Strange Magic (4 page)

“Let me out of here,” Wilson shouted at the top of his voice. “Hey, guard, can you hear me?”

He was still decked out in his magic clown getup, but had managed to wash most of the face paint off in the small, stained sink hanging precariously from the graffiti-covered wall. He’d only been awake for fifteen minutes, which had been long enough to realize where he was, register it was dark outside the bar-studded window (which meant he’d slept the rest of the afternoon away), and discover how much his body and face ached. He sure could use a shot of vodka right now.

“Come on, guys, somebody get back here,” he yelled, rattling his metal drinking cup against the small holding cell’s slightly rusting gray bars. Not the most original thing to do, but just like in the movies it proved to be rather effective, bringing one of the night-shift officers running. Wilson knew this cop as well.

The huge black man’s uniform shirt was untucked at the waist and his sleeves rolled up to reveal melon-size biceps. He wore no badge or gun, and as he approached Wilson, his stifled yawn indicated he’d either been fast asleep or well on his way. He didn’t look very happy.

“Shut up, Kemp, you damn fool. What on earth are you yelling at?”

“You’ve got to get me out of here. I’m starting to go nuts caged up in this damn jail. You’ve got your keys with you, right, Mack?” Wilson pleaded, using his hands to mimic an invisible key being twisted into an invisible lock.

Officer Byron MacKenzie, Big Mack to his friends, was in a foul mood. He’d been offered free tickets to a great jazz concert in Pittsburgh, and had been forced to pass because he hadn’t been able to get anyone to change shifts. He’d been close to calling in sick and going to the show anyway, but at the last minute he canceled out and grudgingly headed to work. He’d done the right thing showing up for duty, but that didn’t mean he had to pretend to be a happy camper. He was certainly in no mood to stand and argue all night with the town drunk.

“First of all, I don’t think three tiny holding cells squeezed into the backroom of this building would constitute much of a jail. Second, even if you do consider this a jail, get it through your thick head real quick I’m not a guard. I’m a police officer, and a pissed off one at that. Third, things will go a lot smoother for both of us if you’d just lie down and keep quiet. You’re not going anywhere, so shut the fuck up, dig?”

“Ah come on, Mack, what’s the deal? I’ve been in here long enough to sober up. Usually, someone would have woken me up and tossed me long ago. What’s happening?”

“What’s happening, Kemp, is this time you’re not just having a nice little snooze in the tank. This time you’re being charged.”

“Charged!” Wilson replied, astonished.

“Yeah, charged. You know, as in this time you fucked up royally. I heard Reggie Morris and his wife just about blew the roof off this place this afternoon after your little magic show at their place.”

Wilson’s memory, as always when he drank too much, wasn’t all that good. He remembered his red nose kept falling off and maybe he broke a lamp. Touching his sore face, he recalled his encounter with Reggie’s fist, but after that, his mind drew a blank. He had no recollection of how he’d gotten out of the Morris house, or how he’d eventually ended up in the confines of this cramped and unappealing cell.

“What are they charging me with, Mack?”

“Drunk and disorderly, malicious damage, and anything else the chief can think of. Morris really tore a chunk out of the chief’s ass. He’s mad as hell. You’ll be awful lucky if the Morrises don’t turn around and sue you on top of all this. I guess you practically wrecked their place, not to mention probably giving their kid a bad complex about birthday parties and clowns that might stay with him for freakin’ life.”

A vision flashed in Wilson’s head of Archie, a turtle he’d recently bought, tumbling out of his pocket and landing into a big bowl of ice cream. He wasn’t sure if that had really happened, so he just pushed the thought aside. Probably for the best.

“How long do I have to stay here?” he finally asked.

“Hard to say really. You might have to hang around until Monday, when the chief comes back to work.”

“Monday! You’ve got to be kidding? Today’s only…ahh…Monday’s not for another…let’s see—” He’d
forgotten what day of the week today was, so he quickly changed the topic. “What about bail, Mack? Can I get out if I post bail?”

“It’s about eleven o’clock on Friday night, if you’d like to know. Look Wilson, we’re not playing twenty questions here; it takes a judge to set a bail amount, man, and trust me, amigo, no one is getting the judge out of bed tonight. ’Sides, even if they end up setting bail at a measly hundred bucks, I’m willing to bet my next paycheck you haven’t got it, have you?”

