The Journeyman

by

Allen Woods

Part One of Five

PART ONE: July 1.

Chapter One: The Journeyman Cometh

12:02 A.M.

A tenebrous darkness engulfed the bleak foothills of north Georgia as the Journeyman emerged from the abyss. He wasn't sure where he had come from or exactly where he was going. In the vague recesses of his mind, he knew everything, but the knowledge of his existence hadn't taken root yet. Sentience festered inside him like a rotting disease. It peeled away the vast layers of doubt and confusion. The Journeyman remembered.

Austin Goth--he recalled his current name as the night darkened to a pitch of inky sable. He walked south. It all rushed back to him now, every step of his black workman boots on the hard pavement evinced memory. How long had it been? Not long this time, he realized. Gaps of missing time filled his existence, the breaks along timelines, but they never lasted long. Only a few days ago he stood amongst a mob outside an abortion clinic, the Peters Family Planning Center. Hundreds of protesters had gathered outside the facility, pleading with the young and old women to reconsider their decisions. Some of them did. They crawled back in their beige Hondas and green Blazers, mewling stridently, humanly Goth recalled, as they rethought the morality of their decisions.

Goth couldn't have cared less. Their anguished tears added a bounce to his steps, but he wasn't there to protest. An abortion, a birth, a dying fetus, a murder, or an old man baking beneath the sweltering Florida sun--they were all the same to him. Pawns in a larger game. He was the Journeyman. He had loftier considerations.

I am the voice, he thought as the murky fetor of hot Georgia air inundated both nostrils. Or at least he had been the voice for poor Chester Covington. Send a pipe bomb to the facility, the voice had urged the middle class subcontractor who attended church services three nights a week.

How? Chester had asked. He could barely tie a Windsor knot. How can I make a pipe bomb?

Let me show you, the voice had snickered.

Chester did and the voice told him where to locate a run-down Volkswagen van where a man named Hamiclar could sold him a half pound of plastic explosive.

Chester had listened closely to every word, building the bomb to the exact specifications that echoed through his otherwise empty head. He didn't remember doing it. He didn't remember a thing after going to the clinic that afternoon. When it was all over and the fires were raging, he begged the voice for guidance, but it answered with silence. The Journeyman had moved on, leaving Chester to fend for himself.

It won't be long now, Goth thought. The authorities would find Chester sooner rather than later. That's why he'd chosen Chester. A slack jawed fool who would never realize what had happened to him. Chester was susceptible, the perfect conduit. They all were. He was the Journeyman.

Austin Goth's snug fitting blue jeans brushed together between his thighs. Quadriceps bulged behind the taut fabric, his muscles rippling from continuous exercise. His journey never ended. Roads led to intersections and intersections forced Austin to make choices. The highways were endless. That's why he had always loved America, so many lengthy roads. A few years here, a decade there--time meant nothing to him. He was the Journeyman. He could walk forever and sometimes wondered if he had.

The air tasted damp this evening. Nimbus clouds hung in the sky, swelling like pus filled wounds nearing the brink of exploding, but the rain held off. Goth preferred it that way. The brown leather jacket slung over both his shoulders, scarred with long white streaks from a thirty yard tumble down the highway after a motorcycle crash, could keep him dry, but not his books. He had to keep the books dry.

Nothing quite as powerful as the written word, except maybe the spoken, Goth was fond of saying.

He'd read everything, or at least everything that mattered. He reached into one of the coat pockets and found Dante's Inferno. Abandon all hope, yea who enter here. One of his favorite lines.

He reached into another pocket and caressed the tattered spine of Mein Kampf. He'd hi-lighted his favorite passages, the ones he'd helped pen oh those many years ago, and a brief smile crossed his lips. A smug grin always covered Austin Goth's face, as though he was privy to an inside joke about everyone he ever encountered or perhaps about life itself. Rarely, though, did that smug curl at the corners of his mouth become a broad smile. This was one of those moments. Recalling Adolph was one of his favorite times and he reminisced placidly. How he wished it could have lasted longer.

Why didn't it? he wondered.

Goth continued searching, laying his coarse fingertips on the few pages of script he'd written for that snuff film he'd made two decades ago--Goth, then called Gene Garrett, had realized after three minutes of shooting that snuff films really didn't require much of a dialogue to get the point across. Finally, he palpitated the moistened pulp of a comic book at the bottom of his pocket. It was an old E.C., another fine tale by Mr. Gaines, and Goth felt playful.

He'd already read all of them, however. It was time for something new, but what? Everything was still so hazy, so surreal, after emerging onto State Road 75. Why this road? he queried. Memories flickered in his mind like a broken reel of film. He caught glimpses of what he should know: fire, a giant, a young woman with long hair, and a town neatly tucked between obscurity and nowhere. There was so much yet to recall and he knew of only one way to expedite the process.

Goth reached into another pocket, wiping the humid sweat off his brow with the other hand, and he felt two perfect spheres. Tiny balls, each one only an inch and a half in diameter, and identical. Two perfectly sculpted blue balls. He pulled them out of the pocket, cradling the spheres like delicate robin eggs. Opening his palm, he held them level with his nose.

The tendons in his palm wavered slightly and the balls rolled together. Click. They resounded like two pieces of hard chalk and Goth smelled the sweetly ebbing odor of sulfur. It tantalized his tongue and he closed his deep blue eyes for the briefest of moments. When he opened them, he remembered everything.

Ithica. That's where this winding road would take the Journeyman. Ithica, Georgia. Not far from here. Only a two day walk, maybe one with a little luck. The memories rushed back to him like the returning tide. Oh yes, little Ithica, tucked away in the hills of Georgia, removed far enough from the world for his machinations to go unnoticed, but not so far that Austin Goth couldn't bring the world to him. Ithica was the perfect setting. He'd known for a long time, but he'd let the plan simmer. Like any good stew, Goth knew when to stir and when to apply heat. Now, it was ready to boil.

Ithica, he thought again as he rotated the spheres in his hand. They rolled clockwise then counterclockwise across his palm, traversing his endless life-line and almost non-existent love-line. Goth was a palm reader's delight, an enigma cloaked inside a riddle. A barely audible resonance idled from the balls as they moved more quickly across his hand, one never touching the other. The spheres were unblemished, Goth had never made a mistake. They rotated faster, the slight hum growing into a high-pitched squeal, and he knew everything. Everything that he had been and everything he had to do was as evident as the light shades of gray and royal blue that shimmered in the East. Dawn was approaching. A lambent glow intensified on the horizon. Time had passed quickly during the journey. He would rest soon. The Journeyman only traveled at night under the cover of darkness. The stars and the moon served as his cortege and he passed underneath the languid eyes of his enemy unnoticed. The turtle didn't see well at night.

"Please, help us!" a strained voice called out. The tormented cry drifted on the night wind and Goth rolled his head across his shoulders. His nostrils opened wide as his thin nose sucked down the fresh night air. He smelled them, the nauseating aroma of cheap perfume, mucus, and fresh blood mixed into a frothy cream. It was an olfactory delight; the fetor of death. Goth straightened his neck and that delighted smile crept back to his lips. He knew they were close.

Ambling at a leisurely pace, Goth strolled past the thick pines and spruces that grew along the edges of the road. This region of the foothills was a relative plateau, somewhat flat, but the state road had more curves than Marilyn Monroe. To the East, Goth stared into the vast wilderness, a valley that had somehow remained untouched by the machines of man. He recalled the forests of Northern Germany, leading the Legions against the barbaric tribes, and how soothing the quiet landscape of a preserved wilderness felt in the face of death. He suddenly felt that way again and he paused to savor it. A carpet of lush greenery spread out before him and Goth's eyes narrowed into slits. He gazed far enough to see the foamy waves of the Atlantic crash against a rocky shoreline. The sea spray invigorated him and his eyes opened wide again. A plump raccoon stared back at him, believing no man could see through the almost impregnable darkness of night. Goth could. He saw the mischievous animal waiting in a nearby tree and he sensed its thoughts: maybe it will drop a scrap of human food. One mans' trash is another man's treasure.

How true, Goth considered, but again a desperate call for help disrupted his pleasant thoughts. "Please! Is anyone out there? We're hurt!"

"Oh yes. They had almost slipped my mind." The Journeyman was easily distracted.

The spheres rotated more quickly in his hands again as Goth stared at the bend in the road. It curved to the right. Elevating slightly, and the voices echoed just beyond his line of sight. He resumed his slow pace, but added a whistle to his rhythmic steps. He whistled his favorite song, a childish tune he'd learned many years ago from a boy that later fell down a well and fractured his skull in three places. He considered this song appropriate for any situation.

Suddenly, heartened by the sound of a whistle that could only be human, the voice screamed, "Is someone there? Please! Here now! We need help! Helllllp! We're bleeding to death!"

Goth sauntered around the bend and stopped a few feet away from an overturned SUV. The driver, Marcus Jesup, was desperately attempting to pull his shattered body, two broken legs and a fractured clavicle, from the demolished car. Next to him lay his wife, a stream of dried blood had trickled out of each corner of her mouth and a blackening bruise covered two-thirds of her forehead. To Goth, it looked like the greasepaint used by a stage actor.

She was dead, Marcus knew so, but refused to accept it. If I can just get out of this friggin' car I can save her, he convinced himself.

Goth stepped closer, leaning forward as he peered through the cracked glass of the rear windshield. An infant, no older than thirteen months, lay sprawled across the back seat. There was no sign of a baby-seat. Her parents had strapped her in with a secure lap belt that severed her spinal cord on the first of the tan Explorer's six flips. Eventually, she slipped out of the adult sized safety belt, but the jarring impact of the final somersault had thrown her head first into the rear of the car. Now, the back of her fractured skull slumped inward like the collapsed arc of a deflating basketball. Goth yawned.

