The Montenegro Cycle (Three-book Supernatural Romance Bundle)

Chatters

On The

Tide

Chapter 1

STEPPING off the shuttle at Newport News/Williamsburg International Airport, Monty cursed the heat and shuffled off to find his ride. As far as he was concerned, Virginia’s July heat was no better than Yucatan’s equatorial swelter, and the right name for this place was Patrick Henry Airport. That’s what they used to call it when he was kid, and history mattered.

Even at night the humidity was oppressive. But it wasn’t the heat Monty was worried about, it was the darkness. Every four or five steps he turned and walked backwards to make sure there was nothing following, his boots making scuffing sounds on the concrete.

Frickin’ airlines ought to be run like the frickin’ railroad. Oughta buy ‘em all pocket watches, he thought, irritable from the heat. If it hadn’t been for the missed connection, he would have been in Virginia before nightfall. Monty never went out after dark for nobody and nothing. He had only his black leather backpack with the Harley wings on the side, and he was thankful for the light load as he picked up the pace. He headed in the direction of his ride in long-term parking.

There wasn’t a star in the sky, and no moon. Even in in the middle of a limbo of asphalt mosquitoes began to work on the back of his neck. He smacked at one, and jumped at the sound it made. He stopped and looked behind again. He could see to the back of the lot, where beyond the chain-link fence there was only dark pines and silence. Turning back in the direction of the garage he almost ran.

The pinkish-lavender lights in front of the building made him feel a little better. He pulled open the glass door and went into the cavern of gray cement and scanned for his ‘76 Harley FLH Hard-tail. It was always this way, never remembering where he parked the bike, but he had his methods. He pulled a rumpled parking stub out of his front pocket and looked at the slot number he had scrawled on it almost a month ago. A35. The number on the concrete pillar said F.

Beans-and-rice, he said. Monty couldn’t wait to get behind the 45° rake of those chopper forks and tear up I-64. He hadn’t seen a soul since getting off the shuttle bus, and the lot was nowhere near half full with few cars to hide behind, yet he still felt he was being watched. He thought about the last time he had been out after dark, and he began to run.

Passing by the elevators on his way to Row 'A,' he saw the clock over the red doors. The big hand was almost on the twelve, the little hand on the seven. He had twenty-five minutes to get on the road, almost half an hour to build up speed. At 75 or 80 mph, things in the dark would all be a blur, and that’s all he’d be to them. An uncatchable blur. Being out after dark was unacceptable, but standing still at midnight made him want to claw his face and wail.

There was the bike standing alone. Sure, it needed some cosmetic work, but it was his chariot, and he got a shot of courage looking at it leaning sexily in A35. He put the backpack on the seat and strapped it to the sissy bar, put on his half-helmet, and got ready to start working. Times like these he wished he had electronic ignition because he knew bikes this old do not take well to long sitting spells. But like all aficionados of old Harleys he was part mechanic.

He gave her two half-hearted stomps just to get things moving around down there, then opened up the choke and got ready to give her a real go.

Didn’t your momma tell you not to run with fast bitches?

Jesus! Monty jerked around but the barrel of a pistol blocked his chin and pushed it back to straight ahead position.

You shouldn’t be ridin’ fast bitches. You could get a disease, the woman behind him said.

Thank God, Monty said.

I never pointed a gun at a man and had him say ‘Thank God’ before.

That’s because you never pulled a gun on a guy who’s running from what I’m running from, Monty said. Take everything, it ain’t nothing. I got a couple hundred cash on me, and the backpack, that’s it, but it’s all yours.

We don’t want coin, she said thumbing the hammer back on her .38. We want the rings. Gimme, without turning around.

Aw shit, he said, thinking back to two days before when he had sat across from Jordan at the Portico Merida in Mexico, just a couple of hours from Cancun. After everything he had been through, to part with them this way was torture.

He remembered how the jade rings had rested in his hand, looking such a comely shade of green in the sun. They were so worn and ancient he could hardly make out the designs. One was clearly a feathered snake biting its tail, the wings barely visible. The other looked like a chain of ants in single file, but he wasn’t sure. He stared at them, and for a minute he wasn’t dusty, or hot, or scared to death, he was in awe.

Happy? Jordan said.

Twitterpated, Monty said, stuffing the rings in his pocket. He took a pull on his lukewarm micheleda. What the heck do you guys put in your beer anyway?

Lime, salt, red pepper sauce, a little bit of everything. You get used to it.

I couldn’t be here long enough, Monty said. Look, it’s getting on toward dark, so let’s wrap this up. I’m satisfied, but are you?

It will be three hours before dark, relax.

Across the table Jordan ran his hands through his hair and then flipped through the envelope in his lap. The cantina was starting to fill up with tourists and Monty squirmed. This deal was almost done and he knew he had to stay calm and stop looking like a thief, but he couldn’t stop crossing and uncrossing his legs, drumming on the tabletop. All he wanted to do was get back to the hotel before dark and catch his bus to Cancun in the morning.

Perfect, Jordan said. I almost wish I was flying back with you. It’s been a long time since I was in the states.

Miss it? Monty asked.

Oh yeah.

Me too. So why don’t you?

Fifteen years in the Yucatan and I still haven’t gotten close to seeing everything there is to see. It’s a land of mystery. If I went back to Cleveland I’d be bored in a week. Maybe I’ll visit soon. Maybe I’ll come to Virginia and look you up. We can have a beer together, without all the shit in it.

No offense, Monty said, but I wouldn’t give you my address if you put a viper in my chaps.

I don’t blame you, Jordan said. I’m a mess aren’t I?

Monty looked at Jordan and thought he looked like he was fifty instead of thirty, his Caucasian face tanned into a Mayan mask.