Wilson frantically dug in the deep, baggy pockets of his rainbow-colored clown suit. There was a lump in his left-side pouch but when he pulled it out, it was only his troublesome sponge clown nose.

“Just like I thought,” the burly policeman said, starting to turn and walk away.

“Wait, Mack!” Wilson yelled. “What about Susan? If you could call her, I’ll bet she—”

“Forget it, already tried calling your wife. She’s not around. Even if she was, you’ve got to stop relying on her to keep rescuing you every time you drink yourself into a jam. You’ve got to get your act together, man, she threw you out of the house for a reason, you know?”

“I know, but—”

“But nothing. Look, I called her and she’s not home. I don’t know where she is or believe me I’d try and dump you off. You’re going to have to sit tight. I left a message on her machine, so she’ll probably yank you out tomorrow. She’ll sweet-talk somebody and you’ll get out, but it’s not happening tonight. No way. Now shut up and get some sleep.”

Officer MacKenzie was out the door and back into
the front office before Wilson could think of anything else to say. He briefly considered trying to pick the lock on his cell, but he was
way
out of practice and had no tools with him anyway. Accepting his predicament, he set his cup back on the shelf above the sink and slouched down on the lumpy, uncomfortable bed. Something hard poked at his leg, behind his left knee, and when he reached down under the mattress he found one of the thin steel slats that crisscrossed to make the wire mesh of his bunk was loose and was sticking out a few inches. Wilson stood up and lifted the mattress to get a better look. If he wiggled the protruding slat, the entire six and a half feet of thin steel slid in and out at will. If he’d wanted to, Wilson could have slowly backed up and slid the entire slat free of the interlocking mesh pattern. Then he looked at the single wool blanket he’d been given.

With a long, thin piece of steel like this and my blanket, I could…I could…

“Oh hell, just forget it. Back in the day, maybe, but you’re not the man you used to be. Never will be either, so do what Big Mack says. Shut the fuck up and get some sleep.” Wilson was disgusted with himself. “Yeah, right. I’ve been in dreamland all day. How am I supposed to sleep through the night too?”

He couldn’t come up with an answer but he pushed the steel slat back into place and lay down anyway, and tried a little soul-searching. Maybe if he thought long and hard enough, he might be able to come up with a reason why he was always such a fuckup. Half an hour later, he was still staring at the burned-out lightbulb on the ceiling, no closer to finding an answer.

“One thing’s for sure. Big Mack was definitely right
about something. No matter what else happens, I really have to work on getting my act together. I can’t keep screwing up like this.”

A tear ran down his cheek as he lay in the dark trying to think about his wife and daughter. He loved them very much, but that wasn’t his reason for crying. His tears were shed in disgust and loathing for himself. No matter how much he loved his family and tried to concentrate on them, the only thing he could think about was the bottle of vodka waiting for him on his kitchen table.

It was going to be a hell of a long night.

The Stranger pulled the pickup truck off the side of Route 62, slowing to a stop in the gravel shoulder. He was on the outskirts of the Billington town limits; so close in fact he could make out the welcome sign dead ahead. In the murky light cast by the red Ford’s headlights, he could tell it was one of those monstrous billboard-type signs that marked the entrance to nearly every small town trying to look bigger and more important than they really were. He clicked on the truck’s high beams to get a better look. In huge, freshly repainted foot-high golden letters, the sign said:

WELCOME TO BILLINGTON PENNSYLVANIA

We’re glad you’ve come and hope you enjoy your stay. Population: 21,000

It had taken the Stranger less than two hours of actual driving time to get here. If he had wanted to, he could have arrived here before noon, but he’d always been a night person and old habits died hard. He’d been
anxious to get to Billington, but he’d shown caution, instinctively feeling better about entering his enemy’s territory under the cover of darkness. He was a friend of the night and knew its dark cloak would shield him from anyone lying in wait, not that it was likely, since no one knew he was coming. Still, it didn’t hurt to be careful.

Earlier today, after driving away from Duke’s farm, he’d driven until he crossed over the Pennsylvania state line, then found a quiet side road where he could lay low. He’d slept most of the day, dreaming about revenge and gathering his strength for the battle ahead. The antique trunk had whispered to him, awakening him when it was time to go.

Now he sat, looking out all four windows of the truck, checking again to see if anyone lay in hiding along the sides of the road. No guards or sentries stood watch outside the town; no lookouts to warn Kemp. The town of Billington sat unprotected and at his mercy.