He looked to the tree-line beside the bend of the road and immediately located the culprit. A deer, a big male buck, was hewed in half. His torso twisted in the wrong direction, its head had bent all the way backward and its hemorrhaged eyes stared at the ground that was supporting its hind legs. They had buckled at the knees and the deer's butt sat on the pebble and dirt trail abutting the road, its gaping wounds festering even though they could never scab over and close.

Goth shook his head as he looked at Marcus again, "Damn shame. They really should put more deer crossing signs on this stretch of road."

Marcus gasped as he looked through the darkness and found the source of that whistling he'd heard a minute ago. Austin Goth stood two yards away from him, leaning against the overturned rear tire on the driver's side. It was still spinning, ever more slowly. His deep set blue eyes radiated through the shadows cast by the trees and a smile of relief came to Marcus' face. His savior had arrived.

Goth began to whistle his song again and what remained of the driver's grated and broken jaw gaped open. He was nonplused. Had this stranger not seen him? Of course, that was the answer. Why else would he lean against the wrecked car and do nothing but whistle that kid's tune? "I'm over here," Marcus mumbled. It pained him to move the dislocated jaw.

Goth stepped forward and his denim cap emerged underneath the moon's silvery, wan light. The blood vessels behind the driver's eyes had hemorrhaged and his vision was soupy. Still, through the purple-reddish haze, he saw the yellow letters stenciled on Goth's hat: JESUS SAVES.

Marcus knew this man would help him. He could still save his family. His wife was bleeding, but she was okay, he could hear her whispering in his ear and though he couldn't see his beautiful daughter, he knew she'd be okay, too. After all, he'd put the seatbelt on her himself.

"Please, you have to get us out of here. We're hurt and I think my legs are broken. I can't move."

Goth bent to his knees, the spheres in his left hand rotating clockwise, and he rubbed his scruffy beard. "Looks like you had an accident."

"That's right! Now please, help us. My little girl. I've got a little girl."

"Not anymore you don't," Goth corrected him. He snickered under his breath as the balls rotated faster. Marcus detected the faint odor of burning flesh seeping into his nose like a stale funk that had waited behind a musty couch for someone to unearth. It was rancid, but he knew it wasn't coming from him. He stared at Goth, searching for the source of the fire, and saw a bright bloom of light behind the Journeyman's head. It billowed outward like a rose greeting the morning sun, its petals unfurling. It was blinding and then it disappeared, replaced by a darkness more rich and full than anything he had ever seen in his life. Black paled in comparison to the dour halo hanging above Goth. Then it was gone too and Goth was nothing but a man kneeling beside him. It had all happened so fast that Marcus doubted his eyes. But he knew someone was there, a man who could still save him. The acrid burning smell suddenly intensified.

Twisting metal wrenched loudly and a pool of swirling liquid dripped off the underside of the car, falling into the driver's face and gathering into shimmering puddles on the road. Marcus choked and gagged, trying to expel the foul liquid. It was gasoline. He could barely breathe. "Looks like you sprung a leak," Goth commented.

"Please," he hacked and then coughed, "help us!"

"I'm too late to help you," Goth replied as he rose. "Your road is already chosen and me, I have many miles left to travel." He reached into one of his pockets and his broad thumb and index finger emerged with a wooden match clenched between them.

What's going to do with that? Marcus wondered, though a part of him already knew. He ignored the circumspect instinct in his gut, but he knew his fate from the moment he saw that shroud of darkness behind the Journeyman's head.

No, he wouldn't do that, though. Would he? I have a daughter. He wouldn't do that.

You don't know me very well.

Goth grinned like a child who knows about his older brother's furtive deeds--he sneaked out of the house in the middle of the night to go to that party at the cheerleader's house, or he took a sip from the wine bottle in the liquor cabinet. Goth was dying to tell someone his secret.

He hummed his favorite tune, turning his back on the screaming man. Panic had set in and the mangled victim flailed wildly until the pain was too much. Three broken ribs held him in check. As Goth turned away, Marcus dreaded what would come next. Through the hemorrhages and stinging gasoline in his eyes, he watched in horror as the red match-head erupted into a lambent orange and yellow flame. Goth tossed it over his shoulder and it landed on the ground a few inches from the rapidly expanding trail of leaking fuel.

In the moment of death, Marcus cringed with each turn the runnel of gasoline took. It twisted left and right, tempting the slowly burning match. The river of fuel was swift and the flame was winning the race. As the first drops touched the whipping tip of the white hot flame, Marcus couldn't help pondering what he had seen. Though he was almost blind, he swore Goth had never struck the match. It had simply exploded, an instance of spontaneous combustion. And, as the flames blazed a trail toward his overturned car, he wondered how the Journeyman managed that trick. It was Marcus' dying thought.

The car exploded. Hot shrapnel flew everywhere, but the grin never left Goth's face. He whistled over the raucous blast and estimated the distance to Ithica. It would be dawn soon, but he'd made good time this night. Not much farther, he supposed. Not far at all. And if it was far, Goth could find ways to entertain himself.

Chapter Two: A Night Out

7:38 P.M.

Ninety-six hours. James Hall had lived in Ithica for ninety-six hours and hadn't mustered the courage to leave his apartment. He left for eight hours every day to go to the Amoco station on the corner and pump gas, but only because he had to make the rent. Without that paltry job he wouldn't be able to afford the rat's nest he cowered in every night after work.

Rat's nest wasn't an exaggeration. The first two nights, James heard scratching behind the walls, tiny claws scraping against the thin wood paneling. He told himself it was grasshoppers or even roaches. A roach was preferable to a rat any day of the week. He could squash a roach with his worn boots and mop up the slimy residue. Rats, especially the fat ones that lived the high-life munching off the grain at Ithica's many animal feed depots, were a bit too large to fit under the black sole of his boots. James could tolerate the scratching, however, as long as that was all. But the first time I see one of the hairy rodents, he thought as he pulled his knees onto the bed, I'll. . .I'll. . .I'll. . . .

He couldn't complete the thought. As he sat in his barren studio room, surrounded by a dresser and a rickety desk that the add dubbed 'a furnished apartment', he realized he couldn't do it. James didn't have it in him. He wasn't a killer. Even when it came to hairy rodents.

If it comes to that I'll move, he decided, knowing full well that he barely made enough money to afford this hovel.

Pumping gas sounded like an easy job when he took it--James accepted that he would never receive a 'real job' with 'real wages' because of his impediment--but he quickly learned just how tiring it was to walk across an oily tarmac and stand on his feet all day. He could have made more money panhandling, but respect was one of the only possessions nobody could steal from him. Besides, he thought, hard work is good for the body. By the end of his first three days in town, James welcomed a good long rest. He'd slept for eleven hours last night.

Now it was his fourth evening in Ithica, the little town he had decided to pass through because it seemed remote and, he hoped, simple. His aching calves and sore lower back had gradually adjusted to the labor. So James moved to a wobbly wooden chair, staring out the single window frame of his apartment, and watched the sun set in the distance. He wasn't tired, he was anxious.

I've been anxious before, he reminded himself. Usually such urges led to disaster. When was the last time? Just a few years ago, right? Yes, it was. Only five years ago at his high school junior prom. James could never forget that night, no matter how much he yearned to purge it from his mind. That fateful incident had started him down this path, bouncing from one town to another. In some respects, James enjoyed moving around. He was twenty-two years old and had already visited fourteen different states. The South was the best, though. He loved the climate and the thick southern drawls, so different from the southwestern accents he had grown up around.

I want to hear some of those voices tonight, he finally concluded and hopped out of the chair. So far, the only Ithica accents he'd heard were utterances of 'filler up' and 'check the oil'. The time had arrived to explore the night life in this burgh. James grabbed his corduroy button up and slung it over his thin shoulders. He didn't own a comb, but he glided his fingers through his thick brown hair. There weren't any knots. With an exhale into his cupped palm, James checked his breath. It was clean and he was ready.

***

The Wild Boar was the perfect name for a bar in a small town. James had patronized many of them in his day. First, when he was nineteen with a fake ID. It was a decent forgery of an Indiana license and he used it seven times before getting caught. Then, when he became legal, he went on a two state drinking spree. Never any of the hard stuff. James liked beer. He loved beer. The musty taste and cool feeling as it slid down his throat always refreshed him. He fondly remembered the first beer he ever tasted. Ten years old and admiring Dodger Stadium. When Dad left for the bathroom, James sneaked a few sips of his draft. The thrill of furtively drinking a large gulp made his heart pound. There was nothing more primal and exhilarating than tasting the forbidden fruit underneath his parent's nose. When Dad returned from the bathroom, James stuffed his mouth with Sweet Tarts to conceal his breath. Getting away with it made the adrenaline even juicier.

Beer served an important social function in his life, too. It helped him loosen up. He remained as stiff as a starched button-up fresh from the cleaners, but for James that was loose. He was not gregarious. He had good reason, though. His mother had taught him not to do things that embarrassed himself--or her, though she'd never said that to his face.

Plumes of misty cigarette smoke tickled his nose and made him feel a little sick as he walked through the front door of the Boar. I'll get used to it, he told himself. He always did. Put half a beer in him and James Hall would take a shit-bath in a cow field. That's how much he liked his beer.

"Sam Adams," James ordered as he bellied up to the narrow bar. It wasn't very long; small Formica and pool tables filled the place--so old that the green velvet was crushed evenly against the wood and the balls resonated as they rolled toward the pockets.

