Otherworld (28 page)

“Maybe,” Mike said.

“You know,” Steve said, “even Carl Sagan wrote a book talking about the popular myth of UFOs and such.”

“That same book talks about the myth of demons.”

“Well, okay. You got me there. All I'm saying is that maybe the truth of the Bible can explain sightings of aliens and people from other dimensions,” Steve said.

“Or maybe interdimensional beings can explain some of the stories in the Bible.”

“I guess you could look at it that way, but there's only one truth. And everything else has to be false.”

Mike said, “I think that I would agree with that.”

They drove on, exiting onto the road into the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. Steve gathered up his belongings.

“Hey, Steve,” Mike said.

“Yeah?”

“What made you want to become a minister?”

“Well,” Steve began, “I had supportive parents … And, I guess, I knew when I felt God calling me into it.”

“You mean God told you to?”

“Well, not exactly, but sort of. I mean, God called me into ministry, but being a pastor is sort of where He led me.” He had an anguished look on his face. “Does that answer it?”

“Sure,” Mike said.

Steve started to get out of the car.

Mike said, “Hey, thanks for everything. Thanks for today. I know Molly was really glad you came, and she was really pleased with what you said at the funeral.”

“I was glad to help. I'll be praying for y'all.”

“Yeah, well, thanks. Here.” Mike handed an envelope to Steve. “Hope you have a good flight. Maybe I'll see you around.”

“Yeah, hope so,” Steve replied. He took the envelope and placed it in his pocket. “Bye.”

“Bye.” Mike hoped he had paid him enough. He didn't know what the going rate was for funerals. He figured paying for the man's plane fare and hotel stay and meals went without saying. But what do you pay? He didn't want to offend him. He'd written Steve Woodbridge a check for four hundred dollars.

Forty-five minutes later, on the plane, when Steve finally pulled the envelope from his pocket and read the amount written on the check within, he spit out his Pepsi.

 

Gertie seemed catatonic. When she finally began to regain consciousness, she struggled against the restraints. He had tied her to a chair. Tightly. She called out from the bedroom she shared with Pops, “Lucas! Lucas! Where are you?”

Pops could hear her calling, but he ignored her. He was outside, sitting in the backyard with Mr. Black, enjoying the fire crackling in front of them, and staring heavenward. The old man knew Black had a weapon tucked into his coat. Pops kept one bony hand on his shotgun.

“I'm f-freezin'. C-can't we go inside?” Mr. Black asked.

“Not yet,” Pops said.

“Think they'll come tonight?” Mr. Black whispered.

“Yeah. They'll come,” the old man said, and he turned and spit on the ground. The cold wind irritated his chapped lips.

The night was angry, cradling the town into its bitter fold. The black sky was an opaque ceiling, allowing no moon, nor the glimmer of stars. A few minutes passed, and Pops's neck began to tighten. He lowered his head and watched the fire.

Flaming ribbons lapped at the air, flickering and snapping. And then the entire blaze puttered out, as though a great gust of wind had swept down from directly above it. Pops didn't feel any downdrafts. The fire appeared to die down, and then … the night grew darker. A huge shadow shifted over them, and the temperature dropped several degrees.

Pops looked up.

“Open your eyes, Black!”

Jimmy looked up. He cursed.

Above them and their fire, hovering at no less than one hundred feet, was a large round object. Fierce lights, a hot white and a neon blue, blinked slowly around the disc's perimeter. The disc didn't move. It seemed fixed in the sky.

“I don't believe it,” Jimmy said.

“It's the grays,” Pops said. “You can forget your voices, boy. The grays are your gods now.”

 

“What are your plans, Samuel?”

Dr. Bering rested in his chair, facing the visitor across the room. He called only once and the visitor appeared, now floating against the wall like a phantasm.

“My plans?” Bering asked.

“Concerning the man you have befriended.”

“Michael?”

“Yes. Michael.” A crooked smirk crinkled on the visitor's face. “What are your plans for him?”

“I was hoping that he could join us. If it pleases you, of course. He's an empty soul. I think he would bring you great pleasure,” Bering said.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps
you
need him, Samuel. You need him here with us so you don't have to, as you say, ‘go it alone.' Am I right?”

“Please do not be angry with me.”

