Down To Sleep Page 3

  I’d heard what he said but didn’t want to believe it. No matter how much we pulled down, no matter how depraved and twisted and evil our game got, the Priest was never going to let me go. “You said this was the last one.”

  “Couple more like this,” he smiled, “and we’ll be set for the rest of our lives.”

  There was more than death and fear wafting all around us in that freshly opened tomb. An evil had joined us. An evil so hideous—so tangible and real—you could feel it, taste it, smell it with each invading breath, and it pulsed through my veins with a ferocity I had never known previously. More than the beckoning voice it had once been, intent on luring me to heroin and crime and away from every goddamned thing I’d ever truly believed in, this demon wanted more, needed more, demanded more…much more.

  “Okay, Priest.” I offered a subtle nod, held the light still, and reached behind me for the pick, feeling as if I were being pulled down beneath the granite tomb floor into the moist and suffocating earth, entangled with worms and maggots and all else that resided there. Slimy entities swarming over me, filling my mouth, scurrying across my eyes, slithering in my ears and laying eggs across what remained of a brain riddled with disease. “Okay.”

  * * *

  In the dream it’s snowing. Not a heavy snow, but a slow, fluffy, drifting kind of snow, a peaceful kind of snow. In the open plane it seems odd, these fat tender flakes sprinkling across such bright and diverse flowers. The dream is bright and vivid and alive—like right after you mainline and a stoned mind calls the shots. Almost, but not quite the same. Bonnie is there with me, lying in the field and cradled in my arms, but they’re strong now, like before they’d become bruised and black and little more than a network of track marks. We aren’t cold at all, and the flakes tickle our eyes and noses, and Bonnie keeps giggling and catching them with her tongue. But just the way a shark seems to smile right before its eyes go black and it tears you apart, nirvana becomes agony in the beat of a heart.

  I’m watching the Priest hunched over the coffin. I’m swinging the pick and the snow turns crimson. He is turning in time to see it coming; swearing and staring at me in disbelief, staggering back and going for the gun in his coat as the pick connects with his throat, bursting it in a tearing, crunching spray of blood and spittle. And then he’s falling, collapsing forward onto the casket…gurgling and gasping but still breathing, the blood from the wound gushing, pouring into the coffin and across the corpse over which he is now draped. While he lay dying, I’m pulling free the knife from my boot, plunging it into the center of his back again and again—twenty, thirty times—however many it takes for the wheezing and groaning to stop. And then the Priest is gone, carried away on snowflakes swirling all around me in a whirlwind, stealing life and giving life, birth and death exploding as one in a dust devil of blood and tears.

  * * *

  I stood in the doorway to the bathroom, watching Bonnie leaning against the sink with her back to me. I’d gotten home just before dawn but it was already dark again, and I realized I must’ve slept the entire day. Her eyes, encircled with dark rings, shifted and met mine in the dingy mirror. “Where’s the Priest?”

  When I offered no answer she returned her attention to the syringe in one hand and the small length of rubber tubing in the other. On the lip of the sink was a used book of matches and a soiled spoon. She fastened the tube with one hand and pulled it tight with her teeth, watching the vein fill and strain. “Is he dead?” Her eyes found me again. “Did you kill him?”

  I watched her without response.

  Bonnie stabbed the vein, pushed the hammer then pulled it back, the syringe releasing the heroin before backing up with blood. She hunched into a slumped shouldered posture; her eyes struggling to remain open as it hit her system. Pulling free the tube, she let it fall into the sink before turning and facing me, a dreamy smile creeping slowly across her face.

  “We’re leaving,” I said. “Tonight.”

  “Where we going?”

  “We’re leaving the city. For good this time.” I let the doorframe support me. “You won’t need that shit ever again.”

  “You gonna make me all better, Mickey?” Her lips curled away from her teeth and she laughed lightly before flopping down onto the toilet. She was already gone, only she didn’t know it yet. “You gonna make me all better?”

  I left her there and moved back into the living room. A small duffel bag was resting against the counter in the kitchen holding every fucking thing we owned, but that didn’t even matter anymore. Standing by the window in his long leather coat, staring out at the neon sky, he didn’t say a word or acknowledge my presence at all. It was like I wasn’t even there—never had been, never would be—and I wondered if this was the way it would play out from here.

  Moving hesitantly, I slid up beside him and looked out at the night. In a flash of fear and panic the Priest’s life had been forfeited, but his blood had also given it. As he died another who had been entombed to save the world had been reborn, and now the fruit of this harvest, cloaked in the same garb, almost looked like the sonofabitch in sparse light.

  He reached out to me; the ruby ring returned to its rightful owner brushing my cheek as his fingers delicately stroked the fresh wounds in my neck. He smiled the way one might consider the unaffected simplicity of a child; brilliant yellow eyes cutting clear through to whatever was left of my rotting soul.

  I looked up at my new charge, Malcolm Jersavitch reborn, and realized things wouldn’t be any different than when we’d been with the Priest.

  I’d be chasing moonlight the rest of my life.