Yeah, you look like I feel, Monty said. Seen too much you wished you hadn’t, and wishing you could stop wanting to see more. Look partner, all B.S. aside, I really want to say thanks for what you did.

Hey, my pleasure. Glad to help, glad to see them in caring hands instead of on some fake shaman’s dirty little charlatan fingers.

Monty let the man keep his pride. Jordan might have started out dealing in occult objects for belief, but at this point, it had become largely for the beer money. Monty wasn’t about to rub the man’s face in it.

I hear ya, I hear ya. Well, adios, Monty said, shaking Jordan’s hand. See you on the other side.

Be cool, Jordan said.

Scooting out of the cantina Monty went down the street to the Internet bar, ordering a coffee and waiting his turn behind the tourists, and artists, and teenagers. Through the glass he watched vendors selling monkeys and hash pipes to the tourists, hucksters pushing Wal-Mart blankets as being genuine foot-loomed by native Mayans. He ordered a shot of tequila while he waited, and the coffee washed it down fine.

When it was his turn he typed out an email.

From: Monty1point6

To: jigsaw1965

Sent: Friday July 16, 2004 5:29 PM

Subject: Got 'em

Flight leaves tomorrow. I'll be back before dark, so clear the road and let my thunder pass! See you soon,

--Montenegro

He caught a taxi to the hotel and holed up there waiting for morning. He kept himself busy, digging through a Ziploc bag containing a collection of hard rubber gaskets. Pulling out two that fit tight around the outside of the rings, he popped them into the nearly quarter-sized holes in his earlobes. He figured there was no way he’d get caught in Customs with them stowed there. In the mirror over the hotel sink he admired his primitive good looks, just knowing he was home free.

But when he came back to the present he was pretty far from home free, and the gun barrel poking behind his ear pointed it out in a manner far from subtle. He came to himself feeling more sick than angry, returning to Virginia from the Yucatan for the second time in one day.

Are you okay? I said we don’t want your cash, we want the rings, she said again, more forcefully this time. Did you drift off to sleep or something?

Sagging in the saddle, Monty reached up, pulled the rings out of his ears, and handed them over his left shoulder.

Who’s ‘we’? he asked.

The D.O.D, that’s who.

Department of Defense? Monty asked without sarcasm.

Up yours, she said. You know who we are. Don’t turn around while I check this out. Monty waited, thinking that he just wanted this to be over so that he could get moving.

Okay, we’re done here, she said. But don’t turn around until you’ve counted to a hundred or I’ll start shooting. Got it?

Got it, Monty said.

You don’t seem too scared, she said.

I’ve been jacked at gunpoint before. Besides, I’m relieved you weren’t something else.

Fine professor, start counting. Out loud.

One, two, three, four...

Start over -- Louder!

When he got to twenty-nine he heard the sound of a Harley starting up and he knew nobody could easily point a gun and speed off on a two-wheeler. He looked around and saw it sputtering off and caught the plate, DUN TIM.

Monty gave his ’76 a big and hard but loving romp. Got me a fast bitch that won’t roll over, he said.

Chapter 2

LEGION of Kronos M.C. was emblazoned on the man’s t-shirt, right over the shoulder blades. He reached into his mailbox to find an envelope belonging to his next-door neighbor. Hesitating for a moment, he decided to just go stick it in Greg’s box. He ambled that way. He was standing there with his hand on the rural-type mailbox’s door when Greg pulled up in his ice blue Acura. Lucas turned around and looked, waited for his neighbor to come up.

"Howdy Harold, said Lucas, looking down at the letter in his hand. I mean Greg. Got a piece of your mail in my box today." He held it up so that Harold could see the addressee was Harold G. Mooney.

Don’t call me Harold. It’s Greg.

"Says Harold here...Harold." Lucas noticed the letter was from Q. E. Parkinson, Esq.

Thanks, Harold said, snatching the envelope and skirting Lucas out onto the grass.

You know, if a word gets on your nerves, Lucas said with sincerity, Just say it over and over and over, and it becomes meaningless and non-offensive. Try it. Harold, Harold, Harold. Eventually you won’t even be able to spell it right.

I’ll keep that in mind.

I’m getting ready to cut my grass. Want me to hit yours for ya? Lucas asked.

No thanks, Harold said without turning, putting his key into the doorknob. I’ll take care of it later.

It’s no problem... Lucas was cut off by the slamming of his neighbor’s door.

A painfully thin woman appeared in front of Lucas’ house with a ramshackle gas-powered push mower, called out, Here’s the mower honey-bun.

Lucas crossed the crab-grassy sward to meet her. I’m gonna to be awhile Baby. I’m gonna cut his grass for him, at least the front anyway. He ain’t lookin’ too good.

Hustle up, she said. You’re gonna want to shower before the meetin’. Cantrell already called to make sure you’d be there.

That’s his job sweetie, that’s his job. Make me a sandwich and I’ll be inside in an hour-and-a-half or so, he said.

From his position under Harold’s house, Gator scratched his bearded cheek and peered through out through a foundation vent watching Lucas talk to Harold and then Bonnie. Bonnie left and Lucas started on the grass. Even in the heat of the summer it was shady and cool under Harold’s house, and he was comfortable there in his quilted flannel shirt, looking out of the darkness into the bright yard. The mower stirred dust, seeds, and clippings. He watched them float and spiral behind Lucas in the late afternoon sun. They jetted out the side of the mower moving fast, then slowed. Some went to the ground immediately, others circled and began to take flight, passing through and over the picket fence as if it were gauze, then like miniature kites, moved up until they disappeared in the western glare of the sun.

Feeling relaxed and sleepy, he nodded some, finally napped, then eventually sank into a dreamless slumber. When he woke, Lucas was all done, the yard was dark and still, and nobody was around. He stretched like a dog in the musty dark and turned his attention to the world above.

