Seven Wakings Read online

“You’re so full of shit.” He starts to lower his hands.

  I shove the gun harder against his back. “Why are you following me?”

  “Vanessa wanted to make sure you could be trusted. But I’ll kill you before I let you bring that kid back.”

  “Who are you? How are you involved in this?”

  He tries to look back at me. “That’s none of your business.”

  I have to figure out what to do with him. “Give me your keys and cell phone.”

  He doesn’t budge.

  I cock the gun and put it to his head— with zero intention of pulling the trigger. “I said give me your....”

  He takes them out of his pocket, passes them back to me.

  I have to get him into my car and keep him there. “Take off your pants.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Your underwear too.” I put his keys and phone in the same pocket as the gun.

  “If this is some sort of gay move, you can just shoot me right now.”

  “I’m not coming on to you. It’s so you won’t run.” The sun is beginning to come up.

  Unbuckling his belt, he says, “Where are you taking me?” He slides his pants and briefs off in one fell swoop.

  Nice backside. “Shoes and socks too.”

  He complies. “I asked you a question.”

  “You’re not the one with a gun, so just do as you’re told.” I gather his clothes. “After I lock your stuff in your car, you’re going to get in my passengers seat. Understand?”

  He nods.

  “Keep your hands locked behind your head, until I tell you to put them down.”

  We make our way to his car. I drop his clothes and phone in the trunk, lock his car, and put the keys back in my pocket. I notice that several keys look like the ones Carlos had. We’ll need them later.

  Once he’s in the car, I get in the driver’s seat, train the gun on him with my left hand, and drive with my right. To say it’s awkward is an understatement; I have to keep telling my left hand where to aim and how to keep my finger on the trigger.

  “Where are we going?” He looks my way.

  I inadvertently glance down at his penis. “To a friend’s house.”

  Paul catches me checking him out. “Did you just look at my dick?”

  I almost laugh; can feel myself getting punchy. “I glanced. It was an accident. I forgot you weren’t wearing pants. It was just laying there…” We’re blocks away from Joe’s house.

  “Just keep your fucking eyes to yourself.” He looks ahead at the road.

  “Absolutely. I promise.” And then— as if I have no impulse control whatsoever— I look again.

  “Jesus Christ. What are you a fucking homo?” He cups his crotch.

  “No. Really. I just…” The laughing starts innocently enough; just a double huff from my core. Then a perfect storm of fatigue, stress, and the insanity of my situation hits me. The laughter starts slowly at first, then it builds to an uncontrollable concerto of madness.

  He glares at me. “What’s so fucking funny?”

  “Nothing. It’s just…” I forget about the gun, wave it around.

  “Jesus, watch that thing, man.” He puts his hands up to cover his face.

  I see his penis again and laugh so hard I make myself cough. Wiping my eyes with my left sleeve, I accidently pull the trigger. A shot rings out.

  I’m instantly sober.

  The right leg of my trouser has a hole in it; blood soaks through fabric. “Shit, shit, shit!” I keep driving, can’t feel the pain. I think I’m in shock. My heart races like a gnat on crack. Only one more street until we’re at Joe’s.

  “Holy shit!” Paul laughs. “You fucking shot yourself.”

  “Yeah… I realize that.” I’m shaking. “Is there a First Aid Kit in the glove box?”

  He opens it. “What do you want?”

  “…to stop bleeding.” My eyes flash between the road and my leg. I turn on Joe’s street.

  “This?” He holds up gauze and medical tape.

  “That’s good.” I pull into the circular driveway, close to the front door. “Just wrap it around my leg and tell them I’m in the car.” I brandish the gun to remind him of his role.

  “I’m half naked.”

  I don’t need this to be Kate’s first penis encounter. “Fine… take mine.” I lift my hips. “But I swear I’ll shoot you if you try to leave.”

  He pulls off my pants. “Seriously… you’re not wearing underwear?”

  I roll down my window. “They were suffocating me.”

  There’s a pause when he seems to realize my endowment. “Jesus… no wonder you were laughing at me.” He puts on Mike’s trousers and quickly folds the cuff over twice.