"What kind?" the portly bartender asked. A crushed cigar hung from his bloated, red lips and James' stomach turned over. The thought of ordering a draft seemed less appealing. He didn't like the prospect of crumpled tobacco bits swimming in his drink.

"Any, uh, uh," he paused and stared at his feet for a moment. Not now, he thought and took a deep breath. It was James first night out in a new town and he prayed he wouldn't embarrass himself. He didn't have enough money to move on yet and if he was going to live in Ithica for a while, he wanted to be able to hold his head up in public. "Anything in a bottle," seeped out of his taut lips. James breathed deep and looked the bartender square in the eyes. Please don't ask me anything else. Not right now.

The bartender's left eye, the good one, squinted more intently as a dour expression rolled off his curling mouth. He radiated a glare James was too familiar with. It tacitly questioned what the hell his problem was? James hated to explain. Fortunately, the bartender was in no mood to ask. He reached to the glass cooler behind him, popped the cap off a Lager with his teeth, and set it down in front of James. "Anything else?"

James shook his head. Relief felt good, like the pure exhilaration of the last day of school before summer. A satisfied, almost queasy, feeling stuck in his throat below the Adam's apple.

He downed half the bottle in one long gulp. He felt even better. It was a humid night and the tiny air conditioner hanging next to an autographed photo of Greg Maddux above the bar was trying its best, but couldn't cut through the palpable heat. Faint music resounded from an old juke box in the corner. The machine was on its last leg, the bright neon lights flickered feebly as each forty-five spun its melody. It looked like one good kick would send the music box to an early, or perhaps belated, retirement. It made James wonder for a moment, why did people pack this place from wall to wall? It was hot, outdated, and the beer selection seemed a little meek at first glance. Despite the drawbacks, at least thirty men and women meandered between the pool tables, the juke, and the bar.

It doesn't matter, he decided. James was having a good time. The soft cacophony of dozens of conversations put him at ease. People talked about work, family, the Braves' six game winning streak, and their plans for the Fourth. James relaxed. Disappearing into the background of the crowded din was a talent he's developed. He felt more at ease listening rather than talking.

The beer was already spinning its inebriating web and the Crowded House song playing on the juke, 'Don't Dream It's Over,' was one of his favorites. For the first time in a long while, James Hall was feeling good about himself and his life.

There is freedom within

There is freedom without

Try to catch the deluge in a paper cup

There's a battle ahead

Many battles are lost

But you'll never see the end of the road

While you're traveling with me

Hey now, hey now

Don't dream it's over

Hey now, hey now

When the world comes in

They come, they come

To build a wall between us

The song's melody made the hackles stand up on the back of his neck, an electric sensation. James Hall was feeling the best he had in quite some time.

"Can I get a shot of whiskey?" the woman nuzzling beside him asked the barkeep. She squeezed between James and the man on his right wearing black leather. The man, James assumed he was a biker, weighed over three hundred pounds, almost taking up two stools, and the blonde haired, waifish girl felt more comfortable leaning toward James. She turned sideways, sliding between them, and James felt the swell of her small breasts rub against the skin of his forearm. His Pavlovian response didn't surprise him and why not, James was on top of the world. For that moment, he felt unstoppable.

Turning his head, his eyes scanned her from head to toe, and he smiled. She was attractive in a small town, country girl kind of way. He preferred red heads, but beggars can't be choosers and when it came to women, James was as indigent as a beggar prowling the New York subways with a mildewed paper cup full of change.

"You know we don't have shots here," the bartender replied--the woman's long-term memory was about as reliable as a Pinto--and James watched carefully as a look of disappointment and complete bewilderment filled the woman's eyes.

This is my moment, he thought. What James lacked in confidence, he made up for in intelligence. He pumped gas by choice, not by necessity. The beer swirling through his blood gave him more boldness than usual and he decided what could it hurt to say something to her. "Of course they don't have shots. This is a beer cellar."

The woman looked at him, finally taking notice. Her upper lip retracted, exposing long white teeth and receding gums. She hadn't gotten the joke. James tried to explain, "See, this place is like a cellar. He's a beer seller. See, s-see, I, I, I." James' jaw began to quiver. He felt it coming on strong this time. The foul beast was rearing its ugly head for the entire town to see. That's why he liked pumping gas, he never had to say much. That's why he had sat in his barren apartment for three straight evenings, watching the stars hang in the clear night sky. That's why James had no confidence with women, or anyone for that matter. It was his stutter. The embarrassing impediment that had stalked him his whole life like the man with a hook walking down lover's lane. It waited around every corner, trying to seize him and James was helpless to resist.

"Y-you s-s-see, I, I, I, I, can-n-n-n't h-h-help-p-p." The p's always gave him the worst fits. James simply couldn't pucker his lips without them quivering and the heat rising up his body, the flames of embarrassment, made him feel even more conspicuous. Crowded House faded from the juke and though a dissonance of howling laughter, rowdy discussions, and loud arguments filled the bar, James was certain everyone was looking right at him. Glaring at the stuttering sideshow freak.

"You retarded or something?" the woman asked in a country voice, her lip inching farther upward as though a fisherman's hook had reeled her in.

"N-n-n-no," James stuttered and she was gone, swiftly returning to her table where she and her girlfriends would glance at him and giggle behind the palms that shielded their smiling mouths. James could glow in the dark his skin became so flush and he cursed himself for making any attempt at all.

I should have stayed home. Could have relaxed, read a little Milton, eaten some pizza. But no! I had to come here, have one beer, and pretend I'm Robin Williams! I'm such a fucking idiot!

It was the high school junior prom all over again. That's where it really began. For the first seventeen years of his life, James lived in contented solitude. The other children had always made fun of his stutter--they told him he needed to watch more Sesame Street like all the other retards in Special Ed--but James had learned to deal with it. He was the boy who sat alone in the corner of the cafeteria, an open book in hand, as he aced all his classes, but refused to participate in any activities. Occasionally, another boy, usually trying to impress a girl, would throw a Twinkie or a fork full of peas at him, but James would wipe away the bombardment and return to his books. He was a survivor.

Then the day came when the head cheerleader, Glenda Markham, a beautiful young woman who all the boys compared to Demi Moore, approached him. She was curvaceous, flippant, and popular--all the qualities every high school boy drooled for, including James. "James, this might sound completely weirdo, but like, I think it's okay for girls to ask out guys. Do you want to go to the prom with me?"

"Is th-this a j-j-joke?" James had asked, feeling his heart throb through his chest and shirt. His face felt like a chemical fire had exploded across it.

"Course not," Glenda had replied.

James was embarrassed he had even suggested it. Still, insults had hardened him through the years and he had doubts. "Why m-m-me?"

She rolled her eyes and sighed despondently. "Because I'm sick of all the jocks who have one thing on their minds. For once, I'd like to go on a real date. How 'bout it?"

"How c-can I s-s-say no?" James had replied.

James rented the best tux he could find, bought the brightest pink corsage, and even found a top hat to wear to the gala affair. The evening seemed enchanted. Glenda danced with him, talked to him, and even hinted that they might want to go to her place later as her smooth hand slid down the back of James' tux.

"My parents are out of town," she had whispered in his ear as a Chris Issak ballad lingered in the background.

James was in ecstasy. Everything he had ever imagined, 'the way things should be' he dubbed those fantasies, was coming true. A good looking girl finally went for the smart, sensitive guy. Then it all crashed down around him.

"And the winner of the Prom King contest," a falsetto voice had shrieked from the stage," is James Hall."

When the white spotlight swung onto the dance floor and illuminated James and Glenda, he didn't notice. He hadn't heard the declaration or realized anything after Glenda slid her thin fingers to the rounded cusp where his buttocks met his waist. His head rested on her shoulder, a smile on his lips, and his eyes closed.

"James, you won!" Glenda had shouted, waking him from serendipity.

"Huh?"

"You won. Get up there," she had urged as she pushed him up the small flight of stairs abutting the dais.

A mile wide grin of acceptance and retribution spread across James Hall's face as he shielded his eyes from the spotlight with a salute. The shrieking girl pushed a tinsel crown onto his head and James stepped to the microphone, feeling more confident than he had at any moment in his life. "I c-c-can't b-b-believe you all l-l-like me th-this much."

They didn't.

"Hey shitface, speak up, we didn't hear ya!" Roger Barrett, the captain of the football team and Glenda's ex had shouted.

For a moment, James had thought he was serious. Undaunted, he continued, "W-Wow. I j-j-just c-can't believe y-you. . . ."

"Need some help retard?" someone else had yelled.

A sinking feeling pulled James' stomach into his shoes. Awareness of their gag was dawning on him, but there was still hope. He still had Glenda to turn to.

"Speak a little louder, retard!"

James recognized that voice immediately, its delicate porcelain timbre. He stared across the sea of classmates below the small dais and saw her. Glenda, smiling devilishly, Roger Barrett's arms wrapped around her waist.

"Retard, retard, retard!" the chants had echoed.

James never felt more conspicuous. It was worse than the dreams where he arrived at school naked and endured pointing fingers and giggling classmates.

"Children! Children!" the principal had shouted as he stepped on the stage, draping an arm over James' shoulder. That made him feel worse. "Stop this at once! Play some music and stop this caterwauling." He turned to James. "You can go now, son."

James nodded. He could go. Now that the torment was completed, he was allowed to leave. He walked toward the edge of the stage, feeling his heart break as Glenda left with Roger, when the pelting began. Dozens of paper cups filled with a red punch/orange juice concoction showered him, drenching the rented tux, and saturating his hair into long, clumped strands.

The principal looked at him, disappointed. "Go on, son."

