Of That Day and Hour: A psychological thriller (25 page)

“May I help you?” She does
not recognize him.

“Forgive the intrusion and
my unannounced visit. I’m a long-time friend and colleague of John's. I’m not
sure if you’ll remember me? My name is Dr. Jefferson Davies.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Davies, I
have no recollection.” She’s sure she would remember him, if what he said were true.

“There was a gathering of
lecturers here many years ago.”

“Yes, there was.” She stares
trying to recall him. “Although I can’t place you.”

“I was here.” Jeff thinks
back to that night. “You wore a long red dress.”

“Yes, yes I did.” She
smiles, her guard drops. “You do have a good memory.”

“Only for the prettiest of
ladies.”

“Thank you for the
flattery.” She sees through his ruse. “How may I help you?”

“Is it possible for me to
speak with John?”

“I’m sorry, he’s not up to
visitors anymore.” She can see his determination, or is it desperation?

“Please, it’s important, I
wouldn’t trouble you otherwise. Just five minutes?”

“Five minutes then.” She
caves in with a sigh. “Although I doubt you will get a conversation, or even a
word, out of him.”

“Thank you.”

Jeff steps inside and closes
the door behind him. The hallway exhibits framed photographs of John, the
university, and his many friends and colleagues.

“What a wonderful
collection, do you mind?”

“Go right ahead.” She’s
pleased to have someone take an interest; no one does anymore.

Izabella stands by his side
whilst he enthusiastically looks at the photographs. Cap and gown
presentations; the lecturers. Throughout all this history, Jeff notes there’s
an absence of one. He himself is nowhere to be seen: erased from history.

“May I see John?”

“Of course, follow me.”

John’s sitting in a
wheelchair, close to the window, a tartan blanket placed over his legs. He
wears a blank expression.

“Hello, John.” Jeff walks
forward to shake his hand and receives no reaction. John’s right hand is
clenched tight. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He has Alzheimer’s, Dr.
Davies.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t
realize.” He realizes the hopelessness of the situation. “I wouldn’t have
troubled you had I known.”

“I was hoping a familiar
face might have sparked a response from him.”

“Is there nothing that can
be done?” Jeff’s heartbreak for his friend is obvious.

“The disease is quite
advanced. His speech has become limited to single intelligible words. The
doctors now focus their efforts to postpone loss of mobility.”

“It must be hard for you.”
Jeff understands that Izabella’s watched her husband, a highly intelligent man,
crumble.

“He doesn’t know if I’m his
mother or his wife.” A tear falls. “Please spend a few minutes with him, I’ll
be back shortly.”

Izabella walks out of the
room. Jeff turns to face the man he once knew so well.

“John, its Jefferson Davies,
do you remember me?” Jeff can see there’s nothing left but an exterior shell.
He doesn’t know what else he can say to a man who, even without the disease,
probably wouldn’t recognize him. Jeff stands and sadly turns to walk out of the
room. Reaching the door, the sound of a marble bouncing onto the wood floor,
rolling, stops him. He bends down and picks it up. John’s right hand is now open,
and Jeff’s eyes widen as he recognizes the marble. It was so long ago. John had
approached him in his office.

“Just passing, thought I
would drop in and see how you’re settling in?”

“Fine, thank you.” Jeff’s
pleased that his colleague is so welcoming.

“Is there anything you
need?”

“You seem to have thought of
everything.” He smiles. “It’s all appreciated.”

“That’s quite alright.” He
looks around and whispers. “We lecturers must stick together.” He looks to Jeff
in an enquiring way. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve sat and listened to
your lectures with interest. Academia aside, do you not have a shred of doubt
regarding fate or the supernatural?”

“Not at all.” Jeff smiles.
This is a valid and often asked question.

“And religion?”

“Religion is a construct
which aids the elite in social order. It’s served and continues to serve its
purpose well.”

“But what of the soul?”

“We have no permanent self.
Our religious guidance is nothing more than social conditioning. Right from
wrong, good versus evil. These basic values form our thoughts and affect our
behaviors. Without a soul you cannot be damned.”

“Then why do we sense a
soul? Why are we spiritual beings?”

“Because we are frightened
to face the truth.” Jeff reaches into his drawer and pulls out a large and
unusual marble, holding it between his fingers. “Marbles have been used for
divination throughout history, from the Greeks to the Chinese. Drop them in
sand, roll them around, make lines or patterns. Then interpret, decipher. But
why would a higher energy be concerned with human affairs? It’s only human
minds that cling to the notion of meaning.”

“You may be right. I’ll hold
onto my soul, just in case.”

“Keep the marble as a
totem.” Jeff says. “If you find any evidence to disprove my theories, then
please return it.”

Jeff stands in the room
holding that marble, the only piece of evidence he’s discovered to validate his
existence as a lecturer. His good friend can tell him nothing more. Jeff walks
out of the room, and the totem in his hand, returned.

The night is
spent in restless despair. Jeff holds the marble in his hand, contemplating the
series of events surrounding its return. The hours feel eternal as he watches
the second hand tick on the clock, drifting in and out of sleep. With the
arrival of morning, darkness finally loses its hold.

