Rhubarb (9 page)

Put the pen down. You are not writing a script. She wants
a confident human being to invite her to an experience that will allow you to
get to know each other as people. Period.

Confidence. Experience. People. This sounded right. He knew
he needed a smartphone. He took a deep breath and dialed.

But what if she doesn’t answer? Should I hang up?

Everyone—and I mean everyone—has Caller ID. If you hang
up, she’ll think you’re a coward, a buttdialer, or that you’ve moved on to the
next number in your disgusting little black book.

I don’t even have a little black book.

She won’t know that if she never gets to know you. Now
man up and leave a message at the tone.

~ * * * ~

“Hi, Cheryl. It’s Martin Wells. I’m coming into Brixton next
Tuesday afternoon. Wanted to see if we could get together that evening. Or the
next. I’ll be working the area through Thursday. If you don’t want to go out in
Brixton, which I would totally understand, I’d be happy to drive us somewhere,
or meet in another town. Let me know. My number is 406-555-6871. Look forward
to hearing from you. Oh, and I have your pie plate. I’ll bring it with me.”

~ * * * ~

“Hello, Cheryl. I left you a message a couple of days ago.
I’m still planning on being in Brixton tomorrow and Wednesday nights. And
bringing your pie plate. Thanks again for that, by the way. It was really good.
Anyway, give me a call. 555-6871.”

~ * * * ~

Martin yanked back the shower curtain and lunged, splashing
water across the bathroom, but found his phone inert, and now lathered. He’d
been hearing phantom rings all day.

Would he really have answered the phone naked, with the
shower still running? He rinsed the soap out of his hair. He feared that if the
phone rang for real, he might not have the will to stop himself. Yep, that’s my
only fear, he thought. Nothing else to fear.

~ * * * ~

“We’re back with Asmir Falenta, journalist, amateur pilot,
and the author of ‘The Disappearance of the Bermuda Triangle,’ the lead article
in the May issue of
Awake
, the official magazine of
Beyond Insomnia
.
Subscription and membership information on wakernation.com. Now, Asmir, for
this article, you flew your plane around and through the Triangle itself. Were
you ever afraid?”

“How could I not be, Lee? The documented accounts, Coast
Guard records, and the Lloyd’s of London registers make clear that something
happens in the Triangle. The majority of these incidents are much odder, much
stranger, than other losses at sea. Sudden mechanical or instrument failure,
unusual radio communication interference, and changes in temporal
perspectives—there are just some things you can’t prepare for.”

“Now, you spoke to dockmasters, air-traffic controllers,
fishermen, a Coast Guard crew, even a DEA interdiction officer. According to
the people on the ground, those who deal with it on a daily basis, are there
fewer unexplained disappearances or events in the Triangle today than there
have been in the past?”

“We’ve been documenting travel in the Triangle since
Columbus. So as a journalist, I wondered at first if incidents were simply no
longer widely reported by the media. Instead, I found a consensus that this
past decade has seen the fewest strange occurrences by far.”

“What could account for this?”

“There are several working ideas. One is related to the
natural gas bubble theory, that perhaps the release of those gases has subsided
for geological reasons. But the gas bubble theory has never explained certain
common phenomena, like the temporal alterations and magnetic disturbances. Some
theorize that technology has improved navigation and communication: GPS
systems, weather tracking, and more robust radio technology, for instance.
However, that doesn’t account for the reputation of this very specific area of
the sea. Technology treats the symptoms. It’s not the cure. Travelers reported
strange events well into the last decade. It’s like something has subsided.”

“Let’s cut to the chase. Do you believe we’re talking about
a natural occurrence?”

“There’s no known natural phenomenon that explains all the
strangeness. I agree with Buckner and Stone that there is an artifact, or ruin,
beneath the ocean floor. That this artifact was the source of some kind of
energy, and that recently, within the past ten years, that power source has
weakened or run out.”

“Atlantis or aliens?”

“That’s the $64,000 question, Lee.”

“We’ll talk about that, and take your calls, with Asmir
Falenta after this break. You’re Beyond Insomnia on the Weirdmerica Radio
Network.”