James nodded again. Now it really was over. Everything ended for him after that.

James had learned his lesson that night. In one respect, that night had given him a hard edge, a serrated blade of cynicism, but in another respect, that night shattered the walls that had protected him. He couldn't sit idly by while other people teased him. He couldn't find the strength to fight back, either. Within a year, James dropped out of school and took to the road. He never looked back.

Sometimes, however, moments like this one in The Wild Boar, he felt like that little kid again, standing underneath the stage's spotlight, an oversized tux hanging from his spindly arms, as he shrank to the size of a dot. His impediment made him feel small, less than human, and it was the worst feeling in the world. James couldn't take it anymore. He needed another beer.

"Ignore her," a deep, sultry voice called out. James looked to his left and saw an older woman sitting next to him. She wasn't too old, probably thirty he guessed, and she was beautiful. Long red hair bobbed against her shoulders and hunter green eyes radiated off her taut skin. Her face was smooth, with flat svelte lips, and James wondered if there was a hint of Asian descent in her blood. He couldn't find a single line on any part of her supple face. "Becky is an uneducated idiot and she only talks to guys if she already knows what kind of car they drive. What do you drive?" she asked.

"I, I, I don't o-o-own a c-car."

"Sorry, you wouldn't stand a chance with her."

"Tell me a-about i-i-it," James garbled as he turned back to the bar.

"Hi, I'm Carrie Mason," the woman replied, undaunted, as she extended her hand.

James looked at it circumspectly from the corner of his eye and asked himself what he was waiting for? A beautiful woman was talking him. She must have heard the stutter; it had fully crept out of its steel cage. Yet she still seemed interested in him. He wasn't sure why, but maybe, just possibly, she was mature enough to look beyond such trivialities. There were people like that in the world, but they were few and far between. "I, I'm James H-Hall," he answered and shook her hand. Her touch was electric, but he couldn't vouch for the handshake. Her fingers barely grasped his hand, as though she was afraid to touch him.

"Sorry, I'm not much of a handshaker," she said, noticing James' obvious displeasure with her greeting. "I prefer to save my hands for other activities." James turned full around with that comment, his right eyebrow rising off his forehead. Carrie smiled slyly, quietly chuckling under her breath. "I meant for drinking," she explained and she hailed another round for them both.

"Of course. Drink-king, that's i-it."

"Get your mind out of the gutter," she quipped as the bartender set another bottle in front of him.

"Thanks," James said and he raised the drink for a silent toast.

"Here's one for you," she began. "What do you call a skydiving lawyer?"

James was unaccustomed to flirting and decided it best to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he shrugged.

Carrie smiled, barely containing a burst of giggles. "Skeet."

They both laughed and James almost blew beer into his nose. "Th-That's pretty g-good," he admitted and James rarely laughed. "Where'd y-you h-hear it?"

"I work for a law firm, so I've heard them all."

"A-Attorney?"

"No. Paralegal. What do you do?"

The satisfied grin melted from James' face and he hid his frown with the beer bottle. "C-Can I t-take the f-fifth?"

"Sure," Carrie answered without pressuring him, but James swore he heard her mumble something under her breath. "Believe me, I understand about keeping things private."

"Huh?" James questioned.

She smiled broadly and shook her head, tassels of hair bouncing across her shoulders. "Never mind. Now that I've bought you a drink and told you my best joke, I say we're friends. Do you say we're friends?"

"Why not," James answered.

"Good. We all need more friends."

Or one, James thought.

She pressed her round cheek against her blue blouse and crossed her legs in James' direction. "I'm a very direct person, James. I get tired of games very quickly."

"I've h-had enough of other p-p-peoples' games, too."

"Good."

"I p-prefer facetious people. T-They have m-more fun."

Carrie shook her head disapprovingly. "Be careful, Mr. Hall. First time I've seen you in here and you're using silver dollar words like facetious. If you're not careful the school board will arrest you for expressing a qualified vocabulary."

"B-Big br-brother is watching."

Carrie grinned and snickered through her nose. "Learned and a reader. What's next? Can you bend spoons with your mind?"

"Wait t-til I've h-had another b-beer."

Carries raised her glass and sipped at her draft like a bird pecking seeds. James stared at her oddly. He felt very comfortable, as though he'd known Carrie his whole life and could slip in and out of casual conversation like it was an old sock. He looked at his feet again, hoping this didn't come out wrong, but he had to ask, "So why are y-y-you t-talking with me?"

It was a stupid, asocial question, but James believed Carrie when she claimed she didn't like games. Why not be direct instead? Carrie licked her lips in contemplation and nodded slightly, answering a silent question she had asked herself. "I'm not really sure. I suppose I just felt like talking to someone and I've never seen you before. I thought you might have something interesting to say."

"I'm n-new in t-t-town."

"Where from?"

"All over. I've t-traveled throughout the S-S-South. S-S-Seen all s-sorts of t-towns."

"Then why'd you move here?" Carrie wondered with a sarcasm more biting than humorous. He genuinely intrigued her. Not only because she assumed James must have some stories and not only because she wondered why someone so young had traveled so much, but mainly because she asked the one question James had asked himself repeatedly, "Why would you want to move to Ithica?"

James detected a hint of reservation in her voice. She wasn't hiding anything, he didn't think, but she was discretely stunned by his choice. She hid it well, but James had a knack for hearing beyond the words people spoke. "Why not? I l-like the m-m-m."

"The mountains," she finished and he nodded. Normally, James despised people that completed words for him, but he liked Carrie.

"The S-South is b-beautiful and I like hot s-s-summers."

"Then you chose the right place. In July, the mercury around here can rise to over a hundred degrees. That's a little warmer than I like it, but hey, for each their own, right? How long have you lived here?"

"M-Moved in j-j-just three days ago."

"So you really are the new fish in the pond. Well, James, you picked the right time of the year. The fireworks show on Fourth of July is amazing. It's the best part about living in Ithica. People travel from all over to see our show. The town is stuck in this little valley between the hills and they launch the fireworks from the crests surrounding us. I really can't describe it. You just have to see it." Carrie fanned her face with a folded napkin and smiled at James. Her grin was more than pleasant. It was inviting and James returned it.

"I guess I will," James replied, feeling more comfortable and hoping Carrie might join him to watch the pyrotechnic display. His stutter was slowly fading away. He'd seen dozens of speech therapists and doctors in his days and none of them could diagnose the problem. James was born with his impediment, a unique type of birthmark, and he couldn't control it. When he was calm he didn't stutter as badly, but those moments were as rare as finding a blue diamond. James would tell himself he has to stay calm so he could avoid stuttering, which made him feel more nervous, which made the stutter worse, which made him fret about it even more. It was a vicious, unyielding cycle. Carrie broke through it, though. "So what else do people do around here?"

"Go to church," she said with a hint of incredulity in her voice. She obviously didn't attend herself. "That and attend funerals."

"Funerals?"

"Sure. Funerals are important social functions in the South. People get outdoors, eat a lot of food, and catch up on what's happened since the last one."

"That's morbid."

"Not really," Carrie opined and she turned comfortably on her stool, settling into place for a lengthy conversation. "Funerals are measuring sticks."

"Of what?"

"Importance. The only way a person can measure the quality of their life is at their funeral, and of course by then it is too late for the guy pushing up daisies."

"I don't get it," James admitted.

Carrie leaned closer and spoke more softly. "One gauges their importance by the number of people that turn out for their funeral. Important people have made lots of acquaintances through the years and thus, tons of people turn out to say good-bye. Unimportant people, maybe one or two family members will show up."

"I don't know," James said skeptically. "I think you spend a little too much time thinking about funerals."

He'd meant it as a joke, but Carrie didn't laugh. "Tell me about it," she mumbled solemnly and quaffed a large gulp of her beer. Wiping her mouth, she peered at James and he noticed the exhaustion in her sagging eyes. "You're in the middle of the Bible Belt, James. I'd say right about where the buckle meets the loops. Life and death are bookends to everyone's life, but we fret over them every day down here. Do you believe in God, James?" she asked, her tone becoming more serious.

"No," he answered, hoping she wasn't a member of some sect on a recruitment drive. Wouldn't that be perfect, he thought. The first woman in a long time to show an interest in him and all she wanted was his faith. James didn't have any to offer. If there was a God, why would he give people speech impediments? 'To test you,' many a preacher had told James, but that was bullshit. God didn't give him the strength to live with his impediment. He had salvaged that determination on his own.

"I'm not sure what I think," Carrie said slowly, her eyes staring at the beer coolers as though they formed an endless, quicksilver horizon. "I guess I agree with you. There's so many bad things in this world you wonder why a God would let them happen. I'd like to think he's out there, somewhere, watching over us, protecting us, but I doubt it. I know he hasn't protected me very well." She took a quaff of her beer and rested her forehead in her palm.

She had seemed so vibrant only a few seconds ago, but now James saw how old she really was. Carrie looked broken and worn like a woman who had raised a family on her own, held three jobs, and still made time to do the laundry. James scooted his stool closer to hers and put his hand on her right shoulder. It was tense and he rubbed it slowly. "Carrie, are you okay?"

"I'll be all right," she said, breathing deep and finally looking up. She removed his hand from her shoulder, patting it gently, and James felt abashed.

I shouldn't have done that. She'll get the wrong impression.

But she didn't. Carried clasped his hand between both of hers and looked directly into James' green eyes. "Thank you, James. You're easy to talk to and I like that, but there are some things we keep to ourselves. I have a feeling you understand that."

"I do," he answered, nodding.

"Good. I appreciate you listening, but let's talk about something else."

"Good idea," he agreed and she smiled, wide and bright.