Thankful to be leaving, Jeff
closes the door, walks down the steps, and into the taxi. He fears Boston may
not set him free. An accident, a delay, even thoughts of a plane crash
reverberate through his mind. How will he explain to Eve the series of events
that have conspired against him? Traveling without incident through the Boston
landscape, he looks out, irritated by the city that tried to imprison him. Jeff
reads the sign for Logan International Airport, and is grateful for his freedom
as they pull up outside the terminal.

“Thank you.” He sighs with
relief.

“Take care, Jeff.”

“You too, Joe.”

Stepping out of the cab with
a single farewell wave, he walks towards the departures entrance. Inside the
building he checks in, purchases coffee and finds a seat in the airport lounge.
He sits contemplating the fact that he’s leaving his daughters again. The
flight is called; once through the routine of boarding, he settles into his
seat. It isn’t long before the plane reaches flying altitude. He’s escaped the
clutches of Boston, its disturbing reality. The flight is routine, allowing him
to sleep.
 
When he wakes, below him are
the plains of the South West, the New Mexico Rockies and home. It’s a long
descent towards Pueblo Memorial Airport; cloudless skies ensure a smooth
landing.

Walking out of arrivals, he
scans the crowd in anticipation. Other passengers are greeted, but Eve’s
nowhere to be seen, and she’s not in the car park. An hour passes sitting
outside the airport, leaning against the wall; waiting. Disappointed, slightly
angry, he’s left with no choice, taxi or rental? He drives away from the
airport in a cool black four-by-four truck.

The road ripples like a
ribbon floating on the red sea. Wasteland scrub drifts by. Thoughts ebb to and
fro. His daughters and Eve are on his mind. Al’s diner; he scans, brakes slam
on. He sits motionless.

“Fuck.” He shakes his head.
“This isn’t happening.” Trembling, he drives up to the chrome diner. The sun
sparks diamonds of light from the spots not yet covered in rust. Cautiously
approaching, using his weight on the door; finding broken glass clawing the
checkered floor. Confronted by the old dusty counter, torn booths, cobwebs,
Jeff knows fear. Does Rainbow Ranch still exist? More importantly, does Eve?

The miles feel endless. The
turbo whistles like a steam train on full haul. Are all his memories
false?
 
He turns left at the black
mailbox. The raven watches.

It’s the same dusty farm
track, the same stone pillars, the same log poles. The entrance still announces
Rainbow Ranch with faded white lettering. The building is nestled in the
valley, as it should be, but there’s no Camaro. The closer he gets the more
anxious he feels. The truck stops. Silence descends; is the solitude too much?
Stepping out, it’s the same rustic beauty, the same colors and charm, but
there’s no footprints or tire tracks in the red soil. The old timber
weathervane is motionless as he walks up the steps. The single rocking chair
sits on the porch. His hand reaches for the handle, and the door creaks open.

“Eve?”

No-one replies: there’s no
one here to reply. No Indian rug in front of the fireplace, no psychedelic
painting hanging on the wall. It’s desolate, isolated: abandoned. Shaking, he
sits. His teeth start to chatter. Rocking himself, his eyes close to a world
that’s insanely cruel.

The wind picks up. The door
bangs on its frame. Waking, startled from the comfort of not knowing, Jeff
returns to the grim reality of consciousness. It’s not him, he knows this with
absolute conviction; he has the marble and the Saint Christopher. The answers
must lie in one place: inside the prison walls.

He pulls out onto the
highway. The surrounding barren landscape is now nothing more than a wasteland.
Without companionship it leads only to isolation and loneliness. He now feels
the truth of the literature of human emotion. He spent endless hours studying,
yet not once did he appreciate the true depth of the printed word. He aches for
Eve. The human condition had him come into this world alone, journey through
life as an individual, to inevitably die alone. Yet to love, to have someone
travel with him through this eternal loneliness made everything worthwhile.
He's in exile; his academic doctrines have gone out the window. Jeff is now
running on faith.

He passes the billboard
advertising trust. He glances in the mirror, sees the cop shielding there,
acknowledges the irony. Once the trooper is out of sight he picks up speed. The
turbo whistles as he whips every last horse out of the engine. He approaches
the prison.

“No!”

The road is blocked by six
large concrete blocks, each block with its own steel lifting handle set in the
top. A large white sign, reads, in red lettering, ‘Danger. Keep Out.
Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.’ The truck door opens. He walks past the sign
and the concrete blocks. The blue guard house slowly peels in the sun. The
concrete steps that lead up to the door are full of sand. It’s locked, empty
and still. The red and white barriers are chained down.

He walks the trail that
belongs to murderers and outcasts. The heat burns into the back of his head,
into his neck and shoulders. The hot tarmac burns through the soles of his
shoes to his feet.

The perimeter gates are
locked, the gun towers empty. A bird of prey sits on the razor wire, watching.
He walks back to the vehicle contemplating fate. He needs a sign. If there is
one to be found, it will be at the ranch. He'll spend the night there.