~ * * * ~

On Wednesday morning, Martin weighed down the end of the
hardest mattress in the universe. A twenty-second walk to the breakfast room or
a two-hundred-second drive to Herbert’s Corner? At least someone there would
make him a waffle. None of this pour-the-batter-yourself crap. And they’d have
warmed syrup in a nice glass pitcher. He shouldn’t be hungry anyway. He had
eaten an entire can of Pringles during Letterman, and that Snickers around two
in the morning. Plus, the co-op opened early. He could get in there, get done,
and get out of town long before Cheryl arrived for her afternoon shift.

He closed the door of his room and paused at the rail of the
second-floor walkway. The roof of his truck was useless white space in a mostly
empty parking lot. The sun rose over a dying town, huddled in the midst of
desolation. A truck grumbled by on the highway. A meadowlark trilled much more
shrilly than necessary. A mournful side of beef lowed in the distance. Martin
went down to the lobby.

Come on, Big Man,
said the breakfast bar.
She’s
right there in the storeroom. Yep, you heard her, she just opened that box.
Let’s see you make a waffle. You can’t even make toast. Oh, a blueberry yogurt?
You know what a real man would have for breakfast? Not blueberry yogurt.

The griddle beeped as she emerged from the storeroom. Martin
scraped his mangled waffle onto his plate, pretending he meant to do it like
that, and then turned to face her as if he had never called her. Twice.

“Good morning,” said Vonnie.

“Oh, hi,” said Martin. “I thought you were…Where’s Cheryl?”

“Oh, she quit,” said Vonnie. “A couple weeks ago. She called
Brenda in the middle of the night, said she was moving to Boise. Charlie
promoted me to breakfast.”

“Boise?”

“We were all shocked,” said Vonnie. “Leavin’ her stepfather
and all.”

“Yeah,” said Martin. “Okay, thanks.”

“Enjoy your breakfast.”

“Did she say why?”

“What?” asked Vonnie.

“Did Cheryl tell anyone why she was leaving?”

“Everyone’s saying she met a man on the Internet,” said
Vonnie.

Wake Up to the Perfect GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM)
Waffle!

Step 1:
Snap plastic knife off sawing
through the GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM) Waffle and Styrofoam plate.

Step 2:
Toss it all in the trash in
disgust.

Caution:
Your fingers will get
sticky. Do not do this in public. Do
not
add alcohol. Suck it up and go
to work. Those screws aren’t going to bin themselves.

Somewhere at the edge of his unconsciousness, Martin sensed
a presence in his apartment. He listened, not breathing, but heard nothing.
Must have been the neighbors. They always came and went at weird hours. He
checked the clock. He had to be up at half past his ass to be at an account in
Harlowton by seven. But as he tried to bring sleep back, he heard it again, or
felt it.

Lying still, Martin stretched out his other senses and found
fear. Was this the paralysis all the abductees talked about on BI? Who was
there? An ax murderer or a gray alien, with the shiny, teardrop eyes, no taller
than a seventh-grader and twice as dangerous? It crept closer. If this was a
dream, he’d have awoken by now.

Martin willed himself to wiggle a toe, to adjust his tongue,
anything, but couldn’t. He heard a strained exhalation. A hiss and a whiff. A
wheezing suck. One breath. Then another. Move, Martin. Move. It’s not here to
hug you and take you to an intergalactic love-in. It’s here to probe you in all
the ways you’d rather not be probed. Because that’s what they do. Haven’t you
ever listened to the stupid show? Get up.

Suck. Hiss. Wheeze.

Suck. Hiss. Wheeze.

A clammy paw of flesh clamped over his mouth, and a
retina-destroying light stabbed his eyes.

“Where is she?” a vicious whisper rasped. Martin screamed
into the flesh over his mouth, fearing the end, or a really bad beginning. “You
have no right, you bastard.”

Martin’s muffled scream ran short of breath, but ended
abruptly when the light flicked away and he recognized, in a half-second, the
stubble on the unshaveable jowls, the nostril hair poking into the holes in the
cannula.

