It was just after six. Richard, sitting in his idling vehicle and ready to leave, called Bourland at last, knowing he would be out of bed by now.
Bourland, apparently reading the familiar cell number from his caller ID, picked up and before Richard could speak asked in a wide-awake voice, "How did you know?" There was an edge to his usually warm tone.
"Know what?"
"Michael...he had a rather bad dream last night. Very bad. I sat up with him, half expecting Sabra to call. She always seems to know when he's troubled."
"Is he all right?"
"Oh, yes, he nodded off after a bit. Having his breakfast now. He's right as rain, as though nothing's amiss."
"As it happens, Sabra does know and is coming your way. She expects to get there later this morning. I'd like to leave now, if that's all right with you."
There was no surprise to this unusual request. "Of course, Richard. You're always welcome here whenever you like."
Bourland was quite literal about that. Richard and Sabra had keys and the code for the house alarm. Richard would have gotten both anyway; it had been his security firm that designed and installed the system, after all, but it was nice to have a standing formal invitation.
"There's one thing..." Bourland added.
"What?" Richard was already backing from the drive.
"I was going to do it anyway, but especially now with you both coming over. I thought it best to keep Michael home from school this once."
"But I thought"
"He's just fine. It's for my sake not his. I've called in for myself. The Commonwealth can run on without my help for one day. I think I've earned a long weekend."
"Then it begs the question 'Are you all right?' "
"Mostly. We'll talk when you get here."
Mostly. What the hell did that mean?
Bourland had been in the vision, though. Had he also shared it? Remembered it? Not likely, since Bhe had no notion of the uncanny lurking so close to his prosaic paper-driven, bureaucratic world. His realm was the Canadian governmenta never-never land of its own, to be surebut still well removed from metaphysical upheavals. The paranormal was a foreign country with no recognizable flag, and diplomatic relations were quite off the radar.
Unless Sabra had been coaching him. She had a way of making the most insane concepts acceptable. If so, then it certainly might ease things. Best to leave explanations to her.
Richard negotiated the slick streets in his Land Rover, speculating also about Michael. It was probable he had the same vision and heaven knows what he'd made of the frightening images. Children could be unexpectedly tough, though. Michael had lived through and apparently recovered from an overwhelming trauma in his young life. Perhaps the strength he'd gained from that tragedy would serve him here. After all, the focus was not on him this time. Like the others in their glowing shrouds of light, he'd been a bystander, not a participant. Richard hoped it would remain so. He was the warrior here, not his godson.
Sabra predicted the boy's psychic abilities would grow stronger the older he got, more so once he began to enter puberty. As though the child didn't have enough on his plate just being a teenager in this day and age. Perhaps to better help she could move into the city for the next few years, and use her more distant house for a weekend retreat. Richard would like that. There was lots of room for the both of them at the Neville Park address. And she would love being so close to the lake. Plenty of primal energy there to please her, in the lake...and certainly himself.
Of course, she might just as well move into Bourland's big house. Richard knew they occasionally slept together. But making love now and then with a friend was one thing; lengthy cohabitation always put a whole different dynamic to a relationship. Things between the three of them were well balanced for now. That sort of change either way could create a rather large upset to the status quo.
Richard had been tempted to broach the subject with her, but prudently kept his mouth shut. Unless she asked his opinion it was none of his business. His lady would seek her own path as she'd ever done, and it would be for the best for all of them.
The morning rush was not yet in full swing, meaning the slippery roads were still hazardous. He moved slowly along Queen, hitting spots where other tires had broken a trail on the snow and ice-caked paving, and leaving his trail in turn for others to use. A short but exciting slow-motion jaunt up the Don Valley Parkway, then he thankfully made the exit into the posh environs of Rosedale.
Its curving streets were even more demanding with their nearly unbroken coating of snow, but that's what his vehicle was designed for; he managed not to jump any curbs in his forward progress.