A vision began to form in his mind, surely a message from the trunk of secrets, because when he closed his eyes to concentrate there was blood everywhere. He saw himself walking through streets stained red with the life juices of his enemy, rivers of gore running in the gutters, and dead bodies of innocent people piled on the sides of the road like sacks of foul-smelling trash on garbage day. In his hands, he carried the severed head of Wilson Kemp, his ultimate prize in the coming fight. It was a wonderful revelation, a harbinger of things to come, and it pleased the Stranger immensely.

“Man, I can’t wait. This is gonna be
so
much fun.”

He put the Ford in gear and quietly rolled across the town line. Wilson Kemp and the Stranger were now in the same small community for the first time in years and
there was no way in hell the tall dark man was going to let his enemy slip away from him.

Unknown to the 21,000 sleeping residents, death had just entered their peaceful little town, and Billington, Pennsylvania, had just been declared a war zone.

Although he’d thought it nearly impossible the night before, Wilson somehow managed to get a fairly decent sleep. The holding cell could never be described as anything close to comfortable: The Ritz-Carlton it certainly was not, but the small bed had been soft, the thick wool cover warm, and he’d had a dry roof overhead. All in all, not too bad a place for him to sober up. In the past, on some of his really bad drinking binges, Wilson had slept in a hell of a lot worse.

Early morning sunlight streamed in the cell window, bathing him in magnificent golden rays. He sat up on the edge of the bed, shocked to discover he felt almost human. Most mornings, his pounding head threatened to explode off his shoulders and his weary body felt as if it had been trampled by a herd of buffalo. Today, he could even open his eyes in the bright sunlight, something that ordinarily would have been agonizing. His craving for vodka had somewhat lessened overnight as well, not completely, of course, but enough that it wasn’t an all-consuming passion like most mornings.

“My God,” he whispered while staring down at his hands, amazed to find them barely shaking. “If I feel this
good after only a day away from the bottle, what would it be like to be completely stone sober again?”

Feeling bolder than usual, he stood and walked over to the small mirror bolted by the sink on the far wall. It wasn’t an actual mirror like the usual silver-backed glass; the cops weren’t that stupid. They didn’t want anyone breaking it and using the glass as a weapon on anyone, including themselves.

This mirror was made from a thin piece of metal, highly polished to reflect a clear, though somewhat distorted image of the unfortunates who had to use it.

Wilson gazed at his visage and was immediately disappointed. It was true he felt a whole lot better than usual, but to be honest, he sure didn’t look it. His face, still smudged in streaky white and red paint, along with his greasy dark hair plastered to his sweaty head, combined to make him look positively frightful. The Joker after going ten rounds with Batman. He bent at the sink, immersing himself in a cloud of rising steam and furiously scrubbed his entire head, neck, and armpits with the soap and washcloth left at his disposal. After toweling off, he was relieved to see he looked much more presentable. Except for the scrapes on his cheek and a darkly bruised eye from yesterday afternoon’s confrontation, Wilson thought he looked better now than he had in ages. The ever-present bags under his eyes seemed to be less pronounced today. The worry lines that normally cut into his forehead seemed faded and scarcely visible. It was amazing what a good night’s rest could do for a person.

He should probably try it more often.

Wilson was forty-seven years old, but depending on his sobriety, he could range in appearance from a man
in his midthirties all the way up to a decrepit older man in his sixties. Today, he thought he might squeak by for a man in his late thirties, which brought an approving nod and a faint, forced smile as he pondered his reflection, which soon vanished in the swirling mist engulfing the makeshift mirror. He had always thought of himself as a handsome man. Fairly handsome, anyway. With his large sparkling eyes, strong chin, and chiseled facial features, he used to think he resembled the late actor Christopher Reeve, of Superman fame, but lately, his short-cropped receding hairline had shattered that image. Maybe Kevin Costner was a closer match.

“Yeah right,” Wilson chuckled to himself, thinking about the full clown suit he was still wearing. “Kevin Costner in his greatest role ever…starring as Bozo the drunken magic clown. That movie would really pack in the crowds.”

The smile disappeared off his face as he realized the pathetic movie he’d been fantasizing about was, in reality, his own pitiful life story. Instead of sinking into a depression, Wilson forced himself to think that this time things were going to get progressively better. He’d blown his first magic clown job but there would be more. In his heart he knew he was a great magician. If he could just find the strength to stay out of the bottle for a while, who knows what good things might start happening for him?