***

Cletus Watts watched in acrimonious silence as Carrie and the new fish talked. He didn't like the look of the new fish. He was short, skinny, and a pretty boy. He had full brown hair; Cletus' red locks were thinning and receding. He had bright green eyes; Cletus eyes were pallid, almost without any color. He wore a new-looking button up; Cletus adorned a faded Marlboro T-shirt that served as his napkin and snot rag. He didn't like this new fish at all, but mostly because he was talking to Carrie Mason.

That bitch! He had tried to get with her since high school. She was the only girl in Ithica who had rejected him. He had gotten with dozens of women in all sorts of positions. Getting with women was the only thing Cletus liked almost as much as kicking ass. He'd promised Carrie the world--in his estimation that meant a meal at McDonald's, a beer at the Boar, and a pack of smokes--if she would only let him get a little taste of her snatch. Repeatedly, she had said no--her exact words being 'not even if I was on fire and I had to go down on you to get a bucket of water'. Usually, Carrie suggested that Cletus go copulate with a dog. He wasn't offended. Cletus didn't know what copulate meant.

Carrie was a lesbian, had to be. Cletus knew she was. Why else would she reject him again and again? He was, after all, Cletus Watts, the most dangerous and the most powerful man in Ithica, or so he liked to think. He had founded the Rebel Lodge and hordes of men from all over the area followed him. So why couldn't she just give it up and get with him? Because she was a lesbo, that was the only answer.

Still, it burned him up to watch another man talk to her, lesbo or not. He was the only one allowed to hit on Carrie Mason. Cletus had decided long ago that if he couldn't get with her then nobody could. He wouldn't allow it, whether Carrie wanted to get with a woman or man she mistook for a woman like the little fag with her now. It didn't matter to him. He'd just as soon smack a woman as he would scratch his own ass.

Pound the crap out of that little faggot. That's your woman he's talking to!

Yeah, Carrie was his. She belonged to him even if he couldn't get with her. He licked his lips, polishing off his eighth beer of the early evening, and wiped his sweaty palms across his feculent shirt. Leaning forward, Cletus rested his elbows on his scrawny knees and waited for the right moment. Then he saw it. That little faggot put his hand square on her shoulder. Carrie looked upset and why shouldn't she? A little faggot was touching her.

Kick his ass, Cletus! Get up and do it now! Prove you're in control.

The steady voice echoing through his head, the same voice he had listened to time and time again throughout his life, was right. Cletus would have none of this. It was time to take care of business and he knew only one way. He sprung out of his seat, knocking over his black wooden chair, and stalked across the bar. His shoes peeled off the sticky floor with each step until he stopped behind James. "Hey!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

James slowly turned his head, hoping no shattered glass from the impending brawl would strike him. He never suspected that the booming voice was shouting at him, but as six feet and three inches of redneck marched toward him, James realized he was in trouble.

"I got a bone to pick with you, faggot!"

"Me?" James asked, still shocked. He didn't even know this man.

"You can't talk to Carrie! Did I give you permission to talk to her?"

"What?" James asked in disbelief, part of him wondering if this act was part of some elaborate joke.

Cletus walked right up to him and stretched his neck forward, stopping three inches from James' face. "Answer me, faggot! Did I say you could talk to her?"

That's it, Cletus. Put him in his place!

"Well did I?"

James lips flapped together, but no sounds came out. It wasn't his stutter. He was flabbergasted, speechless, and fearful. He had been in a few tussles before, but he hated fighting and the stench of beer reeking from Cletus' mouth told him that this redneck wouldn't go down easy. Fighting a man so drunk was impossible. James could have hit over the head with his stool and Cletus wouldn't have noticed.

"Sit down, Cletus," Carrie ordered.

"I ain't talking to you, lesbo bitch!"

"But I am talking to you. Get the hell out of our faces. This is none of your business."

"Shut up bitch! I'm about to kick yer boy's ass!"

"That's just about enough," the bartender interjected. James glanced over his shoulder and saw the fat part of a Louisville Slugger resting between his crossed arms. "Cletus, you know I don't have none of that in my place. You git on out and finish this some other time."

Cletus looked at the notched bat and remembered what it felt like last year when Henry knocked him upside the head with that thing. It left a Mark McGwire insignia on his back. He didn't want to spend three days in the hospital again. "I'll go," Cletus said more calmly. Whatever had gotten his dander up was fading, but he took a long, hard look at James, etching his face into his feeble memory. "I won't forget this, faggot," he said as his arms crossed his chest, forming an x, and he beat his pectorals once with each fist. James wasn't sure what that meant, it could have been the delusions of a drunkard, but he felt uneasy. A lump bulged from his throat and intense heat rose to his face again. He could sense his cheeks turning red and the heat didn't dissipate until Cletus had departed through the squeaky front door.

The bartender turned to Carrie. "You need anything?"

"Just some deodorant," Carrie replied as she waved Cletus' rancid body odor away from her nose.

James turned to Carrie and asked, "Y-Y-Your b-boyfriend?"

She stared at him dryly, almost admonishingly. "Facetious, right?"

James grinned. "S-Sorry."

"Cletus has been hitting on me for years. He just got a little jealous."

"D-does he h-h-have r-r-r-reason to be?"

"Maybe," Carrie said with a smile. She uncrossed her legs, crossed them the other direction, and winked at James. He caged his stutter without hesitation. He hadn't felt this content in many years.

Part Two: July 2

Chapter Three: The Road North

6:27 A.M.

The last thing Todd Bundy put in the wide trunk of his '88 Buick was the gaudy black cowboy hat. It was a godawful hat, something Garth Brooks would wear, not Todd Bundy. He was relocating to Nashville, however, and he decided weeks ago that any musician living in Country Music City USA had to look the part when needed. The hat was all he could tolerate, though. He drew the line at cowboy boots, bolo ties, or belt buckles with his name etched across the front. Todd still had some self respect, though it was fading fast and not because of his fashion sense.

He never fathomed that getting clean would be the worst thing for him. Kicking all those bad habits had improved his health and his demeanor over the last six months, but it was too late. Before entering rehab, he'd already sown the seeds of irascibility and now he reaped the harvest. He was sober all the time and that precarious mental state allowed him to absorb all his surroundings. He could no longer turn to a vial full of nose candy or to a speedball to distract him when the pressures of real life crept around his ankles like thick ivy covering a dilapidated stone wall. Todd was crumbling.

Nashville will change all of that, he told himself. It had to. For his sake and for hers.

He shut the trunk of his brown car and rested his palms on the hot paint and steel. Linda sat in the passenger side seat, barely conscious, and maybe that was for the best. Gainesville to Nashville was a long drive and their flaring tempers might stay at a minimum if she passed out.

Fuck that! Todd thought, cursing himself. He couldn't believe he actually wanted his wife to pass out. He'd been there and done that more times than he'd sung off key with a hangover. He knew what it was like to view the world through inebriated lenses. Did he really wish that on her? No. He wished it on himself.

Life would be a lot simpler if I hadn't gotten sober. Maybe then none of this would have happened. She wouldn't have started drinking and I wouldn't be lucid enough to realize it. All my fault.

He reached into his back pocket and ripped open a packet with two Alka-Seltzers. Cramming them in his mouth, he crunched the tablets into bits, listening to their fizzing reaction, and swallowed them quickly. A trail of bubbling chalk lined his throat and Todd resisted the urge to spit up the partially digested tablets. Alka-Seltzer tasted like milky charcoal, but it always helped settle his stomach. Take 'em straight, Todd thought as washed down the residue with a hard swallow. That's how he'd always taken his pills: straight.

With regret settling on Todd Bundy, he walked around the side of the Buick, the keys twitching in his hands, praying that she might pass out for at least a few hours. The fighting only made their situation worse.

***

"Remind me, why are we doing this?" Linda asked as she sucked at the contents of her neon orange Gators squeeze bottle. She'd awakened as they crossed the Georgia state line twelve minutes ago. Todd knew the silence was too golden to last. Every time Linda woke up after a blackout, she was less then friendly. Confrontational was a more apt description, a bobcat guarding her lair from predators.

Todd wondered what she had mixed this morning? A few ounces of juice to go with her vodka or maybe she was drinking bourbon straight up. He couldn't tell, the thick plastic straw hid the liquid's color. He took a deep breath, savoring the aroma, and decided it was bourbon. Well, maybe. He also smelled scotch and a hint of whiskey. Linda reeked like a bar. Alcohol had stained all of her clothes with unyielding vapors. She always smelled this way.

"For the thousandth time," he answered in an exasperated voice, "we're moving to Nashville because there's work there." He had played in every joint across South Florida and knew all the right people. The problem was, they knew him too and they all remembered the old Todd. The Todd who vomited on a college audience at a Gainesville club called The Pit, the Todd who showed up for a studio gig with bloodshot eyes and his brain coked to the moon, or the Todd that at any moment could lapse into a drunken rendition of Jimmy Buffet. In the old days he was very familiar with Margaritaville and he liked the sound of those songs. So much so that he'd strum them on his Gibson at the drop of a hat. It didn't matter that he had reformed and hadn't touched a drop in months. Everyone remembered Todd from the old days.

The old days, Todd thought. It sounded strange to think of it like that. It hadn't been so long ago. Earlier this year he had walked the streets, and the gutters, in search of a guy named Eight-ball during that January panic. He never found him. Maybe that was when it hit Todd that he needed help. No, that wasn't true. He remembered clearly the defining moment when he realized he had gone too far. He despised that episode in his waste of a life.

It's all my fault. Everything is my fault. It became his credo. Sobriety cleared his head and that resounding conclusion had pestered him every day on the wagon.