Bourland's house was almost modest compared to his neighbors; but still larger than anything Richard had lived in in some while. The Tudor style looked fine to modern eyes, but Richard had lived through the period and the mistakes made by the architect who built this example in the 1920s were quite hilarious. He never said anything to Bourland, of course; that would have been terrifically ill-mannered.
Richard parked around back, considerately not blocking the garage entry, and went in through the mud room, stamping snow from his boots before proceeding to the kitchen. Bourland's housekeeper was just finishing the washing up for breakfast and smiled a greeting as he came in.
"Some coffee, Mr. Dun?" she asked. "Just brewed it."
Coffee was one of the few things humans consumed that did smell good to him. He'd wondered about its taste since the first houses opened and made it the rage of London way back when. They were nothing like the trendy, sterilized chains of today, but as with the men of business then, Bourland seemed addicted. "Thank you, another time. Where's Philip?"
"In his study. He's staying home, but still working if you know what I mean."
"Indeed I do." Richard speculated that with computers, faxes, and phones Bourland need never venture forth to his regular office ever again; he was not required to be in the public eye, after all. Politicians came and went, but civil servants were a constant. Bourland was something more than an ordinary civil servant though. In every government there are hierarchies operating on all levels; Bourland's was in one of the most rarified areas and he was a senior member. When things needed to be accomplished, invisibly, it fell to people like him to get the job done. The less his presence was seen and felt, the better. Rather like Richard's own work through the ages.
The study was downstairs, but Richard heard electronic music coming from the second floor, indication that Michael was playing at something. Likely not homework, if he had any. Richard went up.
The boy's door was wide open. He had a bath and two rooms to himself. The first room held his bed and a scatter of books and toys and other items indicative of his changing if not maturing tastes. Due to daily patrols from the housekeeper, it wasn't nearly the wreckage it might have been, but his stamp was there, all the same. Trucks and plastic dinosaurs were gradually giving up space to a growing collection of model kits, video games, CDs and DVDs. He had a predilection for Schwarzenegger films, something of a shift from his once valued set of Disney animations. God, but he was growing so fast. In a very short time he'd want a real car, not a scale model.
Richard knocked on the doorframe.
"I'm in here, Dad." Obviously his gift of Sight was not on today or he'd have known his visitor. It was warming that Michael had so readily adopted Bourland in turn as his new father. Some children never bonded to that level of acceptance with their adopted families, but he had, and with an uncanny artlessness. It's what made it seem like he'd always been there.
"It's me," Richard called, going through the door to the adjoining room.
"Hey! Uncle Richard! Come see!" Michael, looking as normal as any thirteen-year-old, was tilted far back in a chair, knees high about his ears, bare feet braced on his computer desk. He wore pajama pants and an oversized hockey sweatshirt and clutched some kind of control device in his hands. He was apparently very involved destroying hoards of green and purple something-or-others with bulging eyes and lots of teeth. He cut them down using either a ray gun or a magic wand that fired bolts of light. Perhaps it was both in one.
"Are you winning?" Richard asked, peering.
"I've almost got it. Ten thousand points and I move up, but the more points you rack, the tougher they get to hit...and...aaagh!"
There was a magnificent explosion on the computer's monitor, followed by dirgelike music. A sonorous voice from the speakers intoned that because he fought so valiantly he would be accorded a hero's shrine and the bards would sing his name forever. Would he like to play another game?
"Raaats." Michael rolled his eyes in dramatic frustration, though he did not appear to be overly distressed by the defeat.
"What happened?"
"Gas attack."
"Really?"
"They got these fat guys in there full of mega-methane, and if you don't get 'em with a head shot they blow up and take you with them."
"Oh. What are you shooting?"
"Nitrogen bullets."
Richard wasn't entirely at sea with the sciences, but fairly certain such things were impossible. He hoped they were, anyway.