Before anything could start happening though, he had to get his butt out of this holding cell and take care of the mess he’d made yesterday. If he apologized to the Morris family, maybe he could talk Reggie into dropping the charges against him.

A few minutes later, just as Wilson was preparing to
play the old rattle-the-drinking-cup-off-the-cell-bars game again, a policeman walked into the back room to deliver his breakfast. It was Officer Jackson, who unknown to Wilson and his alcohol-induced memory loss, was the same cop who’d picked him up yesterday from the birthday party fiasco. He was carrying a green plastic tray on which sat a big blueberry muffin and a large takeout cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

“You’re in luck, Wilson,” the smiling officer said. “Our little fridge out front seems to have decided to stop working. I opened the door this morning to get you some of our usual chow, but the smell inside nearly floored me. We had to throw it all out, so this morning your breakfast comes catered.”

Wilson walked over to the cell door and, after it was unlocked, held it open for the policeman until he’d stepped inside. The glorious aroma rising from the warm muffin and the fresh strong coffee wafted around his nostrils and activated his hunger pangs, curbing his desire to leave his overnight accommodation. A few extra minutes wouldn’t hurt. Besides, he’d always been told breakfast was the most important meal of the day. This was especially true when you hadn’t eaten anything the day before.

“Thanks, Jake,” Wilson beamed, gratefully accepting the breakfast tray. “I’m practically starving. Wow, even fresh coffee. What’s the occasion? Don’t tell me your old coffeepot is broken down too?”

“Nah, it’s okay. I just figured since I was already at the coffee shop to get your muffin, I may as well save you the stomachache of trying to drink our sludge. Our coffee here can sometimes be pretty nasty.”

“
Sometimes
?” Wilson joked. “If you took a cup of that
black goo to a laboratory, it’d probably come back with a hazardous-waste warning label on it.”

“Hah, hah, very funny. You put a clown suit on somebody and they think they’re a comedian.”

Jake took a seat beside Wilson and chatted with him as he ate breakfast. When he had finished, Officer Jackson accepted the tray and rose to leave.

“Say, how long do I have to wait to get out of here? They’re not really going to make me stay till Monday, are they?” Wilson asked, hopeful, wiping the residue of muffin crumbs that clung to the corners of his mouth.

“Relax. When I came in this morning I talked to Big Mack. He said he tried to call your wife last night but she wasn’t around. I called Susan this morning just before I brought your breakfast.” He paused to pull his shirtsleeve back off his wrist so he could look at his watch. “She told me she’d already talked to the chief and she’d be here as quick as she could. Should be somewhere around ten o’clock, so you may as well sit down and take it easy. I’ll be back to get you in half an hour.”

It ended up being closer to an hour before Officer Jackson returned to unlock the cell door. Susan must have been delayed somewhere. Usually she was very punctual. Either that or she had just wanted him to squirm and ponder things a little longer.

“Let’s move, clown-man. It’s time to go,” Jake said.

“Is Susan here?”

“No, Wilson, it’s the bloody cavalry. Of course it’s Susan. Who else would come save your raggedy ass?”

Wilson hurried to gather his things and followed Jake. They emerged into a bigger room that served as the front office and reception desk. It looked the same as any small-town police station, complete with scuffed-up tables and
chairs, several desks overcrowded with stacks of loose papers, and a few telephones ringing off the hook. There were even a few tired-looking officers, lazing around with their feet up, waiting for someone other than themselves to answer the annoying phones.

Looking beyond these familiar sights, Wilson noticed his wife standing over beside the front entrance. She was reading a small, colorful poster thumbtacked to a felt bulletin board. The contents of the poster must have been very interesting because she was concentrating so hard she failed to notice his approach. Either that or she was purposely ignoring him. Not a good sign.

She looked simply magnificent; in Wilson’s eyes anyway, standing with her hands on her hips, decked out in a stunning yet conservative pale blue dress. She wore low-heeled white shoes accessorized with matching white earrings, purse, and wide hair ribbon that shaped her long, curly brown hair. Her face was pretty but in a plain sort of way. She was certainly no fashion model or cover girl, but her jade-colored eyes shone brighter than the sun itself. Her body might not be shapely enough to turn the head of a Hollywood producer but she was petite and exuded a quiet confidence, moving with an athletic grace much sexier than all those busty Victoria’s Secret bimbos.