“Angry? Hardly, chum. If bringing him into our circle pleases you, it pleases me.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Halloween morning came, bringing a day of new hope for Mike Walsh.

He woke with his arm draped over Molly, who slept soundly in the bed next to him. He smiled.

After a long shower, he got dressed and found her in the kitchen, nibbling on a piece of dry toast, her head raised, her eyes staring into space. Mike stepped up behind her and tried to see what held her attention. It was one of Vickie's paintings.

He leaned over and planted a light kiss on her forehead.

“Good morning,” he whispered.

“Good morning,” she said.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, hoping she could feel his love. Her head drooped.

“Want me to make some breakfast?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “Thanks.”

“It's no problem. I'm gonna scramble some eggs anyway.”

“I'm not really hungry,” she said.

“Okay.”
Let me do something for you. Please.

In this muted state of relational limbo, every response felt like rejection to Mike. He began a search for a frying pan. Molly walked back to the bathroom. Mike could hear the water running in the bathtub.

She's avoiding me
, he thought.

He ate his eggs and had some milk before attempting a talk with her. She sat on the bed, wrapped in a bathrobe, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Mike stood in the doorway, wondering whether to cross the threshold or not.

“Molly?” he said.

She looked up at him.

Mike crossed the room and sat next to her on the bed.

“Will you be coming back with me?” he asked. He almost didn't want her to answer.

“Mike …” A look he couldn't identify appeared on her face. It wasn't sadness. And it wasn't quite disappointment. “I … I don't think so,” she said. “I need to take care of some things here, I think. And … I still need to be alone for a while. I need to think about things.” She took his hand.

Take care of things?
Mike thought.
Just two days ago you couldn't handle any of these things!
I
had to take care of things! Now you've got everything covered?

He closed his eyes, feeling the hot sting of tears stalled at the floodgates. He fought them back. He felt her thin fingers tracing over his hand. It felt good, but he blocked incoming assumptions with better judgment.

Molly ran her fingers over the back of Mike's hand, over the knuckles and up and down the length of his fingers.

She looked down.

“Where's your wedding ring?” she asked.

“What?” Mike said.

“Your wedding ring. Where is it?”

“Oh.”
Well, one night I was so depressed I got a little drunk and went out and saw a movie and then tried to shoot somebody with a gun I stole from my dad and that somebody ran over me with her car and when I tried to get away I collapsed into the street and my ring's probably floating in the Houston sewers somewhere right now.
“I lost it.”

“You lost your wedding ring? I thought you never take it off.”

“I don't; I didn't. I mean, I guess I did and it got lost. I looked for it. I really did.”

Molly released his hand.

 

It was Halloween morning, and outside the Trumbull Police Department, the demonstrators carried out endless tirades against the government conspiracies involving extraterrestrials. Several protesters, perhaps for Halloween alone, milled about among the masses in costumes—most of them patterned after the most commonly reported aliens, the grays.

Inside the station, Sam Petrie sat in Graham's office, watching the captain stare at his desk. Petrie had a pen in his hand, and he nervously drummed it against his knee. This annoyed Graham to no end, but his mind lay elsewhere. The topic of conversation was Jimmy Horn.

“We could get a chopper up here,” Petrie said. “Get a bird's eye of the area.”

“Naw,” Graham said. “We've combed the woods. We took the dogs out. If he was out in the woods somewhere, we would have found him. And if he's been outside all this time, he'd be dead of hypothermia or exposure by now.”

“So you think he's dead?” Petrie asked.

“Naw, he ain't dead. If he was dead, we would have found him, I think. He's gotta be stayin' somewhere. See if you can find out if there's any empty houses around. Get some of the guys to check 'em out. He could've shacked up in an abandoned house or in an empty one up for sale or somethin'.”

The phone intercom buzzed, and Kelly's voice came through. “Captain?”

“Yeah?” Graham said.

“Mr. Woodbridge called. He wants to know if you've got lunch plans.”

“Tell him to name the place. I'll meet him around eleven-thirty.”

“Yes, sir.”

Petrie said, “Sir? What about Pops Dickey?”

“Run by his place, Sam. Make sure you talk to the missus. Make sure everything's on the up-an'-up.”

The young officer rose to leave.

Graham said, “And Sam—after that, go home and get some rest.”

Petrie smiled. “Would you?”

“No.”

“Then I'll be back in an hour.”