Michael edged his control device onto his overcrowded desk, dislodging a stack of CDs. It was clear the housekeeper never made it this far. Nearly every horizontal surface was covered with several strata of...well, there was too much to take in or categorize, but bright colors and plastic seemed to dominate the bulk of the artifacts, that and comic books. The walls and ceiling were completely papered over with posters of current icons of teen worship, including a blond pop princess wearing what appeared to be paint. Closer examination indicated her costume to be made of fabric after all, though it was a near thing. Richard glanced at the boy, one eyebrow twitching. Damn. An early starter. He couldn't recall exactly when he himself had realized that girls weren't horrible creatures one avoided at all costs. Some things were likely better off lost in the mists of time.
Significantly missing from Michael's collection were any toys or mementos from his past in Texas. Those had all been destroyed, of course, though he could have gotten duplicates if he asked. The only reminder of his life before Bourland adopted him just a few years ago was a photo of his much younger self with his late mother and twin sisters that Richard had given him.
There were no pictures of Michael's biological father. Just as well. The therapy was still an ongoing process for that heartbreak.
"Check this out," said Michael. He'd been busy clicking away on his keyboard. Bourland bought the boy a new computer every Christmas in a vain effort to keep up with advancing technology. This latest model, which would probably be hopelessly out of date in less than a week, was sleek and expensive looking, with an oversized flat screen and matching speakers. "There's this way-cool software that came with the computer and it turns any sounds or music into shifting shapes and stuff. See?"
He hit more keys, electronic instruments blared from the speakers, and a window filling most of the screen erupted with the promised show. It was rather neat.
"Why you over here so early?" Michael asked, nodding in time to the beat. He had pale blond hair like his mother, cut short, but darker skin than one would expect from her Nordic ancestry. The seemingly permanent tan bequeathed by his father's genes had faded somewhat since his move from Texas to this latitude, and he'd taken to the abundance of snow like a home-grown sled dog.
"I think you know."
He grunted. "Because of why Dad kept me home. That vision. It was gross."
Yes, children were tough all right. "That's all? Gross? Not frightening?"
"Well, yeah, it scared me, but you were there in it, so that made it okay. You were all there. It was cool how you talked to the snake."
"I talked to it?"
"That's what it looked like."
"Did you hear it speak?"
"Nah. Too much other stuff was going on. Look, Aunt Sabra's coming over, too, isn't she?"
"Yes."
"I thought so. Whenever something weird happens you guys gang up. I'll talk about it with her then. Check this" He cut the music, but the show on the screen continued, reacting to his voice. "You can turn your words into geometric or free forms or abstract designs, and it's got all kinds of colors and styles..." He clicked his way through a parade of variations, talking a mile a minute, raising or lowering his tone to bring about an effect. He seemed most pleased at the pattern his own name made.
On one of the shelves Richard noticed a new picture of Michael and Bourland, apparently from their most recent ice-fishing expedition. Red-faced, they looked enormously pleased with themselves, showing off a bounteous catch. Richard felt a too-familiar twinge about missing out on such diversions, but reminded himself that Michael was here and alive and that's all that really mattered. Even limited contact was better than nothing.
Make the most of it, he thought, and bent over to inquire about some detail. It didn't really matter what they talked about, just having time together was the important part. He obligingly spoke into a pick-up mic and saw what his name looked like on screen.
"Aw, say your whole name," Michael urged.
"Richard Dun."
"That's not it. Your real whole name."
He hesitated. Perhaps Sabra had been giving history lessons. Or it was the Sight at work? "Richard d'Orleans," he finally admitted.
The screen splashed itself with color. Mostly reds. Hm. Coincidence?
Michael grinned and hit keys. Richard's voice echoed and re-echoed his full name, mechanically repeating, making an endless fountain of red against a black background.
He felt suddenly uncomfortable. "That's very interesting, but could you shift it, please?"
Michael made no move; the screen continued active, reacting to the manic repetition of sound.
"Michael?"