  As Paul gets out of the car, I look at my leg. The bullet went clean through my outer thigh, seemed to miss major arteries and bone. I wrap the gauze around my leg, blood soaks right through. Still no pain, but I know it’s coming.

  Paul is talking to someone; I look up and see Lynette in the entryway. She looks toward the car and rushes over. Joe follows her.

  “Are you okay?” She leans in through the window and looks down. “Oh! Oh?!”

  “That second ‘oh’ wasn’t about the wound was it?” The pain starts to seep in.

  “No… it wasn’t.” She looks back at Joe. “Will you get rubbing alcohol, hand towels, duct tape, and… long basketball shorts?”

  He nods and rushes off.

  I keep my eyes and gun trained on Paul, and ask Lynette, “Where’s Kate?”

  “Sleeping. We stayed at the hospital with Anna until her parents arrived. She’s exhausted, but wanted me to wake her when we heard from you.”

  Pain shoots through my leg. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I start rocking; feel like I could throw up.

  Lynette opens the door. “Let’s get you on the ground.”

  I hear someone pulling up the driveway. “Who’s that?”

  She looks over my car. “Archer.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face and know I won’t be conscious for long. “Lynette.” She bends down. “I need to tell him something, before I…”

  I hear Paul call out, “Archer…?”

  Lynette pats my shoulder. “I’ll get him.” She rushes to Archer’s car just as Joe returns with supplies.

  The three of them converge at my car. “Take this.” Joe hands Lynette everything she asked for. “Archer, help me carry him inside.” Behind me, Joe hooks his arms under mine.

  Lynette feeds my feet into basketball shorts and slides them up my legs.

  Archer looks over to Paul. “What’s he doing here?”

  I struggle to breathe. “How do you know him?”

  Archer looks at me sideways. “The same way you know him.”

  “Jesus. Can I just get a straight answer around here?”

  He picks me up by the knees. “He’s a snitch.”

  As they rush me to the entryway, Paul asks Archer. “Is Mike really Internal Affairs?”

  Archer hikes me up. “I have no gad-damned handle on what’s going on any more.”

  They lay me on an area rug. “Archer, listen to me.”

  Joe and Lynette tend to my leg. Paul calls 9-1-1 and requests an ambulance.

  “I am I.A., but I can’t remember who to contact right now. You’ll have to do it.”

  There’s panic in his eyes. “Me? I don’t know how to get ahold of them, or the FBI, or the CIA, or any other ‘secret agency’. I’m a rookie, man.” He leans in. “I’ve nearly crapped myself three times. And that’s just today.”

  If the pain weren’t so bad, I’d laugh. Besides, I have to hold it together if he’s losing it.

  “Then you need to be there after surgery, and have my phone with you. I’ll know what to do then. I just can’t think right now.” Searing pain stabs and twists in my leg. I grab it and roll onto my side.

  Kate and Rico are at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on?”

  Writhing, I say, “I love you
more than you could ever possibly know.”

  Kate rushes down the stairs, with Rico behind her. “Mom?”

  “Yes, Honey.”

  She kneels at my side. “Are you okay?”

  Her observational skills must be going.

  “I have something to tell all of you.” The commotion settles. “Paul… tell them what’s going on inside the beach house. Codes too. Keys are in the pants you were wearing, in your trunk.” I look to Joe. “They unlock the basement where Mac and the other girls are being held.”

  Lynette says, “What about the party?”

  “It’s tonight at 5:00. I was supposed to bring Joe and Anna brraack.” My thinking starts to skip like a scratched record. “No Anna baring.”

  They all look to each other.

  The pain is as consuming as childbirth. I try to tell them about Vanessa wanting another girl if we don’t bring Anna back. “Steal ‘notha girl.” I hear an ambulance in the background. “’noth girl.” I wonder if I’m stroking.

  Lynette says, “We need to stop them before…”

  Joe speaks up. “You guys might disagree with me, but I think we should let Vanessa go through with her plan for the party.”

  Lynette looks to Joe. “Are you out of your mind?”

