Dead Souls (16 page)

Daniel froze. He gasped for air, trying to suck his chest away from it. The blood pounded frantically through his veins. A thin line of spit dripped from his mouth like a drawstring.

"Answer me!" Mack yelled, pressing harder.

"
Ahhh
! It hurts!" Daniel shouted, hopefully loud enough so Mr. Ted Pharmacist would come to his rescue. The point of the knife punctured his skin and a thin line of blood trickled down his chest. The rolling blackness in his sights cleared to gray, and filled his head with something almost tangible, as if he really did have fat between his ears.

"So…answer me
fatboy
. What is it?"

"It's…a…birthmark," he cried.

"Bullshit!" Mack's voice penetrated Daniel like a shot from a spear. The two kids holding him loosened their grips, perhaps fearing that Mack would come after
them
. Daniel sobbed uncontrollably, belly leaping up and down. He looked down and saw his comics laying on the gritty cement under Mack's feet, and that made him even more distraught.

Suddenly, two boys riding bicycles turned the corner and rode into the alley. They were about Daniel's age, smiling…until they spotted Mack and his gang. Mack spun toward them. "Get out of here!" The boys hit their brakes, screeched on the gravel, then quickly u-turned in fearful silence and rode off the edge of the curb. Daniel could see them speeding away across the street like contenders eyeing the finish line of some big race. They disappeared behind a large blue car that rolled by, its driver oblivious to the events at hand.

Daniel managed to work his right arm free. Mack yelled, "
Jeezus
, Butch! Hold him! And don't let go."

Butch, seemingly concerned with Mack's crazed demeanor, grabbed Daniel's arm, and said, "Hey, man, I thought we was just gonna give him a scare."

"You better
fuckin
' hold
im
, or I'll cut you up too." Mack's face had evolved into the mask of a demon, red and twisted and maniacal.

Butch and his partner didn't seem all too intent on continuing this sadistic game—their grips on Daniel were now loose and uninspired. Mack, using one deft hand, popped the top of the
bacitracin
tube off. He squeezed out half the greasy contents, which purled over his fist like lava from a volcano.

While Daniel watched the erupting medicine, Mack jerked the switchblade across Daniel's midsection and sliced into him open like a hunter might a fresh kill. Blood sprouted across his skin in a parade of beads that ran from his scar all the way down to his beltline.

Shocked, Daniel could only stare down at the blood oozing from his massive wound.
Oh my God, if I don't get out of here, I'm going to die!
In this moment of do-or-die, he realized that both Butch and his accomplice had released him, most likely out of fear and the uncertainty of whether to flee Mack's reckless fury themselves.

Mack held the knife up like a trophy, admiring the smatter of blood jewelling on the blade. "Got yourself a fuck of a boo-boo, kid," he said. He then took the blob of
bacitracin
on his other hand and wiped it forcefully over Daniel's oozing wound. "There…that oughtta help."

Mack leaned back to admire his handiwork, and it was at this moment that Daniel, despite his pain, decided to make a run for it.

He pitched forward. Mack responded by pushing him back against the wall. With no clear incentive other than to survive the odds, Daniel planted a swift kick into Mack's groin. An unmistakable look of shock appeared on Mack's face—mouth agape, eyes wide and disbelieving—and this brought about a glint of hope to Daniel. He lunged past Mack, who'd dropped the knife in favor of his balls. Butch, staggering after Daniel, tripped over Mack, and his partner in crime slammed into him. They both fell on top of Mack, who howled out not unlike Daniel had only moments earlier.

Daniel fled out onto the sidewalk, looking back only once as he lumbered across the street. He saw a man and a woman getting out of a parked car. The woman pointed into the alley, and the man, hands on his hips, shouted something. Another man exited the drugstore and looked toward Daniel. He yelled
Hey, are you okay?
, but Daniel ignored him, running as fast as he could (which wasn't very fast at all) down Main, his torn tee fluttering behind him like a cape.

Superman's cape!

When he reached the corner, he turned and looked back one last time, just to confirm that he wasn't being followed, because if Mack and his boys had decided to pursue, they would be on him faster than bees on yellow—and if this were the case, then he would need to seek refuge inside the corner service station. A cop jogged across the street toward the alley, and that was the last thing he saw before racing up Center Street, his portly legs managing to carry him far away from yet another chapter of hell chronicling his life.

September 7
^th
, 2005

3:22 PM

M
y father is dead…

It was the first thought to enter Johnny Petrie's mind as he left his life behind, and he quickly followed this harsh reality with a daunting contemplation:
And my mother—she is as good as dead too.

He sat up straight in his seat and used a thumb to loosen the knot of tension in his neck. He'd spent the better part of the last hour falling in and out of sleep, mostly five-minute cat-naps, and during his semi-lucid states his mind tossed about a myriad of taxing thoughts. Like: who was Benjamin Conroy? And: how did this man fit into his life? The eye-opening revelation of his mother sharing a family name with the deceased man bequeathing a two-million dollar estate to Johnny, led him to hypothesize that Benjamin Conroy was either an uncle, or a cousin, or…his mother's first husband? Was it possible that Ed Petrie
wasn't
really his father? His brain ached as he considered the possibilities, and he struggled to shove them all aside until tomorrow, when Andrew Judson unveiled the truth of the matter to him.