The pattern of color changed, giving up its pulsing symmetry to completely random movement. The colors and shapeless blobs began to darken and eventually coalesced into recognizable patterns, stabilizing, becoming a surreal and disturbing picture. Michael went very still. He calmly stared, unblinking and oblivious, at the screen. A sudden shift in color and focus knocked everything from chaos into clear vision. An all too familiar one.
Chichén Itzá.
Heart pounding, Richard felt himself drawn strongly into the scene. It ceased to be contained by the screen, but grew, filled his view...and, without fuss, swallowed him.
Laughter...booming laughter against the storm raging around him.
He stood at the top of the pyramid, looking down the steep angle of hard steps. Was this what Sharon saw in those last seconds?
Unable to act, only watch, he was raised high by unnaturally strong arms. Who was it? He tried to turn to see the face, but
A sickening swoop, a cry, but instead of being caught by the storm's force and lifted, he plunged heavily down, crashing onto the stone steps, bones splintering. Spin, roll, rolling faster, gravity and momentum having their way until he was at the base lying twisted on the bare dry ground between the two great snake heads.
From there he seemed to rise from the wreckage of flesh and pull back. Now he was looking down at Sharon's battered form. He reached for her, but possessed no body, only sight. He'd never felt so helpless.
She saw him through her pain, unable to move, struggling to breathe. Blood bubbled from her lips. Her face changed. The injuries remained the same, but now he stared down at Sabra...and then Michael. They shifted in and out of focus, meshing, their voices blending, becoming one.
Richardhelp me!
Right out of hell.
Then they were gone.
He gasped awake as though struck with an electric shock; adrenaline hammered sickeningly through his system. But he was only in Michael's study under the harsh but prosaic dazzle of artificial light, and outside was gray winter day.
Michael slumped, pitching to one side from his chair.
Bourland caught him before Richard could even think to move. Apparently he'd been standing there a while. He gathered the boy up and carried him to the next room, laying him gently on the bed. He felt Michael's brow for fever, automatically, the way parents do whether it's likely or not. There was a blanket folded over the footboard. He shook it open and draped it on the boy, who seemed deeply asleep. Only then did Bourland look at Richard, his expression that of barely suppressed anger.
"What's wrong with him?" he whispered. "And what is that?" He pointed through the door to the computer, which now showed only an innocuous screen saver and made no sound.
"You saw it, too?"
Bourland nodded. "And its effect on the two of you. He slept the last one off, butis this hurting him?"
"I don't know," Richard answered truthfully. The last one? "How long has this been going on?"
No reply, Bourland checked Michael again, then motioned for them to leave.
"You're sure?" Michael looked so very young, painfully vulnerable. The boy's heartbeat sounded normal, regular. Beyond that...
"He's just asleep. Come on."
Bourland's study was direct from a decorator's handbook; traditional, sober, projecting a wealth of reassurance and the reassurance of wealth. Warm wood and leather furnishings, dark green walls, some carefully selected antiques, it seemed a century out of date, except that a century ago such rooms hadn't looked quite the same. However, Richard liked it much better than that time Queen Victoria went so ludicrously mad for tartans. This was more like a staid but contented London club than her kilt factory explosion at Balmoral.
Absurdities again. Focus, old lad.
Philip Bourland chose the long tufted leather couch over one of the overstuffed chairs. A big man, he was determinedly informal today in worn slacks, a thick moss-colored sweater over a dark shirt, and sheepskin slippers. Amid the ambiance of his surroundings, he looked more like a misplaced handyman than the lord of the manor. He also looked very tired, his china blue eyes haunted yet blazingly angry.
"That damned dream," he rumbled aloud, as though continuing from an internal dialogue.
"What about it?" Richard eased into one of the chairs opposite.
His friend had shut his face down. In Bourland's line of work it was to his advantage not to broadcast his feelings, particularly the harsher ones. Rarely had Richard ever experienced that aspect directed his way. The two of them were nearly always on the same page. "You were there, square in the middle of it, so you tell me."