On the highway pulls over to
ask the cop where the nearest stop is for provisions. The trooper hears the
engine of the truck decelerate as it rolls off the highway, drawing alongside
his Dodge. Unarmed white single male, no threat. He looks at Jeff, who removes
his sunglasses and steps out of the truck.

“Hi, could you give me
directions please?” Jeff’s nervous, it’s the same cop that stopped Eve. He can
see his own reflection in the mirrored sunglasses.

“Where’re you headed?” His
manner is indifferent.

“Nearest gas station and
place to eat?”

“Ten miles, there’s a truck
stop, you can’t miss it.”

“Thanks.”

The cop taps the end of the
cigarette on the packet and watches Jeff steps back into the truck. He lights
the cigarette, turns his back to the highway, and looks out across the desert.
The truck throws dust up as it re-joins the highway.

Ten miles on and the
approaching sign catches Jeff’s eye. A red rectangle slashes through a white
circle, stating ‘Truck Stop, Twenty Four Hours.’ Leaving the highway, he passes
rows of trucks. Parks at the front of the building. Steps out to the sound of a
passing motor growling. Air brakes hiss.

The stop offers food, a
shop, washroom facilities, and to professional drivers, accommodation and a
lounge. Inside the canteen is basic but clean. He fills the food tray: a
stacked burger, fries, a large coffee and a slice of black forest cake.

At the till the cashier
smiles. “Hi, is that everything?” Customer service here appears natural, not
forced.

“Yeah.” He remembers his
manners and quickly adds: “Thanks.”

Jeff doesn’t pay any
attention to her colleague walking over.

“Take your break, I’ll cover
here.” he hears. Jeff looks back.

“Angel?” Al’s daughter. He
smiles.

“Hi, can I help you?”
There’s no recognition in her eye.

“It’s Jeff.” Nothing. In
despair he sighs. “Don’t you remember me?”

“I’m sorry, no.” She can see
he’s confused. “Don’t take it personally. We have a lot of through traffic
here.”

“It’s okay.” His voice
wavers through restrained emotion. “Do you know where Eve is?”

“Eve?” She looks up, trying
to recall. “No, I’m sorry.” She senses he hangs on to every word. “I don’t know
anyone called Eve.”

“Okay.” His hands raise up,
as much to comfort her as himself. Or is it surrender?

Bemused he sits at a table.
He needs to eat, but has no appetite. Discreetly he keeps glancing over to
Angel. Is fate mocking him?

Fate twists the screw a
little further when he walks in the shop to pick up his essentials. Al sits
behind the counter. No recognition in his face as Jeff hands the goods over.
Does Al know where Eve is?

“Hey Al, how you keeping?”
Jeff greets him with forced enthusiasm.

“Yeah, fine.” He looks to
Jeff. “Where do I know you from?”

“Through Eve.”

“Eve?” Al pulls his face.

“Come on, you can’t have
forgot us already?” He bluffs, but what else can he do? “Sexy chick, pierced
lip, long
braided hair. She runs a black Camaro.”

“You’ve lost me.” Al shakes
his head. He still can’t place this guy.

On the way back to the
ranch, Jeff looks beyond the highway to the mountains. Which direction is Eve
in? This place isn’t home: home is where the heart is, and that’s wherever he
finds her.

He unloads the supplies,
then sits in the old rocking chair, cracking open a beer. The weathervane is
motionless, the door’s still. No swirling dust, no distant yips from a coyote:
nothing but time stood still. Abandoned and alone, he watches the beauty of
distant mountains fade with the dark. The serenity of the full moon bathes the
land in her silvery light.

He waits. Looks towards the
old Ford truck and the barn. Wills them to step out: Casey’s mom, or Belle.
Where are they? Only months ago he would called himself psychotic, living in a
delusional world, wishing for spirits to come. That was then and this is now.

Movement and faint foot
falls on the porch disturb his sleep. He stands. Eyes, those of a grey wolf,
equally startled by his presence. Jeff shields behind the chair. The wolf
turns, retreating, joining the five or six fleeting shadows below.
 

Jeff shivers. Did he really
just see a wolf pack? Making his way to the door he locks himself in the house.
Shaking with cold and fear he uses barbecue coal for the fire, wrapping a
single blanket around him. He’s safe, in front of the fire for the night.

The wood floor is
uncomfortable and cold to the bone. The embers give off little heat, and
there’s no coal left to fuel the fire. He looks around for fuel. It would be a
shame to break things up to burn. A place with so much time and history. He
drifts in and out of consciousness for the remainder of the night.

Daylight creeps across the
desolate plains. Nocturnal animals scurry for shelter. Light spreads under the
door, and timbers stretch themselves out for the day in the returning heat. The
warmth on his face is like reassurance. The moon may mother and comfort wild
things and lovers, but it’s the sun, the father, so revered and so strong that
calls to him now.

He steps out. The chair sits
empty on the porch. Eve isn’t here, nor is she going to be. It’s time to find
Marcus.