Phantasos (9 page)

Fifteen

DANNY STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF the arcade with the rest of the customers who had gathered about, and watched the paramedics take care of Alley. He was carefully placed onto a stretcher, an oxygen mask was pulled over his face, and the stretcher was cautiously loaded into the rear of an ambulance. Benji and Lauren hopped in after him, the lights on top of the ambulance started to strobe, and a whining siren cut through the air as the ambulance took off through the falling sheets of rain.

No sooner had the ambulance driven away, a police cruiser pulled up in front of the arcade. A big, ’88 Impala. A tank of a car. The lights and the sirens were both off, and the car pulled up to the curb slowly. Danny heard the transmission click into park, and out stood two square-faced, somber looking officers.

“Are you Daniel Feist?” the younger of the two officers asked.

“I am,” he said, and he felt his stomach sink so slow he thought it might spill out onto the sidewalk in front of him.

“We’ll need to speak to you for a moment,” the older officer said, removing his cap as he stepped into the arcade.

Danny shooed the remaining patrons out of the arcade and locked the doors, then quickly hung a sign on the door that simply read: Closed. He escorted the officers to the back office, but before they could say a word he suddenly knew, he just
knew
it was rotten news
,
the way someone knows when something terrible has happened—it shivers through their body, through their bones, through their marrow. Through their very being.  

The officers made sure Danny was sitting firmly in his seat, then introduced themselves: the older officer, Officer King, and the younger officer, Officer Drummond. Once the formalities were over, King and Drummond cut to the chase and went directly to the matter at hand. They gave Danny their condolences, held his shoulder so he wouldn’t lean out of his chair, and informed him that Todd Prower had passed away at approximately 2 PM that afternoon.

Danny cried a hard, trembling cry that echoed off the walls of the office. When it seemed as if his energy was spent, that he was physically unable to weep another tear, he asked King and Drummond how Todd passed and then the sobbing began again, as furiously as ever.

Ten minutes must have passed—maybe twenty?—Danny wasn’t sure. The officers were being decent and considerate enough, not at all acting impatient or like time was a concern.

When there was finally a break in sobbing Drummond said, “We’d like to talk to you for a bit, Danny. But we don’t have to right now. We can visit you a little later, if you’d like.”

“No,” Danny said. He raised his hand, leaned back in his seat, and crossed his legs. “I can talk. I can talk.” He drew long, sharp breaths, counting between them. After the third breath, the room went silent.

“I know it’s difficult,” King said, “but can you tell Officer Drummond and myself if Todd has had any problems lately?” Drummond pulled out a short pencil and a memo pad, flipped open to a blank sheet.

“What kind of problems?” Danny said.

“Oh,” King said. “Anything. Girl problems, money problems. Was there anything bothering him?”

Danny cleared his throat. “It’s been no secret in town that the arcade hasn’t been doing so well. Financially.”

“That’s a start,” King said. “Drummond and myself don’t play many of these video amusements. We were unaware of your financial situation.”

“We had some problems paying the lease a month or two back, but Todd took care of it. There’s been some bill collectors, but nothing too serious. Not yet. We’ve been able to stay afloat.”

“So, some significant money problems,” Drummond said.

“No,” Danny said. “I just told you, they weren’t too serious—”

“Coming up late on rent, bill collectors knocking on your door.” Drummond shrugged. “Sounds serious to me.”

“What about women?” King interrupted. “Was Todd seeing anyone? Romantically?”

“No,” Danny said.

“Was he sneaking around? Could he have been having an affair without you knowing?”

“No,” Danny said. “Why are you asking me so many questions about a woman?”

King leaned back, sighed, and raised his eyebrows to Drummond. Drummond nodded his head,
Go ahead, show him,
and King reached down to the floor for his briefcase. He opened it up and took out two clear bags, each marked as evidence, and each one had a single piece of notebook paper inside with some scribbles.

“First thing’s first,” King said. “We found both of these on Todd’s kitchen table. It looks like he wrote them this morning, before he left the house.”

