3:17 A.M.
Darkness waited in April’s bedroom, a room choked with musty smells that Amy didn’t want to put names to.
She flicked the light switch. The closet door stood open, revealing a treasure-trove of what kids these days called “vintage clothing.” Bell-bottom pants patched with bits from red handkerchiefs hung next to long dresses of equal vintage, and hot pants and tube tops were heaped on the shelf above. Wigs on Styrofoam heads stared down from the same shelf-a frosted Farrah Fawcett flip, a blazing red Charro number, a short black do that somehow spoke of B amp;D routines. Shoes beyond number lay in a jumble on the closet floor along with a tampon box that naturally held a stash of marijuana and cheap jewelry-cubic zirconia rings, awful silver bracelets inlaid with pale turquoise, ear cuffs sprouting faded feathers, even an old mood ring that shone oily black as its permanent color.
On April’s night stand, a company of sex toys waited like elite commandos ready for the most desperate missions. A half-used tube of lubricant lay open next to the toys; a clear tear that had spilled onto the shelf the last time April used the stuff was now hard and rubbery.
And there was the dresser. Amy knelt in front of the drawer Doug had mentioned. Her blouse was soaked through, sticking to her like a second skin. Reflexively, she pulled the material away from her perfectly average breasts.
She yanked open the bottom right-hand drawer and confronted April Destino’s bra collection, a veritable rainbow of generous cups. If Amy had possessed a sense of humor, or irony, she might have laughed. Instead, she only blushed. The half-open drawer was stuck at an odd angle. Amy took hold of the imitation brass knobs and pulled a little harder. The drawer slipped out easily and thudded on the shag carpet.
In the dead space between the floor and the drawer’s runner, Amy found a box wrapped in yellow paper. A box with her name on it.
The smell of April’s favorite perfume burned in Amy’s nostrils as she tore through the paper and removed the lid. April’s cheerleading sweater lay before her, the dark wool still bearing stains from the mayonnaise Amy had smeared there in 1976. A withered condom clung stubbornly to one sleeve. Amy took the sweater out of the box, uncovering a dark blue cheerleading skirt with pleats as sharp as long knives.
A wave of emptiness washed over her, and she couldn’t stand it. She buried her face in blue wool. When the first sob wracked her chest, an eight ball, heavy and black, spilled from the wool folds and smacked the edge of the drawer, the sharp sound an unmistakable twin to the harsh crack of a judge’s gavel.
Amy sat on the bedroom floor for a long time. And then she found herself standing in the kitchen with the phone in her hands, and she couldn’t remember it ringing any more than she could recall answering it.
“You listening?” Doug Douglas asked.
Of course she was listening. She had heard every word. She had known that those words were coming as soon as she opened the box, but that didn’t mean she had to find an answer to them.
“I know you heard me. Now you do like I said, and don’t waste time. When you’re done, you’ll find April’s ’76 yearbook in a bookcase in the living room, third shelf from the bottom, next to those books out reincarnation. Turn to page 131. You’ll find another map and another key.”
“I’m not going to do this, Doug. You can forget it. You’re sick. You’ll have to keep your fantasies to yourself.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. Listen to this.”
Another voice came on the line. “I’m sorry Amy. He got me while I was in the shower… What does want? Why is he-”
“Ethan?” Amy’s voice was desperate. “Is that you? Are you okay?”
But Ethan was gone. Only Doug’s laughter remained. “Don’t fret. He’s okay…for now. I told you that you’d do what I said. Now remember: third shelf from the bottom in the living room bookcase, page 131 of the ’76 Lance amp; Shield. You do like I said, and then you get in your little Mercedes and…” He laughed. “Well, you get in that fancy car of yours and you follow the yellow brick road.”
“Then it will be over?”
“Yeah. Then it will be over.”
3:23 A.M.
Evening was just as it should be. Whiskey in his belly, mixing with pills. Jack Daniel’s and Halcion-any idiot would realize that it was a deadly combination, but it wasn’t doing much for the man with the brain of a machine.
Ensconced in his fortress of solitude, medicated big-time, and Steve Austin felt that he was in the throws of a caffeine rush. He didn’t want to be known as The Six Million Dollar Man, but he had to face the fact that he shared the cyborg gentleman’s steel-belted constitution.
Shit. Nothing was happening, and April’s pills were nearly gone. Since her death he had gobbled Halcion like candy, and he hadn’t slept once. Not one night, not one minute. And how long had he been on the pills before that? Since January, maybe December. Yeah, December, because he remembered that Christmas lights had been blinking on April’s fake tree the first time he took the pills. He remembered the sparkling eruptions of light and color flashing before his eyes like broken circuits misfiring in a self-destructive machine, remembered watching green electrical cords garrote fake tree branches while he fell asleep for the first time in nineteen years, for the first time in April Destino’s arms.
The pills were little miracles in December. The Six Million Dollar Man was on them steady, three or four each time he visited April’s trailer. The pills, and April’s arms, had delivered him to the land of dreams.
That wasn’t quite right. Singular, not plural. The land of dream. His dream of April Louise Destino, the girl who had become his own private dreamweaver. But now the pills weren’t working anymore, and The Six Million Dollar Man couldn’t sleep. It was a simple proposition: if he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t dream.
He knew about placebos, but this was ridiculous. Because if the Halcion wasn’t working now, what did hat mean?
Steve knew about the special bonds some people hared. Even though he had never experienced those things the way other people did, he could recognize he signs. A clear gleam of eye shared by lovers, words spoken with nothing more than a simple glance, thoughts shared in the silence of a held breath. Steve had felt those things when he lay sleeping in his dreamweaver’s arms, lost in his dream. Only there. And now, despite his best efforts, he worried that it was all over. Full system shutdown. Access blocked, big-time. Maybe his crazy speculation was right on target. Maybe Halcion couldn’t crack the sleep barrier. Maybe, instead, it had been the combination of Halcion and the comfort of April’s arms, her mind fogged with the drug, her brain in tune with his, that had allowed him to find his way into the dream.
But now his dreamweaver was dead. Dead and cold on a warm April night. Brain waves flat on a gray ocean, cerebrospinal fluid making jelly of her brain.
The link had dissolved.
Steve stared at the yearbook that lay open on his lap. April’s message- Dream a little dream of me! – was still on the page. In all honesty, he couldn’t remember if it had been there before tonight.
Sure, he hadn’t looked at his yearbook in a long time. And, sure, he had to admit that he’d forgotten most of the messages written on those slick pages. And, sure, April had a key to his house, and she might have written the message during one of her visits. But maybe, just maybe…
Dream a little dream of me. It was such a simple instruction. The Six Million Dollar Man threw his head back and laughed the mirthless laugh of a machine. April might as well have asked him to find a cure for cancer.
He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t dream.