  FIRST IMPRESSIONS

  The look of the water was enticing, cascading across the soft contours of her throat, along her breasts and down between her legs, clinging briefly to the tuft of light brown hair plastered flat before trickling toward the shower drain. But what mesmerized him was her nude form cloaked in blankets of misting, swirling steam. Head thrown back, face directly in the path of gushing water, back arched and hands held up beneath her chin, palms open as if calling upon some unseen god to prolong the ecstasy of the liquid warmth engulfing her.

  From his position in the doorway, he watched her while quietly smoking a cigarette, only momentarily distracted by the subtle pressure of her cat slinking seductively between his calves, purring and occasionally offering a muffled meow. He glanced down, bent over and ran his hand along the animal’s short hair; smiling as it raised its hindquarters the moment his fingers reached it’s tail. He’d always loved animals—at times even more than people—for their unique brand of unconditional love and acceptance no human counterpart could equal.

  He gave the cat a final gentle pat on the head and moved into the bathroom, flicking a long ash from the tip of his cigarette into the toilet. Love…such an interesting concept, he mused. Returning his gaze to the shower in time to see her turn her back to the flow of water, he found himself wondering if that was what he felt for her. Often, at least in his mind, the lines between lust and love could be infuriatingly indistinct. Much like the boundaries between light and dark, good and evil, pleasure…and pain. At that moment he was grateful for the sheer plastic curtain, and wondered if she too was watching him. If she’d seen his naked presence standing amidst the thick fog just beyond the curtain, she’d given no indication. Perhaps from the corner of her eye she had noticed him watching her, quietly smoking his cigarette while a jumble of conflicting thoughts waged war somewhere deep within his exhausted mind. Then again, perhaps not. Although they had been together many times in the past, he knew she’d never struggled with the same deliberation and confusion that had clogged his mind since the first moment he’d seen her.

  That first day, when from his bedroom window he’d seen her carrying boxes into the apartment building across the street, he’d wondered if he’d ever find the strength to speak to such a lovely creature. Thrilled to see her moving about in the unit directly across from his own, he had immediately begun rehearsing open
ing lines, introductions, excuses or lies as to how he might force their lives to intersect.

  The cat distracted him from his memories, brushing against him while offering one final, knowing glance before trotting off into the kitchen and disappearing around a corner. They had an understanding, these two, both often spectators to the lives unfolding around them as opposed to active participants in them. The fact that it was a black cat was significant as well, he thought. For years they had been misunderstood, persecuted and even burned and drowned as witches to the very brink of extinction, which was why even in their present modern age a pure black cat was still a rare find. Yet even though he felt a sense of shared isolation and persecution with its historical dark past, this cat in particular clearly possessed a greater sense of belonging, exhibiting a level of comfort and familiarity with its surroundings he could never fully comprehend.

  He drew a final drag from his cigarette and dropped it into the toilet, listening to it die with a quick hiss as water consumed flame. Then, quietly lowering the lid, he sank down onto it and watched as she gently soaped her face, neck, breasts, and beyond, her small hands gliding gracefully across the natural curves of her petite figure. He felt himself stir and stiffen, as if it too was hoping for a better look at the treasure just beyond the wall of plastic separating them.

  Of course, he had already made love to her earlier, but sitting here witnessing such intimate moments was in some ways far more fulfilling, and the fact that she didn’t realize he’d followed her into the bathroom made it all the more exciting.

  He touched himself, pretending it was her fingers stroking him instead. An old trick mastered through years of practice, his eyes and hands somehow transformed into the same appendage, moving in rhythmic time as his breath quickened, assuming a more rapid cadence. He seldom questioned why when he watched her it was somehow more erotic than being physically interlocked with her ever could be, but it ate away at his subconscious nonetheless. Like a rat, he thought, nibbling its way through a wall, instinctually certain that whatever lay on the other side was not only preferable, but also necessary for its survival.

  Much like the rat, gnawing away in segregated darkness, he had spent the first months of their relationship huddled near the window, watching her from his apartment and fantasizing about what it might be like to know her. Even crouched in a rickety old chair, the brisk autumn night breezes tickling his bare flesh, he had never felt so thoroughly alive…and never so utterly alone. With his eyes in a constant state of flux, they adapted to the various shades of darkness between her scarcely lit apartment and the opaque cave of his own, straining to see the subtlest of expressions in her eyes, the most inconsequential mannerisms of her evening routines. Everything about her fascinated him. From the way she snuggled on the couch with her cat, to the way her body moved each time she undressed, to the long telephone conversations she had with some man she was seemingly fond of but who apparently didn’t live close enough to ever stop by. All of it was like a living drama being staged and played out right in front of him. And on some nights he found himself curious as to whether that indeed was the case. Did she know even in those early days that he was watching her? Although he seldom put lights on in the evenings, preferring to move about his apartment in darkness; surely she’d known someone did, in fact, live there. Surely she was not naïve to the extent that she would mindlessly conduct her most intimate tasks in plain view of windows without the benefit of shades or curtains in even partially lighted rooms.

  For him, the darkness—the distance—had always been more comfortable, more manageable, but why did she share in such an isolated life? Why with her youth and vibrant beauty did she spend near every night alone? Ultimately, it was that single question which caused him to finally summon the courage to approach her, to force their relationship to evolve beyond one of passive voyeurism (or was it exhibitionism?) to one more closely associated with what mainstream society would term “normal”.

