Hallowed (29 page)

Heat surged through me then.  “Uncle Hank, does the Holy Spirit ever speak to you?” I asked in a low, conspiratorial tone, fighting the urge to cast a look over my shoulder for my father.  I could hear the distant comforting voices of my family nearby.

“All the time, Paul.  He speaks to all of us in different ways.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I tried to explain.  “Do you ever hear… a voice?”

He looked at me then and seemed to measure my seriousness.  “No, I can’t say that I ever have.  You?”

Suddenly, I felt ridiculously exposed, like a foolish child talking to the wise adult.  “I guess I just imagined it,” I lied and rose to go into the house.

“Paul.”  He waited until I looked back before he continued.  “If there’s anything you need to talk about, anything at all whether it’s spiritual or not, I’ll always be here to listen. Okay?”

I gave him a nod and returned inside just in time to catch the backpack that Mom had packed for me thrust it into my arms by Claudia.  “We’re rolling out as soon as we get the car loaded.”

“Honestly? Where to?”

“Ask Don Corelone Graves.  I’m starting to believe we were all put into the witness protection program without our knowledge.”

Mom, Dad, and Mrs. Wicke all rode together in Dad’s car, Claudia and I with Uncle Hank.  A police cruiser met us at the entrance to Highway 98 and escorted us out.  We still didn’t know where we were headed, but at least it was back in the direction of home instead of further away.

Uncle Hank made small talk with us about school and football, until Claudia cut him short impatiently with the question: “What’s the Church’s stance on ghosts?”

He didn’t seem the least bit surprised.  I guess, teaching the occasional CCD class had prepared him for questions like, ‘Do aliens on other planets exist, and if so, will they go to Heaven when they die?’ or ‘If God is all-powerful, can he make a rock so heavy that He himself cannot lift it?’  He must have learned long ago just to roll with it as part of the hazards of the wearing the collar.

“The Bible says, ‘Humans die only once and afterwards are judged,’ Hebrews, 9:27.”

“So those who die can’t communicate with those who are living?  Is that what the Church believes?”

He glanced at me briefly.  “No, this would be impossible.  Communication with those of us that remain on the earthly plane would insinuate a longing for things of the past.  When you live in the light of God, there is no such longing for anything else.  Essentially, if Heaven is home plate, why would I go back to first?”

“What if it was to communicate something important to someone you love?”

He nodded.  “Do you know what Purgatory is, Claudia?”

“It’s kinda like detention for the soul, right?  It’s a place where you go to burn for your sins before you can be allowed into Heaven.”

“Although it might not be a ‘place’ per se, the concept is for a soul that is not fully prepared to be in the presence of true purity, true Holiness, must purge from himself all that keeps him from being fully joined with God.  Sin is a distraction and keeps us from the truth of eternal happiness.

“There are some who believe that since Purgatory may not be a place but instead a concept that is completely separate from time and space and that those who have passed might revisit places or people they have known, maybe to encourage prayer for their souls to heal so that they can get home at last.  God might allow the living to see those that have departed, if some good might come of it.  There is no agreement on the concept of Purgatory.  Protestants, of course, don’t even believe in it themselves.”

“What about séances?”

“Strictly forbidden,” he answered casting a stern look in her eyes.  “Period.”

“Why?”

“Because evil is a creature of opportunity.”

The bottom dropped out of my stomach, and I looked over at my uncle.  It was almost the same words I’d used in Mrs. Herbert’s class the day after the school shooting.  A creature of opportunity.

“There are those who strive to keep us separated from God and will use any means at their disposal to do it.  Spiritual manipulation.  Violence.”

Claudia scowled out the window.  “Those are all Christian beliefs,” she murmured.

“Claudia, I can imagine how much you must miss your father, but no matter how much you want him back, no amount of desire in this world can bring him back.”

She never uttered a word of reply, just continued to look out her window.

“Nor would you want to bring him back,” Uncle Hank continued.  “He’s in a better place that we can only hope one day to share with him.”

“I’m not sure I believe in a God who would let people like Gabriel roam freely all over the world killing innocents.”

“The Earth is the dominion of the Enemy,” my uncle answered forcefully.  “You should do well to never forget that.”

Neither of us had much more to say after that.

Dad let me attend the varsity game that night on the condition that we go as a family.  Claudia insisted on going, which meant that Mrs. Wicke would be going as well.  I kind of liked everyone traveling everywhere together.  It felt very “pack-like.”  It was just too bad that the thing bringing us together was tragedy.  I couldn’t help but think about a similar time after September 11
th
when our country, so very briefly, seemed more like one close-knit family instead of a dysfunctional one.

Claudia sat in the next bleachers over and read a dog-eared copy of “The Zodiac Unmasked” during the game.  Sonny tried to strike up a conversation with her a couple of times, but after a few glares at him, he gave a shrug and turned back to the game.  Sonny was harmless, I knew, but still this overwhelming, almost irrational sense of protectiveness toward Claudia pervaded the whole of my being, both emotionally and physically.  Just as quickly as it bubbled up, though, it also dissipated, and I was back with joking with him and Greg a minute later.

The halftime show went well, but didn’t improve the morale of our varsity team.  During the fourth quarter, word started to filter back that Brent Jacobs, our cornet section leader, was having a pre-Halloween party on Saturday night and was inviting the whole band.  I wasn’t big on parties because they usually involved strangers that I would have normally disliked if I’d met them outside of a social situation, but here I would know everyone, so it sounded all right.  I was two hundred percent certain that I could talk Claudia into it, because her alternative was hanging out in a strange hotel room with her mother.  The real question, though, was if my retired law enforcement officer father would go for it.