Every time Harold took a step on the floor, Gator tracked it with his senses. When he moved from carpet to hardwood, then to rug, the sound changed, and in Gator’s mind he envisioned the consistency of the footing, flattened pile, narrow oak boards, threadbare oriental. At the back of the house, the sound of a bottle falling, a thump, a squeaking mattress weighted then lightened, a settling rustle on the floor. The sun would be coming up soon.

On all fours Gator went out the crawlspace door to the puddle beneath the spigot and drank, drawing off the top with his lips, his hair hanging around his head like a lampshade. He moved off and pissed in the high grass by a tree in the rear of the yard. The eastern sky was dark purple, the moon long ago set.

He went back underneath the house, shutting the door behind him, and made his way over the lumps of broken concrete and chunks of two-by-four to find the exact spot where Harold had missed the bed and lay on the floor. The ground here was damp. Torn and crumpled plastic sheeting had let the moisture rise from the earth. Scraps of fallen paper and reflective foil insulation lay about and hung from the joists. No insulation covered the spot he regarded. Gator got up on his knees and placed his hand against the sub floor directly beneath Harold’s cheek on the other side.

Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to the span of life? he thought. Sleep well Harold Gregory.

He went back to the spot where he had been sleeping for the past month, a dry and dusty depression in a corner of the foundation where a family dog long dead had wisely chosen to sleep decades before. Shrugging his navy and yellow checked jacket to his ears, Gator curled up and shut his eyes.

Chapter 3

HAROLD took another pull on his bottle of Wild Turkey 101 and lay back on the sofa. Taking the remote in his free hand he nudged up the volume to drown out the lawnmower, the sound of it alternating between ear shattering and just plain loud as it made passes by the front window. Finally he got up and peered out between the curtains and mumbled to himself.

Idiot. Why would you cut somebody’s grass you don’t even know anyway? Holy Crud. I told you not to bother. He had to admit to himself that there was something about Lucas that he liked. His neighbor was the kind of guy that after he’s gone people describe as over six feet tall, handsome, and muscular. In reality he wasn’t quite six feet, he was past his prime, and he had the square kind of gut men have who can kick your ass. His brown and gray beard matched the braided pony tail that divided the meat-packing plant he used for a back, almost reaching down to the place where he should have had a butt. Harold would not have opened the door and called him an idiot for all the beer in Busch Gardens.

Back on the sofa he tried to focus on the T.V., but he was growing too drunk. He drank and drifted a little, dragged himself to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed but slipped off and fell to the floor. His body was on the rug but his cheek was on the cool hardwood floor, and it felt really good. He slept.

He jumped when the phone rang. It took eight rings for him to get up and find it buried in the sofa cushions back in the living room. He looked fuzzily at the screen of the cell phone, recognized the number and answered.

Hi, he said.

Greg, it’s Bonnie.

I know who the hell it is.

Greg, can I talk to you for a minute?

As long as you keep it light, okay? Nothing too heavy. I’m having a party.

You are? Who’s there? she asked.

Some turkey, you wouldn’t know him.

Okay...Greg, I know how you feel, how really hard it is. You misunderstood me when we fought before. I want you to know that everything is okay with me. None of that stuff matters. You can come home any time.

I can? Gee thanks. I can come home to my own house. Great.

Don’t do that, she said.

Do what? he asked.

Start the macho thing. That’s not you.

I hate being like this, it sucks, really it does. But this is the way it is. Until I get a job and get back to...to what I do best, I won’t be myself. I can’t be...

Honey, your job isn’t who you are. It’s just something you do. All that matters is...

"Hort-manure, horse-manure, he stumbled, it is me. I can’t come back there. Ever. I don’t like it there anymore. Maybe when I get a new job and get this place fixed up you can come here and we can talk, but I can’t come there."

Greg, come on. Don’t be crazy. This is our house. That’s your grandparent’s house.

No, now that’s your house, he said. You can have it. And this is my house. You can come and visit sometime.

Why does it always have to be mine or yours? Why can’t it be ours? Everything I have is yours, how come everything you have isn’t mine?

Harold’s face crumpled like tinfoil, and he threw the phone across the room into the sofa’s matching easy chair.

Kill me with kindness why don’t you! he yelled, and lay back onto the couch.

Later, when the bottle of 101 was empty and the sun was down, Harold got his car keys and went out the front door leaving it open. The old wooden screen door peppered with holes banged shut behind him. He made his way down to the Acura and got inside making off for nowhere.

At the 7-11 he picked up a six-pack of beer. The young clerk, a girl in braces, had second thoughts but decided not to challenge him. After all, he was a grown man in a suit and he had his ID ready. He slid back into the driver’s seat, openly having a beer and tearing up the road. He drove a long time, downing the beers.

Finally he came to a stop before the bridge, pulled off the shoulder just short of it. He staggered off, the last beer of the six in hand. He hit the remote locking the car and setting the alarm. Walking out onto the bridge he looked to one side up the river, noting the lights of the houses along side it. On the other side was the bay, chocked full of fish and oysters, a couple of lonely boats far away. It was a long way down to the brackish water from the top of the bridge.

His feet were cold, but his head was beaded with sweat. Looking down he realized he didn’t have on any shoes. The cement was cold and damp like the wind. He was not too drunk to feel his feet, just too drunk to care, and when he realized that he was too drunk to care, he wondered if that was good or bad because it was a long way down to the brackish water from the bridge.

He missed Bonnie, but knew if he were back with her it would only be on her terms. He wouldn’t be a real man with her, wouldn’t be able to take charge, and it would be just like before. She wouldn’t let him. She’d tell him he wasn’t sensitive enough, tell him he wasn’t the man she married, all of that stuff. But then, building a life without her would be impossible too. He loved her and hated her all at once, and did not know how to conceive of a life without her in it.