"Isn't everyone in Nashville a musician," Linda said spitefully. Todd squeezed the molded steering wheel between his palms, rubbing so hard that his skin turned a pallid white. He squelched the urge to dispute her--though Linda was right--because there was still a lot of driving to do and he didn't want to argue. He'd always heard friends talk about why you should never take the car on a family vacation. The kids will drive you nuts, they'd say. None of Todd's friends had spent ten hours in a car with Linda. An entire orphanage of screaming kids would be a relief. "How do you expect to find work? You'll end up like everybody else, struggling to make the rent as a waiter in some barbecue joint."

"Why don't you shut up!" he shouted. He couldn't stand her needling any longer. "It's not like you've done much better this year. Isn't that right? How many jobs have you lost?" They both knew the answer. Linda, once a prominent legal secretary, lost her position with the firm when she passed out at lunch. She had added a little rum to her Pepsi and hadn't worked up to her current tolerance yet. Then she caught on with a local newspaper, selling advertising space over the phone. That job lasted a month before she became enraged with the owner of a pet supply store, yelling at him that he wouldn't know a good newspaper if it bit him in the ass and if he was into that kind of thing she was certain one of his parrots could fulfill his desires. Linda took a little time off after that job, spending her days on their front porch, sipping tall glasses of Long Island Ice Teas, until she found a receptionist position at a consulting firm. She lost that job when the born again CEO smelled rye whiskey on her breath after she'd taken an exceedingly long break in the women's restroom. Finally, only a month ago, Linda found herself cooking fries at McDonald's. That position lasted twenty-four hours. She didn't lose the job to her habit. Linda quit. She'd never sunk so low. She decided she would rather be unemployed than work fast food.

The plush bucket seat of the Buick and comforted her aching back. She nestled her squeeze bottle between her small hands. Linda was diminutive, only five feet and a hundred pounds. It didn't take much to get her drunk and she'd almost finished the two quart container. "You'll be lucky to find anything in Nashville," she mumbled under her breath.

"What was that?" Todd asked angrily, though he had heard her clearly. He looked across the car and saw her glassy, wide eyes staring at the passing billboards. White splotches of reflected sunshine hypnotized her, but Todd only saw the ads. They beckoned him to buy Exxon gasoline and to stop at the Palmetto Fully Nude Entertainment Club, Truckers Welcomed, only six miles ahead. The signs were a blur Linda. She thought they were giant mirrors.

"Nothing," she finally answered, still not blinking. Todd turned back to the road again, imagining a path through the sparse traffic of I-75's two lanes, when he heard her mumble again. It sounded like, "Your fault."

She's right, he thought. Todd agreed it was his fault, but he had never heard Linda say so. That made it worse. He had to live with the knowledge of what he had done to her, but she didn't know. Or maybe she does, he considered. Perhaps Linda was cognizant enough to trace the lines backwards, remember when her problems began. No, she probably couldn't and Todd would never admit to it. At least not aloud. Deep down inside, though, where his intestines met his stomach, he knew it was his fault.

It's your fault, Todd. You did this to her. You ruined her life!

Don't I know it, he answered the voice in his head. This time he was certain she hadn't said anything. He had listened to his tormented, regretting mind all along. Linda could barely walk straight, let alone lay blame on anybody. She was content to hurt him in other ways--she blamed Todd for the state of their marriage not her problems.

Maybe the back-roads will make for a better distraction, he considered. The monotony of the flat interstate and sparse palm groves was getting to him and Todd knew that if it was getting to him, then Linda would eventually start feeling edgy, too. And if she felt edgy, he would want to cram hot wax in his ears to drown out her vicious complaints. At the next exit, Todd pulled off the interstate.

"What are you doing, idiot? You're going to get us lost."

"Sit back and enjoy the scenery," Todd replied as he located Highway 129. They could take the back-roads all through north Georgia and into east Tennessee, then cut across the state. Why not, Todd thought? He'd always wanted to see the mountains up close and maybe even make a snowball or two--Todd Bundy, who had lived his whole life in Florida, had yet to realize that there was a large difference, say a couple of miles, between the snow covered peaks of the Rockies and much smaller hills of the Smokies.

This way will be more relaxing, he told himself. But it wasn't. He couldn't drown out Linda's continuous insults. Asshole merged with idiot to make him an idiothole. That was a new one. Usually, Linda slurred through the normal array of cuss words and metaphors before she invented new ones. This afternoon, she was getting a head start. There was only one way Todd could escape the verbal barrage--he didn't consider throwing himself from a Buick speeding seventy MPH a viable option--and that was to ignore her. The only way to ignore Linda was to think about something else and, he would regret moments after the memory surfaced, he found himself remembering that fateful day in January when he returned home from an unsuccessful search for Eight-ball.

***

"Mother fuckin' Chauncey!" Todd mumbled as he stepped in from the cold. This winter was one of the coldest on record and it showed on Todd. He walked outside with nothing more than a blue windbreaker on, no hat or gloves. The first thing Linda noticed as he walked back through the door were the blue bruises under his fingernails. It was a slight case of frostbite. Todd hadn't noticed.

He actually felt hot, burning up with anger and the pint of Jack Daniels he'd polished off before he went looking for the mysterious man called Eight-ball. "Mother fuckin' Chauncey got no idea what he's talkin' about. Shouldn't go saying things you don't know for sure." Though Linda had no idea where Todd had disappeared to for the last hour, she knew too well who Chauncey was--the guy who turned Todd's occasional at home habit into a full blown addiction.

Chauncey Phillips was the bass player in a local band called The Wrest. They played the college, local clubs, and sometimes drove down to Orlando for a gig or two. Todd occasionally sat in with them, but after he met the bassist, occasionally became most of the time. He and Chauncey hit it off immediately. They shared a passion for Gibsons, blues music, and cocaine. Everything was fine between them--though the other members of The Wrest got sick of pulling Todd and Chauncey off hotel room floors as they searched for pieces of white lint, convinced the fuzz was a little pinch of the precious white powder that had somehow escaped them--until the panic set in.

Everyone in the mid-Florida area felt it. The sweet nose candy that had once been so easy to find suddenly dried up. DEA had made a major bust of mules who drove the product through Florida at night. The mules owned fast cars and wore night vision goggles so they could rocket along the highway with their lights off. They were smart, but not smart enough. Through a series of paid informants, DEA learned when to set up the roadblocks and where.

Three weeks had passed since Todd had tasted his last hit and he was growing irksome. "Man could not live by booze and weed alone," he always said. Todd lied awake at night, sweat pouring off him in torrential streams as he thought about the coke. He couldn't get it out of his mind. It called to him, beckoning Todd to take a hit. One little hit won't kill you. God, he needed it.

Then this afternoon, Chauncey surprised him. Told him about a guy downtown called Eight-ball. Said he was selling the shit so cheap that he was basically giving it away. When Todd heard that, he hung up the phone, ran out of the house with nothing but a windbreaker, and almost knocked Linda aside as he fled through the door.

Linda recovered, saving her scotch and soda by placing her hand over the full glass, and watched from the living room window as Todd left. His Buick peeled out, leaving cirrus tendrils of white mist in the air, and Linda slumped to the sofa. She gulped most of her drink and wiped her lips with the back of her arm. She wasn't yet the lush she would soon become, but the seeds were there, waiting to sprout. Linda didn't drink socially. She drank to escape her problems.

The alcohol helps me think more clearly, she told herself. She didn't know how to help her husband. She loved him, always would, but he was like a zombie she couldn't control. Any mention of coke was a hypnotic command and Todd would spring to life in search of it. She couldn't stop him so she drank. And drank. And drank. It made the pain of watching her husband sink into a vial of white powder more bearable. I can control the drinking, she told herself. I don't have a problem, not like him, I'm no zombie. I decide when and where I drink. I've got control over it.

By the end of that night, she wouldn't have control any longer.

"Mother fuckin' Chauncey!" Todd screamed, loud enough for Linda to hear him through the slurring, as he returned home. "He fuckin' lied to me!"

"Todd please," she begged, twisting her arms like pipe cleaners. "Stop shouting."

"This is my house! I can shout however I want! Whenever I want!"

"Todd please, I love you. Just lay down. Get some sleep. You'll feel better."

He picked up a turquoise vase from the rostrum in the foyer and smashed it to pieces. It broke into small white and blue chunks, reminding him of crack, and he felt angrier. "Shut up! I have to find Chauncey. He must be getting it somewhere. He knows where Eight-ball is! Dammit, he knows or he wouldn't have said anything! Where is that fucker?"

Linda had never seen him like this. Since the panic set in, Todd had cried and whimpered and moped around the house. Now, he was different. Something had changed in him, as though he had reached a decisive barrier. He was on the edge of a tenuous abyss, staring over the edge and trying not to flinch. The tenebrous pit scared him, made him act this way. It scared her, too.

"Todd, lay down. I'll draw you a bath. You can play me a song," she said as she carefully laid both her hands on his right forearm.

Her touch felt warm, a sudden contrast to the frostbite that had chaffed his pale flesh, and Todd suddenly inhaled deeply. Her touch had shocked him, almost scared him. For a moment, he had forgotten that she was even in the room. Then her words set in, registering in his lethargic mind. He didn't want to play a song. How could she ask him to play a God damn song at a time like this? He was in pain, Chauncey had lied to him, and the yearning deep in his bowels begged for a few grams of the white powder to make it all go away. That's all he needed. Just a few grams. Instead, he got stupid requests and a hand searing his arm. It burned him, her fingers felt like the scalding wire rack of a grill. Todd screamed in pain and frustration.

