Phoenix (4 page)

That
should
tell
you
something
,
Lincoln
.

Brad snatched the cell and called Mort. He
hated driving and talking, but he’d never been much of a hands-free
kind of guy.

"Come on, pick up," he said, after the third
ring. One more and the voicemail answered. "Hey, it’s me. Uh, I
don’t know where you are, but we need to talk. Shit, I’ll probably
be there before you get this message so never mind." Brad hung up
and tossed the phone into the passenger seat.

* * *

Brad pulled into Mort’s driveway half an hour
later. It should have taken longer and he thanked all that was holy
that his route had been clear of police cruisers. One more
infraction and he’d be hoofing it for six months.

He glanced over the lawn as he walked up the
sidewalk. Mort’s yard was and always had been pristine. It reminded
Brad of the first time they met. Brad had grown up on this street,
and one summer after pulling a remarkably stupid stunt that
involved a slingshot, a trash can lid, his little sister, and their
ten-year-old Yorkie, he’d been sentenced to cutting the neighbors’
grass until school started in the fall. Once a week, Brad pushed
that mower back and forth across Mort’s yard, while Mort sat on the
porch and supervised.

"Hey," Mort greeted now, having met Brad at
the front door. "Wasn’t expecting you."

Brad said, "Sure you weren’t," and stepped
inside.

"Come on in," Mort mumbled and closed the
door.

The first thing Brad noticed was the smell.
Usually his friend’s home was filled with the scent of Clorox and
Pine Sol. Always on the hunt for dirt, he was. The furnishings were
more or less there to take up space. The couch was the only piece
to ever see an ass, and the carpet looked as new as it did twenty
years ago when it was first put down. Spotless, shiny, and perfect.
An OCDers wet dream.

Brad stopped in the foyer and threw a glance
over his shoulder. "Have you been…baking?"

"Shoes."

"You never bake."

"Yes, I’ve been baking. Shoes!" Mort stomped
off toward the smell.

Brad tripped and fumbled out of his boots and
scrambled to catch up. "You
never
bake! Wait—" He snuck up
to the oven and peered through the small window. "Moooort," he
straightened, "Did you bake Missus Levinson?"

"You’re real fucking funny, boy. Sit down."
Mort motioned to the stool behind the kitchen island.

Brad grabbed his chest. "Baking
and
using the furniture! This just in: Mort’s lost his mind." He
grinned and pulled the stool out, wincing when the legs screeched
across the tiles.

Mort took the seat across from him and folded
his hands on the counter. He didn’t say any more, just stared at
his young friend and waited.

"So I went driving today." Brad cleared his
throat. "Sorry I didn’t return your calls, by the way."

Mort raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

"Uh, okay. Here’s the thing." Brad rubbed his
face and struggled to find an explanation. "You were right." Brad
stared across his clasped hands. They were pressed to his nose and
muffled his words. "Everything you said yesterday." He paused and
waited for a reaction. When he began to notice the steady tick-tock
of the kitchen clock, he realized he wasn’t going to get one.
"Well? Don’t you have anything to say? Not even an
I-told-you-so?"

Mort drew in a tight breath. "No."

Brad’s mouth sagged. Mort
always
had
something to say. Especially if his student had been wrong about
something.

Then it dawned on him why Mort might be
tight-lipped.

"What’s wrong? Something’s wrong." Brad got
up, hurried to the window, and scanned the backyard. "I should have
known. The baking, the sitting, the total lack of lecturing." His
head darted like a chicken’s, first to Mort then back to the
window. Finding nothing, he moved to the backdoor and tried
sneaking a peek through the curtains.

"Brad, knock that shit off and sit down."

Brad slunk back to his stool and whispered,
"Are you bugged?"

"Yes. Yes, that’s it. Except I found it and
stuck it in the pumpkin pie that’s in the oven."

Least
I
know
how
serious
this
is
, Brad thought.
I
always
make
him
laugh
.

"Okay, okay." Brad’s shoulders slumped. "You
wanted me to talk to you, so here it is. The dreams are back."

"Goddammit." Mort’s curse rushed out of him
and his body seemed to fold in on itself. Leaning against the
tabletop, he covered his face for a long time. When he spoke again,
it was muffled by his hands. "How long?"

"Two months," Brad answered.

"Every night?"

"Yes."

"How bad?"

Brad hesitated a beat before answering that
one. How bad? Bad wasn’t even the word for them.

"Brad," Mort pleaded, "how
bad
?"

"Pretty bad."

Mort swore again, but this time it came out
sounding like "fuh." The two men stared at one another across the
silence while the pie burned.

Brad gazed out the window with his back to
the living room. He still hadn’t had a chance to confess he’d been
planning suicide, but he
had
told Mort about the man at the
flower shop. As soon as Brad finished describing that and the
dreams he’d been having, Mort went upstairs to his bedroom and
returned with a small brown book. Inside were phone numbers for
what he called his Book Club. Since then, he’d been rooted to his
spot on the couch making calls.

"And you’re sure?" Mort asked. The answer he
received wasn’t good, if his swearing was any indication. "Alright.
Keep me posted." He punched the end-call and tossed his phone on
the coffee table. "Dammit."

"Problem?" Brad asked. His eyes kept straying
to the house across the street. He remembered mowing their grass,
too. Mrs. Henderson always force-fed him cookies afterward, and
they always tasted like coconut.

