Otherworld (37 page)

Mike felt that earlier light, the one that came with his first inkling of comprehension of Malcam's intent and the otherworld's dangers, shine a bit brighter and warmer in his head. It wasn't just that he was afraid of ceasing to exist. No, not exactly. More like, he was afraid that right now, walking around and talking and living and breathing, he already did not exist.

Something was happening. Dr. Sutzkever continued:

“Yes, that's it, I think. Nonexistence. You are afraid of that, because it means insignificance, really. This is why you worry about anything and everything. Every action is a step toward or away from significance, meaning. Your early childhood encounter puts a face, if you will, upon your neuroses. You worry about what others think of you, because you are afraid that if they disapprove, they will write you off and you will, essentially, cease to exist. And your fear of death is a fear of losing the opportunity to matter to someone.”

Mike nodded. He wondered if Sutzkever really understood how true his words were or if he was still just speculating.

“But of course,” the professor resumed, “this necrophobia of yours is more than a scapegoat for a projection of your worry. It is a more obvious manifestation of the need common of all men. The need for God.”

“God?” Mike couldn't help assuming some of that talked-about worry. “Until just then, I was about to say you were going Freudian on me.”

“Freud? Good heavens, no. Bah. I'm talking Augustine here, and Pascal. ‘Our souls are not at rest until they find their rest in Thee.' ‘Every man has a God-shaped hole.' That sort of business. I'm afraid attributing your problems solely to the misfiring of synapses in your brain or repressed sexuality would only throw you further back into them. We are talking demons here, Mike,” he said, “and so we must talk about God.”

Superstition and religious hoo-ha. That's what Mike wanted to believe it was. But he'd never tried it out. It made sense, in a strange sort of way. And even though Dr. Bering could probably draw the mathematical formula for hyperspace on a blackboard, the otherworld seemed to be the world of superstition itself. It was an image, but a faux one. It pretended
to know
, but it was as much a mirage as Mike wanted to think religion was. He decided to accept Pascal's Wager. At least for now. “So what do we do?” he asked.

“For now, I suggest you stay home and rest—”

“No way,” Mike interrupted. “I don't want to be left alone.”

“It is probably safer for you to stay put.”

“I'm not too thrilled about going back to his house, but my car's still there. I'll have to get it eventually.”

“You're worried for Dr. Bering, aren't you?” Sutzkever asked.

“You could say that.”

“This worry of yours may save the day. Why don't you come down to the university? It is late, I know, but I suspect Dr. Bering will be there. I will meet you in the faculty parking lot.”

Mike paused.

“Come on,” Sutzkever encouraged. “At least you don't have to go to his house right away.”

 

The two men walked down the hall, their shoes squeaking on the tile floor. This time, Mike's squeaky shoes weren't alone. The air around Sutzkever felt warm. It reached to Mike, who immediately found comfort and a tiny bit of courage. He could tell that Sutzkever held secrets like Bering, but he suspected the former's secrets were more promising.

They found Dr. Bering in his office, and though the man was sitting still and silent, doing absolutely nothing, he started as if being caught red-handed in the middle of a crime. “What, uh, what's the—?” He tried to gain some composure. “Leopold. What brings you by?”

Mike stepped in. “Dr. Bering, are you all right?”

“What? Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“Well, after—”

“Samuel, the man's concerned,” Sutzkever said.

“I don't remember asking you,” Bering responded. It wasn't Bering, though. Not really. The voice matched; the face remained. But in the eyes, in the spirit—in the undiluted venom of the tone—they recognized another. Bering turned to Mike. “What's the big idea, Mike? What have you told this man?” He reached for Sutzkever's arm and held it tightly.

“Ouch, Samuel. Unhand me.”

Mike placed his hand on the doorknob. “We're, we're …” He stepped back. “… just a little concerned, that's all.”

“Samuel,” Sutzkever scolded. He removed his arm from Bering's grip. Pouting, he rubbed it softly.

“Oh, Leo, don't be such a baby,” Bering said.

“We just want to talk, Samuel,” Sutzkever said.

“I have nothing to say to either of you. I'd like you both to leave.
Now
.”

 

“We're going to have to stage an intervention.”

“What, like in AA?”

“I'm sorry?”

Mike and Dr. Sutzkever had retreated to the professor's home. Mike found it resembled Dr. Bering's a great deal. Same old-world charm, wall-to-wall antiques, countless books in just about every room. But Sutzkever's house lacked darkness, coldness, and pesky interdimensional visitors.

