Otherworld (34 page)

Graham wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close. “It's okay. It's gonna be okay.”

“He's gonna kill me,” she cried.

“Nobody's gonna kill you. It's okay. I got you. You're safe now,” Graham whispered.

She wailed, “Ohhh!”

“It's okay,” he whispered. “Let's get these ropes off.”

He untied her, but exhaustion kept Gertie from standing on her own. Graham scooped her up and headed for his cruiser. She was emaciated, thin beyond the thinness of old women. She shook all over, and Graham held her rattling bones and loose flesh close. On the way out, he noticed a blood stain on the baseboard.
Someone wasn't very thorough
, he thought. Gertie was hyperventilating when they reached the car, but she forced out, “They killed him. They killed him.”

 

At the station, Gertie was given coffee and a blanket. Kelly sat in the briefing room with her, tissue in hand, doing her best to console the shaken woman. Officer Lane spoke to Graham quietly in the hallway.

“No sign of Petrie, Cap.”

“Yeah,” Graham said. “I got a bad feeling about this. I think Dickey has something to do with it.”

“With Petrie?”

“Yeah.”

“You don't think—”

“I don't know, Lane.” He said it firmly, almost but not quite angrily.

Lane dropped his eyes from Graham's. “You, uh,” he said, “you said Mrs. Dickey said
they
?”

“Yeah,” Graham sighed.

“What does that mean?”

“I think Dickey is with our murderer.”

Kelly stepped into the hallway, tears in her eyes. “I can't do this stuff, Captain. It's not my job.”

“She needs a woman to talk to, Kelly. It's a lot better than us cops awkwardly pawing at her, saying, ‘There, there.' Sheesh.”

“Then find a friend of hers. I'm a secretary, and I can't handle this.” She said it more from grief than insubordination. Gertie's body was light, but her experience was heavier than Kelly could bear. “Her husband almost killed her.”

“Did she say where they went?”

“Can I go now?”

“Did she say where they went?” Graham demanded.

“No. No, she didn't. May I go?”

“Yeah. Go find a friend of hers to come get her.” He turned to Lane. “Stay with her, you.”

“Aw, Cap,” Lane protested.

“You don't have to talk, Lane. Just keep an eye out for Dickey. Make sure you go to the friend's house. We have a crime scene unit at the Dickey place.”

Graham hoped to God the blood on the baseboard wasn't Petrie's.

 

Pops and Mr. Black didn't know where they were, but they walked with purpose, as if their destination would announce itself. They felt drawn, pulled by the gravity of dark forces to the epicenter of an unknown disaster. Keeping to woods and backstreets, they headed southward toward Houston.

Pops held his shotgun under a long coat. (The one he had used to create a booby trap at the house was an older one, a gift from Stewadell, actually. He'd never used it.) Jimmy kept his right hand on his pocket, the joints of his fingers closed tightly on the closed sheath of the butterfly knife. Compared to Pops, he was out-experienced and out-armed, but they both knew he was in control now.

The midday sun hid behind a dreary curtain of clouds. A chill wound its way through the concrete landscapes of Houston.

 

Lane escorted Gertie and Betty Leverett to Betty's house.

At the station, Graham waited for a call from the forensics team at the Dickeys' house. When the phone rang, he answered to hear the voice of a frantic woman instead. “Who's this?” he asked.

“They transferred me to you,” the woman said quickly.

“Okay,” Graham began, not quite understanding.

“There's a police car out here behind my house.”

Suddenly, Graham was very interested.

“You have to come quick,” she said. “My kids, my kids.”

“Slow down. What's happening?”

“My kids were out playing in the backyard. It, uh, it slopes down to the ditch, and, uh, they found a police car.”

“Where are you?”

 

Graham was too late. Had been, actually, for quite a while.

A handful of Trumbull's finest were gathered behind the house. Graham could see them in the distance, small lonely figures pacing aimlessly around something he couldn't see. He could see the yellow tape, though, and he almost vomited. Officers Bill Roberts and Mark Garrison met him in the front yard. Graham was moving quickly, practically jogging. Garrison stopped him, holding his arm. Roberts blocked his way, saying, “It's too late, Captain.”

“No,” Graham whispered. He tried to move away, but he felt too weak to move.

“Cap,” Roberts said simply, and Graham looked into his eyes and saw that said it all.

“No,” Graham said again, and he dropped to his knees in the grass.

“The unit's on their way, sir,” Garrison said. “They'll take care of it.”

The men didn't seem to know what else to say. Graham closed his eyes. Garrison offered, “Kids were out playing. They found him about forty minutes ago.”