And where could he live with no job? His grandparent’s house wasn’t going to be his for much longer. When it went to auction to pay their medical bills, he would have his choice of going back to Bonnie or living out of the Acura.

Guess I’ll be in the Acura, he said to himself, because I’ll be damned if I’m going to let her castrate me again.

His bravado surged as it did when he was alone and unchallenged by faces. Faces made his courage fail, the faces of people who depended on him at work, the faces of loved ones like Bonnie’s, or even his own face in the mirror. The water was too far down for him to see his reflection. If he jumped, he wondered if he would see it just before he hit.

On the span over the water he looked out and saw that he had no job, very little money, and soon he would have no place to live. He imagined people’s faces when he described how he had gone from V.P. Of Human Resources for a major corporation to living out of his car, how they would look at him when they asked him about Bonnie and he answered that they weren’t together anymore. He tried to imagine what would he say.

Oh, we broke up, he whispered. She wouldn’t let me be a man. I wasn’t sweet and sensitive enough for her.

Although he wanted to be with her so much that it hurt, he knew going back was pointless. She didn’t want him to be himself, she wanted him to be something else. The time he had spent with Bonnie, the time on the job, it had all been a waste, and he was too tired to start over somewhere else.

What would people say if they found him in a few weeks, snagged in the brush near the shore, bloated and stinking like a dead puffer-fish?

That company that laid him off, that wife of his, they killed that poor bastard, they might as well have pushed him off, Harold mouthed.

Like a child whose tower of blocks has been knocked down, he looked off the bridge and down to the water, too heartbroken to see past the disaster and too tired to build again. Bonnie would miss him much more if he jumped and died than if he stayed alive and lived out of his car. Her heart would forget all the negative and only recall the positive. She’d want him back then, unchanged.

He used to say himself that the best revenge was living well, but now he was beginning to see things in the reverse.

You want to control me? Then fine. Control me to death, suffocate me, drown me why don’t you? How will that make you feel...

Harold threw the empty can over the rail, and without a sound, leaped after it. There was no sensation of falling in the deepness of the dark. He hit the water and was stunned. Unaware of up or down, feeling no pain, he was unafraid for a moment. Then he took a breath and choked.

His body reacted to the threat of death and his mind quickly followed. His reasons for jumping were far away now, much less important than not having any air in his lungs. Thrashing and clawing he fought for the surface but did not know where the surface was. His tears became one with the waves and were washed away. Guilt and sadness gone, now he was alive and wanted to keep it that way, but it was too late. Half a minute later he could no longer thrash or claw and there was no air. Eyes open, the mystical lids covering the light of his spirit began to relax and fall. He moved into a neutral place where he neither wanted to die nor wanted to live.

Hands were on him in the dark water, but they were hesitant, their grip light and yielding. He could sense their presence. Why aren’t they pulling me out? he wondered. Who would hesitate to save a man drowning? Without urgency, with detachment, he suspected he might die soon if they didn’t so something soon. Dying and not dying were as immaterial, as rooted in perspective, as right and left. Neither was good or bad, they were just opposite sides of the same coin. The hands still rested on him, not pulling him out, not holding him down.

The difference between life and death was only Bonnie. In the choice he saw two worlds, one with her and one without, and he felt a stirring of the need to live. His thought on the bridge about Bonnie’s guilt had been right, she would blame herself and she would suffer. He imagined her suffering and he felt the suffering himself and it was the only real thing he felt in months. He wanted to live. The void no longer seemed relaxing or benign. Now the absence of sound, light, and sensation became bizarre and ominous.

At last the hands delivered him to shore. He coughed and hacked, blinded by mud and spasms. When he could breathe and look around nobody was there. Soaking wet and nearly sober, he stared up at the moon, shocked at his own actions, thankful to be alive. He felt his feet and examined them in the dimness. They were muddy but uncut. He was expecting to find them bloody from the trash and oyster shells of the bay bottom.

Harold got up, convinced himself that the unseen hands had been a trick of his mind while he was deprived of oxygen, and went back to the car. The keys were still in his pocket. He got in and drove off, shaking from the cold and wet, far from being at his best but nonetheless better off than he had been when he jumped. He turned the heater on high and made it back to the old home place. Once inside he stripped naked and lay down on the sofa, totally spent. He pulled the folded blanket from the back of the couch looked at the ancient VCR in the entertainment center. Its clock read 11:31 PM.

First time in months I’ve gone to sleep instead of passing out, he said to himself, and closed his eyes.

Chapter 4

DRESSED in shorts and muscle shirt, both heather gray, the wind outside the 24-hour gym was cool and good on her wet body. She was running hot, gym bag swinging in her hand. Brenda turned right toward the strip mall that closed hours ago. There was hunk of grass between the lots and she crossed it in three strides. Not a single car in the lot at this hour.

There was a matched set of three payphones on the brick wall outside the CVS. She put her bright blue and electric yellow NAPA bag down on the cement next to the soft drink stains and cigarette butts and fished out two quarters from the side pocket.

You’re late calling.

I’m sorry, I just finished working out...

You should’ve called before you went in. Where are you?

I’m at the CVS next to the gym, Brenda said, putting her back to the bricks and pulling the metal cord attached to the receiver to its limit.

CVS is closed.

I’m at the payphone outside.

Oh. What are going to do now?

I’m gonna do it, Brenda answered.

Do you remember, the box is in the china closet behind the green glass?

Not in the top part, Brenda said, in the bottom part, the part with the solid doors.

That’s right. Don’t get spotted...

I’ll park a few blocks over and walk in.

Don’t interrupt me.

I’m sorry, Brenda said.

It’s not a big deal, it’s just that you know I hate to be interrupted.