Danny reached across the table and picked up the bag on the left. Through the clear plastic bag, he read:
Danny. My one true friend. If I don’t come back today, I love you. I’m sorry about all of this. Please take care of yourself, buddy.

Danny raised his eyes towards the ceiling, fighting back the lump in his throat.

“And the other,” King said, sliding the evidence bag across the table towards Danny.

Danny looked down at the note, and read it to himself through the clear plastic:
To any law enforcement personnel who may find this—I am writing this in sane body and mind. This afternoon I will drive myself to meet a woman identifying herself as Shelly Flynn at the Sunway Hotel in North Grand Ridge. Should any injury come to me, find this woman. She is responsible.

“Well?” Drummond said.

Danny was frozen, reading the note over and over again until the words were practically memorized.

“Does that name ring any bells?” Drummond asked.

“It does,” Danny said. “Shelly Flynn was Todd’s fiancé. They used to live together in New York City.”

Danny took a deep breath, then said: “She died six years ago.”

Danny adjusted in his chair, and at the request of the officers, started to tell the story of Todd and Shelly…

The two were living in the lower east side, around ’84. Both were working odd jobs to make ends meet. Todd was primarily focused on electrical wiring, and he had started to make a comfortable wage doing arcade cabinet service and repair. Shelly was an aspiring actress—and at this point in the story, Danny asked the officers if they had ever seen Ghostbusters. They nodded, then he proudly told them of a walk-on role Shelly had towards the end of the film. No speaking lines, but there she was, “the most beautiful girl in the crowd,” as Danny had put it.

After the Ghostbusters gig, Shelly started to line up more and more serious auditions. Still the occasional soda or fast-food commercial, sure, but more legitimate roles, too.

It was a morning in early November, Danny recalled, that Shelly was on her way to an audition. She was waiting at her subway stop for the A line, just a few blocks from home. It was early in the morning, so apparently there weren’t many people around. A couple of thugs started badgering her, asking her out, where she was going. Just harassing her. It went from bad to worse when one of them gave up on the romantic advances and focused on her purse. Shelly put up a fight, a struggle ensued…

One of the thugs grabbed her, fought her for her purse, and when she wouldn’t relent he shoved her and she spilled backwards onto the tracks. Just a moment before the A train was to arrive.

And that was that. Some Good Samaritan nearby tried to help her up, but it was too late. There was nothing anyone could do. It was over.

King raised his eyebrows, looked at Drummond. Danny caught the two giving themselves each a look of affirmation.

“Six years ago, huh?” Drummond said.

“Yeah. After that, Todd came out to Oregon. To start over, I guess. We met at an arcade expo and opened up Planet X together. Well—mostly him. I didn’t contribute as much as him, financially.”

“Did he seem upset lately?” King asked.

“There had been some prank calls,” Danny admitted. “One of them really upset him. He had been drinking more than usual. But, I mean, what are you guys trying to get me to say here?”

“Hm,” Drummond said, and he jotted some notes into his memo pad before flipping it shut. “Danny, I have to tell you how we’re seeing this whole thing from our perspective. The sad, vague notes he left. The nature of his accident. Hell, with what you just told us about his girlfriend, it’s no wonder he chose to go the way he did. Train tracks. Poetic.”

“His fiancé,” Danny said, correcting the officer. “Not girlfriend. And what the hell are you implying?” Danny demanded. He felt himself getting angry.

“Danny,” King said, and he gave him a look—a caring look, but one that also said:
Don’t turn this into something worse.
“It might have been hard for you to see how troubled he was, with how close the two of you were—”

“Yeah, we’re close! If he was ‘troubled’ I would have noticed—”

“But the money problems, the tragic story of his fiancé,” King said, putting extra annunciation on ‘fiancé’, “the nature of the crime scene. I’m sorry to tell it to you like this, son.  We’re treating your friend’s death as a suicide.”

“Like hell you are,” Danny said. “Didn’t you read the note?”

