Thunderland (20 page)

“At least
you
do.”

She frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve accepted something.”

She bent her arm, rested her head on her hand.

“Go on,” she said.

“I’ve accepted the fact that your happiness—and Jason’s—is more important than mine.”

“Placing your family’s welfare above your own is fine, honey. But are you happy with yourself, too?”

“What makes me happy is making you and Jason happy. If I can do that until the day I die, that’s enough for me.”

She laid her head on the pillow. “That sounds nice. But in a way, it also sounds like you hate yourself.”

He ran his fingers through her curly hair.

“Well?” she said.

“I’ll be honest with you. In some bad ways, I’m exactly like my dad. I’ve tried to deny it, but there’s no point in doing it anymore. It’s in my blood. Like father, like son.”

“Like hell,” she said. “You’re nothing like your dad. You have his workaholic habits, but you’re getting over them.”

“That’s not all we have in common.”

“Yes, it is. Listen, Thomas. You’re a sweet, generous, thoughtful man—and your dad isn’t. Stop comparing yourself to him. Hearing you talk like that bothers me, because it’s not true.”

Her words, intended to be loving and encouraging, were like hammer blows on his soul. Thanks to Big George’s mastery of deceit, Mama had thought the same thing about Big George, though Thomas had known it was an outrageous lie. Big George would sometimes take Thomas with him when he visited his girlfriends, always sealing the visits with the threat that he would kill Thomas if he told Mama. As a boy, Thomas had vowed that he would never deceive his own wife as his father had hoodwinked his mother, but look what had happened. Just as his father had done, now he lived a lie, too—while his wife praised him as a sweet, generous, thoughtful man.

Like father, like son.

It was true. Lord help him, it was true.

His pain at the realization must have been evident, because Linda looked at him with concern.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“You’re too good for me, Linda,” he said, shaking his head. “I love you with all my heart, but you’re too damn good for me.”

She put her finger to his lips.

“Please, don’t talk like that. I’m not too good for you, you’re not too good for me. We’re perfectly matched, understand?”

He did not reply. She leaned closer. “Understand?” she said.

“Yeah, baby. I understand.”

“Good.”

She kissed him softly, tenderly.

“Now, if you really want to understand how perfectly matched we are, you’ll make love to me again,” she said.

They made love again.

Lying in the darkness, holding her body close, he shut his eyes and slid into sleep. He dreamed that he was seventy years old and living in a nursing home. Sick. Bitter. Alone.

Darkness filled the room.

“Don’t move, Mike, don’t you dare move,” Brains said. “Forget about the lights, he’s controlling them, anyway. We can’t be separated, not for one second.”

“I ain’t going anywhere,” Shorty said.

The lights clicked on.

Then they blinked off again. And on again. And off. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. Faster and faster, on and off, in mindless repetition.

Due to his sight being temporarily impaired, colorful shapes swam like schools of fish in Brains’s field of vision. He gripped the pistol tighter. He hoped the Stranger did not attack or do whatever the hell he planned to do. He wanted to be able to see what happened.

He had the impression, too, that the Stranger was only showboating. The thunder, lightning, wind, rain, this light show—it was like bragging, the behavior of a spoiled brat showing off his toys. Still, Brains’s fear was genuine. Showboat or not, the Stranger possessed awesome power deserving of respect.

The lights turned on again. This time, they remained on.

Before Brains could register relief, the bedroom door shuddered.

“It’s him,” Shorty said.

Brains swiftly trained the .22 on the door across the room, finger around the trigger.

The Stranger began to hammer the door. His blows shook the entire door:
thud-thud-thud-thud-thud
...

“Let’s push the bed against it!” Shorty said.

Brains holstered the pistol and joined Shorty beside the bed. They planted their feet on the carpet, bent down, and pushed.

The bed would not budge.

Impossible.

It was a twin-size bed, encumbered only with sheets and a pillow, but it would not move one centimeter. Brains and Shorty redoubled their efforts, sweated and cursed as they strained, but they may as well have been trying to uproot a tree.

Brains went to his chair, thinking he could lever it under the doorknob. But the chair would not move either.

They tried the windows, the sole route of escape. They were unlocked. But they would not open.

It was as if they were trapped in some nightmare world, a land in which the Stranger was a god, and Brains and Shorty were helpless captives.

Fierce hits bombarded the door:
thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud
...