I’m sorry, Brenda said.

Don’t make a big deal out of it, just don’t do it, the voice on the phone said. It’s like you do these things I keep asking you not to do, and it just shows how much you disrespect me...

Tuning her out she rolled her head over to the side and in the smoked gray plastic of the payphone’s cowl Brenda saw her reflection. She loved it. It made her want to puke. She stared, admiring her jaw line, nose, and forehead, the perfect eyebrows, all perfect. The poor quality of the reflection almost hid the purple pigmentation that ran across her cheek and wrecked it all. It was impossible not to stare, and she understood why people did.

Okay? she said.

Okay, Brenda agreed.

Good. I’ll see you when you get here. Don’t get caught.

I won’t. Bye.

Okay. Bye.

She hung up the phone and picked up her bag, trudged back across the spit of grass to the El Camino parked in front of the gym. Throwing her barrel bag in the short bed she got behind the wheel and cranked the motor. Two parking spaces over a red Prelude pulled in. Brenda instinctively obscured her face by tucking her chin behind her shoulder, looked over out of the corner of her eye to give away only her profile.

A young man got out of the Prelude and began to strut toward the gym.

Go work out Pretty-pretty, I could take you, Brenda thought. That’s right, look away. I could take you apart.

The faded blue El Camino pulled away, and Brenda looked out through the windshield at the pocked streets with broken stripes, the scarred curbs, the telephone poles covered in hides of staples. As she drove, from time to time she looked left and regarded herself in the reflection of the driver’s side window.

You’re one scary number, ain’t you? She said to herself.

In a dark spot beneath old trees she parked the car and slipped on a dark blue long-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of charcoal Dickies. Deep trouser pockets held her .38 revolver, the screwdrivers, and the expired credit card she always used for good luck. The bank had pulled her credit line long ago, but it was still money to her. A black Baltimore Ravens ball cap contained her blonde hair.

It was two blocks over and four down to the house she wanted. She locked up the El Camino and headed that way. There was nobody on the street, and the bars wouldn’t make last call for another hour and a half, so it was all good. Old oaks near the street lumped and split the sidewalk, and in places where there were no streetlights she had to be careful not to trip.

As she had planned it, she spotted the brick house with the American flag mailbox and went up the front walk like she owned the place, but this was not the house. Turning right and going around the side, she crossed the back yard and hopped the fence. Now she was in the back yard of the old cape cod whose back yard abutted the brick one. She went to the back door and put on a pair of brown jersey work gloves.

Inside in less than a minute, she could smell White Shoulders, Noxzema, and stale cigarettes, and she could hear the old bag breathing. She won’t wake up, she thought. They never do. But if she does, and she gets a look at this face, somebody’s going to get the shock of their life. Don’t wake up Old Bag, I don’t want to hurt you.

Brenda found the china press in the dining room and pulled out the matching set of green glasses blocking removal of the box. It turned out to be more of a small safe than a box, and surprised by the weight, she almost let the heavy, tan fireproof monstrosity slip. It weighed thirty pounds even though it was small, and she knew it would be impossible to hide under her shirt or carry inconspicuously. One glance from a cop and she’d be in cuffs.

There was a loud snort and the creaking of a mattress. Maybe she just rolled over. Old Bag, don’t you get up. Stay in bed. There was a scratching sound, fine and far away that she could not identify, and not knowing what it was made Brenda wince and rush to put the antique glasses back in place. As she shut the doors there was the tinkling of a bell that grew closer. A dog? Lovey-dovey didn’t say nothin’ about no dog. A dog that makes a bed creak is a big dog. Why didn’t you bark when I carded the door? Go kick rocks mutt. You old hag, you’ve got a big-ass, deaf, soon-to-be-dead, dog.

Brenda did not move or breathe. She waited, squatting on the balls of her feet in the space between the dining room table and the china cabinet. Facing the kitchen door with the box in front of her she listened to the sound approaching. The tinkling stopped.

Lousy mutt. Wake up Granny and it’s on. I ain’t pulling the Big Bitch for either of you.

When the cat hopped onto the table she flinched; her butt hit the china cabinet turning every piece of glass inside it into a chime. To her it seemed loud enough to signal a hundred yard dash, but she waited and the heavy breathing did not stop. The cat, looking like a little tiger in the dark, soon grew bored of staring at her and bounced away.

She got out quickly, sure that it would be several days or more before the old lady went for the box and found it gone. She’s filthy rich, she’ll never miss it. Besides, you don’t want your stuff stolen, lock up your stuff better, it’s that simple.

After a nervous walk back to the El Camino she stuck the box in the passenger seat and headed home. She had worked out hard at the gym earlier, and then gone on to score a nice little payday with the fire-safe. Her face was warm from the tension of how it had gone down. By her count she had earned two beers.

A couple of beers won’t destroy my waistline, she thought. It’s Miller Time.

Chapter 5

THE clock on the VCR read 7:58 PM when he woke up. Harold got up and pissed, splashed his face with water, and went out the door in a hurry. His dress shoes were still in the floorboards of the Acura. He tugged them on as he drove.

He got to his attorney’s office in minutes. There was a light on in an upstairs window. He knocked on the front door, but nobody answered. He went to the back door and knocked again. When he returned to the front, Parkinson was there waiting, shirttail untucked, tie hanging loose.

What do you want Greg? Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?

No, it can’t. I want to work something out. Give me some hoops to jump through. What can I do?

Look Greg, Parkinson said, it’s way after office hours. Can’t you just come by tomorrow and we can talk about it? Honestly, there’s no point; we’ve been through it a million times. But I’m willing to re-address it tomorrow, okay?

That’s fine Mr. Parkinson, but I was thinking, Harold said, that if I filed bankruptcy, I would get to keep a house, right? Why couldn’t I keep my grandparent’s house? You get to keep one house right? And a car? I read that somewhere.

