Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (15 page)

He aims the weapon toward the flat-screen, pretending to fire upon the commentators who criticize him. Cursing, disputing, he yells, “To hell’s fire with you, you fat piece of shit! Fuck you, you whore; you know nothing of my means!”

Every word uttered against him exasperates him further. Still he watches intently, fixated on their deficient analysis and sometimes demonizing criticisms. If they only knew the truth! Then, turning down the sound, he lies back to reflect on his day, cherishing the occasion at the police station, believing he’s made no mistakes. His mind revisits the jewel of his evening: the image of Janice looking into the mirror, reciting her lines to Detective Cools. To the night, he smirks, savoring the moment that has been absolute since its very beginning. A contrived, seamless plot of deception that he’s confident he will not suffer for. Clearly, Your Honor, my client is insane. He requires intense rehabilitation and professional therapy. Ha-ha, if I even get caught. They’ll never prove a thing. Confidence encompasses him. He has given an adept performance, which is surely leading them astray. And with much more impending, he will gain all that is warranted.

A chill sets through him that he accredits to the cold steel of his weapon. He sets it aside, transferring his gaze toward the far wall. There, above his collection of guitars, his eyes fall on a portrait of Kimberly, or Kimmy, as he calls her. I forgive you, my love, for all you have done. He stares into her, remembering the morning the photo was taken.

She’d abruptly awakened him as a result of a telemarketing call from a compelling salesman, peddling glamour shots. Animated and eager to participate, she enlisted him, exercising her little voice of innocence, stating, “I’ve been in the mirror for seventeen minutes; my skin is radiating. I’m absolutely beautiful. My essence is balanced in every way.” After, she promised many sexual favors, tokens of her forthcoming appreciation. Though they were manipulation tactics needlessly offered, since Joshua would’ve given her anything she’d asked for.

Lying on his bed, he caressed her, attempting to calm her excitement. He loved her more than existence itself. And adding to her contentment was the reason for his being, truly his life’s pleasure. “Then we should go immediately,” he exclaimed, granting her wish. She fluttered with exhilaration, kissed him thank you on the forehead, then sprang to her feet and began dancing down the hallway like a dove. Joshua presumed he would be with her forever, laughing, loving, and resting, in the absence of deceit and lies, throughout all afterlife.

Even in life Joshua had only lied to her once. The secret he withheld from her was that their marriage could only be in union with their god, and not with the state of Washington, because of his belief that an official marriage was taboo due to its origins in Judaic law. So he’d performed somewhat of a magician’s trick. Upon his decision, they’d filed for their marriage licenses online. Then he romanticized the idea of having a private ceremony in their home, with no witnesses except for their god, Ra—a secret wedding with a real ring, a real wedding dress, and true love, all performed under the veil of fake papers and a paid actor playing the role of the pagan priest. Kimberly never had a fleeting notion of the truth.

An incoming e-mail chimes, breaking his trance. He retrieves a wireless keyboard from under the table and types in a few keys, pulling it up on his television screen. He doesn’t recognize the one just coming in but opens it curiously. It doesn’t take long to discover it’s from a motivated reporter who’s obtained his private e-mail address to grovel for an interview. Joshua clicks reply, snickering to himself as he types in, “One Million Dollars—non-negotiable, one-time offer,” and clicks send. Then he notices an unread piece of mail from his psychiatrist. There’s no need to open it since he already knows its contents; it’s a final plea to restart his medications, which he quit taking three weeks ago. Joshua values his doctor’s opinion, except for his contradicting analysis that his illness is an asset, a reward. Again he rests back into the cushions, this time closing his eyes, contemplating last night’s dream.

All his life he’s privately suffered from an affliction, or has benefited from a gift, depending on how one looks at it—something he surmises as
sequential dreaming
. It’s a rare disorder that he alone seems to have—one that has been with him from as early as he can remember, one that serves as another reminder of his uniqueness. But it has come at a cost—he’s never been able to reveal his condition to anyone, not even Kimberly. His lifelong psychiatrist only learned of it while administering hypnosis therapy to Joshua as an adolescent when he’d discovered that although his patient quite often experienced normal dreaming, like the rest of society, he mostly dreamed in chronological order. Each night is a direct continuation of the previous—full and complete narratives, some lasting for years.

