside the house, a man waited in the stillness of a room that filled with the black air from outside.

Across the room, a candle instantly lit from the effort of an unseen hand, and then the visitor appeared. He was hard to make out, for the candle illuminated only a portion of his figure from the waist up. A nasty glow was cast on his face. The bottom half of him seemed to not be there at all.

“Hello, Samuel.”

Samuel Bering, the one seated, shook with excitement and fear. He rose to his feet and responded, “Hello.”

“This is all becoming quite unnecessary.”

Bering didn't understand.

The visitor continued: “This ritual, I mean. It's not necessary at all. The candle, the silly posturing. You're practically naked.”

“Well, I … I,” Bering said. “I thought that's what you wanted. You told me—”

The visitor interrupted, “I know. I know. Just a test, you see. A test for you, dear Samuel. Would you honor my presence? I didn't know. I couldn't know until you showed me. Until you could prove yourself.”

“Prove myself what?”

“Prove yourself not a bore, friend. My colleagues and I aren't at all interested in those who are merely interested in us, if you catch my meaning. We are gluttons for intelligence. What lengths would dear Samuel go to in order to request the pleasure of my company? I knew you were a wise one, but I had to talk to you to find out if you were worth talking to. Very practical, I know, but I'm afraid we haven't devised a machine or system to individually classify you people as worthy or unworthy. It must all be checked out, friend. And I, for one, don't even check someone out who isn't up to satisfying a few unusual requests.”

“Taking my clothes off?”

“Yes, taking your clothes off. Everything. I hope you're catching on. I must attribute your apparent lack of mental swiftness with the awe you must be experiencing at this moment. Or fear. Is it fear that dulls your brain, chum?”

“I … no. No, I'm not afraid.”

“Of course,” the visitor said, grinning an unpleasant grin. “Believe me, I understand.”

Bering's eyes began to adjust, and he could see that the visitor wore a black suit jacket that covered a pristine white dress shirt and crimson tie. The bottom half of his body still appeared empty. Empty, that is, except for a murky mist or smoke, or what Samuel imagined as mist or smoke. It was difficult to tell if there was nothing there at all, or if the visitor's pants gave an odd impression, an illusion of vapor. The visitor's lips curled into a wide, toothy smile, and the undulating glow of the candlelight created weird contortions of shadow in the creases of his face. His brow darted in, capturing two dark eyes beneath its furrow. His forehead was cloaked mainly in shadow, and if his hair was not jet black and slicked severely back, then he had no head at all (no top of the head anyway).

The visitor continued, “I'm here to show you great things, Samuel. You've proved yourself to me, and that is what I asked. I can show you great things. Tell you great things. Teach you. Share with you the secrets of time and space and the invisible unknown. In my world, the average fellow on the street is immensely more intelligent than you, and you are a many-degreed man, are you not? You learned with the best at the finest institutions. You are a master of many arts, many things. If I dare say it, chum, you are a genius. But there are many more things for you to learn. Yes …” The visitor moved in close, and Samuel could smell his breath. It was sweet and bitter at the same time. “… there are many more things for you to learn.”

CHAPTER SIX

The Dickey farm suffered another frigid Trumbull morning, and Pops enjoyed it. The endless days of frosty winter reminded him of Wisconsin. He remembered sitting on the porch of the corner grocery up there with his good friend Stu Hidell. Pops ran the old guy's name together and called him “Stewadell,” but Stu didn't care. Pops was his good friend. His only friend, for that matter. The two of them would perch themselves on the grocer's porch swing and survey the monotony of the small town square, like buzzards taking waiting for carrion. Anything they saw—be it a gaggle of schoolchildren, two young sweethearts, or an old maid—would be subject to criticism. They were like Statler and Waldorf, the two old men in the Muppet movies, two cynical puppets commenting on a cast of characters (of which they were a part), pontificating from a position of false superiority. Pops and Stu weren't nearly as comical, though. Pops looked back on that time with fondness and recalled one particular exchange distinctly.

“Not so cold today as yesterday,” Pops commented blandly.

“Yeah,” Stu replied.

“Bothering you at all?”

“Affects my arthritis a bit, but not bad beyond that.”

“Yeah,” Pops mimicked.

