Bad Glass (17 page)

The snow was thick on the ground by the time I got out of bed. Almost five inches. Practically a blizzard by my sunny-California standards. The snow was still falling, but it was now just a tiny flurry, nothing but dust and smoke particles floating in the air.

It felt like my head had been stuffed full of foam and string sometime during the night. And my hand had resumed its loud complaints.

My jeans lay draped over the back of the folding chair, and as soon as I got out of bed, I dug through its pockets, coming up with the remaining oxycodone. There were three left and I considered taking them all, but I ended up just popping a single pill. The night before was a real blur—a slide show of motion snapping past inside my head—and I didn’t want to fall back into that haze. I wanted to stay sharp. I had work to do.

Besides
, I told myself,
my hand doesn’t feel
that
bad
.

Unfortunately, this reassurance didn’t really help, as the thought of unwinding my bandages and checking on my damaged flesh still filled me with a sense of dread. It was something I didn’t want to think about, something I didn’t want to deal with. Not yet.

I got dressed, adding an extra flannel shirt to my layers of clothing. Then I stood at the window for a while, staring out at
the snow-shrouded street. It was a still, pristine tableau. There were no cars or pedestrians, no hint of animal life. The entire world had been hidden beneath a thick alabaster blanket. I looked for tracks in the snow, but there was nothing there. Not a single footprint.

Not a single paw print, either
, I thought, remembering the surge of wolves flowing down this very street.

On the way downstairs, I paused for a moment outside Floyd’s open door. He lay passed out atop his covers, fully clothed. His guitar case sat propped against the wall near his head, and his hands were smeared with dried blood. He was snoring.

The rest of the bedroom doors were all closed. The only sound in the upstairs hallway was the low, regular drone of Floyd’s breath.

Downstairs, I once again found Charlie sitting at the kitchen table, typing away at his notebook computer. When I entered, he glanced up briefly, and then nodded toward a French Press sitting on the kitchen counter. “I made coffee,” he said. “Help yourself.” Before I could thank him—before I could say a single word—he looked back down at his computer, once again losing himself in the glowing screen. I could practically hear the gears clicking away inside his head. In those brief moments, my presence had been noted, analyzed, and filed away. His thoughts had moved on. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at his side.

“When are you sending stuff out next?” I asked, idly rapping a knuckle against the back of his screen. “When does your thumb drive go back out into the world?”

“Taylor said tonight,” Charlie replied, not looking up. “She’s giving it to her friend tonight.”

“If I wanted to post something—to a forum, a message board—could I do that? Could you program something to do that?”

Charlie’s fingers fell silent on the keyboard, and he glanced up. I watched as his forehead scrunched up in lines of concentration, his unfixed stare drifting up toward the ceiling. I’d managed to capture his attention.

“Is it a public message board? What type of security are we talking about?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. You log into an account, then type stuff into a box.”

Charlie laughed and shook his head, then fell silent. His stare remained fixed on an imaginary spot above my shoulder. After a handful of seconds, his eyes refocused. “You have your computer here, right? Did you browse the site recently?”

I nodded. “Probably the last thing I read.”

He smiled. “Then bring it to me. I bet you ten bucks—if it’s still in the cache, I can do it. I can post whatever you want.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That’s incredible.” Charlie’s eyes flickered back toward his computer, and I could tell I was about to lose him again.

“Are you scared?” I asked, seizing the moment. “About what might come back? On the drive? In your email?”

He stopped, hands frozen over the keyboard. For a moment, I thought I’d pushed him too far. Then he smiled.

“No,” he said. “It’s them, my parents. I figured it out. They’re trying to get to me, trying to tell me something. And that’s what I
want
 … to find them, to contact them.

“And when it’s time, it’ll all become clear. They’ll reach me, or I’ll reach them.” Charlie once again had that distant look in his eyes, like he was grappling with some technical problem, trying to figure out how to make something work. “It’s the message, you see, not the form it takes. I just have to figure out what they’re trying to say.”

He turned back toward his computer, dismissing me abruptly. I could see two windows open on his screen. One was filled with code, and the other showed his mother on the corner of Second Avenue and Sherman Street. Charlie had zoomed the picture in on her haunted expression.

I felt bad for him. The only message I could read there, in that close-up, was a message of fear: Charlie’s mother looking back
over her shoulder with that frightened look on her face, like she wasn’t alone on that abandoned street, like there was something else there, chasing her. Something horrible.

Amanda and Mac were playing in the backyard when I finished up my coffee. They were having a snowball fight. Amanda was hiding behind a row of rosebushes while Mac lobbed projectiles high into the air, sending them raining down like artillery shots. After a round of sorties, Amanda popped up over the line of bushes and whipped a snowball directly at his head, sending him toppling over.

Their laughter was high and bright, a counterpoint to Charlie’s insistent
tap-tap-tap
.

Amanda stuck her head in through the back door. “Me against you three,” she panted. “Mac needs the help. He’s getting his ass kicked out here!” A snowball hit the window at her side, and she turned, laughing, to once again join the fray.

Charlie’s fingers didn’t even pause on the keyboard. After Amanda disappeared, he started sucking at his teeth absently, filling the room with a wet, slurping sound. I set my empty coffee cup in the kitchen sink, then headed upstairs to start work on my forum post.