As of late his mind has created a fresh new beginning, one that has a character with whom he senses a connection. He transcends into a state of neither sleep nor consciousness, the realm of previsioning. There he begins.

It is a tale of a cute little boy named Frankie Johnson. The scenes are filled with cars, clothes, and buildings that appears to be from somewhere around the nineteen sixties— even the language seems to be of that time. Little Frankie is a nine-year-old only child with long, blond hair and bright, hazel eyes. Somehow, the dream implies that little Frankie only has his mother. Her name is Betty, a pretty young woman who works as a waitress at Chuck’s Diner & Bar. It’s the local watering hole in a small town outside Birmingham, Alabama—the only place to be on a Saturday night, where they drink heavily, dance, and play country music till dawn.

Now, Betty loves her son and looks forward to time spent with him. But her current life is crowded by the constant struggle from day to day getting little Frankie off to school, making
it to work on time, and keeping a healthy supply of men, cigarettes, and booze around. Never does she consider her parenting skills as compromised; she simply travels along the only way she knows how. And little Frankie never complains. He enjoys the excitement from the frequent parties, his many daddies, sometimes even sipping from ignored and forgotten bottles.

They live together in a small house, jam-packed with second-hand furniture, surrounded by pictures of movie stars and rock legends on dark brown, paneled walls. In little Frankie’s mind, it is a perfectly normal life. He finds nothing whatsoever wrong with the excessive drinking, the smoking of the imported cigarettes with the strange smell, or his mother’s explicit flirtations with men. Essentially, he doesn’t know any other life. And his mother, although sometimes stressed and overwhelmed, is also seemingly content within the lifestyle she has created. Together they take pleasure in the latest
Beatles
albums and the new color televisions, frequently using phrases like “that’s cool, man,” “groovy,” and “far out.”

Frankie has gotten his blond hair from Betty, except hers is long and, this week, dyed light brown. She has dark blue eyes not far above bouncy breasts she commonly flaunts in shirts two sizes too small. The rest of her wardrobe consists of many tight shorts, fishnet stockings, and tall boots. She receives much attention from the daddies, including motorcycle rides, jewelry, toys for little Frankie, and even sometimes one of them will turn the electricity back on.

One Saturday while entertaining in the backyard with a keg of beer and a game of volleyball, in her pink two-piece, Betty is called to the phone. She shakes her way inside to learn her manager from Chuck’s Diner is on the other end. She is asked about her current availability in a way that says “come into work and cover this shift or pick up your check at the end of the week.” So, reluctantly, she complies, giving up a long night of sex and drugs. She says her good-byes by giving all the men long hugs and leaves her newest guy, Robert, who goes by the nickname Panama-Red, in charge of little Frankie. Then off she goes in such a hurry she forgets to kiss little Frankie. He’s too young to know if he’s disappointed or if it’s understandable. At the moment, that is of little concern compared to his worry about being alone with Panama-Red. He doesn’t trust him. And he, being more alert than his mother most of the time, realizes her attraction to him has much to do with his new, black 1963 Corvette. Because of the sporty car, she’s overlooked some of his strangeness. Little Frankie is too young to know what the word “leery” means, but if he did, this is how he would describe his feelings toward Panama-Red.

This is as much of the dream story that has been given to Joshua. But he wants more; he needs more. So lying on the couch, he drifts into awaited slumber, glimpsing his last flashes of awareness, hoping little Frankie gets to see his mother again, hoping they don’t find out where he put Kimberly.

.

Chapter Twenty-One

T
he cell phone alarm goes off with a muffled jingle. Cools awakens abruptly, but refreshed. Although procuring little sleep, he has slept well, rejuvenating his body and spirit. And wanting to be respectful, he slips gently out of Chelsea’s silk sheets without stirring her. His feet glide across the hardwood floors to a patch of sunlight that shines through a curtained window. He prefers waking here, as her bedroom is wholesome—dressed in colors of whites and pinks, all adding to one’s ease of mind. A vanity table and stool rest in a corner, arranged with lotions and scented oils that, in various combinations, comprise her smell. He smiles as he pictures his baby-girl sitting there pampering her skin. Carefully he cracks open the window; a fresh breeze softly ripples its light curtains, and in a rare moment, he leisurely inhales the crisp morning air. It all brings him serenity and purpose as he quietly watches over her, protecting her peaceful slumber.