“Can't imagine what those Texans do down there in the heat all the time. In the God-forsaken desert, ya know.”

“Buncha idiots.”

The two knew absolutely nothing about Texas, but Pops had found most of his suspicions confirmed upon moving there. He was convinced they
were
a bunch of idiots. But he didn't exactly live in a desert. And it wasn't exactly hot at the time. He got the notion to write ol' Stewadell a letter and let him know it almost felt like Wisconsin, minus the snow of course, but his better judgment ruled it out. He didn't want Stu to think he was actually
enjoying
the place. And letter writing, as everyone knew, was for sissies.

Pops stood near his small pond and looked wistfully up at the tree line. Thin sheets of ice hemmed the rim of the pond. He was desperately trying to get his story together and organize the facts, all of which were completely untrue, into one coherent and, above all, believable incident. A reporter was due any minute to record Pops's terrifying encounter with a flying saucer. He loved the attention, but Gertie, his wife, had asked him why, if he hated all these Southerners so much, he wanted so many of them around all the time. She also had a problem with his dishonesty, but she was an old woman and would not summon the audacity to confront him with it (although if she had tried to, she might not have found any there to summon). Pops only grumbled, and, in the end, Gertie seemed content to let her husband do things his own way. He had, after all, done that every day since they had met.

When he felt like he had his tale all straightened out, he began his morning rounds and made for the barn. Approaching its wind-beaten door, he couldn't help hoping once again for the discovery of alien mischief. He paused for a brief moment and then opened the door in a dramatic fashion, stepping back to allow it room to swing wide. Looking inside, his face turned pale with horror, and had his hair not turned white gradually many years ago, now would have been the proper time for it to do so instantaneously.

His cow was lying on her side, her body mutilated hideously in all ways imaginable. Pops reeled back, leaned over, and threw up his breakfast.

The reporter pulled his blue sedan into the Dickeys' dirt driveway, and his first glimpse of the farmer was as he approached the car, an exuberant smile on his wrinkled face. Pops's initial shock was over. His story began.

 

Graham and Officer Petrie sat in the captain's office and ate breakfast. A doughnut for Petrie. A doughnut and aspirin for Graham.

“Head still botherin' ya, huh?”

“Ever since this cold weather started. I think maybe I'll go see a doctor today. Can't be normal to have headaches for this long, can it?”

“Can't say I know.”

They sat in silence for a while, and it was comfortable, the way two men who know each other well can sit for the longest time without saying a word and not feel like they
have
to say a word. The only sound was the din of roaming busybodies wafting in from outside the office door and the occasional popping of Petrie's jaw as he munched on his doughnut. The sound would have been annoying had Graham not been annoyed enough by the miserable pain in his skull. They finished their breakfast, and Graham asked, “How'd the press conference go?”

“Okay. Didn't say much. Pops really took it away. He went on and on. Lewis Driscoll even got up and walked off.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. He said”—Petrie straightened up for his Driscoll impersonation—“‘The old man's tall tales do a disservice to serious UFO research.'”

“That so?”

“Yeah.”

“Sheesh.” Graham wiped away the powdered sugar he knew had gathered on his upper lip. “Got a call from New Mexico last night.”

“New Mexico?”

“Yeah, Albuquerque. Anyways, this lady says she investigates cattle mutilations. Says they been getting 'em all over the place up there. Every rancher around had problems with 'em. Same deal as here, too. Surgical cuts. Blood drained. Same organs missing. This lady says that in 1989 she went out to Hope, Arkansas, where some farmer's pregnant heifers were found dead, all layin' in a line.”

“Hope, Arkansas. That's where Clinton was born.”

“Yeah? Anyways, she says one heifer had an eye missing. One was missing a large section of its belly, and they all were drained of blood and had bloodless oval-shaped incisions in their rectums.”

Petrie shifted uncomfortably. “Sheesh.”

“Well, that's what I said, pretty much.”

Petrie was looking down at the office's drab mustard carpeting. Graham could see the conflict in the young man's face. It was exciting to have some action for a change, but he wanted to please Graham too much to take too much pleasure in it. “What do you think about all this?” Petrie finally said.

“Don't know for sure,” Graham replied. “But I've got an idea.”