“Which one?” Drummond said. “The one where he apologized for letting you down?”

“No,” Danny said, narrowing his eyes. “The one where he says someone impersonating Shelly is following him.”

King and Drummond shrugged. “We checked out that hotel north of town. The Sunway. Little old woman at the front desk says she remembered seeing Todd. Alone. There were only two rooms checked out today. One was to some guy in room 126—a crack head. Not really one to be easily mistaken for a blonde beauty. The other was in 201. Again, a male. We’ll pull any security tapes, of course, but I wouldn’t count on it helping with anything. The crime scene was—well, quite horrible—the worst many of us have ever seen. We’ve had experts combing through the wreckage for the past hour, and there was only one occupant in Mr. Prower’s Fiero, and that was Mr. Prower.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Danny said, defeated.

“These things never do,” King said, and the officers excused themselves.

Sixteen

ALLEY HEARD THE FAMILIAR HISS OF oxygen pumping into him, the impatient droning of emergency sirens overhead.

He didn’t want to open his eyes, he’d rather they just stay firmly shut and he could imagine the entire thing was a bad dream.
I just wanted to play at the arcade with my friend,
he thought.
Why today, why today, why today…?

At last, he blinked his eyes open, found himself looking into a bright fluorescent light. Four shadows converged over him: dark, featureless, their silhouettes only vaguely human shaped.

Alley screamed out, “Get away!”

Responding to his cry, one of the shadows loomed down closer, until it was nose-to-nose with Alley. Its breath smelled rotten, and it seemed to purr.

He shut his eyes and again screamed, “Get away from me!”

“What’s wrong with him?” Lauren asked, kneeling over her younger brother.

Alley, relieved to hear the softness of his sister’s voice, summoned the courage to open his eyes once more. Leaning over him was Lauren, her long waves of hair tickling the tip of his nose.

“You’re not him,” Alley said.

The paramedic at the end of Alley’s gurney said, “He’s just confused. He’s coming to. Back up, give him a little room to breathe.”

“What did you mean just now, Alley?” Lauren said. “What does ‘you’re not him’ mean?”

Alley said, “It’s nothing. And I’m not confused.”

Lauren leaned back away from her brother, following the paramedic’s advice. Benji sat in the rear of the ambulance, arms crossed, where there was hardly any room for him, and stayed silent until they arrived at the hospital.

Benji sat outside of Alley’s room, waiting. Waiting for news, waiting for one of Alley’s parents to show up, waiting for anything. It was dreadful—not only because it was painfully boring, but because there was so much uncertainty.

Lauren appeared at the end of the hallway. Her hair was a mess; her shirt and shorts were still wet with rain.

“Well?” Benji asked.

Lauren said, “I finally got through to them. My mom at least. She should be here in a bit.” She plopped down next to Benji, crossed her arms, and let out a long sigh. “Any news?”

“You’ve only been gone five minutes—”

“Jesus, Benji, was there any news or not?”

“No.”

Another sigh.

“Not that they’d tell me anything, anyways. Everyone here is treating me like an obstacle they have to step over.”

“Well, you’re not going anywhere, don’t worry. We’re all Alley has right now.” Lauren twirled a lock of hair around her index finger. “I just wish I knew what happened.”

“Has anything like this happened to him before?” Benji said.

“In different variations, of course. Sometimes bleeding, sometimes he just checks out. But never both at once. Never anything as bad as how he looked today.”

“I should have stayed with him while he played his game,” Benji said.

“I should have too,” Lauren said, and she shrugged. “How were we supposed to know? He was having a good day. I wonder if one of his new medicines caused it.”

“He was babbling the whole ride over.”

“I know.”

“I’ve never seen him act that way before.”

“Me neither,” Lauren said. “He wasn’t making any sense.” She curled up into her chair. “‘You’re not him.’ What the hell did he mean by that?”

“Maybe he thought you were me, or, I don’t know,” Benji said. “Maybe he thought you were the paramedic.”

“He looked scared, Benji.”

“I know.”