 

Mike returned the rental car (though he hated parting with the superb automobile), downed a dose of Nyquil, and slept through the flight back to Houston.

When the plane landed, he checked his voice mail. No messages. At home, he watched some TV. He ate some cereal. He picked up his phone and dialed.

“Dr. Bering?” Mike said.

“Yes?”

“Dr. Bering, this is Mike.”

“Mike! I've just been thinking about you.”

“Good thoughts, I hope,” Mike said.

“Of course, of course.”

“Dr. Bering, I was just wondering if maybe … well, if maybe I could come over and talk.”

“I would love for you to come over. I'll put on some coffee.”

 

Officer Sam Petrie's police cruiser sped through the Trumbull streets to the back roads and flew onto Trace Road like it was the Daytona 500. He grinded to a stop in the Dickeys' driveway, sending up a cloud of dust. He let himself in through the gate, walked up the porch steps, and knocked on the screen door.

Mr. Black, with Pops's shotgun firmly in hand, answered.

From the journal of Dr. Leopold Sutzkever:

October 22, 1978

It appears the nastiness is over. For now, anyway. I will be forever indebted to Dr. Silverman, Jonas's physician. The ailments Jonas suffered were first treated medically, and no blame should be placed on the boy's parents. They did what they thought best and what any other parent would have done. Jonas was sick—very sick. So they called their family physician. Dr. Silverman did what he could but found himself in quite a predicament. The boy's illness would not go away, and the good doctor's treatments, both medical and psychological (for Silverman has told me he spent a great deal of time with Jonas, playing chess and, as he put it, “just shooting the breeze”), had no apparent affect. It was only after serious talks with Jonas that Dr. Silverman discovered that the boy's problems were not of a physical nature, but a spiritual one. Thank heavens the man is a believer! If not, I fear Jonas would still be suffering to this day (and I pray that he doesn't!). Silverman knew me from church and knew of my reputation. He had heard about my gift. But he was reluctant to approach me. As he said, “I never lent credence to this sort of thing.” He had seen that awful 1973 movie, and he regarded it as fantasy. “Besides,” he told me, “the movie offended me on account of my religious beliefs.” I was quick to assure him that I had seen the film and responded in much the same way. In my opinion, it does a severe disservice to the reality of its premise. Silverman had outrun his options, though, and a mutual friend of ours suggested he meet with me. The rest, of course, is recorded within this diary.

If only Jonas had had the wisdom to see the potential danger from the outset. In his eyes, it all started harmless enough. From talks with the boy, I learned that he had become involved with astrology and reading the tarot and the writings of Crowley. He began to dabble. To seek enlightenment. That was all the foothold they needed.

“Beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God: because many false prophets are gone out into the world. Hereby know ye the Spirit of God: Every spirit that confesseth that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is of God: And every spirit that confesseth not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh is not of God: and this is that spirit of antichrist, whereof ye have heard that it should come; and even now already is it in the world” (1 John 4:1–3).

Indeed. But in the words of Saint Paul, “The God of peace shall bruise Satan under your feet shortly” (Rom. 16:20). Praise God!

 

The wonderful aroma of fried food wafted through Goodson's on State Highway 249, between Houston and Trumbull. As always, the place was busy with lunchtime patrons, most of them from the computer plant several miles down the road. The waitress delivered two plates of chicken-fried steak to Graham and Steve's table. Graham's steak was drenched in gravy.

“You look like you ain't got much sleep,” the captain said.

“So do you,” the pastor said. “How're things going?”

“Well, we're gonna do a door-to-door today. It'll take a while, but we got everybody out. Most of 'em will work around the clock.”

“No ideas, huh?” Steve asked.

“He's gotta be stayin' someplace. It's just too dang cold for him to have lasted outside all this time. I got a guy checking empty homes.”

“How's the family holding up?”

“I guess okay, considering,” Graham said.

“Did they see the guy?”

“Nope. But we lifted his prints all over the place. We know who we want. Findin' him's the problem.”

“How are
you
holding up?”

“Okay, considering,” Graham said with a smirk. “I've got a murderer on the loose we can't seem to find, and on top of that, I've got these killer headaches, and every time I walk outside I have to deal with protesters convinced we got a flying saucer tucked away in the station house. And somehow these kooks have gotten around.”