The opportunity to elaborate did not present itself, because the intercom sounded, and Kelly's urgent voice relayed a message.

“Captain, we got another call here from Pops Dickey. He says his cow's dead.”

“Tell Mr. Dickey we know that already.”

“Uh, no, sir. His
other
cow.”

 

Graham floored the gas pedal in his police cruiser, determined to arrive before anyone else. The car hummed just short of eighty miles per hour, dodging potholes and passing other drivers like a flash. He did not turn on the siren. It would only draw attention, and the sight of Trumbull's finest tearing up the country roads like a drag racer earned enough attention of its own. Petrie was gripping his door handle like the whole thing might fly off.

“Think you could slow down a bit, Cap?” he said quietly.

The harrowing drive lasted no more than four minutes. Graham skidded into the farm driveway, narrowly avoiding dinging the fender of a news van. There were several of them. They had been waiting. Waiting and hoping, just like Pops had. And they were as ready as he was for the news.
ALIENS VISIT DICKEY FARM A SECOND TIME
.

The two cops saw men in the distance snapping photographs of the barn. Graham and Petrie jogged toward them, and when they got close, Petrie's foot made unbalanced contact with the icy ground and sent him sliding forward. His arms wavered out, and he fell hard face-forward into the grass, cracking his nose against the tough earth.

Graham watched the incident, and at first, seeing him skidding along like a figure skater, thought Petrie had done it on purpose, but when he hurtled forward, he was hoping no one had seen.
Here's Graham Lattimer, bringing his good buddy Barney Fife
, he thought.

Petrie got up. A line of blood drifted from his right nostril.

“Sheesh,” Graham said. “You all right?”

“Yeah.” Petrie smirked.

“What's so funny?”

Petrie said, “I thought for sure I was gonna die on that ride over here, and here I go busting my face just walkin'.” He smiled, and Graham gave him a courtesy grin in return, but started for the barn door.

A mess of people stood inside, all shouting at once and waving microphones and audio recorders and video cameras around. Pops Dickey stood on a bale of hay and fielded their questions. When he saw Graham come through the wide entryway his face tensed. He began yelling over the crowd at Graham, and the crowd did not quiet down. “Captain! Captain! These people are gonna stay right where they are! This is my farm, and I have every right to do
my
business on
my
farm!”

Graham nodded and, strolling up to the bale of hay and cupping his hands to his mouth, yelled to the farmer, “Just wanna see the cow, that's all.”

Pops pointed to an area behind him.

“Mind if I take a look?” Graham yelled again.

Pops shook his head.

Graham noticed the resentment on Pops's face. “Does that mean, no, I can't, or does that mean, no, you don't mind?”

Pops made the thumbs-up sign and jerked it back, gesturing to the area again, and Graham took this to mean he didn't mind. He and Petrie walked back around into a little stall. The scene was horrific. Blood still seeped from the deep gashes in the side of the animal and was spread all over the place. It didn't resemble the first mutilation at all. Graham remembered the absence of blood in the previous killing and the clean precision of the cuts that Doc Driscoll had said were performed with a laser. This animal was anything but clean.

“Whoever did this is one sick puppy,” Graham said.

“Hey, Cap, check this out.” Petrie stooped to the ground in a corner of the stall and picked something up. It was a small card. He brought it to Graham.

“Playing card?” Graham asked.

“No, sir.”

He handed it to Graham. Branded on its slick surface was a black-robed skeleton holding a sickle. Its thin bony fingers cradled the sickle's long handle, and it smiled cruelly at Graham, a sinister, evil smile. A thought from a wholly different source reminded him,
Be assured
.

Petrie said, “It's a tarot card. That there's the card of death.”

 

Mike Walsh awoke and immediately realized that it was Molly's birthday. It felt strange for him to remember. He never did before. She always reminded him, dropping subtle hints that weren't that subtle. But this day, he woke up and remembered, probably because she was gone and, naturally, consumed his thoughts.

He rolled out of bed and stepped into the shower stall. He sat over the drain, legs crossed, and let the shower head pour its hot rain upon him. He always bathed this way in the morning. It helped him wake up. He feared getting into the stall and standing up only to somehow doze off to sleep and crash through the shower door. When he sensed the ultimate arrival of consciousness, he stood and began washing.