He cracked one eye open and peered out the window. It was still smattered with raindrops, and the natural environs looked pretty much the same: mountainous and muddy. The bus still crawled along the interstate, hunting for its turn-off, and he could hear the swish of cars as they slowly passed by on the left. The wipers on the front windshield cleared the way to a dismal scene, cool and gray…and yet, so new and inviting. Johnny welcomed it, and he closed his eyes again, thinking of his last waking minutes at 479 East 88
^th
Street in Manhattan…

September 7
^th

8:35 AM

T
hump…thump…thump…

Still holding the yellow piece of paper with the odd message from Ed, Johnny staggered back into his room. He slid into the first pair of jeans he could find, crumpled on the floor next to the closet, then opened the top drawer to his armoire and put on a white knit golf shirt. From his closet he retrieved the blue tote bag he'd used once to lug home a stack of bibles from the church book sale; Mary had purchased them to donate to the local YMCA, and all Johnny could wonder at the time was what the heck the YMCA needed bibles for.

He set the bag on the floor. With trembling hands, he began rummaging through his drawers, all the while listening to…

…thump…thump…thump…

…the horrible noise of Ed's lifeless body hitting against the wall in the adjoining room. He haphazardly stuffed the bag with clothes, underwear, tees, and socks. In the closet he retrieved a pair of loafers and a belt, and shoved them on top, not caring much about prioritizing space in the small bag. From the bathroom, he gathered all his toiletries; from the medicine cabinet, a bottle of aspirin. As his mind demanded he get moving before collapsing from fright or anxiety, he gazed at Mary's vast collection of pill bottles, and without even considering the vindictiveness of his actions, emptied the contents out onto the floor with a few vicious sweeps of his arm.

Nearly hyperventilating, Johnny gazed at his handiwork: pill bottles, everywhere. Some of the bottles had opened up, their colorful contents scattered on the tiles like candy from a piñata. On an unclear whim, he knelt down and searched through them until he located one marked
Xanax
. He gripped it in his fist, then slid it into his pocket.
I'll probably need these
.

Sudden dizziness threatened his balance. He grabbed hold of the edge of the sink and took a series of long deep breaths. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirrored surface of the medicine cabinet, which was still open, and directly facing him, he was startled to see how sickly white and terribly frightened he looked.

He reeled out of the bathroom and leaned listlessly against the mattress of his bed. Breathing heavily, he scanned the room one last time.

And saw the black feather sitting on his nightstand. It struck him with a strange, undeniable force. He immediately circled the bed and retrieved it, gripping the quill between two fingers. He raised it to eye-level and gazed at it curiously. It seemed to demand, however strangely, that he promise to hold onto it forever.

With his other hand he picked up the photo of his parents, their pale dusty image reinforcing the terror circling inside his overwhelmed head.
God, what has happened to them?
He gazed at the portrait of Jesus above his bed.
Why have they both been struck with such terrible fortune? Have they been…cursed? All your prayers Mary…lots of good they did you.

"Uh," he muttered aloud, feeling sick to his stomach. Shouldering his bag, he tucked the frame inside, then fled the room, his heart clamoring loudly for him to flee this place once and for all. In the kitchen, he set the bag on the table. He could hear Ed's body thumping against the wall—the pound of blood in his head filled in the dreadful gaps of silence between thumps as he visualized the bloodstain on the wall growing larger and larger. He leaned down, pulled open the bottom kitchen drawer that always got stuck halfway, and removed two small plastic baggies. In one, he gently inserted the feather. In the other, the yellow sheet of paper with Ed's scrawled note.

He placed both into the side pocket of the tote-bag, then moved to leave, purposely leaving his keys behind. The bag swung to his side, and as he grabbed the doorknob, remembered something very important.
It's more important than anything else, the feather, Ed's note, even the lives of my parents. It is the reason I am choosing to leave here now and forever, without calling the police, without saying good-bye to my mother.

He tucked a hand into his back pocket, realizing that the jeans he put on were the same ones he wore yesterday. And the lawyer's letter, with the phone number and address of the firm, was still in the back pocket. He took a deep breath of relief, knowing that he didn't have to venture back into his room—into what was quickly becoming a dark hole into his past—to retrieve it.

As he grabbed the doorknob, he caught sight of something else—something that might do him some good on the ride up to Maine.

In the trash can, where his mother had tossed it yesterday, was the library's copy of
War Of The Worlds
. He leaned down and retrieved it, feeling a wave of lightheadedness as he did so, sensing that his bold decision to borrow this book had triggered the onset of his newfound life of independence. He tucked the book under his arm, then took one last look around before finally leaving his old, dead life behind.

August 24
^th
, 1988

2:18 PM

C
haos had erupted in the Conroy house.

Bryan was in his crib, wailing inconsolably. Faith was vomiting in the upstairs bathroom, and although Benjamin had lost count, he'd figured this to be her sixth or seventh round. Pilate, still leashed to the basement well in the back yard, had been barking up a relentless storm since Daniel left for the store at noon. And, in the pens at the perimeter of the wheat fields, the pigs and goats bleated incessantly for their grain.

Chaos had also erupted in Benjamin Conroy's mind. Still sitting in the chair in the corner of his office, he attempted yet another sequence of prayers,
forgive my sins, forgive my sins
, despite having found it increasingly impossible to maintain his concentration. His eyes kept moving toward the closed door, over and over again, in desperate search for a respite that would never arrive.

Something is very wrong…

He peered up at the small speaker anchored into the ceiling alongside the door, a pair of thin white wires running like snakes into the walk-in closet where the stereo system was located. He stood up and opened the closet's twin doors, the dry cedar smell within tickling his nostrils. He moved to the recorder on the shelf and removed the reel-to-reel tape that contained two hours worth of tolling bells…bells that struck at exactly thirteen-second intervals. Carefully, he returned the plastic reel to its box, peering toward the rear of the closet where a roadmap of wires snaked along the wall en route to seven different rooms in the house. He reached up and tucked the box away on a shelf at the top of the closet where no one could get to it.

He stood there for a moment, listening to the noises in the house, the
goddamned noises
, feeling his head throbbing painfully. He could still taste the smoke on his tongue, and welcomed it as though it were a gift from Osiris, despite the dull rage rising in him.