This could go very bad, very fast. Anger was a useful weapon, but not between friends. Richard fixed his gaze for a moment until the heat went out of Bourland's eyes. "You know I'm here to help, Philip. I'll do whatever I can. Please trust that."
In a few scant seconds some of the rigidity left Bourland's shoulders. He slumped and rubbed a hand over his face. "God, this has me on the living edge. I don't know what to do so Isorry, Richard. None of this is your fault."
Don't be too sure of that. "When did it start?"
"I'm not...I only began to notice in the last few days. Michael'swell, I call it 'phasing out.' "
"This has been going on for days?"
"Maybe longer."
"Why didn't you tell Sabra? Or me?"
Bourland shook his head. "I wasn't sure if this was real or nothis spells, whatever they are. I really don't know why I held back. It was as though there was a hand on my shoulder and a voice telling me to 'wait and see, wait and see,' that everything would get better. It seems completely idiotic now. I must have been in denial, but that's not like me."
Indeed it was not. Bourland always kept them apprized of everything to do with Michael, from his schoolwork to the least bump and bruise on the soccer field or at hockey practice. Had there been some kind of Otherside intervention at work?
He continued. "I'm not one to make excuses, either. You were over Sunday, and he was fine then, wasn't he?"
Richard gave a cautious nod, trying to remember specifics in retrospect. It had been especially cloudy, so he made a rare daylight visit, watching a hockey game with them in the TV room. Bourland's inborn enthusiasm for the sport had grafted onto Michael and their running commentary about the game rivaled that on the television and had been just as constant. An ordinary afternoon together, enjoyable, no hint of looming trouble.
"When did you first notice anything?"
"It was Monday evening. He was at his computer, playing a game, not doing his homework. I was saying the things you're supposed to say in those situations, and he just kept staring at the screen. I thought he'd shut me out, wasn't listening, but he's not like that. Some boys his age start to build up anger and go surly, but not him. Then I saw that there were some damned odd images on the screen. They had nothing to do with his game or homework or anything I've ever seen before."
"What did they look like?"
"I'll get to that. The main point is he was quite fine and then shut down for a few moments. When that happened..."
Richard waited him out.
But Bourland gave up. "No, you won't believe me."
"Just say it, Philip. I'll judge for myself."
A longer wait. Then, "All right. When he's like that, when there's things happening on the screen, I seem to see...in my mind... similar things. As though I'm in them, surrounded by them. It's because of that I've not taken Michael off to a neurosurgeon for tests. I know in my heart this isn't anything a doctor can diagnose and treat. Please tell me I'm wrong."
"What did you see upstairs?"
"Nothing in my head, but on the screen, those faces..."
"I saw them, too. It was just my luck to have a turn to be in it."
"You've gone through this before, haven't you? Experienced it."
"Yes. In Texas. He...showed me how his mother and sisters died. There's been nothing since then."
Bourland looked at him a long time, studying, thinking, and not giving anything away. It was this sternness that often compelled others to burst forth with confessions. All he had to do was wait.
But Richard had long been immune to such tactics. He wanted to try to explain, but the odds were very great that Bourland would be unable to accept anything as outré as the truth, about himself, Sabra, Michael, the projected visions, Otherside matters, especially the Goddess. Such concepts simply did not exist for him except as myth.
Then again...
Perhaps Bourland's extended contact with Sabraand Michaelwas affecting him on a psychic level, creating a window for him to peer through. Perhaps that's why he'd been able to see certain things. Sabra often kept herself removed from the general crowd of humanity because the press of their emotions wore at her, but it could go both ways. Some people were sensitive to her presence and power, and its touch could suddenly, inadvertently, open them up to forces for which they were unprepared.
"I thought," said Bourland, "that it might be me. I've been told my job is not exactly low stress. My first instinct was that I was having a problem and saw something that wasn't there. The brain can be quite disturbing when it comes to manufacturing fantasies. I thought I'd experienced some kind of mental glitchexcept for Michael phasing out like that."
"Does he remember what he's seen?"