“Never mind,” Mike said.

They sat in a cozy study, stuffed into plush armchairs facing each other on an intricate Persian rug.

“An intervention,” Sutzkever continued, “is an attempt at rescuing our subject from the hands of the evil one.”

“Whoa, whoa. Evil one? This is getting way too Amityville for me. I mean, I'm still an agnostic here. I can't, uh, be slaying some evil one and playing exorcist.”

Sutzkever spoke sternly: “What has happened in the last few days that makes you think anyone is playing?”

“It's just too much. My life was fine—complicated, but fine. This I don't need. I can't get into this.”

“But you already are into this, boy. Do you want out?”

Mike, sarcastically: “Uh,
yeah
.”

“And you want Dr. Bering out?”

Mike, sincerely: “Yes.”

“All right, then.”

“I don't wanna be casting out demons and whatnot, though,” Mike said, half-joking.

Sutzkever responded with a blank face. His eyes said it all.

“You're kidding,” Mike said.

“I don't usually kid. You'll find a poor sense of humor one of my many flaws in situations like these. Now, first things first. We need to contact your minister.”

Had Mike a drink, he would have delivered the world's finest spit take. “Contact my what now?”

“Every agnostic has a minister, Mike. Otherwise, they'd be atheists.”

“Poor sense of humor my—”

“Mike. Time is of the essence.”

Mike sighed. “Yeah, I guess I know a guy.”

 

“You want me to
what
?”

Hours later, Steve Woodbridge would wish he had never taken the phone call that woke him from more daydreams.

Graham (and the infamous church committee) had convinced him to postpone his resignation.
Mexico
, he thought.
Thousands of Mexicans want into Texas. I want a better life in Mexico.
He wondered if it would be the same as it had been so many years ago on that mission trip. “The poor you'll always have with you,” Jesus once said, and so had Steve's father in his ongoing campaign to divert Steve's mind from the mission field. The campaign succeeded. For so long, his mind had been anywhere but Mexico. But he had left his heart behind.

Now this phone call. This crazy, stupid phone call. He should have gone shopping with his wife. He should have never done that funeral, never got sucked into Mike Walsh's paranoid ramblings.
What was it again? He'd seen a dead body or something? What a freak.

In came Dr. Leopold Sutzkever, swooping into the conversation with his diverting French accent, speaking of God our King and God the Mighty Warrior and fighting for the souls of men, and Steve Woodbridge did the thing Steve Woodbridge does. He caved. “You mean, like an exorcism? Spiritual warfare type stuff?”

“If that helps,” Sutzkever replied, obviously annoyed at Steve's poor reception. “Have you ever participated in a deliverance before?”

“Uh, no. But I've done some reading.”

“Yes, reading,” Sutzkever said, unimpressed. “The Lord uses His children despite their inexperience.”

“Okay.”

“We'll need a fourth, Reverend.”

“Oh, call me Steve.”

“Right. We'll need a fourth, the best prayer man you know.”

“That may be a little difficult. My best, uh,
prayer man
has been a little busy lately.”

“This is urgent, Steven.”

“Right, urgent.”
Did I say yes to this?

“Call him right away,” Sutzkever directed.

 

Captain Graham Lattimer hadn't gone home that night. After dispersing the protesters, ending their lunatic charade, he settled into his patrol car and made his way from the north side of Trumbull southward into northwest Houston, scanning the shadows, the alleys, the woods, all for signs of Jimmy Horn and Pops Dickey. He kept his mind awake, playing word and number games in his head.
Pops is seventy-one. Jimmy is seventeen.
Graham tried to remember that word, that term used for reversible characters. Petrie used to point them out to him—Otto, Eve …
What are they called? Palindromes. Seven is the perfect number, the symbol of the divine. (I think.) Add a one. Subtract a one. You can't add to or subtract from perfection. You cannot hinder or improve upon the divine. The Devil tried. He got his sheesh tossed out.
He was still free-associating when his phone rang, singing shrilly from his pocket. He was already in Houston, mere miles from the home he'd been directed to by Steve's instructions.

Once there he was surprised to encounter the reporter but even more curious about the old man introduced to him as Sutzkever. They wasted no time filling him in.

The story was bizarre but it felt … right. He felt as though the information, strange as it was, was a key unlocking a stubborn door.