Tearing The Shroud (7 page)

‘That’s strange all right — if it’s true.’

‘Then again, someone
always
thinks the end of the world is coming,’ Vincent said.

Flea shouldered his backpack. ‘Let’s roll.’ They headed to Knife’s room...

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to meet in the dorm?’ Vincent asked.

‘Dude.’ Flea shook his head. ‘You asked me that...what, fifteen minutes ago? Still the same answer. There isn’t enough room; you saw the group. We need a good-sized table to sit around.’

‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’

‘Yeah, I could tell. What’s up, man?’

‘I...I don’t know. I’ve felt different since we went to the shop last night.’

‘Mr Brown can affect people that way.’ Flea rubbed his chin. ‘He’s a good guy, though.’

‘I guess I’m also a little...well, you know. I’m not used to getting along with a group of people; the idea kinda stresses me.’

‘Didn’t dinner go well the other night? Besides, if someone gives you any flak, just smack ’em upside the head. You’re big enough to take anybody there, except maybe me.’ Flea strutted, and stuck out his chest. ‘But with your bulging biceps and Kung Fu skills, I wouldn’t want to tangle with you, either.’

‘Come on, you know I wouldn’t do something like that. And it’s Mu Do, not Kung Fu.’

‘Yeah, the cow martial art, I forgot.’

‘No cows, just a lot of jumping around, whacking stuff.’

‘Moo.’ Flea said. ‘So, if you never intend to use it, why all the weight lifting, running, and time at the gym?’

‘You know my dad, he got me started when I was young; plus he likes to see me in good shape and — ’

‘And you always do what your parents tell you to, I know. What you
should
do is become a fat slob and throw your dad into shock. Man, I can just see the look on his face. “Son. What’s happened to you? My little super athlete? My little — ”’

Vincent used Flea’s own tactic, and tried a southern drawl. ‘Now, you just hush yer’self before I knock ya into next Sunday.’

Flea burst into laughter. ‘That’s what I’m talking about.’ He stopped at door 301. ‘Here we are.’ He knocked and the door opened before the second knock completed, his knuckles falling on air. Knife stood there, calm and composed.

‘What were you doing?’ Flea asked. ‘Waiting for us at the door?’

‘Me? Nope, I’m just supernaturally fast.’ He gave his ‘showing his teeth’ grin.

‘Really?’ Vincent asked.

‘Of course not, I was just closing my closet.’ Knife indicated it next to the door. He shook his head and waved them inside. ‘Note to self: Vincent believes everything he hears.’

Flea looked at Vincent and smiled knowingly then meandered over to the bed and sat, sprawling back. Knife went to his desk and started putting books, notebooks, metal toolboxes, leather pouches and other items into a milk crate. He turned and saw Vincent still standing. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I still need to get some things together.’ He motioned to an empty chair then turned back to the desk.

Vincent went to the chair and sat with his hands folded in his lap, doing as told. Flea noticed, and worked his expressive face into a clear message of exasperation. Vincent nodded. Flea was right; he had to take steps no matter how small, to be his own man. He stood up, took a breath, readied himself and said in a small voice, ‘Thanks, but I think I’ll stand.’

Knife responded over his shoulder, unaware of what had happened. ‘Sure, whatever you’d like.’

Vincent’s mind raced.
Really, it was that easy? Just. Do things. No one cared?

‘Vincent. Hey, can ya hear me?’ Flea was speaking.

‘Hmm? Sorry. What’d you say?’

‘I said, for the third time, how about carrying that box? After all, you’re the circus strongman here.’

Vincent looked at Knife, who had loaded a second box. He went to the desk and picked it up. Then, to rub Flea’s nose in it, shifted his hand underneath and carried it one handed. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

‘Geez, Flea.’ Knife shook his head. ‘You weren’t kidding. That thing must weigh fifty or sixty pounds.’

Flea shrugged. ‘Yeah, that’s why I keep him around — for the heavy lifting.’

Knife donned his coat as Flea sniffed: ‘I could...ya know,’ Flea brushed his nose with his thumb, ‘kick his butt though.’

Vincent grinned. ‘You could kiss my what?’

Knife snuffed and tossed his keys to Flea then picked up the box.

‘Kick, I said kick.’ Flea said as they stepped into the hall.

Vincent’s mind wandered as Flea fiddled with the lock. He
didn’t
have to try to get along or please people. He could just be his —

‘Shall we?’ Knife asked.

Vincent blinked rapidly then smiled and nodded. ‘Lead on.’ They walked down the hall and into the fog.