Now it was said. The word
him
came crashing down on Graham. The pain returned to his temples. The fear was real. One of his best cops, one of the few men he considered a friend, was dead. This reality hung in the air, suspending all time, ripping a hole in space, a vortex sucking him into its icy void.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

From “Snow possible, forecasters say,” by Eric Guel in the
Houston Chronicle
:

Winter may be a month away, but you might want to keep your coat and mittens handy. The cold front continues to linger, and we may have record lows this week, forecasters say. There is even the chance of snow tonight and tomorrow morning. For notice of any school closings, watch your local news or call your school office in the early morning tomorrow.

 

Mike found Dr. Bering sitting on the floor of his study. “Dr. Bering? The, uh, the door was open.”

Bering sat motionless, eyes closed. He looked contemplative, like the Buddha. His arms lay limp at his sides, his hands curled on the floor. “Shut the door,” he said quietly, calmly.

Mike did so and sat down on the floor opposite the man. No sign of Malcam.

Without opening his eyes, Bering cooed, “Ah, it's so wonderful, Mike. It is so freeing.” A smile of utter delight spread across his face. “You just have no idea. This is what it's like to be alive, to be really alive. To achieve the gnosis.”

Mike said, “That's what I want.”

“Good,” responded Bering. “Close your eyes, Mike. Close them tightly, but don't tense yourself. Relax your body. Let your muscles rest. Breathe very slowly.”

Mike did all of this.

“Good, good,” the professor said. “Now let your mind go. Try to cleanse it of all thoughts. Empty it out. Let down your guard.”

Mike found it hard to obey these instructions. His was a mind used to scrutinizing every nanosecond of daily life. It was even more experienced lately in worrying about larger problems. Molly, for one. This whole bizarre episode, for another. He tried to let go. He thought of Malcam's visit the night before and that very morning. The visitor's promises echoed in his head. They held allure, mystery. Mike felt himself giving his mind over to them. He ignored the tiny doubt struggling for its own place inside.

Bering coaxed, “Yes, yes. Give yourself. Let it in.”

Then Mike heard Malcam, inches from his ear, whispering, “Care to take a little trip, chum?”

Mike's eyelids lay heavy, and he thought he could feel the weight of his eyes. They were too heavy, and his head rolled forward. His shoulders slumped; he faced down, sitting loose like a rag doll.

“Yes. Let's,” Malcam answered himself. “Come with me, Michael, to a place of comfort and wonder. It is a world apart from all others.”

Hypnotized, Mike asked, “Is it your world?”

“No, no. It is much better. It is more fit for beings like yourself. It is a world of magic and scintillating spirit.”

The room grew warmer. Mike felt a light breeze on his flesh. The breeze rolled back and forth, traversing the room in long, rhythmic waves much like the ones he'd felt at Malcam's debut. His limp body swayed in the current, and he suddenly had the overwhelming sensation of sitting in the shallow waters off an ocean shore. Malcam continued to woo him, slipping feather-light temptations into his ear.

“Feel the waves around you, chum. Move with them. Let the current take you out, far out. Far out to sea. Just let go and float away. Everything is glorious.”

A sizzle ran through Mike's body, setting his nerves alight. Gooseflesh rose over his skin. His hair stood on end. He felt very, very drowsy and sensed an impending entrance into sleep. All the while, Malcam continued his invasion of Mike's consciousness. “There you go, friend,” he said. “Just let go. You're very close now. You're almost there. It's not much farther.”

Inwardly, Mike felt himself tumbling down and through a seemingly bottomless tunnel. The water continued to swirl around him, and he was submerged now, but in no danger of drowning. He continued down, plummeting into a mind-tickling chasm.

He entered the otherworld.

 

“Where are we going, Black?”

Pops was out of breath and tired of following the kid. The cold air hurt the man's lungs, and, every now and then, the pain would send his brain the full weight of what he had done. The signals were just flashes, though. Brief sparks of remorse flickering like cinematic freeze frames.

“Shut up,” was all Jimmy said.

“I gotta stop,” Pops said, and he did.

Jimmy continued walking, leaving Pops behind him.

“Just a minute, Black. Just let me catch my breath.”

Jimmy didn't stop.

“We're not even following the grays,” Pops called out.

Jimmy kept walking but retorted, “When you got the grays inside, you don't need to see no stupid spaceship.”

 

Lisa Diaz didn't expect to find the captain at her hotel room door. “Mr. Lattimer?”

“Uh, hi, Mrs. Diaz. I was wondering if we could talk a little bit.”

“Sure. Come in.”

They sat at a little table in the kitchenette. Abby was sitting on the bed, watching cartoons on television.

