Otherworld (39 page)

“Reverend Woodbridge?”

“Yes? Steve. Yes?”

“It's Leo.”

“Sure. I'd recognize that voice anywhere.”

“We are nearing the hour. Have you spoken to Michael today?”

“No. Haven't you?”

“No. I don't know where the boy is.”

“That's weird.”

“Yes, weird.”

“What do you suppose has happened?”

“Oh, perhaps he's frightened and is sort of hiding. Can hardly blame him. Not to worry, however. Tonight may be too much for him anyway. We can carry on and attend to him later.”

“Oh.”

“Three hours till six, though, Steve. He may turn up.”

 

Okay, I know it's been, like, a whole day. Still can barely see. Can move, though. Head aches but doesn't pound. Try to stand? Why not? Legs weak, wobbly. Whoa, watch out here. Doin' it, doin' it. I'm standing. Can't see a blamed thing. Blind man walking. Arms out. Baby steps. Shuffle shuffle shuffle.

“Umph.”

Wall. Hands out. Textured, but slick. Sidestep shuffle. Shuffle shuffle. A-ha. A corner. Gotta be a door somewhere. Sidestep shuffle.

 

The day brought a gradual enslavement of Bering's mind. He began to give himself over to his mania, and kidnapping Mike was an impetus toward his downward spiral. He spent the day, each wretched minute, tearing his clothes, tearing his flesh, calling for Malcam. “Please come, please come,” he cried. He left a trail of sweat and blood all over the house as he moved from room to room, testing each one for its receptivity to the otherworld. He didn't consciously admit it, but Bering had stopped believing in the otherworld as hyperspace a long time ago. He had gone too far beyond the borders of science, too far even for pseudo-science. He swam past the breakers, was bobbing in the waves, toes tickled by the undertow. He knew Malcam for what he was. But he cared nothing for the danger. He wanted the
gnosis
. The power was an intoxicating lure. He had to have it, had to drink it in. He'd drown if he had to, enter the tenth dimension, the netherworld, a wormhole, hell itself if need be. He wanted in at any cost. If blood was the asking price, so much the better. He had a coward and a traitor locked in his basement, and his blood was cheap.

 

Indeed, Mike labored in the basement, shuffling his feet inch by inch along each wall. The lightless room gave the impression of immeasurable vastness, and if it had a door, Mike couldn't find it. He made six or seven rounds, pivoting in each corner, fingering the walls with roving hands, straining to see any hint of light or life outside. He called out many times, banged on the walls, kicked them. His voice returned to him in taunting echoes. His body gained more strength by the minute, and his mind was getting more lucid. His anger grew as well.

He was angry with himself, with Dr. Bering, even angry with his three new friends (who he believed should have already arrived). He wouldn't let himself believe whatever plans Bering had for him would precede his rescue. Tired of trying, Mike slunk to the floor, squeezing his back into a corner.

“Bering!”

Where is he? What's he doing? How much time left? If I could get my hands on him …

The cold began to get to him, penetrating the heat of his anger. He folded his arms against his chest and grabbed each shoulder.

Think, man, think. If he doesn't kill me, the cold will. I ain't freezing to death in Bering's stupid house. When he opens the door, I'm gonna grab his wrinkled neck and squeeze. If I could find the stupid door, I mean. I'll just rush him. I'm younger. Faster and stronger. I'll just take him out, take him down, the freak. I don't care if he is possessed. He did this. He asked for it. He invited that thing. I don't care. I'll take 'em both out.

I wonder if Malcam can hear me.

Don't say his name, stupid.

What happened to me? I just walked right into this. I invited Mal— that thing, too. Just like Bering. Ugh. Can I blame him? He didn't know just like I didn't know. He thought he was helping me. The key to the universe and all that. The wisdom of the ages straight from an eyewitness. We both bought it.

When I get out—if I get out—I'm starting over.

“Why not start over now?” said a voice.

Mike screamed and rocked back, banging his head on the wall. “Who's there? Who is it?” Mike yelled.

The disembodied voice replied calmly, quietly, “Go back and start over.”

Mike swung his arms out in front of him, beating the air in search of a target. “Where are you? Who's there?”

No answer.

He continued for several minutes from his sitting position, flailing his arms and legs into the darkness, calling out.

No answer. Nothing.

Go back, he says.
Mike figured Bering was playing games with him.
Start over, sure. Just open the door, and I'll start by beating your face in.