Martin fought free of the hand and his sheets, tumbling to
the safety of the far side of the bed. “What the hell? Stewart?” The flashlight
blinded him again as he got to his feet. Martin fumbled for the bedside lamp
and knocked it over getting it on. The resulting shadows were as strange as the
unlikely presence of Stewart Campion in his bedroom. He was wearing the
enormous sunglasses, the ones he’d put on that evening before dinner.

“Where is she?” Stewart demanded again. “I don’t know who
you are, but I want her returned. She doesn’t know anything.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cheryl doesn’t know the recipe. She never did.” Stewart
struggled pathetically with a pocket until he yanked an object free and
brandished it at Martin—a FastNCo. Model 25-C. Stewart had probably bought it,
and its PIC #6598 three-quarter-inch staples, at Lester’s co-op.

“That’s a staple gun,” said Martin.

“You wanna test that theory?” Stewart breathed hard but kept
the gun up, his trembling hand wrapped around the trigger handle.

“I’m going to call the police now,” said Martin.

“You’re not like the others, but I’m not going to fall for
it. What have you done with Cheryl?”

“She never called me back. They said she went to Boise,”
said Martin. Martin’s skin shrank. Was he being blamed for something?

“You don’t think I see what’s happening? I…wrote…the goddamn
playbook…on this.” Stewart’s labored breathing filled the gaps between his
words, and the gun hand drifted.

“You’re going to pass out. Why don’t you go out in the
living room and sit down? Let me put on some pants, and we’ll talk.”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” said Stewart.

Martin edged around the bed, letting Stewart hold onto his
illusion of fearsomeness. He pulled on a pair of khakis and yesterday’s
T-shirt. “I’m going out to the living room.” He half-expected a staple to the
back, but Stewart followed, wheezing hard.

“How did you get in here?” Martin asked.

“Anyone can pick a lock, boy,” said Stewart.

“How did you know where I live?”

“I followed you. What do you think?”

“Look, I’m not actually calling the cops. But sit down. I
don’t want to have to call an ambulance.” Martin waved to the La-Z-Boy.

Stewart held the staple gun out for a few more seconds, then
shuffled to the chair. He lowered himself to a seat with a groan, took off the
sunglasses, and tucked them in a shirt pocket. He sucked in several deep
breaths. “Who are you? Where are you from?”

“Stewart? I’m Martin Wells. I’m from Billings. I’m the
FastNCo. rep. We met about a month ago when I came over to your house for
dinner.”

“I’m not senile, Martin. I want the truth,” said Stewart.

“Who do you think I’m supposed to be?”

“Your dermis beats the glasses. Something new?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Martin.

“Don’t give me that,” said Stewart. Then he coughed, coughed
again, and then couldn’t stop. He dropped the staple gun. As Stewart bent
forward, hacking spittle and phlegm onto his lap, Martin feared to upset him
even more by leaving the room. But then, as much to keep his own stomach from
turning, he fetched Stewart a glass of water.

“Thanks,” Stewart managed between the lingering coughs.
Stewart took a few sips, coughed a few more times. Then he leaned back in the
recliner, the fight gone.

“Should you be in a hospital or something?” Martin asked.

“I’m fine,” said Stewart.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“I was so sure,” said Stewart.

“You think I’m to blame for Cheryl leaving town?” asked
Martin.

“She baked you a pie.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” asked Martin.

“It’s everything,” said Stewart.

“You’re not making any sense,” said Martin.

“I tried to protect her from all this.”

“All what?”

“The pie. The rhubarb pie. No…”

“Stewart?” asked Martin. But Stewart was asleep, his rasps
irregular and not quite deep enough.

~ * * * ~

The smell from the Mr. Coffee hadn’t woken Stewart, so
Martin slammed the microwave door on the Jimmy Dean sausages and set it going
with as many beeps as possible. That did the trick. Stewart stirred under his
blanket, lowered the recliner’s footrest, and rose into a patch of thin
sunlight. Martin poured a mug of coffee and set it on the kitchen table next to
the staple gun, recovered from the floor. Stewart shuffled in, considered the
gun, considered Martin, and then sat.

“‘Coffee is the only cure for Monday,’” Stewart read from
his mug. He considered the orange cat. “It’s not Monday.”

“Just drink the coffee,” said Martin.