Chapter 6

Bill Wilson
Twelve Years in the Past
San Diego, California

Sitting on the edge of the lumpy mattress, he clicked the remote. The TV popped on. It was the best part of the cheap hotel room.
Why do you click a remote? Nothing clicks on it.
He scratched his head, surely there was a memory floating around that had the answer. But he wasn’t finding it. On the screen, the blathering heads were spitting out their drivel again.
Of course, it’s always a sunny day in the southland.
He headed to the bathroom. ‘At least the facilities here are inside, and I love these lights,’ he said, flipping the switch up.

He stared at his face in the mirror as he relieved himself. The florescent light gave his complexion a corpse-like look.
Corpse-like.
The thought made him chuckle as he zipped his pants. The TV droned on, ‘Up next. Violent crimes are on the rise locally.’ A woman’s voice picked up at the man’s pause. ‘Is it gang related, or the brutal work of a single individual?’

He leaned into the mirror for a closer look. ‘Shave, or not shave? What do you think, Bill?’ Bill wasn’t being very talkative. He glanced at the bathtub, where Bill had spent the night, or at least the last few hours of it. He lay there in his t-shirt and boxers, his head off to one side, neck bent unnaturally. An apron of thickened blood covered his chest from the cut across his throat, which had nearly decapitated him. A red mural of San Diego harbor decorated the wall next to the tub. In it, medieval buildings replaced the modern architecture. Looking at the painting, he tilted his head and rubbed his chin. He plucked a brush off the counter, dabbed it against Bill’s chest and added a flag to the top of a tower. At the lower right hand corner he wrote
Callendel
. ‘There, that’s what was missing. Bill, any thoughts?’

That’s the problem with the dead. They’re usually such poor conversationalists.
‘I suppose a shave will go better with my new suit. Thank you for that, by the way.’ He nodded at Bill. ‘Oh, and the credit cards, Rolex, Cadillac, cash, and, well everything. You certainly gave your all.’ He peered at first one side of his face then the other. ‘It’s a shame that convincing you took such a difficult turn.’ Bending down, he retrieved the ball gag from the floor where he had dropped it earlier, kicking the pieces of Bill’s amputated fingers to the side. He sighed. ‘It could have been so much easier.’

The rich...they so often confuse affluence with power.
He picked up the sleek hunting knife and shook the tip toward the bathtub, while still examining himself in the mirror. ‘A lesson learned, Bill, a lesson learned.’

He lathered his face with soap and shaved quickly, the knife gliding across his skin, never cutting anything but whiskers. ‘Ah, a good shave, glad we went that way. Don’t you think, Bill?’ After rinsing his face, he washed in the sink then walked back into the dingy room. As he passed the TV, the blonde woman calmly described a home invasion in University Heights that left a wealthy couple dead.

‘Their mutilated corpses were discovered this morning by the gardener, where they had been posed reclining in chaise lounges by the pool.’ She spoke with a serious demeanor that never reached her eyes, her overly white teeth flashing.

Singing tunelessly, ‘Busy, busy, busy,’ he put on his new suit. He’d chosen well; it was a perfect fit. ‘I told you we were the same size,’ he called to the bathroom. The shoes were another matter; they were much too small.
First stop today will be shopping
. He put the money clip stuffed with hundred dollar bills into his pants pocket. A folded knife went in one breast pocket and the calfskin wallet in the other.
One last look in the mirror.
He looked, smiling. ‘Hi, I’m Bill, Bill Wilson.’ He slipped the sheathed hunting knife into his newly acquired briefcase.

‘Well, I’m off, Bill. Thanks again.’ He waved as he walked toward the door. ‘Oh my, I nearly forgot.’ Taking the wallet out, he looked at the driver’s license. A much livelier Bill smiled up at him. ‘This won’t do,’ he said running his thumb over the photo. As it passed, the picture transformed. His face now occupied the ID. ‘There we are.’ He stepped out and closed the door behind him.

She was right, another sunny day in the southland.

Chapter 7

It’s Just a Game
Fall 1984
San Diego, California

When they arrived outside an empty classroom in one of the older sections of the campus, the rest of the group was waiting. The fog was so dense Vincent was unable to see them until they were within a few feet. All of them except Julie looked damp and uncomfortable in the water-laden air. She was wrapped snugly in a forest green hooded cloak that repelled the water and framed her face in stark relief. She looked like an enchantress, beautiful, seductive, and mystical. Their eyes met. A smile played at the edges of her mouth and the fog swirled. The two of them stood transfixed by one another. Everything around them faded. His nerves didn’t assault him, his heart didn’t pound; with Julie, the norms all fell by the way. This, this is how it was supposed to be.