"Get the fuck off you're hurting me!" He didn't realize what happened next until he'd already done it. In retrospect, he recalled the moment in slow motion, as though it were part of a dream. He pulled his right arm away, escaping Linda's grasp and knocking her off balance. The rage swelled in his gut, traveled up his windpipe, and he gagged on it like spicy food that regurgitated half way up the throat and left a rancid taste on the back of his tongue. He pulled his left fist over his head and swung downward.

He told himself it was Chauncey standing there, grinning that high smile, and waiting for a good belt. The moment his knuckles blackened Mary's right eye, he realized what he had done.

She fell to floor, landing on the shattered vase, the shock of what he had done hurt more than the blow, and she covered her face with both arms. Tears squirted out of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks in long, shimmering streaks, and Linda's mouth opened wide. He'd never touched her before. Todd had never even raised his voice at her before. He had always been like a big teddy bear. That all changed in one harrowing instant. As Linda stared at him between her forearms, he looked somehow different. She recognized the circumspect remorse on his face--his eyes swelled with tears and his mouth hung open ever so slightly as the dull shock of realization descended on him--but there was a new glow about him. Todd wasn't a monster, he never could be, but he was a changed man and not for the better. Now, he was a man controlled by his emotions, by the baleful urges that cross every human mind from time to time. His personal Pandora's box was wide open and Todd could never close it again. Linda feared imagining what demons might slink out.

"Oh my God, Linda!" he screamed and he leaned forward to pick her up. She kicked and screamed at him. His touch gave her shivers, his skin clammy with building perspiration.

"Get away from me! Don't touch me! Don't you dare touch me!" One of her wild kicks caught Todd in the left knee, an inch below the kneecap, and he slumped backward against the foyer wall. His back pressed against the drywall as he slid to the floor, his butt landing on the thin beige carpet with a painful thud.

Todd covered his ears, but he couldn't ignore Linda's cries. They were tears of pain and disbelief. He couldn't believe he'd done it either. What made me do it? he wondered, suddenly feeling sober, more like himself. He knew. Part of him didn't want to admit it, but he knew.

That's when he made the decision to get clean. As his wife's crushing wails reverberated off his eardrums, Todd Bundy knew he'd quaffed his last drink, smoked his last joint, and had taken his last hit. Never again, he promised himself. If not for his sake, then for Linda. He couldn't let himself become that monster again. He was going to close the box or die trying.

Much to his chagrin, he lived. Perhaps it would have been better if I died, he often thought. As he got clean, Linda progressively worsened. She couldn't visit him in the detox center as her downward spiral picked up steam. She lost the jobs, drank more and more, and Todd knew why. The blame fell squarely on his slumping shoulders.

Linda hated him, but still loved him. She hated what he had become, if only for an instant, and no matter how clean he got, Linda would still see him as the raving, strung out man who stood above her as her right eye swelled shut. But she loved him. Linda couldn't leave him no matter how much sense it made. She found another way to escape--the booze.

She drank herself to the bottom of bottle after bottle and Todd couldn't stop her. He slid rehab pamphlets under her pillow and refused to give her money for the liquor store, but she always found ways. One afternoon, he came home and found the cushions thrown off all the furniture. Linda had dug up just enough sticky change to buy a can of beer from the store. He would have done anything to help her stop, but he knew he couldn't. Todd understood the trappings of addiction first hand. A junkie has to help himself. Nobody else can make them want to give it up.

The alcohol was the only thing that got Linda through the day. She couldn't imagine giving up a single drop.

The situation had to change. The first few months out of rehab, Todd hoped that she might change herself. As summer approached, however, he realized she would not. That's when he got the brilliant plan to move. It made sense. Nashville was a music town and a month in detox had ruined his career in Florida. Also, he prayed a change in scenery might help Linda. He wasn't sure how, but it was a straw he could grasp at. Every night, he prayed it would work.

***

Guilt blared through Todd's head like a trumpet. A loud D chord that antagonized his every waking thought. Food tasted bland, his throat was constantly parched, and his ears rung. The trip worsened the symptoms.

So far, though they had only driven north for a day, the plan seemed to be a failure. Prayer hadn't changed their circumstances. Linda had argued with him the entire afternoon. I'm doing this all for you, he wanted to tell her, but why? She would respond with cursing, questions, and admonishing glares. Todd knew from experience, when Linda acted this way, sauced to the eyeballs, there was no talking reason with her.

I have to give her time. She'll give this move a chance, eventually.

"Are we going to stop soon?" she asked, her drunken belligerency piquing.

Todd took a deep breath and calmed his racing heart. He reminded himself that he too was a pugnacious asshole when he was high. It was the alcohol talking, not his beloved Linda. "Soon, honey."

"I don't see why," she said nonchalantly and Todd pursed his lips. Her question was a set up, one of her usual lead-ins to a complaint. "Not like we'll do anything in a hotel."

Todd ran a palm through his thick, sweaty hair. He felt hot even though he had cranked the AC to high. Arguing about sex, or lack of it, was his least favorite subject. It gave him a knotted feeling in the throat. When he first checked out of the detox center, he was impotent. He wasn't sure why, but he attributed his failure to general lethargy. As he regained his vigor, he lost his desire for Linda. She was a lush, retaining water, bloated and cracked lips, and eyes forked with lightning strikes of blood. He loved her, but he couldn't stand the thought of mounting her or lying back as she got on top of him. "Please don't," he begged quietly.

"What's wrong? You afraid to talk about sex? Still can't get it up, eh? Is little Toddy too tired or do I make you sick?"

"I told you, it's me, not you, honey," he lied.

"You're an asshole, Todd. Do you think it was easy for me get you off when you were stoned? It wasn't. You were like dead weight, but you'd cry and bitch and say I didn't love you if I didn't do it. So now are you saying I don't have the same right? I can't complain because you're as limp as a noodle."

"Not now!" he shouted, his voice rising. Todd told himself that arguing with her, sinking to that level, was pointless. But Linda knew how to get under his skin and sometimes he couldn't help himself.

"Come on, Todd. Get mad! Belt me again and maybe you'll get a hard on!"

"That's it!' he shouted as he abruptly pulled off the road. The tires squealed as he made a sharp turn and the engine revved as he braked to the pebble trail abutting the highway. The sickly green glow of a Holiday Inn sign radiated a few yards away. He was fed up with this day, with this move, and most of all, with Linda. He needed a break.

She smiled devilishly, having accomplished her goal, as he slowly drove toward the roadside hotel. Todd peeked at her and saw the teasing smile on her lips. It infuriated him. Even while she was drunk out of her mind, Linda knew how to pull Todd's strings and he loathed her for it. As he pulled into the Holiday Inn parking lot, one thought resounded clearly in his head: We're getting separate rooms tonight.

Todd reached to his back pocket. He needed another Alka-Seltzer.

Chapter Four: Late Arrivals

8:49 P.M.

Twenty-four hours ago, James Hall could taste the sex on the tip of his tongue. It was sweet like a cantaloupe and tantalizing. His pallet was wetted and his heartbeat had risen ever so slightly. He had wanted Carrie and he knew she had wanted him too. She was the kind of woman he longed for; beautiful red hair with a noticeable corkscrew of curls at the end of each strand, a deep voice that while distinctly feminine also sounded more mature than most of the women he'd had--even stuttering geeks had sex sometimes, James reminded himself whenever he felt a little anxious--and she was the perfect size, 5'6", only a meek inch shorter than him.

They had closed down the Boar the night before, stumbling out the front door after one o'clock. It hadn't seemed that late, James thought. They'd talked the night away. Carrie had kept the conversation lively with her subtle suggestions. James was apt to pick up on the hints and when they found themselves standing underneath the white sheen of a street lamp on the corner, James did not hesitate. His sardonic grin passed away as he kissed her hard, tickling the roof of her mouth with his tongue. Carrie responded and James thrust himself into her arms. They kissed for a full minute and when he pulled away, their eyes interlocked and their arms embraced, his lips quivered to hold back a burst of laughter. The giggles were too powerful.

James erupted into a fit of giggles until he was breathless and gasping. Carrie did the same. She didn't take his laughter personally--she had felt the urge as well. They doubled over, the embrace holding each other up, and finally caught their breaths after the crimson blood had rushed out of their cheeks. "I haven't laughed that hard in a long time," Carrie had said, her palm pressed gently over her fluttering heart.

"Me either," James had replied as a second fit, an aftershock of giggles, burst out. He caught his breath and said with a wide smile on his face, "I'm so sorry, Carrie."

"It's okay," she had answered. "I understand."

It was like kissing a sibling. Four blubbery lips mashed together like cornbeef in a sandwich. It just didn't feel right to either of them, but there was something there. They hadn't repulsed one another. Carrie and James actually felt a little closer. It was difficult to find people who could share both a kiss and a laugh in same instant. From that moment, Carrie meant much more to him than a stranger he'd met in a bar. He felt it in his bones--she was special. Yet, he also felt a more primal urge in his bones, too. The urge for sex hadn't faded and standing under the coruscating street lamp, stealing looks at Carrie's radiant face, James remembered what he had missed most as he traveled from town to town. He wanted access to the Internet.

Four years ago, he had discovered that incredible tool of and he used it for the same purpose of every other disgruntled, hard working, red blooded American: to find smut. He located smut of every variety in unending quantities--a web-site for every fetish he could imagine. The possibilities seemed endless, but James' imagination had boundaries. He grew bored with erotic photos and video clips so quickly that he purged his hard-drive of the megabyte of adult materials he had downloaded.