Lisa shifted nervously. “What brings you here, Captain? Have you found the man who murdered my husband?”

“No, ma'am,” Graham said. “We think he killed one of my men, too.”

Coldly, Lisa responded, “Well, maybe you'll know how I feel now, Mr. Lattimer. Maybe that'll force you to find him.”

Graham sat upright. “Yes, maybe so.”

“Have you ever lost anyone, Mr. Lattimer? Besides your cop friend, I mean. Have you?”

“Well, yes, actually,” Graham said. “My parents and the grandfather who raised me.”

Unprepared for such an answer, Lisa meekly said, “Oh.”

“Reason I'm here, Mrs. Diaz, was I just wanted to check on Abby.”

“Abby?”

“See how she's doing, that sort of thing.”

“She's doing okay for a little girl with no daddy.”

“May I talk to her?” Graham asked.

“I s'pose.”

Graham nodded and rose. He approached the bed. Abby held a doll in her lap, and while her eyes remained on the TV, she was methodically undressing and dressing the doll over and over, pausing from time to time to place a tiny bottle in its mouth.

“Hello, Abby,” Graham said.

Abby neither turned her head nor answered.

“Can I sit down with you?”

Abby continued, her fingers operating nimbly on miniscule clasps, buttons, and Velcro fasteners. Graham approached, standing over the girl. “Please?” he asked.

Without looking up, she said, “Yes.”

Graham squatted, sitting next to the girl. He sat on her right, his own right hip with its holstered gun out of view. “Do you remember me?” he asked.

“Yes,” Abby said.

“I'm Mr. Lattimer, the policeman.”

“I know,” she said, still not looking up.

“I wanted to ask you about the other night.”

“Daddy got killed,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I know, I know. I'm very sorry. I want to ask you about that night you walked home.”

“The bad man tried to take me away.”

“I know. That was very scary. Can you tell me about the good man, though?”

“He was nice.”

“Is that all you remember?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Nothing else?”

“He was nice,” Abby repeated.

“What about the bad man?”

“The Black Man,” she said.

“He's black?” This was a new wrinkle for Graham. “He has black skin?”

“No, silly.” Abby smiled and suppressed a giggle.

“What, then? He wears black, right? Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

Graham repeated, “He wears black clothes?”

“Yes,” Abby said. She put the bottle to the baby's mouth. For the first time, she looked up at Graham. “The Black Man is very scary, Mr. Lammer, but God is very big.”

He smiled at the mispronunciation of his name. “He is, huh?”

“Yep.”

From “Houston Killer Takes Another Life,” by Philip Schroeder in the
Houston Chronicle
:

Police authorities are saying today that the Trumbull police officer found dead in his car is more than likely a victim of the same teenage suspect wanted for the murders of his mother and a Trumbull businessman. Jimmy Horn, 17, is also wanted for the attempted kidnapping of a young Trumbull girl. She is the daughter of the murdered Trumbull man.

Children discovered the body of Samuel Petrie, a four-year veteran of the Trumbull Police Department, in his patrol car while they were out playing.

Forensic evidence has linked Horn to the murder, authorities say. The victim's blood also matched blood found in the scene of an assault in another Trumbull home.

Trumbull police found Gertrude Dickey, 68, tied to a chair in her bedroom, apparently by her husband Lucas Dickey, 71. Readers will recall Mr. Dickey as the source of Trumbull's recent UFO sighting claims, making this story stranger as it develops. Police believe Dickey and Horn are together, but they are unsure of their whereabouts.

The suspects are considered armed and dangerous. If you spot them, do not approach. Call your local police or the CrimeStoppers hotline at 222-TIPS.

 

North of Houston, in a Dallas suburb, Molly Walsh wandered around her late sister's house. More and more, she identified herself with the finger-painted lady in the frame on the wall. The world was chaotic, unstable. She thought about her husband. How much she wanted to see him again! How she wanted things to be right. But she was floating in those finger-painted seas, adrift in the random dark hues of tragedy.

She began to pray for Mike.

And she began to realize that she was not the finger-painted lady. The expressionist portrait was not of a lady at all. Molly saw Mike more clearly than the painting displayed its floating figure, but the figure undoubtedly represented him. He was adrift; he was lost. He had been sucked into chaos, and this startling fact chilled her, touched something within her that provoked the response of guilt. For the first time, she thought not just of how her leaving affected him emotionally, but of how it had affected him spiritually.

This realization gave way to a fearful prescience. Her overwhelming concern had instantaneously created within her the knowledge that Mike was actually in great danger. And, perhaps, so was she.