Taylor’s door was right across from the stairwell, and I paused when I reached it. I listened for a moment, then knocked tentatively. There was no response. I pushed, and the door swung open. The room was empty, her bed neatly made.
Early riser
, I thought.
Already out in the world, doing whatever it is she does in the morning
.

I continued on to my room.

I spent the rest of the morning staring at my computer screen, trying to assemble a forum post. It was a stressful task. The way I looked at it, this was the most important thing in my life. It was the next step in my journey, putting my pictures out there for the whole world to see.

These were my dreams and aspirations. In pieces on my computer screen.

More than anything, I wanted to make the right first impression. I wanted to capture people’s attention and establish credibility right off the bat. I wanted people to look at these pictures—really
look
at them—and take me seriously. I wanted them to recognize my passion, my skill, my
art
.

No wonder I was anxious. I had the weight of my entire future sitting right there on my shoulders.

I decided to start with some of my more mundane images. If I started with the insane stuff, I reasoned, no one would believe me. I could hear the arguments now:
Yeah, he just Photoshopped a finger onto that spider; and that face in the wall, it doesn’t even look real—it’s just a mask, a mannequin
.

No, I decided, it was better to start off with the stuff no one would dispute.

First up: the soldier in front of the
ENTERING SPOKANE
sign. Then an empty city street. Then Riverfront Park. And finally, a pair of pictures from Mama Cass’s: one showing the crowd of refugees gathered around the storefront, the other showing a handful of dirty faces watching me suspiciously. I liked this final picture; I thought it ended things on the right note. It put some human faces—ragged and tired, haunted and angry—amid all the desolation.

I was laying groundwork. Setting the scene.

I’d get to the insanity later.

I spent several hours tweaking the images, trying to make them perfect. Then I composed a couple of sentences for the top of the post. I tried to keep my preface simple; I wanted to let the photographs speak for themselves.

I added the “hand to hand” thing to take heat off of Danny, in case this post ever caught the attention of the authorities.

After I finished the preface, I read it over a couple of times, trying to imagine the impression it would make. I found it lacking. It felt cold, clinical. There was no emotion, no hint it had been written by a real human being, someone capable of being moved by the things on the other side of the camera’s viewfinder. Tentatively, I typed out another line:

I stared at the post for a long time, reading over that sparse handful of sentences, studying each and every aspect of the photographs. It still felt insufficient somehow, incomplete.
It
is
incomplete
, I told myself.
There is no end here, no conclusion … not yet
.

But it
is
a beginning
.

Floyd stuck his head into my room just as I was finishing up my post.

“Come here, man,” he said, stifling a yawn. “There’s something I want you to see.”

I saved my work and followed him into his room.

At one time, this had been a child’s bedroom. There were alternating rows of clowns and balloons peering out from the wallpaper, bright cartoon shapes turned bleak and gray beneath a layer of dingy smoke residue. Across from Floyd’s child-size bed, some of the clowns had been gouged out of the wall, as if attacked with a potato peeler. All the balloons remained intact. In the corner, a black sweatshirt shrouded the shape of a hobbyhorse.

The room smelled of pot and stale sweat.

Floyd was still half asleep. He stopped in the middle of the
room and stretched his hands up over his head, letting out a loud yawn.

“What’s up?” I asked, and I smiled. “Did you have a bad dream? Do you need me to tuck you back in? Maybe sing you a lullaby?”

Floyd let out a fake laugh. “Fuck, man, you’re
funny
,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were so fucking funny.”

He grabbed my elbow and pulled me over to the window. He had his blinds drawn almost all the way to the bottom, and I had to crouch down in order to peer through the gap. “Check it out. Across the street.”

The view was the same as I’d seen from my window earlier that morning. The street was covered with snow, and there was absolutely no sign of life. Then I noticed the tracks leading from our front door to the house directly across the street.

“Upstairs window,” Floyd said, crouching down at my side.

I focused on the upper story, slowly scanning from one room to the next. All the windows were shuttered save the biggest one, just above the front door. There was movement there, on the other side of the glass. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like somebody pacing back and forth.

“It’s Devon,” Floyd whispered conspiratorially. “I’ve seen him over there before, but I’ve never been able to figure out what he’s doing. Sometimes he’ll go over there and we won’t see him for days.” Floyd let out an annoyed grunt. “And when I ask him about it, he won’t tell me shit.”

I went back to my room and got my camera, then returned to Floyd’s side. I raised the camera to the sill and zoomed in on the window across the street.

I hadn’t noticed the electric-blue light, dwarfed in that world of startling white snow. But now, magnified inside my camera lens, it became obvious. An eerie blue glow illuminating one side of Devon’s face. The light moved across his features as he paced back and forth, striding quickly from one side of the room to the other. Every once in a while, he raised his hands in a gesture of apparent frustration.

I couldn’t tell what he was doing.
Did he go over there to vent?
I wondered.
Is he just storming about in an empty room, blowing off steam?

As he passed in front of the window, Devon paused suddenly and looked our way. There was a strange expression on his face—a look of both fear and annoyance—and for a moment, I thought we’d been caught in the act of spying. But I quickly realized that that was impossible. We were hidden in Floyd’s dark room, staring out through a tiny crack in his blinds. There was no way he could see us here, not from that distance.