After that epiphany--primarily a result of developing too many calluses on his right palm--James discovered his true calling on the Internet: chat rooms. In his techno-nerd heyday, he spent almost eight hours a day in different chat rooms. He became addicted and ready to discuss any subject. It was the perfect medium for him--an environment of the written word. He didn't stutter when he typed conversations on his keyboard. People talked to him for what he was and couldn't see the red face, trembling lips, and gawky posture of complete fright. The Internet gave James the freedom to be himself and he extolled on any subject with people from all over the world. It was an ersatz replacement for human interaction, but James missed it nonetheless.

That was years ago, however, before James sold his computer to make the rent on his Jacksonville apartment. He missed those days, sitting by an open window as the salty odor of the Atlantic wafted into his steamy bedroom. Despite his impediment, James loved to talk and Carrie brought out something in him he thought he had lost. He wanted human contact again and after meeting Carrie, he wasn't afraid to ask for it.

He had asked her to meet him at the Boar again this evening and Carrie had agreed. She said she'd be there by eight and James arrived at seven thirty. He despised tardiness almost as much as he despised the people of Ithica. A dawning awareness of his new neighbors was languidly developing in his mind. James sat at a round table in the far corner of the Boar, nursing a sour pilsner, as men walked past him, trying to hide their furtive glances his direction, but James noticed them all. All day, men throughout town had stared and gawked at him. At first, James had thought his pants were unzipped or he had some food caught in his teeth, but the glares had continued from morning until night.

First, there was the guy waiting outside his apartment as he left for work. He was tall, but generally nondescript. James wouldn't have noticed him except that every time he glanced over his shoulder he was there, following him, but turning away to avoid eye contact.

He's trailing me, James had thought as he carefully memorized as many features as possible. The guy's face hung low, hiding beneath the bill of a cap, but James noticed the black stud earring jutting from his left lobe. Black stud, he repeated in his mind, cataloging the man. He wouldn't forget.

James had considered confronting the stranger, but what would that accomplish? Let it slide, he decide, but the parade of curious strangers hadn't ended there.

After arriving at the Amoco, James noticed three cars--two pick-ups and a station wagon with wood panels along the side. They drove by slowly, almost methodically. The drivers, each one of them male, passed the station at a creeping pace, but never pulled onto the tarmac.

Even during his lunch break at the DQ, James sensed other patrons leering and studying him. Stop behaving paranoid, he berated himself and bit into his Snickers blizzard. That attitude had changed by nightfall. Paranoia swelled into an apprehensive truth. James wasn't imagining anything.

Men of all shapes and sizes had strolled past him and seemed to take mental notes, committing James' face to memory. He noticed because they stared too long. It was one thing to glance or nod at a stranger passing you on the street, but it was quite another thing to lock your eyes on them, body leaning forward but both pupils shifting backward to absorb as many details as possible. James felt like some poor animal at the zoo put out for mating season. Gawking bystanders didn't want to acknowledge that one rhino had mounted another, but they couldn't stop themselves from staring out of the corner of their eyes and then saying nothing. It was part of being the new person in town, James supposed, but these men had behaved more oddly than he had anticipated. If James didn't know better, he would have sworn the men across the bar took turns staring at him, following a routine pattern. One underweight redneck whispered in the ear of his buddy, walk past James on his way to the juke or the pisser, and return to his stool to whisper something in his buddy's ear again. It was downright unusual.

Maybe I should just make a pitcher of Bud disappear and really give them something to stare at, James considered. The art of illusion was another--or perhaps the only--skill James had learned from the Internet. He knew how to make things vanish, how to make it look as though he'd stopped breathing, and, with a little preparation, he could pass solid objects through a plate of steel. All optical illusions that were relatively simple if you knew the trick, but James was content to suck his beer and wait for Carrie. There was no reason to draw any unnecessary attention to himself. Too many people had already taken an interest in him.

He glanced at his second-hand Casio watch and sighed. She was really late, but James never considered that Carrie wasn't coming. She wasn't a Glenda Markham. Carrie was real--she spoke without patronizing him and he believed her when she said she'd meet him. Maybe she got the time wrong or maybe she's working late. Of course, James had no idea what she did for a living. As he sat there, peeking at the door's rickety jambs more and more frequently, he realized he didn't know that much about Carrie at all. What had she really told him last night? She'd grown up in Ithica, didn't have any family left in this part of the country, and she seemed to want to get out of town, though she never came straight out and said so.

James sensed it. Her voice longed as she had asked him about all the places he had lived and she spoke so derogatorily about Ithica from the first moment they met. He didn't understand why she hadn't moved away already, but then James reminded himself that not everyone could pick up stakes and into the wild blue yonder as he had done for the past five years.

James didn't have any attachments. He paid for everything in cash, didn't maintain a permanent mailing address, and lived as the wind took him. He'd never filed a tax return, he didn't have a police record, and the only way to identify James Hall as an actual person was the tattered social security card tucked in his black leather wallet and a birth certificate stashed away in some county registry far from Ithica. James could vanish without a trace and nobody would ever know he had existed.

That thought lingered on the front of his mind, James wondering if he really was a person even though he existed outside the global system of records and identification, when Carrie Mason stumbled through the front door. She leaned against the bar for a moment, catching her breath. Her hair was ragged and her face was puffy. She looked like she hadn't slept in a week and James was on his feet before she could slump into the chair next to him. "Are you okay?" he asked, thinking it a stupid question, as she lowered herself to the table. "Did you run here?"

"Things have gone terribly wrong. I can't believe it's gotten this bad," Carrie mumbled. James breathed deep, but didn't detect any odors of alcohol on her breath. Carrie was exhausted, not drunk.

"What is it? What's gone wrong?"

"Everything," Carrie muttered and she motioned for James to sit down.

"Did someone hurt you?" he asked, 'someone' meaning Cletus.

She shook her head, a acerbic expression spread on her face like she'd licked the world's fattest lemon, and replied, "No, no, no." She sounded put off that he would even suggest such a thing. "James, I lied to you last night."

He held his breath and swallowed hard. James felt his insecurity rise from his stomach and he rubbed his beer between his hands. The beads of condensation evaporated the moment they touched his sweltering skin. "W-What?" he asked hesitantly, convinced she would reveal that she had only spoken to him and kissed him out of pity.

"I told you I didn't believe in God. I was only repeating what you said, but I know there has to be one. Do you know why there must be a God?" she asked.

"No."

"Because why else do we suffer through the things we do. There has to be a higher purpose or plan. I pray that there is because I can't take it much longer. I really can't, James."

"Can't t-take wh-what? Y-y-you're scaring me, C-Carrie."

"I'm sorry," she moaned and put her index finger in front of her pursed lips, beckoning his silence. "Let me finish. James, you've been everywhere and say you haven't found God. I haven't found her yet either, but I have to. I have to find her soon because I can't take it. I hoped you could tell me where to look."

"I d-don't get it," James conceded, shaking his head. "How d-do y-you find G-God?"

"She's everywhere and inside everything. When I was little, my mom used to say that God was keeping an eye on me, but I didn't believe her. I thought she made it up to frighten me, but what if God was there and I drove her away?"

"H-How?"

"Sin. Lack of faith. Maybe she just didn't like me. I don't know, but that must explain why all of this is happening to me now. I abandoned God and now she's abandoned me. I just can't take it anymore."

"W-what c-c-can't you t-take?"

Carrie's eyes locked onto his and her face suddenly intensified to reveal a deadly serious disposition. She took James' hand. He felt the golden ring on her right index finger slide smoothly against his skin. Then she trembled, her entire hand shaking. "There are things about Ithica you don't understand, James. You're such a nice boy and you're so young. Get out of here while you can. There's still time for you, but not for me."

James' chest tightened into a coil spring and his neck shifted backward. Suddenly, the bottom of his feet felt cold, as though he'd walked barefoot across a marsh of hummocks. "W-what are y-y-you t-t-talking ab-bout?"

"There's a source to every shadow, James. Everything has a dark side hidden behind the light. Don't look for Ithica's shadow. I tried to. Dammit, I didn't want to, but some confrontations are unavoidable. I hear voices, James, and it's hard to ignore them. I can't alter the past and what I've done, but I can help you. Get away while you still can," she said and her hand ceased shaking. She retracted it, curling her thin arms around herself in a longing embrace.

James reached for his beer, took a large gulp, and rubbed his palms together. He wrung the apprehension from his hands. He cared about this woman who had treated him with respect. Carrie needed help and he wasn't going to let the trepidation in her words stop him. "Carrie, l-l-let me h-h-h-help you."

She smiled angelically, looking more beautiful and innocent than he had ever seen her. Her chin turned toward her shoulder, a shunning gesture, as she shook her head lightly. "I can't let you, James. I want you to, but it's not fair. You don't know me well enough to get involved. We met by happenstance. Forget me and move on."

"I c-c-can't."

"You will. I have to go now. I need to be alone for a while." She rose from her chair and stood next to the table evenly. She seemed more focused, as though her confession had somehow lightened the load on her battered shoulders. "Good-bye James."

"Will I see you again?" he asked, speaking more loudly than intended. A few faces from across the bar turned toward him, James knowing they must think he was a lover being spurned, and Carrie looked over her back at him. She smiled again, shrugged her shoulders, and blew him a small kiss. Then she left without looking back.

James Hall was alone, again.

To Be Continued . . .

Bio: Allen Woods' stories have appeared in Lost Worlds, Pablo Lennis, Of Unicorns and Space Stations, Art Mag, Gotta Write Network Litmag, Titan, Nuketown, Dubious Matter, The Thread, Dragon's Lair, Little Red Writer's Hood, Home Made Stories, and Pegasus.

allenwoods@sprintmail.com