Brains and Shorty edged in front of Jason. Jason was sprawled in the recliner, head lolling, legs splayed before him. His chest rose and fell slowly.

“Jason, wake up!” Shorty said. He opened Brains’s bottle of ice water and dumped the water on Jason’s face.

Jason did not awaken.

The crack of splitting wood called their attention away from Jason. A fissure mapping the length of the door had appeared.

Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud
...

More cracks crazed across the door.

Brains aimed the gun. He had an absurd desire for the door to give way, so he could see what the Stranger looked like. If he could only
see
him, he might not be half as frightened as he was now.

The bolts popped off the doorjamb and clattered to the floor.

Brains held the .22, held his breath.

One last, savage whack:
thud!

Like a chopped tree, the door fell forward, Brains’s finger sweating on the trigger, about to fire ...

And the instant the door should have struck the floor, Brains found himself sitting in the chair, in front of Jason.

“What the fuck?” Shorty said. He was back in position beside Brains. The camcorder rested on his shoulder.

Brains’s mouth had dropped open. He shut it, swallowed.

He pulled up his pant leg. The .22 he had clutched only seconds ago gleamed in his ankle holster.

He examined the door. It had only a few nicks and scratches, the same markings it had borne for years. He opened it. He heard Shorty’s parents watching TV downstairs.

Shorty lifted the window. “It doesn’t look like there was a storm outside. I don’t see a drop of rain on the glass, and the sky’s clear.”

Brains attempted to move the bed. It shifted easily.

He read his watch. It read 8:32, which meant only one minute had passed since he had last looked at it. He was sure he had checked the time about five minutes ago. All of those weird things could not have occurred
within one minute.

His heart pounded painfully.

Jason groaned. His eyes had rolled back into their normal position. Brains noted that Jason’s face and shirt were dry, too, though Mike had dumped a bottle of water on him to try to rouse him from the trance. The water could not have evaporated so quickly.
Impossible.

Blinkly slowly, clearly disoriented, Jason looked at them. “Hey, fellas, what’s going on?”

“You don’t know?” Shorty said.

“The last thing I remember is sitting down, then Brains telling me to close my eyes. Why? Did something important happen?”

“Yeah,” Shorty said.

“What?” Jason said.

Shorty looked at Jason, then at Brains.

“We don’t really know,” Shorty said.

* * *

In Shorty’s basement, after Brains and Shorty related to Jason what had happened, Jason rose from the sofa and paced. His mind was spinning.

“Then this is what we know, fellas. I’ve had this friend since I was four years old. I can go to wherever this guy lives, but no one else can go there. I used to be really close to him, felt I could depend on him for anything. And lastly, I don’t want to tell anyone about him, because I’m scared no one will understand.” He stopped pacing, shook his head. “Well, even with knowing all of that stuff, I can’t tell you who the Stranger is, or why he’s doing these things. It’s a mystery to me.”

“I figured as much,” Brains said, sitting on the sofa. “We weren’t able to tear down your memory block. We were interrupted.”

“Ambushed
is a better word,” Shorty said, seated beside Brains on the couch. “When the Stranger came, he tore shit up.”

“Did you catch it on tape?” Jason said. “Maybe if we watch what he did, we can find some more clues.”

“I got everything,” Shorty said. “I’ll show you.”

Shorty walked to the VCR, which sat atop the TV. He switched on the machine and inserted the videotape on which he had filmed the hypnotic regression. He pressed PLAY and returned to his seat.

Jason sat on the overstuffed chair beside the television and watched.

On the large screen, Brains was sitting in front of Jason and speaking to him.

“Okay, Jason. Lean back in the chair and relax. “

Shorty picked up the remote control and fast-forwarded the cassette. Colorful images twitched and blurred. He pressed
Play
again.

On the screen, Brains talked.

Jason, it’s now three-twenty on that same day. “What are you doing?”

Tension draws Jason’s face taut. “When he speaks, his voice is pained.

“I’m arguing with Mom. She’s drunk, and she won’t leave me alone. Why does she keep beating on me?”

Viewing that segment of the recording twisted Jason’s stomach. Thankfully, Shorty fast-forwarded the tape again.

He pushed PLAY.

On TV, ensconced in the recliner, Jason spoke.

“There,”
he says. “I’m finally at the top, resting between a couple of limbs.”