“I’ve known him his whole life. Through all of his problems. He’s never looked
scared.
”

“I know,” Benji said.

“Benji?” Lauren said, weakly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m scared, too.”

“So am I, Lauren. So am I.”

And he held her hand.

Less than twenty minutes passed before Mrs. Emerson arrived at the hospital. Benji saw her, a spitting image of Lauren in twenty years, come barreling down the hallway towards Alley’s room, a team of nurses chasing behind her.

“Where is he, where is he, where is he?” she kept repeating, until finally one nurse managed to grab her by the sleeve.

Mrs. Emerson recoiled, and slapped the nurse’s hand away. Benji realized she was still wearing her apron from the diner. She looked positively petrified.

Mrs. Emerson exploded into Alley’s room, Benji, Lauren, and the team of nurse’s following behind her. A doctor stood next to her son’s bedside, filling out a long white form attached to a clipboard. Alley was sitting upright in bed, an IV dangling from his wrist, his face drained of all color, his lips pale and chapped.

His mother fell beside his bed, wrapped an arm around him, squeezed him tight and kissed him hard on the cheek. “My Alley,” she said softly, “my little Alley, what happened?”

“I’m fine, mom, really,” Alley said. “I’ve had some pudding, some orange juice. I feel fine. Let’s go home.”

The doctor looked up from his clipboard, made eye contact with Mrs. Emerson, and shook his head.
Not yet.

“I presume you’re Alec’s mother,” the doctor said, walking to the other side of Alley’s gurney and extending a hand. “My name is Dr. Solomon.”

Mrs. Emerson shook his hand.

“Please,” he said. “Can we step outside and talk for a moment?”

Mrs. Emerson nodded and stepped outside. Benji and Lauren followed, uninvited.

“Mrs. Emerson, I’ve read your son’s file. I’m all caught up on his condition. Considering his history, this could have been a lot worse—in fact, his file seems to suggest that he’s had worse spells in the past. All things considered, we stopped the bleeding right away, and he’s stable. His cat scan came back clear, too. So, let me preface everything I’m about to say with this: he’s going to be fine.”

“That’s terrific,” Mrs. Emerson said. “Then what’s the problem?”

“Well, like I said, I know I’m not Alec’s primary physician, but I brushed up on his records fairly well after he arrived—and I have to say, I see no mention of photosensitivity in his file.”

“Photo
what
?” Mrs. Emerson said.

Dr. Solomon crossed his arms. “Photosensitivity. It can be triggered by flashing lights, or images. Your daughter and your boy’s friend,” he motioned towards Benji and Lauren, “said that they were at an arcade playing video games this afternoon, when this incident occurred.”

“Okay,” Mrs. Emerson said. “So what?”

“Well, Alec has had a long history with seizures, mostly generalized. Absent seizures and myoclonic seizures. It’s with a heavy heart that I have to tell you this, but you may have to add another one to that list.”

“What?” Mrs. Emerson said. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m fairly positive that your boy experienced an epileptic seizure today, and it was triggered by a photosensitivity to the video game he was playing. Your son plays a lot of video games, Mrs. Emerson?”

She nodded.

“Well, we’ll wait for more tests to come back. And I’ll discuss all of this with your pediatric physician, Dr. Yates. But, for now, my one prescription to you will be for simply this: no more video games for the time being.”

Lauren shot up in her chair, unable to bite her tongue.

“You can’t do that,” Lauren said.

Mrs. Emerson said, “Lauren, sit back down.”

“Video games are all that kid has,” Lauren continued. “You can’t take that away from him. You don’t understand what a big piece of him you’d be taking away. You can’t do this!”

“I’m afraid that, unless your brother wants a repeat incident of this afternoon, it’s what must be done,” Dr. Solomon said. “Now do what your mother tells you to do, and sit back down.”

“You’ll break his heart,” Lauren shouted, “you’ll break his heart if you tell him he can’t play video games,” and from behind the door Alley could hear the muffled conversation and his sister starting to cry.