  He explains: “Their group is small right now and very focused on the kids. When the party begins they’ll be highly distracted. From a tactical standpoint, we’ll have an advantage at that point. Besides, a larger number of people can be implicated.”

  I forgot he’s Infantry trained.

  Archer puts pressure on my leg and looks to Joe. “I’ll stay with Mike and see if we can find some back up that isn’t dirty.”

  Lynette runs fingers through her hair, seems like she wants to pull it out. “I know you’re backed into a corner here, Archer, but you may very well lose your job over this.”

  “My job is to get the bad guys. The more the better.”

  Paul nods. “I’m in. I’ll do whatever you need me to.”

  There’s a pounding at the door. Rico goes to it.

  Kate looks at me. “Only one more waking, and I didn’t really get to see you in this one.”

  Joe goes to the door and lets the paramedics in.

  I can’t speak; feel like I’m bleeding out. I try to apologize with my eyes, but all I can do is cry. Pregnant tears roll past temples, and shimmy through a maze of tidy shorn hair.

  An EMT puts a mask of chemically laced air over my nose and mouth. “Just relax. You’re going to be fine.”

  The last thing I feel is Kate holding my hand. Consciousness fades like an exhale of smoke.

  Chapter Twelve - Gimme

  “Sir?” There’s a gentle knocking at the door. “It’s time to wake.” The voice is molasses.

  Opening my eyes, I see that I’m in a king-sized, four-post bed. The wood is hand-carved, the bedding feathers. Sun pours generously into the room.

  The woman enters. Wearing a maid’s uniform, she crosses the sitting area, passes floor-to-ceiling windows, and goes to a fireplace at the right of my bed. Opening doors to a hearth, she lights a preset fire. Flames are nearly indiscernible fromh the glow of the sun.

  Approaching my side of the bed, she says, “Warm slippers, just as you like.” She places them on the floor at the exact point at which I would turn out of bed. “And a freshly-washed robe, still warm from the dryer— as requested.” The white robe is a stark contrast to her dark skin.

  “Thank you.” My voice is aged. I sit up and find that I’m in maroon, silk pajamas. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

  She seems confused by my gratitude. “You’re quite welcome.” Draping the robe across the foot of the bed, “May I have the honor of selecting some clothes for this evening?” She has a slight Southern accent.

  “Uh…sure.” My speech pattern seems too informal.

  “Thank you, Sir.” A single, unhurried nod of tidy, black waves suggests that she has served me for many years.

  “No… it is I who should be grateful to you for your kindness.” I’m hoping to reflect genuine regard.

  She looks at me. “Are you feeling all right, Master Gilchrist?”

  Gilchrist? Shit, Shit, Shit! I can’t believe I’m in the body of a pervert. This is a Child Protection nightmare. I try not to think about what he’s done, but images bombard me. I want to crawl out of myself. I look up. Mother! I bet she’s enjoying this. I’m nothing more than a pawn in her outrageous fantasy.

  I try to pull it together, have to make contact with the group. “I’m fine, fine.” I turn to get out of bed, and slide my feet into the slippers. “Perfectly content, Miss...” Standing, I’m a head taller than her. Her figure, though curvaceous, is compact.

  “Charlotte.” She furrows her brow, looks at me suspiciously. “Well then… I’ll just start the water for your afternoon shower.”

  Afternoon? I wonder what I missed, wonder where everyone is. “Do you know where I put my phone?”

  Charlotte walks to the nightstand on the other side of the bed. “It’s right where you left it, Master Gilchrist.” She wipes off the phone with her apron. Something about her seems familiar.

  Why is she calling me Master? I put on the robe. “How long have you worked here?”

  Her mouth tightens. “If you don’t know, I’m certainly not going to remind you.” She picks up the cell phone and walks it to me. There’s hate in her eyes.

  “I’m just feeling a little confused.”

  “That seems to be happening more and more lately. Perhaps a visit to the doctor is in order.” She heads toward the bathroom. As she starts the shower, I look around the room for the time. A grandfather clock stands in the corner. It’s 2:30.

  Breath catches in my chest. I’ve lost more than half the day.