At first, his inclination was “no,” but I explained to Mom that she knew Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs and that it would be at their house.  When she asked if there would be alcohol, I answered, “Of course not.”

When she gave me one of her appraising looks, I went even further.  “Look around.  We’re nerds and band geeks.  Who would be cool enough to get liquor?”

Sonny, who was sitting within earshot, narrowed his eyes at me.

Mom said that she would talk to Dad about it, which actually meant that she was in favor but had to talk him into it.

When I returned to my seat, Sonny turned to me and asked conspiratorially, “When you said we weren’t cool, you were just saying that to ease your mom, right?”  The hang-dog look on his face was priceless.

After the game, Dad met with a couple of deputies who had been to our respective houses and picked up a few essentials for us.  While Claudia was ecstatic that they had remembered her laptop and carrying case, Mom and Mrs. Wicke were just happy to have fresh clothes again.

We drove in a meandering, round-a-bout way south of Haven and ended up in a non-descript house on a cul-de-sac.  We were escorted to a single free-standing three bedroom home with an outdoor grille, cable television, and a pool (of which Claudia and I immediately took advantage).

“Not bad,” I joked with my father.  “Looks like all those years getting shot at finally paid off.”

He gave me a look that was a mixture of confusion and amusement.  “Yeah, well one of these days, I’ll have to show you the wonderful timepiece I received.”

Somehow, both our spirits had changed for the better, and it seemed as if the situation had altered and almost deepened our relationship.

Everyone wanted to turn-in early.  I had offered to take the couch so that Mrs. Wicke and Claudia could each have a room all to themselves.  When it was clear that Claudia wasn’t going to allow me the option of sleeping, we started watching the old Steve McQueen version of the
Blob
on TV.  I was already half asleep when she pulled out her laptop and announced that she wanted to try an “experiment.”

“Tonight, I think you should try to have a lucid dream.”

Blinking in wonder at her, I answered, “What are you talking about?”

“Listen, I discussed this with Lucinda, you know my friend from DFW--the one I told you about who had done it before--and she’s got a routine she claims is foolproof.”

“You talked to this person about what I told you in confidence?” I wanted to know.

“I didn’t give her any details, Freakshow.  I just told her I was interested in doing it because I was having reoccurring nightmares.”

“Putting aside for the moment that this can’t possibly work…”

“It’s been scientifically proven that it can and does work.”

“How’s it supposed to help me with a dream I’ve been having for over a year?”

“Let’s suppose for a moment that these dreams are somehow prophetic…”

I groaned, grabbed the remote back and started grazing the digital pasture.

“If you can control your dream you can manipulate it,” she answered.  “And if you can manipulate it, you can get some answers that might help in the investigation.”

“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound right now?”

“Now I’d probably be saying the same thing if someone were to tell me that they were cut by something that only existed inside their subconscious, but I’d try to at least suspend my disbelief, if it came from a reliable source.”

I gave her a look of warning.  “I told you that I cut myself on something around my bed.  I just haven’t found out what yet.”

“Yeah, you get back to me on that,” she replied, giving me a patronizing pat on the arm.  “Regardless of that, you’ve got to admit that the area your dreams are covering has increased.  I mean, you went from a house on a hill to the high school.  If you could manage to explore longer and remember details after you awake, it might be beneficial.  You’ve got to admit that hearing a trumpet in your dream and the newspaper getting a letter from the killer who signed it Gabriel, can’t possibly be a coincidence.”

“Claudia, we don’t even know if the letter is real.  Maybe it’s just some sicko who thinks writing that kind of a letter is a riot.”

She stopped searching the internet and looked up at me.  “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t think that letter is for real.”

I sighed.  I couldn’t do that.  I snapped the television off.

“Listen, I’m tired and I’m going to bed, so if you want me to do this thing, it better be simple.  I’m not strapping any electronic monitoring equipment to myself.”

“The more tired the better.  First, I need you to stretch out on the couch and relax.”  She relocated to the recliner and continued to access her laptop.  “You’ve got to reach REM sleep.”

“Rapid Eye Movement, right?”  I plopped onto the couch and threw a pillow back behind my head.

“Yes, that’s the period of sleep when they’ve determined we dream.  Now, we need one more thing.”  She stood up, looked around the room, then finally looked directly above her.  “Ah ha.”  The ceiling fan above us was emitting a rhythmic tink-tink-tink sound as the metal pull chain swung back and forth against the glass light fixture.  “Can you focus your hearing on that?”

“Why?”

“That’s what you need to orient yourself while you’re sleeping--something to anchor you here in the waking world and remind you that you’re dreaming.”

I rolled onto my side, trying to get comfortable on the unfamiliar couch cushions.  “This sounds complicated.”

She made a hissing sound that cut me off.  “Open mind.”

“And what will you be doing?”

She settled the laptop onto her lap.  “Research.”

I sighed and closed my eyes, thinking, “This is ridiculous. It’ll never work,” and as tired as I was, I wouldn’t be “experimenting” tonight.  Just plain old fashioned sleep.  If Claudia wanted to stay up all night playing games, that was her prerogative.

Tink-Tink-Tink.

I tried to ignore the sound the ceiling fan made (as well as the fact that there was someone else in the room wide awake and probably watching me) and eventually fell asleep.

About twenty minutes later, I stirred, more exhausted than I had been before.  For a moment, I was utterly confused as to where I was and rolled over to look around.

Claudia still sat in the same position on the recliner, her head was tilted one way and the laptop had slid off of her lap in the other direction.  She was sound asleep, her hands lying across her legs as if still typing on a phantom keyboard.

I took the computer, set it aside on the coffee table, and covered her with a blanket.  She murmured something incomprehensible and pressed her cheek deeper into the recliner cushion.