Phoenix (3 page)

The dreams would stop, one way or another. If
he had to drink himself to death, or do something stupid like walk
out in front of a bus, then that’s what he would do. The nights had
driven Brad to the edge of his sanity.

"I’m going for a walk. Lock up when you
leave." He shook free of Mort’s grip and strode out the front
door.

Mort, in turn, fell back into the couch and
buried the sadness swelling inside him.

"…and in other news, the President and CEO of
PhoenTek, Sean Boucher, will be traveling to Europe this week to
meet with several of his colleagues concerning the merger of key
companies in the area. If you remember, just last month PhoenTek
took control over competing companies in Japan, Saudi Arabia, and
Brazil. Many critics are questioning PhoenTek’s motives, saying it
was
already
a global giant in everything from communications
to advances in the medical field before all the recent
acquisitions. PhoenTek’s Board of Directors has so far had no
comment."

Mort jabbed the button on the remote,
silencing the talking head that had started his tension headache.
He hadn’t heard from Brad since their argument the day before. He
rubbed his temples, wondering if he should make another trip to
Brad’s apartment.

He’s
avoiding
me
, he
thought.
If
he
wanted
to
talk
,
he’d
let
me
know
. Then Mort thought
back on how he’d found Brad the night before.

I
better
go
over
.

No
,
don’t
.
You’ll
push
the
boy
away
.

Mort took a pen from his shirt pocket. That
old, chewed-up thing was as much a part of him as the hand that
held it. The ink had dried up long ago and the cap was missing, but
sliding it into the pocket of a clean shirt every morning was a
ritual Mort couldn’t live without.

Holding it by the top, he started tapping it
against his thigh. He stared ahead at the television screen and, as
the tapping became more deliberate and rhythmic, let his eyes
unfocus. Mort felt the plastic of the pen between his fingertips,
the crisp cleanness of the air being pulled into his lungs, and
thought about Brad until a clear image of the man took shape.

The tapping pen quickened.

The first hints of emotion began to form and
push their way into the folds of Mort’s mind. He held the image of
Brad and waited until the spectrum developed into something he
could interpret.

The pen beat its rhythm.
Tap
,
tap
,
tap
.
Tap
,
tap
,
tap
.

Hazy wisps that swirled around the mental
snapshot took on colors: red, black, different shades of blue.
After so many years, Mort had learned that each color had a
corresponding emotion. He let them grow until they were so strong
he could barely tell them apart from his own feelings. He gasped,
gripped the pen, and blinked until the room came back into
focus.

He’s
given
up
.

"DeMint." Mort snatched his cell from the
coffee table and dialed the number.

* * *

It was midday and the sun was beating down
through the windshield of Brad’s car. Horns blared in front and
behind him, reflecting the mood of the traffic jam he’d been stuck
in for fifteen minutes.

His cell had been ringing itself to death all
morning, each time displaying a picture that had been taken during
Mort’s jaunt in Mexico last year. The round, rosy-cheeked face,
salt and pepper hair, topped off with the biggest damn sombrero
Brad had ever seen. Hanging on each of his arms were two women,
gorgeous, tanned, scantily clad, and definitely not wearing
sombreros. That picture always made Brad chuckle, but not this day.
He was trying to distance himself from Mort because he was getting
too close to the thing Brad didn’t want to talk about. If he talked
about it, that gave it validity. As it stood, they were just
dreams. If he kept telling himself that, then eventually he’d
believe it. Dreams. Nothing more. If he talked about them, then
they might come true.

"They’ll come true whether I talk about them
or not," Brad whispered. His eyes were burning and he realized he’d
been staring at the license plate of the Scion idling in front of
him. He blinked, shook his head, and pounded on the horn. "Come on
already. Jesus."

The Sombrero vibrated and rang from where it
lay in the passenger seat, so Brad reached out and cranked up the
radio.

"…
swine
flu
clinic
will
be
held
today
between
one
and
three
at
Our
Lady
of
Hope
.
They
ask
that
you
bring
at
least
one
nonperishable
food
item
with
you
for
donation
,
as
the
vaccinations
are
being
given
free
of
charge
."

"Yeah, I’ll get right on that," Brad
grumbled, poking the presets until he found the classic rock
station.

His head was bobbing back and forth to the
beat, his fingers tapping the steering wheel, when his wandering
eyes fell across a figure strolling down the sidewalk on the
opposite side of the street. Brad’s body stiffened as he watched
the man stop outside a florist shop and talk with the girl who had
been arranging bouquets for the sidewalk display. It seemed
innocent enough. She was smiling. He was flirting. But Brad was
breaking out in a cold sweat. A piercing whistle sounded between
his ears and the real world went black.

Blood
on
his
fists
,
a
pair
of
scratches
across
his
cheek
.
Her
shirt
ripped
and
her
eyes
black
and
swollen
.
Puddles
of
water
on
pavement
.
The
smell
of
garbage
,
possibly
dumpsters
.
The
sound
of
a
metal
can
rolling
,
catching
the
man’s
attention
.
He
turns
and
runs
the
other
direction
,
away
from
the
noise
.
The
girl
doesn’t
move
.

Brad’s chest heaved, the image flashing
through his head in seconds. He didn’t know traffic had started
moving again; his eyes were fastened to the couple in front of the
roses. A blaring horn behind him snapped the real world back into
place and startled his foot into action. He drove down a block,
slapped the blinker, merged into the turning lane, and hung a left.
Brad kept glancing back at the couple, keeping track of the man’s
location, while weaving through traffic to get a parking spot on
the street. He lost sight of them after cutting the corner. The
wheel jerked and he cut another driver off, but he had to get
parked before the man made his move. If that happened, he’d lose
them, and he wouldn’t be able to stop what was about to happen.