  I look around. This bedroom is larger than my house and extravagantly decorated. The entry to the room is marble. To the right of that: a pool table, then a dividing wall with a double-sided fireplace. On the closer side of the privacy wall, a love seat— with a pheasant and nature pattern— coordinates with two Winchester chairs covered in blonde leather. The table legs are gold with a glass top. There’s an open area before my bed and main hearth.

  Padding across cashmere carpet to the windows, I see a harbor and know we’re on the Patapsco River. I look across the outside of the mansion; it’s as big as a mall.

  “The shower is at ninety-two degrees, as you like it.” Charlotte crosses to leave.

  I’m anxious to find out what’s going on. I ask, “Is everything set for the party?”

  “A special driver will be here at 4:30, as planned.” She backs out, closing double doors. They’re gold and black, like Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise. Looking up, I see the ceiling is domed. In the style of da Vinci, a mural of the Garden of Eden looms overhead. In the painting, countless naked children, of varying races, hold apples. Gilchrist has no shame.

  I open the door and call out, “I’m having a few guests over before then. Please make them feel welcome.”

  Charlotte stops on a wide marble staircase and delivers the same tidy nod. “Yes, Sir.”

  As I head toward the shower, something calls to me from behind the large hearth. I walk down the band of windows with caution. I know it’s something I don’t want to see. Tucked in the corner is a reading room. The right wall— adjacent to the bathroom— holds books from floor to ceiling. A library ladder sits on a track in wait.

  Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

  Then, a leather-bound book summons me. I don’t want to go to it. I feel like a child who’s afraid of the dark.

  Despite my internal protest, my body moves closer. I walk between reading chairs and sit down. The album sits atop an antique trunk. It boasts the title Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child. Toxic suffering alters the air like diesel fumes. The torment that emanates is so dense I can hardly breathe. I watch my hand open the cover in slow motion.

  On the left page, the title is “Vanessa Gilchrist, the child
- Age 13.” She’s in a ballerina outfit. With arms outstretched, she spins. Her hair, loose and long, floats like a full skirt. She’s smiling, her face tilted to the sky. The light in her eyes speaks of immeasurable joy.

  The right-hand page is titled: “Vanessa Gilchrist, the woman- Age 13.” It’s a black-and-white photo of her naked and crying. She’s begging toward the camera, her face contorted with raw emotion.

  My heart breaks for her. Yes, she’s become a monster, but she’s a victim too.

  Reluctantly, I turn the page.

  It’s Kim in equally horrifying images. I shake my head; can’t believe what some humans are capable of. I can’t look at any more. The last page is numbered 40. He’s ruined so many children, not to mention their families.

  I have to call Lynette. Opening Gilchrist’s phone, the screen saver takes me aback; it’s an image of a naked girl. I delete the picture, set dolphins as the default, then dial.

  “Hello,” she speaks quietly, must be in a public place.

  I go into the bathroom. “It’s Emma.” I sit on the lid of a toilet and slide a stall door closed.

  “Where… who are you?”

  “I’m Richard Gilchrist. And, at the moment, I’m in his bathroom.”

  There’s a moment of silence. “How does it feel to be evil incarnate?” Her therapist is showing.

  “Revolting.” I look at my hands, wonder how many violent flashbacks they’re in. “I found an album, as thick as a dictionary, filled with before-and-after photos of Gilchrist’s victims. It’s like he’s proud of it.”

  “Taking their innocence is equivalent to winning a trophy for him.”

  Lynette’s phone beeps. I can guess the caller. “Is it Lou?”

  She chuckles. “You know him too well. Hang on a minute. I’ll give him an update on our ‘trip’ and tell him I’ll call him back.”

  As she answers Call Waiting, I check out the stall. All the fixtures are solid gold. I push the bidet handle on the basin next to me. Water shoots up in changing patterns like a fountain show at the Bellagio. The money that went into this bathroom alone could feed a third world country.

  Lynette clicks back. “I think he’s pacified. I told him we’d be home tomorrow.”

  I’ll be gone by then. She doesn’t seem concerned with that. Her life will return to normal, and I’ll be some loose collection of cells fighting with Mother about the fate of my soul.