After a time he wipes the crud from his eyes, then silently makes his way to the bathroom, reminiscing over the night before. All of it was miraculous: the hallway, their late dinner, making love deep into the night, then falling asleep intertwined around each other. The remembrance of the easy, accepting romance leaves him wanting of more; however, since nothing could reach the pinnacle of the preceding hours of darkness, he considers it best not to spoil the memory.

In the quaint mirror, he finds an undeniable youth in his eyes, and he cannot remember feeling better. He washes up and flashes himself a satisfied grin before softly stepping back to Chelsea’s bedside. There he watches her rest. She is lying on her side, breathing steadily, with the covers only partially covering her legs. Cools gently brushes aside a few strands of her reddish-brown hair, exposing her natural beauty. She is such an Italian treasure. Why am I willing to leave this, only to step back into a sick, twisted world? He leans closer, stealing one more soft kiss.

She responds with “Mmm…” She squeezes her pillow but doesn’t wake.

Suddenly he has an epiphany, and he knows why he has to return to his unforgiving world. It is to protect angels like her. The world is in need of men like him—real men that can get things done, who bring balance to good and evil, no matter the costs, and then willingly accept its price, only to remedy themselves later, first by acquiring a sanctuary to repair their wounds, a place to mend the mind’s justifications by way of drowning inside a lover’s arms. Cools leaves, sensing his importance, presuming that, with his cunning, motivated courage, and refuge for escape, he can do just about anything.

Nothing is beyond my reach.

Not long after, Cools, on the freeway, traveling to the station, makes a call to Officer Poulet. “Good morning, racecar driver.”

“Yeah, you heard about that, did you?” Poulet laughs.

“Of course, I know most things. And I heard it’s not the size of the car, but the skill of the driver that makes ’em come.” He chuckles.

“Something like that,” Poulet replies, prior to updating him on what’s new. “I guess you want to know what’s going on. Well, all I can tell you is that things are somewhat slower today, except that I’m no longer sitting alone outside Joshua’s residence; I’m in a field of goddamned news vans.”

“Any movement last night?”

“No, nothing…nothing at all,” he replies, sounding disappointed.

“Okay, I have to go. But first, listen up. If he comes out to check the mail, I want to know about it, okay?”

“Gotcha covered, Detective.”

Cools glances away from the morning commute, pushes end, scrolls to Milkowski, and pushes send while moving to the beat of a Bob Seger song playing on his CD. Today his body is teeming with energy as he carries with him a level of confidence typically only found in motivational speakers.

“Milkowski, Cools here; are we moving anything yet?”

“Yes, I think we may have something.” His answer catches Cools off guard; given that he’s been so used to getting nothing from him in this case, a simple yes wasn’t anticipated. Milkowski goes on. “I’m getting a warrant for all data records—financial, Internet usage, communications, the whole lot—signed by Judge Cooper this morning.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Well,” Milkowski replies proudly, “I found a statute related to Homeland Security that gives us the right to monitor any suspected terrorist or—and get this—any possible threats to the welfare of citizens through unorthodox religious practices. The worshippers of Ra believe in sacrifice of life, and with a few distorted truths about Joshua’s faith, I was able to convince Judge Cooper that he is an imminent threat to the community.”

“Get the fuck out!” Cools yells, impressed. Milkowski, not knowing how to respond, remains silent. “Okay, good news! It’s always great to start the day out like this.”

Milkowski, surprised by the detective’s cheerfulness, adds, “Statistically we are sure to unearth some level of dirt from the records that will advance investigations into other areas; we may even get a full search warrant for any and all properties or possibly an arrest.”

“Great fucking news, Milkowski; we’re on our way! Can you feel it?”