"That’s true, when you file Chapter 7 you may get to keep a house. But the house you want to save is your grandparent’s house, not yours, and debts you want to forestall aren’t yours either. You see, the problem is, in the eyes of the law, you might not be truly bankrupt. You aren’t legally divorced. Your wife is working and paying your mortgage. You own cars and furniture, the two of you have lots of assets -- some IRAs and so on. Now if your wife would agree to apply for a loan..."

Leave her out of it, Harold said.

Then the house has to be sold to pay off your grandparent’s debts, unless you can write a check for them. You’re not living in that house are you?

No, Harold said.

That’s funny. The letter I mailed to you there didn’t come back.

It wouldn’t, there’s no forwarding order. Besides, I get the mail there once a week or so, Harold said.

If you’re living there, get the heck out as soon as possible. That house will be listed on the market very soon, and there will be repercussions. I’m the executor Greg, this is all my job. I know it has been hard with everything else that has been going on with you. We’ve both wracked our brains to come up with an answer. You know how many times I sat at that kitchen table and ate your grandma’s cooking? You know I want to help, but you have to help yourself. If you and Catherine can’t unite and get a loan, or agree to liquidate some assets, your grandparent’s home will be sold to pay the debts. If there’s anything left over after everything’s paid, that’s what you’ll get. And that’s that. Now, no offense Greg, but if there’s nothing else, I’d like to get back onto the couch with wife and finish the movie I was watching.

Sure Mr. Parkinson, sure, Harold said. I’m sorry I disturbed you.

I’m not trying to be harsh Greg, it’s just that everybody has a limit, you know?

No, it’s okay, I understand, Harold said. If I come up with anything, I’ll come and see you about it during your regular hours.

Parkinson shut the door, and Harold left. He flopped into his car and sat there for a minute. He grew edgy in the dark, turned on the interior lights and sat thinking about what his attorney had said. He also thought about the hands in the bay, about the water and the hands. In the dream he had bought beer and driven out to the bridge. Just before he jumped, he had thrown over an empty beer can. He reached in his pocket and dug out a couple scraps of paper. Examining them he found that one of them was a 7-11 receipt for beer stamped 8:49 PM. He dropped it as if it was a snake, turned off the interior light, and fished out a cigarette from the glove box. There were empty beer cans in the floorboards.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t a dream, he thought. I smell like the bay and I’m covered with mud. Holy shit, I got stinking drunk and jumped off a bridge. I need to have a smoke and figure this all out. You can’t stop me from smoking now Bonnie.

Admitting to himself that the dream was real made his memory of it solidify. Harold thought of his wife and recalled the image of her that had flashed through his mind while in the water, the one of her suffering after his suicide. It made him sick with emotion. He put his head on the steering wheel and tried to get clear.

The sensation of being stared at stiffened him, and he stiffened. He looked around at the dusky street. Nobody seemed to be out, nobody was staring at him, but even so he made sure the doors were locked and pulled away. At the corner of Parkinson’s place he thought he saw someone standing, a silhouette cut in half by the corner, but he didn’t brake. Perspective changed when the Acura moved down the block, and the shape moved behind the house.

At a stoplight he lit another cigarette and looked in his rear view mirror. There was nothing there. He dragged hard on the smoke making it crackle and burn hot and it made him dizzy and a little sick. He could not stop looking in his mirrors. At the next stoplight he checked the back seat and again found nothing.

Pulling up in front of the house, he locked the car and set the alarm, then went inside.

His first stop was the bathroom where he threw up; his second was the living room coffee table where he poured himself a drink. The Wild Turkey was gone. All that was left was a pint of Jack Daniels, and he splashed some of it into the forty-year-old Flintstone’s jelly jar he had been using since he moved in. Settling into the sofa with the remote, flicked around for a while, thankful that Grandpa had loved his cable TV. Two hundred channels and some Jack Daniels would blanket everything. He would sort it out tomorrow.

Around ten o’clock, during a daylight car chase on the tube that lit up the room, he thought he saw movement outside the front window. Getting up he peered between the curtains and saw a figure disappear around the side of the house heading toward the rear. Harold sat the jelly jar on one of Grandma’s lace doilies and ran to lock the doors and windows. Out the bedroom window he saw a shadow swoosh by. At the back door he thought he heard the sound of the knob being tried. Running back to the living room, he looked out the front curtains again, saw nothing.

He froze for second and listened. Footfalls on the back porch. Hurtling out the front door, he ran to Lucas’ house and pounded on the front door. He put his back to it nervously and scanned the yards waiting for the stranger to appear.

Hey neighbor, what’s up? Lucas said, standing there in his A-shirt and boxers.

Harold whirled around and almost yelled. Can I come in? There are some prowlers outside my house, and...

Sure! Lucas held the door for Harold and shut it quickly behind him. Come on in and we’ll call the police.

No police, Harold said. No police.

No police? How come? Do you know the guys? Lucas asked.

No; I think I might be going nuts.

Could be, could be. Look, have a seat. Opal! Lucas cried. Put some clothes on Baby!

They went through the front room into the cramped den and settled into worn, unstylish, very comfortable chairs. The only light was the Discovery Channel beaming from the T.V.

Would you like a drink or something? Lucas asked.

Whiskey, Harold said, would be great.

I was thinking along the lines of caffeine-free Diet Coke.

Opal appeared out of nowhere in a dime-store Chinese robe. Diet Coke, Sprite, and I think we have some Dr. Pepper, but it might be flat. It’s in a two-liter. But we got ice.

Sprite’s good, Harold said. Opal brought him an ice-cold can of simulated Sprite, the store brand, and gave it to him with a hand that sported a rose tattoo spiraling to her wrist.