"He says not, but I don't believe him. I didn't want to press things and make too much of it. For what it's worth I was going to phone Sabra today and sort it all out. Then we had that dream. Both of us. Three of us...?"
Richard finally nodded. "Four, actually. Another reason why Sabra's coming in."
"Oh, my God."
"What else is there?" Richard asked.
"How do you know th" he cut off, frowning.
"Just go with me on this."
Bourland sighed. "In for a penny, in for the whole bloody national debt. All right. I think he's able to project these... images...not only to a screen, but into other people's heads besides my own and he has no control over it."
Richard nodded, encouraging him to continue.
"On Wednesday one of the day maids quit. Michael was after a pre-dinner snack in the kitchen, and she was there. He must have phased out then. She ran screaming from the house. After what I've seen, I don't blame her."
"Is she all right?"
"I think so. She insisted the house was haunted and refused to come back. Stood in the street crying. My housekeeper had to take the girl's coat and purse out and drive her home. I didn't make a fuss with the agency, gave her a nice reference, but it was a damned awkward bit of business. I still don't know what she might have seen. Michael couldn't or wouldn't say. I don't think he means to, it just takes him over. He's broadcasting like a radio tower, isn't he?"
He recalled the vivid images projected into his mind by a much younger Michael, showing in too-graphic detail the murder of his mother and sisters. Even second-hand they carried power and still sometimes troubled Richard's sleep with nightmares.
"What I want to knowamong other thingsis where are these images coming from? They're...unworldly. I know he's not seen anything like this in a film or television, there are limits. He's allowed a certain amount of rubbish to watch if he wants, but not that kind of rubbish."
"His imagination, perhaps."
"Then the boy needs more therapy than he's getting."
"Can you describe what you've seen?" Richard's instinct told him there was more to this than Chichén Itzá.
"Better. Or worse. I can show you."
Anachronistically taking up space on the polished top of Bourland's Edwardian desk was another state-of-the-art computer system. He roused it from hibernation, got it fully awake, and entered a password. Then he opened a program and put in a CD. His hand rested on the trackball, preparatory to clicking the "play" icon.
"Here it is: after school yesterday Michael came in to ask me about something, then while he was standing exactly where you are now, he phased out. At the same time the images began to flash into my mind; I also saw them on my computer screen. Weirdest damned stuff I'd everI was set up to do some video copying and had just enough wit to try recording. It worked. I wanted to call Sabra then, but didn't know how I could possibly describe it. She's usually the one to call here, always knows when something's off, but she didn't. This is scaring the hell out of me, Richard. First, that Michael is subject to these fits, second, that I'm seeing such visions, and third, that they could even be recorded. I wish the latter at least was untrue."
"Why is that?"
"Because then I could put this off to shared insanity and check the lot of us into a psychiatric ward. But this is solid evidence. I can't ignore its reality. I'd hoped it would go away, but the dream last night and what happened upstairs just now...it's only escalating. What's to be done?"
"Let's see what you recorded first."
The show was as promised. It was a smaller version of the catastrophe at El Castillo, at another location. The image was less clear, but some parts were sufficient for recognition. "My God, that's Stonehenge." Richard's mouth went dry. The fragment of Sharon's message...but what did it mean? Was this what she'd seen there? And how had that sent her flying off to the Yucatán?
The oddly familiar storm faded, fuzzily replaced byhe couldn't quite make it out, like a badly managed handheld camera trying to focus on something too far in the distance. Unfortunately, the picture firmed up and became clear.
It was bad. Like a Hieronymus Bosch painting come to awful life.
Richard had known Bosch, had known the grotesque allegories in his nightmare paintings were based in truth. The artist had seen such horrors in his mind, God help him, interpreting and expressing them in his own way. They were enough to scare the hell out of anyone, which was the intention.
Things writhed on the screen, things with pale eyes and grasping claws, things made of darkness, possessing bottomless appetites, that delighted in making pain, things that had no business on this Side of Reality. These were not flat depictions on wood, not disturbing, but ultimately harmless renderings by a long-dead artist.