Still, the words settled in.

Go back. Go back and start over. Huh. Yeah, I could do that maybe.

It didn't take long to transport himself to the riverside from his childhood's worst memory. A summer breeze caressed his cheek, rattled his pant legs. He stood alone this time. Ahead, the river ran smoothly. The sun dappled its gentle ripples with liquid glitter. Mike approached. The vision seemed so real. The faint smell of flowers and grass and the smell of mud and fish intermingled and coated the air. His feet squished in the gradual muddiness of the riverbank. He eyed the water suspiciously, expectantly. The whispery whoosh of the current barely registered in his ears. The bend obstructed his upstream view.

Any second now
, he thought.

But nothing happened. He began to survey the river downstream. Perhaps it had floated by and he missed it. Straining his eyes, he still saw nothing.

Is this it? Is this starting over? Have I overcome—?

He couldn't finish his thought. He had the queer sense that he was being watched, felt a tingle on the back of his neck. His hairs stood at attention. Slowly turning, Mike expected to see Gary Newsome in combat stance, BB gun in hand, poised and ready. What he saw made his blood run cold. The corpse—that river-fed body of his youthful torment—stood six feet away, palms upturned and gray eyes focused on Mike.

The body wasn't alone. Walking up beside him, seemingly out of thin air, and taking a position shoulder to soggy shoulder with him, was Vickie. Her face was equally passive and equally disturbing. Like the mystery man, she was dead but awake.

Please go away.

The duo stood their ground, unblinking. Mike wanted to run. He'd follow his heart, which he was sure had leaped from his chest seconds ago and was hightailing it home. Before he could, though, a third figure appeared, like Vickie, apparently from the ether. It was a man, and the closer he came, the more Mike's horror grew.

It was himself.

“See anything you like?”

Malcam returned, descending from the summer sky and taking a position in front of the trio of animated corpses. The azure horizon folded in on itself, the river dried, the grass withered. Darkness fell hard and heavy like a showstopping curtain. Mike fell backward and landed not in the mud but on the cold tile of Bering's basement.

“Get away from me!”

“Just hear me out, chum.”

“Wh-what is that? Why am I—?”

“Dead?” Malcam finished. He shrugged his ebony shoulders. In a blink, the bodies behind him vanished into the darkness. Mike and Malcam were alone with the eerie glow surrounding Malcam's floating form. “I believe in second chances, Michael. Would you like a second chance?” He was so close Mike could smell the fetid stink of his breath.

“Go away.”

“Naked and not ashamed. Think about it. You don't want to pass it up again, do you?”

“You tried to kill me.”

“Please. That was Samuel's doing, friend. Silly old goat, that fellow. Got a little spooked, I guess. But we're right as rain, you and I. We can leave the old man behind and start anew.”

“Was that you?”

“Was
what
me?”

“Told me to go back and start over.”

Malcam looked puzzled. “Never mind that,” he said. “What do you say? You, me, and the universe makes three.”

“No.”

“I can give you happiness beyond your wildest dreams.”

“No.”

“Sex with beautiful women.”

“No.” Mike's resolve strengthened.

“Samuel's head on a platter?”

“I said no.”

“Come now, chum; think it over. Let's just talk it out a bit. The beginning of words is the end of all sadness.”

“I'm done talking.”

“Well, then,” Malcam countered, and he leaned in even closer. Mike felt the creature's strong hand stroking his neck. “I guess we go with sadness.”

 

Six o'clock came, and there was no sign of Mike. Steve even called Molly in Dallas. She was understandably upset to hear that he was missing, a response Steve hadn't the forethought to expect. He did his best to console her, reassuring her that Mike would turn up. He made no mention of their plans for the evening.

He sat in the back of Graham's cruiser, biting his fingernails and jostling back and forth as the captain navigated streets like a stock-car racer. Dr. Sutzkever sat in the front passenger seat, oblivious to the near misses occurring at every turn. His white-haired crown barely surpassed the headrest. Through the security bars dividing the front from back, Steve watched a few wisps of white hair bob up and down in the warm air of the heated cruiser. The old man looked so small, so unassuming, like a child, even. His little knees, tucked inside brown corduroy pants, poked up like thin, knobby mountain peaks rattling against the glove box. In his wrinkled lap lay a modest Bible, its leather obviously worn from use.

Steve white-knuckled the door handle to his left and poked his chest out, testing the give of the seat belt. Graham tested the limits of his car.