We gave up alcohol a long time ago, I’m sorry, she said. But I can still remember what it was like when I really wanted a drink sweetheart.

Harold, Lucas said, This is my wife Opal. Opal, this is Harold.

Please, call me Greg, Harold said, shaking her hand. Nice to meet you Opal.

Nice to meet you Greg, Opal said.

You know, Lucas said, "you should really go by Harold. Your parents named you Harold for a reason. Calling yourself Greg is no different than calling yourself Rip, or Rock, or Chuck. Hell, why not just call yourself Rick Danger and get it over with."

Cut him some slack, Opal said.

"Then Rick Danger it is," Harold said with a half-hearted grin.

Greg’s a jerk, Lucas said. But I bet Harold’s a helluva nice guy.

You’ll never know, Harold said, Because there’s no Harold here. Just Greg, who’s scared out of his mind.

Well, tell us what the heck happened, Lucas said. Looks like you’ve had a few drinks tonight, and you smell like a Labrodor...

Lucas! Opal scolded.

...and them clothes look pretty much slept in.

It’s okay, Harold said. It’s okay. I’m the one who barged in here like a schoolgirl on Halloween. He took another sip of ersatz Sprite. I fell down in the yard when I was running from the prowlers.

What a crock of B.S., Lucas laughed. Look, why don’t you sleep here tonight and you can tell us your story in the morning when you’ve showered and had some breakfast.

No, I don’t think so... Harold began.

Look. You won’t let me call the police and you won’t let me put you up for the night. What the heck did you come over here for anyway? To have a Sprite and stink up my favorite chair?

Well...

Opal, would you draw the boy a bath while I go next door and make sure his place is all locked up?

Sure thing Honey, she answered.

Chapter 6

AFTER cold cereal at the picnic table in Lucas’ dining room, Harold threw up, then managed to keep down some coffee and relayed his story. He told them about everything starting with his leap into the bay and ending with the prowlers around his house. His hosts listened intently but gave no feedback other than encouragement that everything would be fine, everything would work out.

He surprised himself by being so frank about what had gone on with him recently and as they sat in silence he considered what it was that had made him open up. They were about the same age he guessed, about twenty years his senior, and they both looked like they had lived some hard years. They had the easy manner of people whose wants are few and who are used to accepting whatever blessings and curses the tides of life washed up on their shores. There was something in the way that Opal touched him with her small thin hands, feminine but with nails clipped like a man’s, that reminded him of Grandmother. Her face, weathered and free of makeup, was uncontaminated by secrecy, malice, or judgment. Everything about her made him relax. And everything about Lucas made him feel safe. His long wavy biker beard, half gray and half light brown, gave him a wise and powerful aspect. The tanned forehead above his bushy eyebrows was heavily creased and lined, a map to the places he had been and the things he had seen. Although there was nothing in his words or actions hinting of anger or violence, Harold felt that this was man who was capable of doing whatever was required to keep the people he cared about safe, warm, and fed. To Harold it seemed that he had landed in the eye of a hurricane, a place beyond time and troubles.

In fact they had been so kind and open with him that it made him feel guilty that he had not told them all of the details about what happened when he hit the muddy water. Just as he was about to open his mouth his cell-phone began to chirp on the coffee table back in the den. He rushed back and picked it up.

This is Greg. Hi Bonnie. Yeah. No, I’m fine. I know what you said, you’ve said it a hundred times. There was a long pause. Look, I’m sober and I’m staying with some friends, I’m trying to get my head on straight. There’s a lot going on. I know it’s hard...okay, look, I’ll call you later, gotta go. Bye.

Bonnie your kid? Lucas asked when Harold came back in.

Wife.

Take it from me, Lucas said holding Opal’s hand. Enjoy your family while you can; you never know what tomorrow is going to bring. Someday you might be looking down from the hereafter wishing you had more time.

Look, I gotta go lay down, I don’t feel so good, Harold said. Opal led him back to the spare bedroom like a child and laid her hand on the small of his back as he climbed in the big high bed, an antique that almost made him look for a stepstool.

What the hell’s wrong with me? I know I’ve been drinking a lot lately, but I’m not a drunk, he said, looking up at her.

No, you ain’t a drunk, Opal said. She put a cool hand on his cheek. But you’re coming down in a lesser way I guess. Keep it up though, and you will be, sooner or later. Take it from one who knows. Sleep, and keep sippin’ water and Gatorade. You’ll be rolling in clover before long, you’ll see.

Harold said nothing. He smiled, and on a high bed made in the days when folks feared sleeping near drafty floors would bring the grip, Harold dozed away the afternoon on top of the covers. There was no danger of illness bearing drafts now. The air coming in was as pleasant as the breeze across a plate of peaches. It swirled through the screen, in the window, across his chest, and up to the ceiling nine feet high.

In his dream he was behind the wheel of a child’s pedal-car shaped like a rocket. Beside him was his friend Alex, and in the sacred silence of the slumber world they were being pushed about in the little rocket-shaped car by his grandfather. The grass was close-mowed with a push-mower, and looking back he could see a white handkerchief on Granddad’s head to soak up sweat, tied comically at the corners with little knots. Some friends were over and he could see the men with their cans of Schlitz and Pabst, sweating like mad and playing Yard Darts, the kind with real points. It was one of those days when everybody drank but nobody got drunk, the coleslaw was homemade not store bought, and the laughter went on until the fireflies came out. Alex was making faces, and the more he laughed the more Harold laughed, and it went on until their cheeks were sore.

He woke up hard and disoriented. He had fallen out of bed and was on his side looking underneath the bed. His sticky eyes and lagging brain could not sort what was real and what was dream. Under the bed there appeared to be parked the little read rocket-shaped car.

There was a bang from the back bedroom. Lucas and Opal hustled back to see what had caused the sound.