These existed.
And they were aware.
They seemed to look right at him. Hungry.
The image mercifully dissolved, went black.
"If," said Bourland, the color gone from his face, "if that is what got broadcasted into the poor maid's mind, then I don't blame her for running away screaming. I was rather tempted myself."
"But you didn't." Richard hadn't meant to say that aloud.
"How could I when Michael's inwhat is going on here?"
This was definitely Sabra's pigeon, though he would help if he could. Somehow or other they'd have to try explaining to Bourland and hope he would prove open-minded enough to accept. He was well aware of Sabra's strong psychic connection to the boy, but overlooked it or perhaps rationalized it away as feminine intuition. He'd never interfered with her talks with Michael, evidently trusting her completely. She was a most dazzling woman, and he cared for her, but would that be enough?
"Richard?" Bourland had gotten no answer. "Thinking of Sabra? Oh, don't be surprised. You always look like that when she's on your mind. What about her, then?"
"Only that she'll talk to you about this."
"It's related to her?"
"In a way. I think. I'm as puzzled as you are."
"But you have more pieces, else you'd be sleeping in like anyone with sense instead of coming over here at this hour of the morning. You had that dream, too. The one that frightened Michael so. The one that frightened me."
"You"
"Yes, I admit it. Like nothing I've ever in my whole life had before, and God spare me from another. Woke me up in a cold sweat, then I heard Michael crying down the hall"
"He didn't say he'd been that frightened."
"Oh, come on. What thirteen-year-old is going to admit to his macho uncle that he cried because of a nightmare?"
Richard stared. " 'Macho uncle'? Really, Philip, what in God's name are you telling that boy?"
"Not me, it's all him. He worships you. Of course he'd never let on, that wouldn't be the done thing for him, but it's there. I suppose he could have a worse role model in his life, but I can't think of anyone."
A look between them, then an abrupt breakdown to a soft chuckle. Brief, but enough to break the tension.
Then Bourland fixed him with a much too neutral eye. "Who's Richard d'Orleans?"
It had been a long time, a very long time since Richard had last been caught off guard like this. He didn't even try to cover and lie. Not much point to it, really. "Someone I used to be. He no longer exists."
"And why is that?"
"You know the type of work I've done and can do. Sometimes it's necessary to drop one's past and begin again."
"I had you checked out. Thoroughly. Back when we first met."
"I wouldn't have expected you to have done otherwise."
"Yours is an interesting but not improbable background with impeccable, even enviable references. But not one mention of anyone named d'Orleans."
"Because of the nature of the work then. I...offended...the wrong types once upon a time, and the powers that be deemed it necessary to my survival that I should be someone else ever afterwards. It turned out for the best, though." Damn, would he have to hypnotize Bourland again? It was one thing to calm a friend down, quite another to rearrange his memories. Richard hated doing that.
"And in the fifteen years I've known you you never once cracked the least hint, yet for Michael you threw it out almost casually. More important, he knew."
"Philip...I can't explain Michael's knowledge. It surprised me, but after all this time, it seemed harmless. On the other hand, you're reminding me that perhaps it was unwise to have relaxed."
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not backing you into a corner about it. Your secret's safe. God knows fifteen years ago I was a different man as well. My concern's for Michael. I don't want him ending up in some crackpot mind-reading or remote-viewing program for a bunch of soulless black-ops types."
Richard's jaw momentarily dropped. "Just what sort of rubbish have you been watching?"
"Never mind. Blame it on lack of sleep. I'm usually much more rational than this."
But your fear for Michael's future is real enough. Which was at the bottom of it for both of them. All of them.
His cell trilled. He checked the incoming number. "Sabra," he said to Bourland, hitting the button. "Yes? You all right?" Why had he asked that first thing?
"Not really." She spoke loudly, as people do when surrounded by noise. There was some kind of row going on. "The snow's gotten worse."
"You can't dig out?"