Mort stood and paced a bit while flipping a
page in his book. "No, not exactly." He snatched the phone and
dialed yet another number.

"Why don’t you give it up? You’ve called like
eight people already, and it doesn’t sound like any of them have
been helpful."

"That’s what you think. If you’d listen with
your head half as much as your ears, you’d know what’s going
on."

Brad snorted but didn’t reply.

"Izzy! Hey!" Mort sounded surprised someone
had answered the phone. "Thank God you answ— yeah, he’s here.
What?"

Brad glanced over his shoulder and the corner
of his mouth curled.

"So you’ve been hav— okay, but wh— right."
Mort mimed choking someone. "Yes." More listening. "That’s what he
said. How lo— oh." Mort locked eyes on Brad. "I’ll make sure he
does. Thanks, Izzy." Then he hung up.

Brad turned from the window and asked,
"Well?"

Mort sighed and fell to the couch. "So I got
some good news and I got some bad news."

"Hit me."

Mort crossed his short legs at the ankles and
folded his hands over his belly. "The other precogs are having the
same kinds of dreams, and the viewers are saying that it’s already
begun."

"Viewers?"

"Yeah. Remember? We’ve been over the
classifications before." Mort sighed again. "Viewers. They, well,
they
view
. See things in real time. Like watching TV and
flipping through the channels."

"Uh huh. So anyway," Brad stepped closer to
the couch, "there was good news in all that? And what’s already
begun?"

Mort shrugged. "They don’t know. When they
try to see what it is, they come up blank. Like someone has taken a
giant eraser and wiped away all the chalk. But," he stood and
walked over to Brad with his finger in the air, "they all agree on
one thing."

"What’s that?"

"They all agree that whatever
it
is,
it’s not good. It started some time ago, and it’s going to get
much, much worse."

Brad snorted again. "No shit. I already told
you that."

"You did, yes. The difference now is we have
confirmation. You get one person who says something, you’re likely
to dismiss it. You get two people saying it, you start to wonder."
Mort ticked the numbers off on his fingers until he ran out. "You
get three, four, a dozen, all saying the same thing?"

Brad nodded along. "You get a very bad
feeling about this."

"Exactly."

Brad went back to the window. "We’re talking
end-of-the-world scenario here, aren’t we?"

"Yes."

"What was it this Izzy person wanted you to
make sure I did?"

Mort took a deep breath. "She said stay alive
and stop trying to kill yourself."

Brad’s diaphragm locked up, but instead of
reflexively denying it, he went back to staring at the Henderson’s
house. "I’ll see what I can do."

* * *

At Mort’s insistence, Brad spent the night.
It was late by the time they finished talking and he really hadn’t
wanted to drive home anyway. The guest room was as sterile as the
rest of the house. So much so that for a brief moment, Brad
entertained the notion of sleeping on the floor to keep from
messing up the bed sheets. Mort was a night owl; he remained in the
living room, parked in front of the TV with a computer on his
lap.

Brad peeled off his shirt and let it drop to
the floor.
Mort
would
shit
if
he
saw
that
.
Probably
make
me
fold
it
before
placing
it
neatly
into
the
hamper
. He fell into
bed, and an hour later he lay half uncovered and drenched in
sweat.

The
older
Suit
walked
swiftly
,
his
shoes
clacked
along
the
sidewalk
.
He
looked
straight
ahead
.
The
street
was
deserted
.
The
only
sound
,
other
than
his
shoes
,
was
a
steady
click
-
drag
just
out
of
view
.

Click
-
drag
.
Click
-
drag
.

He
stopped
at
the
intersection
and
looked
both
ways
.
Odd
,
considering
there
was
no
traffic
.
The
Suit
stepped
off
the
curb
and
into
a
small
puddle
of
blood
,
but
he
didn’t
seem
to
notice
.
His
right
shoe
left
burgundy
prints
on
the
asphalt
.

Click
-
drag
.
Click
-
drag
.

"Look behind you," Brad mumbled in his sleep.
He gripped the sides of the small bed, his feet kicked and tangled
in the sheets.

Another
block
down
and
another
intersection
.
The
Suit
stopped
to
look
both
ways
.

Click
-
drag
.
Click
-
drag
.

This
time
,
instead
of
continuing
on
his
way
,
he
reached
inside
his
jacket
and
pulled
out
a
long
knife
.
He
didn’t
turn
around
.
Staring
straight
ahead
,
his
hand
gripped
the
handle
,
the
blade
pointing
back
.
There
was
still
no
traffic
,
pedestrian
or
otherwise
.
Smaller
details
started
coming
into
focus
.
Overgrown
lawns
,
debris
scattered
over
the
road
,
the
rear
end
of
a
car
sticking
out
of
the
side
of
a
house
where
its
previous
driver
had
crashed
.

Click
-
drag
.
Click
-
drag
.

The
Old
Suit
suddenly
spun
on
his
heel
and
drove
the
blade
of
the
knife
through
the
forehead
of
a
woman
.
She
wilted
like
the
neglected
flowers
in
all
the
surrounding
yards
.
There
was
something
wrong
with
her
,
other
than
being
dead
.

She
had
been
dead
already
.
Now
she
was
dead
again
.