I hope he didn’t throw up again, Lucas said on the way.

They went into the bedroom and saw that Harold was sitting on the floor running his hands over a shiny new peddle-powered car straight out of the 1950’s, a fire-engine red four-wheeled missile with a tandem cockpit and silver lightning bolts on the side. Lucas sat on the side of the bed. Where that come from? he asked.

I was having a dream, Harold said. My Granddad was pushing me around in my little red car, me and another kid, and we were laughing like crazy. Pretty cruddy waking up, to tell you the truth. I fell out of bed, and I could see it under there, so I rolled it out.

Harold... Opal said.

Why did you do this? Harold asked.

I didn’t do it, Lucas said. Neither did Opal.

Then who did? Who did? He began to pull away from it, got on the bed and pulled his feet up.

I don’t know, Lucas said. He went to the open window and looked out, but saw no one to blame for slipping in the car. I don’t see nobody, Lucas said.

Bizarre, Opal added thinly.

We couldn’t have known you had a car like this when you were a kid, Lucas said. And even if we did, how could we know that you’d come over here looking for help, take a nap, and dream about it. He said.

It was them, Harold said, louder than he needed to. It was them, the ones from the water... He jumped up and ran into the bathroom, shut and locked the door. It was dark in there, and he did not bother to turn on the light. He plopped down on the terry-cloth toilet seat cover and covered his face with his hands. First they follow me home, now they’re trying to freak me out, and it’s really working, it’s really working...

Outside the door Lucas said quietly, Doesn’t make sense buddy. Why save your life, then track you, then plant a little car, you know?

You think I’m nuts, Harold said. "Damn, what if I am nuts?"

You ain’t nuts, Opal said. It’ll all make sense sooner or later. Just hold it together honey, it’ll all make sense in time, I just know it.

Don’t be a pussy, come on out, Lucas said. I’ll whip you up some grub since you didn’t hold the last batch down. How’s your stomach feeling?

Better, Harold said. But I’m still not that hungry.

I’ll make you whatever you want. How about some pancakes? Opal asked.

Lucas? Harold began.

Yeah?

Harold opened the door and came out. Will you go look out by the shed and tell me if my little red car is there? I want to know if this car here is the same one all fixed up, or if it just looks a lot like it. I haven’t been out in the back yard in months, but the last time I was out there, it was rusting out there under the awning beside the shed.

Come to the window and see for yourself. It’s still light out, you should be able to see from here, Lucas said.

Parting the white eyelet curtains, Harold looked out into his yard next door. The spot where the car used to be was empty.

It’s impossible, Harold said. Nobody could have...I want you to put it back. Put it back where it came from, okay? It’s too weird looking at it.

Roger. Then breakfast-dinner. Pancakes, bacon, eggs, the whole nine, Lucas offered.

I love breakfast dinner, Harold said. I do that whenever Bonnie doesn’t cook because it’s all I know how to make.

I’ll start the sausage, it takes longer, Opal said, trying to pretend like she wasn’t too freaked out while heading for the kitchen.

Lucas disappeared with the car while Harold watched from the window. He heard the back door’s screen slam shut and seconds later saw Lucas cross the lawn and pass through the picketed gate. When he saw that the car was back where it belonged, Harold shut the window and turned the latch.

Chapter 7

THANKS for the walkman, Harold said. I’ll give it back when I’m done with the CD. He repositioned the aluminum legs of his chair so it wouldn’t rock on the lumpy grass struggling for life in the shadow of Lucas’ sweet gum tree.

Lucas shook his head. No, that’s a gift. Besides, you won’t finish it any time soon. There’s twenty hours of music on that thing.

Huh?

It plays regular CDs and it also plays audio files from disks. That one has most of the Blue Oyster Cult’s mainstream catalogue on it. I figure we’re getting to know you pretty good. Now you can get to know us.

You guys are big fans?

Opal smiled. You could say that. We’re in a fan club of sorts. The music is real dear to us.

Well cool, Harold said. I’ll let you know what I think. Thanks again.

Don’t mention it, Lucas said.

Slumping in the nylon-webbed lawn chair, Harold looked over the mildewed light gray pickets into his grandparent’s backyard. When his eyes began to wander toward the little red car, he turned away and focused on Lucas and Opal sitting opposite him in the shade.

It’s weird, he said, sitting here looking over there. It’s like a world away, like some stranger’s yard. Maybe it’s the thing with the car, I don’t know, but that yard doesn’t seem so innocent and homey anymore.

Don’t let it freak you out so much, Lucas said. Give it time to make sense.

You smoked too much weed in the 70’s. You’re permanently stoned. Nothing fazes you.

Not Lucas, Opal said. That was me. Weed, speed, liquor, you name it. Lucas was high on power back in the day, weren’t you honey?

Lucas smiled with his mouth but his eyes looked serious. "Sad, yeah, but it’s pretty true. I liked the money I made selling junk, and the control. I liked feeling like I had power over the people I supplied. Power to evade the cops. I was a big man inside my head. Folks are just plain scared of drug dealers man, they’ve been educated by Adam-12, you know? So I didn’t have to do that much to scare the piss out of junkies and hoods, although there were a couple things I did I wish I could take back. I was on a real power trip. But I pulled up before I crashed."

Thanks to me, Opal said, and patted his arm.

What did you do to snap him out of it?

I got toxic drunk and high and almost died. Lucas realized he cared, and that saved him, she said.

And they lived happily ever after? Harold asked.

In a pig’s eye, Lucas said. "That was fate gettin’ even with me. I got on the straight and narrow once I saw I loved her. But she didn’t give me the time of day. She went right back to her old ways, and since I wasn’t a supplier anymore, I was old news. A couple of years later, after she decided to get straight, we