‘It took you guys long enough.’ With Emily’s words the moment dissolved and Vincent’s heart leaped into his throat.

‘Watch out,’ Mike said.

‘I mean,’ she went on as if he hadn’t spoken, ‘I’m not one...’

‘She’s not...’ Mike continued.

‘to complain, but we’ve...’

‘in a very...’

‘been here getting soaked...’

‘good mood.’

‘for the last five minutes, and to top it all off...’

‘Emily.’ Knife’s quiet authority silenced everyone. His face hardened, and Vincent understood how he might have gotten the nickname.

Flea put one hand on his shoulder, defusing the moment. ‘Knife, do you have the tool, or did we forget it again?’

‘No, I brought it.’ He reached into the breast pocket of his coat, produced a butter knife, and handed it to Flea. ‘Do it.’

Flea stepped past E.T., knelt by the doorknob, and slid the knife into the crack between the door and the frame. The moisture in the air glistened on his face like sweat as he carefully worked the knife up and down.

Vincent shifted the box onto his hip, and leaned in, trying to see what was going on. ‘Wait, are you breaking in?’

‘This is a little trick that Magi taught us. When a door opens outward, and doesn’t have a deadbolt, you can usually open it,’ he explained, as he pulled the door open, ‘with a butter knife.’ He presented the ‘tool’ across his arm like it was an ornate sword.

Vincent shook his head. ‘Won’t we get in trouble if they find us?’

‘We never have,’ Knife said, as he entered the room and turned on the lights. ‘Live a little, Vincent.’

He took a breath and stepped inside. ‘You can put the box there.’ Knife indicated a desk beside a round table. ‘Just hang out and see how the session goes, and at the end you can decide if you want to join our merry band of misfits. If you do, you can roll up a character.’

‘Roll up?’

Julie had taken her place at the table. ‘Part of the game is left to the dice. You use them to help create the character you’ll play, and find what characteristics he or she will have.’

‘She? You mean I could end up playing a girl?’

‘And what,’ Emily interjected coolly, ‘is so bad about playing a woman?’

Flea had settled into his seat and spread papers on the table in front of him. ‘Emily, do you just
look
for things to get pissed about?’

Vincent held his hands up as if in surrender. ‘All I meant was that I wouldn’t know what a girl would do in certain situations.’

‘Don’t worry, Vincent,’ Knife said. ‘When it comes to sex, you get to say what you want. Me? I say yes. Now, if you’ll all sit down, we can get started.’ He turned to Vincent. ‘If you have any questions, feel free to ask.’

‘Thanks, I will.’

The game began. Soon the rolling dice and voices adding to the story faded as Vincent’s imagination took over. He floated above the scene, nowhere and everywhere at once.

Elves with dark, purplish skin and white hair charged down a forest road at a beleaguered party of adventurers. The dense forest lining the route prevented them from flanking the group of five but they trusted their numbers to carry the battle.

A powerfully built knight drew a two-handed sword from across his back. ‘Looks like it’s time to test this beauty.’ He flourished it. Somehow, having E.T.’s voice come from the massive Warrior didn’t seem out of place.

‘Watch where you swing that thing. You almost took my head off,’ said a beautiful, leather-garbed woman with a rapier and Emily’s voice.

The Warrior gave her a sidelong glance. The twang of a bow rang out and an arrow streaked forward, taking a frontrunner in the chest. ‘Well struck, Fiona.’ Flea’s wizard smiled at Julie’s elf ranger. He lifted his arms, holding a glass globe in one hand and muttered something. A fireball shot at the dark elves, exploding among them, blasting several into small, flaming bits.

Mike’s heavily armored dwarf stomped to the center of the road and planted his huge shield in front of him. A stylized sun emblazoned his tabard. ‘For Thenos,’ he shouted as the line of attackers broke around him, falling to his mace with crushed limbs and skulls.

The battle raged and the big Warrior cut a swath through the enemy near the side of the road. His sword sliced and chopped cleanly through every target, decimating the horde of dark elves. The little party worked in harmony and soon the number of attackers dwindled. The Warrior faced a foe, an elf his equal in size and wielding a battle-axe. The elf was faster and its first attack nearly gutted him. As the elf spun to strike, the Warrior swung at him again, missing but causing the dark elf to leap back.