  As she shampooed her hair, he stood up, strode back into the kitchen and leaned over the sink, watching the city below through a pair of rain-blurred windows. On Sundays, at this time of morning, their neighborhood was always quiet, the streets empty. The heavy torrents of rain that had been assaulting the area for days continued to gush from a gray sky like blood pouring from a fresh wound. No movement, no cars, only the sound of the rain, as if they were the last two people on Earth. Two previously lost and lonely souls now joined together as one.

  Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance, and he turned from the window, eyes searching the gloomy kitchen. With a quick glance over his shoulder he saw her rinsing her hair and knew her shower was nearly over. Although they had been together for a while now, and had just made love the previous evening, he still didn’t feel he knew her well enough to risk making her uncomfortable, and decided it was probably best to go back into the bedroom or living room and wait for her there.

  He moved through the kitchen into the small den and sat in one of two matching chairs against the far wall. Adjusting his position, he settled deeper, the fabric soft and plush against his bare buttocks.

  The water stopped, old pipes rattling behind thin walls, and he listened as she pulled back the curtain. He visualized her reaching for her towel and gently drying every inch of that gorgeous figure, and touched himself again. Hopefully he could convince her there could be more to their relationship than there had been to this point: watching each other and making love only from a distance. Yes, he thought, she will understand that any man who would take the time to break into her apartment, undress, and wait for her in such a vulnerable position must be in love. And if she didn’t?

  He didn’t want to think about that right now, preferring instead to put on his best smile and silently rehearse his introduction one last time.

  After all, Jennifer would be emerging from the bathroom soon, and he wanted to make a good first impression.

  STOPOVER

  The front windows offered a clear view of the wide steps to the entrance of the terminal, a vacant parking lot and a stretch of dark winding highway beyond. At first glance the seemingly endless expanse of desert looked as if it physically merged with the opaque horizon at some juncture in the distance—a one-dimensional illusion—like an enormous, meticulously crafted painting suspended before them.

  “Nothing,” Quinn sighed. “Perfectly still.”

  A soft drink vending machine against the back wall hummed and coughed out a single offering, the can rattling noisily as it rolled into the black plastic tray.

  Quinn glanced over his shoulder, his face void of emotion. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Not even a breeze.”

  “Dude,” the young man behind him said, “relax.” He retrieved the can of soda and popped the tab with a loud hiss. “We’re in the middle of freakin’ nowhere, what’d you expect to see?”

  Quinn moved from the window, focusing instead on the gangly, grimy looking kid. “A bus.” He motioned to the empty terminal around them. “Somebody who works here who could tell us what the hell’s going on.”

  The young man combed a long tendril of greasy brown hair from his face, hooked it behind a heavily pierced ear with his finger and consulted his watch. “It’s the middle of the night, dude. Nobody’s working is all. This ain’t exactly the Port Authority; you know what I’m saying? Probably dead like this every night, so why pay some fat-ass security guard to baby-sit the few stragglers like us who come through after midnight?”

  “It does seem strange.”

  The voice distracted them both. It was the first time she’d spoken since the bus had dropped them off more than an hour before. Sitting in one of a cluster of tan plastic chairs in the center of the small terminal, legs crossed and arms folded, she blinked her blue eyes and offered an apologetic shrug. “I mean, the bus should have been here by now.”

  “Probably just got delayed.” The young man gulped the remainder of his drink, crushed the can in his hand and released a booming bel
ch. Clearly amused with himself he chuckled and tossed the can into a trash barrel against the wall. “You guys need to chill, okay? Even if our bus don’t show tonight, it’ll be daylight in three or four hours and then the morning crew will start showing up. They can help us out, let us know when the next bus’ll be passing through.”

  Quinn looked back out at the road. “I should’ve know better,” he mumbled. “Should have paid the extra few bucks and gotten a direct ticket. Same thing with the airlines. Whenever there’s a stopover somewhere there’s nothing but problems.”

  “You’re both waiting for the same bus to New York City, right? From Phoenix to this shit hole and then a connecting bus to Manhattan, am I right?” The young man waited to continue until Quinn and the woman had both responded with weary nods. “We’re city people. We ain’t used to the way things are out here in the desert. Once you leave a big city in these parts you got miles and miles of desolate shit with a bus terminal like this stuck right in the middle of it. It’s weird, no doubt—ain’t the way we do things—but it ain’t no reason to get all freaked out or nothing.”

  The woman crossed her legs and sighed dramatically without looking up from the fashion magazine in her lap. “I wish I’d never come here.”

  “Which leads me to my next question,” the young man said through a sarcastic grin. “I’m just curious, but with those designer clothes and your salon hairdo and all, how come you’re taking a bus in the first place? Looks like you got enough cash to fly.”

  The woman made eye contact with him briefly then looked away. “I’m sure it’s none of your business, but I work for a major department store chain. I’m a manager in the House Wares division. Our home office is based in Phoenix and I came here for a training seminar. Since the company pays all expenses, and it’s far cheaper to take a bus than a jet, here I am.”