"I did that ages ago. I'm on my way in but there's a hell of a snow storm on 400."
"Where are you?"
"I'm coming up on the exit to 401. It's not that far ahead, but I'm having a hard time staying on the road. The wind's very bad."
"Then pull over. There's nothing here that can't wait."
"Yes. I called to let you know."
She sounded breathless and busy. In the background Richard heard the fast thump of her windshield wipers and on top of that an unpleasant howling. "Sounds like a hurricane from this end. Find a petrol station or something and stay there until it's blown over."
"I'll do that..."
"What's wrong?" Bourland asked.
"She's driven into a storm near 401." His alarms were blaring, full volume. This is not right. Not at all right.
Bourland turned, looking out the broad window behind his desk. The view was that of a tranquil winter day, very overcast, but last night's wind was quite gone. "Richard...she's not that far north..."
But he'd already gotten it. "Sabra, wherever you are pull over now. You hear? Right now."
Her voice, garbled by static. Nothing intelligible came through. It was too much like Sharon's message for his peace of mind.
"Uncle Richard?" Michael was at the door, still in his pajama pants and hockey shirt, hair tousled, his expression somber. Had he grown a bit since Sunday? He looked so young. Vulnerable.
"Just a minute...Sabra, you there? Say again."
Tears on Michael's face. Tears streaming down.
Richard's guts swooped, and he pressed the earpiece hard against his skull, vainly trying to hear better. He thought she was shouting, but the static worsened between them. Please God, just let it be a signal fade out.
"Uncle Richard, you have to"
"Sabra? Hello? Answer!" He struggled to keep his voice calm. It was just a strong wind. Nothing more than that.
"You have to call for her. She's in trouble."
"Sabra! Say that again."
"Dad, call an ambulance." Michael went to Bourland. "It's important. She's"
Her voice. Shouting now, but Richard still couldn't understand the words. He looked at Bourland, who was staring at his computer screen. "What is it?"
Neither of them answered. Michael had gone still.
Richard came around the desk to see.
The computer screen showed gray and black movement. Snow and shadows? Bulky shapes emerging and retreating, a smear of white as they passed. Cars. Headlights.
Then he was there, pulled into the vision, standing on the side of a snow-crusted highway. Heavy flakes churned around him in the tearing wind, thicker than fog. Richard could feel them going right through his body, yet he saw himself as solid.
Cars, lots of them. The morning rush in full swing, even here, even in this weather, everyone driving far too fast, or so it seemed to one held stationary. Their tires hissed on wet pavement, hummed on the icy patches. A straight stretch of flat road was behind him, ahead, an overpass.
He saw her. Her car approaching. She was on the phone, her other hand on the wheel, fighting it as the wind buffeted the sides of her vehicle. She seemed unaware of him.
He spoke her name into his cell phone. Dead air.
The snow seemed to laze down now, everything slowing like a film running at the wrong speed.
She flashed by in increments. He saw her through clear patches on the car's side windows. In stages she spoke into her phone, scowled, and discarded it, gripping the wheel with both hands. She pressed back in the seat the way one does when slamming hard on the brakes, her lips parted, eyes wide with fear.
Then normal time kicked in.
The backwash of her passing vehicle hit him, along with the stink of exhaust. He blinked against it, arm instinctively up to protect his face from debris.
Snow whirled madly about her car, as though possessed of its own cyclone. The brake lights flared and died, flared again as she fishtailed all over the road. Other commuters hit their horns in protest, getting out of the way. Sabra sped up.
With the brakelights still on.
No.
She rocketed forward, faster, faster.
The wind screamed around her, a miniature blizzard.
Ahead, a patch of ice showing like a black lake across the width of the road.
Her front tires hit it at an angle. She made a long, agonizing spin, skidding sideways...
Hitting something. He couldn't see what. At that speed her car simply flipped right over.
And kept going. It seemed to fly, carried by the wind
To smash into the unforgiving concrete of an overpass.