F. Paul Wilson - Gateways

“How did you know it was him?” Dad said. “I mean, how could you be sure?”

Without bothering to remove the black lead foil, Jack wound the screw through it and into the cork.

“He told me. Name was Ed, and he bragged about it.”

“Ed…so, the shit had a name.”

Jack blinked. Other than hell and damn, his father had always been scrupulous about four-letter words. At least when Jack was a kid.

He lifted his head but didn’t look at Jack. “How?” He licked his lips. “How did you do it?”

“Tied him up and dangled him by his feet off the same overpass. Made him a human piñata for the big trucks going by below.”

The cork popped from the bottle as Jack remembered seeing Ed swinging over the road, the meatythunk! as the first truck hit him, then the second.

Music. Heavy metal.

Dad was finally looking at him. “That’s why you left, isn’t it. Because you’d committed murder. You should have stayed, Jack. You should have come to me. I would have helped you. You didn’t have to spend all those years dealing with that guilt alone.”

“Guilt?” Jack said, pouring more wine for both of them. “No guilt. What did I have to feel guilty about? No guilt, no remorse. Send me back in time to relive that night and I’d do the same thing.”

“Then why on earth did you just take off like that?”

Jack shrugged. “You want an eloquent, thoughtful, soul-searching answer? I don’t have one. It seemed to make sense at the time. From that moment on the world looked different, seemed like another place, and I didn’t belong. Plus I was disgusted with just about everything. I wanted out. So I got out. End of story.”

“And this creep, this Ed…why didn’t you call the police?”

“That’s not the way I work.”

Dad squinted at him. “Work? What does that mean?”

Jack didn’t want to go there.

“Because they’d have carted him off and then let him out on bail, and then let him plead down to a malicious mischief charge.”

“You’re exaggerating. He’d have done hard time.”

“Hard time wouldn’t cut it. He needed killing.”

“So you killed him.”

Jack nodded and sipped his wine.

Dad started waving his arms. “Jack, do you have any idea what could have happened to you? The chance you took? What if somebody saw you? What if you’d been caught?”

Jack opened his mouth to reply, but something in his father’s words and tone stopped him. He was going on about…he seemed more concerned about the possible consequences of the killing rather than the killing itself. Where was the outrage, the middle-class repugnance for deliberate murder?

“Dad? Tell me you wish I hadn’t killed him.”

His father pressed a hand over his eyes. Jack saw his lips tremble and thought he was going to sob.

Jack put a hand on his shoulder. “I never should have told you.”

Dad looked at him with wet eyes. “Never? I wish you’d told me back then! I’ve spent the last fifteen years thinking he was still out there, unnamed, unknown, some kind of wraith I’d never get my hands on. You don’t know how many nights I’ve lain awake and imagined my hands around his throat, squeezing the life out of him.”

Jack couldn’t hide his shock. “I thought you’d be horrified if you knew what I’d done.”

“No, Jack. The real horror was losing you all those years. Even if you’d been caught, you could have pled temporary insanity or something like that and got off with a short sentence. At least then I’d have known where you were and could have visited you.”

“Better for you, maybe.”

A jolt in the joint, even a short one…unthinkable.

“I’m sorry. I’m not thinking straight.”

Jack still couldn’t believe it. “I killed a man and you’re okay with that?”

“With killingthat man, yes, I’m okay. I’m more than okay, I’m—” He threw his arms around Jack. “I’m proud of you.”

Whoa.

Jack wasn’t into hugs, but he did manage to give his dad a squeeze, all the while thinking, Proud?Proud? Christ, how could I have read him so wrong?

Once again Anya’s words from that first day came back to him.

Trust me, kiddo, there’s more to your father than you ever dreamed.

They broke the clinch and backed off a couple of feet.

Jack said, “If I’d have known you felt that way, I might have asked you for help. I could have used some. And you would have beendoing something instead of waiting for the police to do it for you.”

Dad looked offended. “How do you know I wasn’t doing something? How do you know I didn’t take a rifle and sit in the bushes, watching that overpass, waiting to see if someone would try again.”

Jack managed to suppress a laugh but not a smile. “Dad, you don’t own a rifle. Not even a pistol.”

“Maybe not now, but I could have back then.”

“Yeah, right.”

They stood facing each other, his father staring at him as if seeing a new person. Finally he thrust out his hand. Jack shook it.

Dad looked around and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s get going on these omelets.”

“You start the eggs,” Jack said, “and I’ll finish dicing the ham.”

A good night. A surprising, shocking, revelatory night. Like nothing he could have anticipated.

He might have enjoyed it even more if he’d managed to bring Carl home. He wondered how the poor guy was doing.

12

Carl looked up at the starry sky, at the misshapen shadows of the surround in trees, at the water in the lagoon, anywhere but at the lights. Leastways he tried not to look. But as much as he wanted to stop it, his gaze kept driftin back to the sinkhole…and the lights.

They’d set him here on the ground, his back against one of the Indian hut support posts. They’d been ready to tie his hands behind him when they remembered that he only had one, so they lashed him to the post with coils of thick rope around his arms and body.

He’d overheard Semelee mention that Jack had found her shell but how’s it would have to wait till tomorrow. Tonight was too important.

The air was warm and wet and thick enough to choke a frog—maybe that was why they weren’t peepin. Even the crickets had shut up. The lagoon and its surroundins was quiet as a grave.

The lights had started flashin a little after dark, strange colors and mixes of colors he never seen nowheres else. That was when it really got crowded around the hole. But there’d been lots goin on before that. Luke and Corley and Udall and Erik had been settin up some sort of steel tripod over the mouth. It had a pulley danglin from the top center where the three legs came together. They threaded a good, long length of half-inch rope through it, then tied that to some sorta chair.

He kept telling himself, Naw, she ain’t really gonna do that. She ain’t that crazy.

But come full dark, when the crazy flashin colors was lightin up the trees and the water, sure enough, Semelee put herself into the chair. She was danglin over the hole, with the lights reflectin even stranger colors off that silver hair of hers, and then Luke and a couple other guys Carl couldn’t recognize cause their pan-o-ramic backs was to him started lowerin her down into the hole.

After she disappeared he could hear her voice echoin up from below.

“What’re you stoppin for? Keep me goin!”

Luke called out, “You’re deeper’n you should be already. How much to go till you hit the water?”

“Can’t see no water. Looks like it all dried up.”

“Then where’s the bottom?”

“Can’t see no bottom, just the lights.”

“That’s it,” Luke said. “I’m haulin you up now.”

“Luke, you do that and I ain’t never gonna speak to you again! You hear that? Never! It’s like nothin I could ever dream down here. The lights…so bright…all around me…feels like they’re gointhrough me. This is so cool. You keep on lettin out that rope. I want to see where they come from.”