As far as Wilson was concerned, there may have been more beautiful women in the world on the outside, but none could ever match the inner beauty his wife possessed in such selfless abundance. Susan was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman, and still was. His perfect ten. Even after three years of living apart he still loved her as much, if not more, than on the day he’d married her.

She’d been much younger than he was, of course. When they’d met nearly eleven years ago, Susan had just turned twenty-five. Wilson had been thirty-six. Right from the start they’d shared a special kind of love so few ever find, so age had never been a stumbling block for either of them. Within six months, Wilson had known he didn’t want to live another day without her but they’d waited two full years before getting married, just to please her family. The following year their daughter, Amanda, had arrived, three weeks premature, but healthy and beautiful. With his beloved family now complete, Wilson had thought maybe he could finally put the horrors of his past behind him. He’d obviously been wrong.

When Susan finally noticed he’d walked into the room, she forgot about the poster and turned to meet him. Their eyes met and locked for a few precious seconds before she glanced away, but the eye contact had been more than enough for Wilson to see she was still in love with him. She was more than a little pissed off. That was also evident. Still, he was buoyant with the realization that after all those years, she still cared. He hated himself for the way he continually let her down. Yet, through thick and thin, she had always loved him. When others had tried to convince her he was too old for her, she had smiled and ignored them. When they said he was a loser and drank too much, she had stuck by him and tried to understand. Even when things had become intolerable, and his drinking had taken control, she was the one who’d cried for forgiveness when she threw him out. She actually believed in some way that she might have been the one who’d done something to trigger his demise.

It was simply incredulous she might harbor such a thought, but he loved her for it. He couldn’t fathom why she still cared, but he thanked God she did. He just wished he could somehow find the strength to stop hurting her. He would have walked barefoot over white-hot coals rather than make this wonderful woman cry. Since the day they’d separated, he’d wanted to put things right between them but the more he tried, the more he screwed up and the more hurt he inflicted. Yesterday’s stupidity was another fine example and did little to promote his cause.

“Thanks for coming, Susan,” was all he could think to say as Officer Jackson returned his wallet and keys and signed his release.

“No problem,” she whispered, her face cupped in her ever-so-delicate hands.

Wilson felt truly awful, thinking she was about to break into tears. He was somewhat confused when muffled laughter escaped from her concealed mouth. She tried to stop herself, but the cork was out of the bottle. She dropped her small, dainty hands and pointed her finger, trying to say something in between her uncontrolled guffaws. Finally, she turned and ran out of the open door, but not before attracting much unwanted attention around the normally quiet precinct.

Wilson couldn’t help but notice the pitying glances of those nearby, as he grabbed up his belongings and dashed out in hot pursuit. What did she find so funny? Was she laughing at him? Had he read the look in her eyes wrong, and maybe she’d finally realized what a fool he really was? Had she come down here just to humiliate him in front of everyone? He couldn’t blame her if she had; he certainly deserved it. Deserved or not though, it
just didn’t seem like something Susan would do. Wasn’t her style at all.

He followed her outside and approached with his head hung low, feeling a bit hurt and disappointed. She made it all the way across the parking lot before he was able to confront her. She was leaning on the silver Honda Civic’s front fender, still trying to stifle her laughter.

“Listen, Susan,” Wilson pleaded. “I know what a screwup I am, and how I keep hurting you, but please don’t humiliate me. I don’t care if others laugh behind my back but I just can’t take it when it comes from you. Besides, this is hardly a laughing matter. I’ve been charged this time. I could end up in jail.”

Susan stood up, her jovial mood gone. An understanding smile spread across her thin face as she took a couple of steps closer until they were only a few feet apart.

“Oh Wilson,” she sighed, wiping a solitary tear from the corner of her eye. “I wasn’t laughing at you…honest. You know me better than that. I don’t understand why you sometimes act the way you do, but believe me I’d never make fun of you.”

Susan moved even closer, tenderly stroking his scratched cheek before pulling away. It had been like this since the breakup. She wanted to hold him, to comfort him, but she couldn’t succumb to her feelings. Not yet, anyway. He had to help himself before she could allow herself to give in to her lonely, aching heart. No one ever said loving an alcoholic was easy.