"Watch it, asshole!" a guy in a power suit
yelled out his window when Brad threw his door open and almost fell
in front of the BMW.

Brad ignored it, stumbling across the street
and through oncoming traffic, fear driving him to the corner where
he’d last seen the girl. They were walking away from the shop
toward the alley on the other side. The man was showing the girl
something in his hand, but Brad couldn’t tell what it was because
their backs were to him. Most likely it was a prop meant to lend
strength to the bullshit excuse he’d used to get the girl to leave
her post and walk with him.

Brad barreled his way down the crowded
sidewalk, not even bothering to apologize to the people he was
shoving out of his way. The girl was about to cut the corner into
the alley.

What
is
she
thinking
?
Why
would
she
do
that
?
He’s
a
complete
stranger
!

It didn’t make sense, but he didn’t have time
to analyze the situation. For a split-second, he heard Mort say,
‘Think first. Act second.’ Mort always warned Brad against being
rash and to consider his options. Brad always argued that there was
no time. When he caught a snippet of the future, he had to react;
most times those glimpses were only minutes away from playing
out.

"Miss? Miss!" Brad yelled.

She didn’t hear him, not over the drone of
traffic and pedestrians. He’d rather get her attention and pull her
away from the man, than confront her attacker in the alley, but it
looked as though he wasn’t going to be left with a choice. It was
true that Brad was a stout young man. At six feet tall and 230
pounds, there weren’t very many men he couldn’t handle. The problem
was he’d never been much of a fighter. He wasn’t a coward by any
means; he just preferred to avoid trouble altogether.

Brad stopped short at the mouth of the alley.
He leaned forward just enough to catch a quick glimpse, then ducked
back. They were maybe twenty feet in, and the man had been pointing
at the far end. Whatever flimsy excuse he’d used had worked in
getting her alone, and she was completely buying it.

Maybe
he
lost
his
cat
, Brad thought, then strode into the alley before he lost
his nerve.

"Excuse me!"

The man and the girl jerked around. She was
smiling. He was not.

Brad moved forward with purpose. "There you
are. I’ve been looking all over for you." He threw his hands out to
his sides. "We’re late. You know Aunt Bell is gonna be pissed if we
don’t get over there."

The girl’s smile faded, but she didn’t shrink
away when Brad stopped in front of her and took hold of her hand.
The man stepped back, confused at first. Brad didn’t give him time
to recover.

"Come on, honey." Brad glanced at the man and
gave him the man-nod, then began leading the girl back the other
way. Thankfully she didn’t argue. Or struggle and scream at the top
of her lungs.

Keep
moving
,
please
don’t
ask
questions
,
just
come
with
me
,
please
,
please
,
please
.

She had to skip a few paces to keep up with
Brad’s increasing strides. He didn’t dare look back until they
cleared the alley. The man was still standing where they’d left
him, except he was looking around as though lost instead of
tracking his prey. Brad pulled her in front of him and guided her
back toward the shop, blending with the crowd.

"Just stay calm. I’m not a nut," he said to
her.

"You sure about that?"

"Mostly."

Brad whipped her around and steered her
directly through the open florist’s door, not stopping until they
made it to the back next to the refrigerated cases. He let go of
her and stood facing the front windows, watching for the man. A few
of the customers inside gave him strange looks but moved on with
their business without causing trouble.

"Mind telling me what the hell that was and
who the hell you are?" The pretty, naïve girl was showing her
claws. Brad ignored her. She shoved him. "Hey, I’m
talking
to you."

He turned on her. "Just wait a second, okay?"
Brad looked back to the windows. It had been a couple minutes and
the man still hadn’t walked by. Maybe she was safe. He took a few
cautious steps forward and waited.

No sign of him.

"Alright, I think you’re safe," Brad turned
and said. He wiped his forehead and heaved a sigh. He’d been more
frightened than he thought.

The girl shook her head and worked her
mouth.

Brad raised his hands. "Yeah, okay, this is
crazy. But listen, that guy was going to hurt you." She sucked in a
breath to argue, but he continued. "He wanted to get you alone,
which he
did
, by the way. Are you crazy? Walking off like
that with some dude you don’t even know? Into a dark and empty
alley?" He shook his head and waved his hand. "No, don’t even
answer that. Just don’t do it again." The longer he talked, the
madder he got at this girl.

By this time her irritation had faded. Her
eyes were wide and her cheeks had gone pale. "I… I don’t
understand. He— he was going to—"

"Yeah. And the next time I may not be there
to save your ass." Brad started to leave. The fear on her face
stopped him. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that." He ran a hand through
his shaggy brown hair and studied her a moment. "Just keep an eye
out for him, and if you see him again, call the cops. Can you do
that?"

Her nod came quick, she was fighting back
tears. "Yes."

Brad pursed his lips and realized his hands
were on his hips. He probably looked like Mort. Just taller and not
as round. He dropped his hands and walked away. Before crossing the
threshold onto the sidewalk, he heard her say, "Thank you."

He didn’t stop and didn’t look back. He
couldn’t; his nails were already drawing blood from his palms. He
woke up that morning intent on ending his life before the sun went
down. If he had, that girl would have been killed.