Otherworld (16 page)

The student-teacher relationship had been enhanced. Now that he was high on Bering's preternatural charm, the classroom became a place of marvels for Mike, a whole new dimension itself. The lectures became all the more mesmerizing. There was a new bond between Mike Walsh and Dr. Samuel Bering, and Mike's morning in class was by far his favorite. He was disappointed when Bering announced that he must leave the class early to take care of some business, but on his way out, he paused at Mike's desk and quietly said, “Sorry I've got to step out. Stop by my office afterward for a chat if you've got the time.”

“I'll be there,” Mike said.

Forty-five minutes later, he walked down the hall and knocked on Bering's office door.

“Come in, please.”

Mike opened the door and found Bering speaking with another man, who was sitting in one of the wingback chairs, his legs crossed. He was an older man, probably quite a bit older than Dr. Bering. His hair was completely white, as was a thick mustache nestled under his nose. He wore a brown tweed suit and horn-rimmed glasses, and he looked altogether more professorial than even Bering. With his rosy cheeks, though, he reminded Mike of a thin Santa Claus.

“Mike,” Bering said, “let me introduce you to Dr. Leopold Sutzkever.”

Sutzkever rose and shook Mike's hand.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Sutzkever.”

“Very pleased to meet you,” Sutzkever responded with a heavy French accent.

“Mike is one of my students and a good friend,” Bering said.

Mike smiled at the words
good friend
.

Bering continued: “Dr. Sutzkever was just telling me a ghost story.”

“Actually, I was just leaving,” Sutzkever said. And with that, he restated, “Mike, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Thank
you
, Samuel, for your time.” He began to leave.

“Good-bye, Leo,” Bering called after him. “Perhaps we could take some tea together tomorrow.”

“That would be wonderful,” Sutzkever said, and he turned the corner and left.

Mike sat down. “He seems cool,” he said.

“Yes, he certainly is.”

“What was the ghost story?”

“What?”

“You said he was telling you a ghost story.”

“Oh,
that
. Just a story. Dr. Sutzkever's a very peculiar fellow. He and I have become pretty good friends, despite our differences in interest and opinion. He seems to disregard science, which of course is my bread and butter. He teaches several religion courses here at Landon, and he has several courses at the theological seminary across town. Yes, opposite poles. That's what we are, I suppose. But as they say, opposites attract. I call his religion ‘mythology,' and he calls my science ‘irrational faith in rationalism.' But we share a great passion for literature. I tell you, Mike, many a discussion on Shakespeare or Milton has saved us from arguing till our mouths dropped off.”

From the journal of Dr. Leopold Sutzkever:

Had a brief conversation with Dr. Bering this morning. At the mere mention of my experience with the light originating from his office, he noticeably turned very nervous. I daresay that he almost jumped in his seat upon the relation of my discovery of the broken vase. He laughed it off, of course. It's an amazing admission for him, but he did tell me that he was dabbling in some experiments of a paranormal nature. I did not relay my suspicions to him, but the indication of his “dabblings” very much confirms them in my mind. He took me to task for being concerned about him. (He noticed this on his own. I did not say I was concerned about him, nor did I say anything to that effect.) He was not specific concerning his “experiments” but vigorously cited several scientific research findings about the unified field theory and how it relates to psychic phenomenon. Then he admonished me to “get my head out of Augustine and Aquinas, and put it into Hawking” and another name I don't recall. I very much like Dr. Bering. He is an altogether agreeable man, but he strikes me to be like those Saint Paul wrote Timothy about who “are always learning but are never able to acknowledge the truth.”

 

Mike left Landon University and drove downtown to work. As expected, it was a cold day, but not a dreary one at all. The sun shone unobstructed and cast its glory across the metal and glass of the Houston skyline. At his cluttered desk in
Spotlight
's offices, Mike poured himself into someone's piece on rodeo clowns.

You were miserable with her anyway
, came a stray thought.

It flew in from parts unknown, and a feeling of guilt immediately struck him. It passed, though, and he spent no time examining the mental statement. He simply accepted its sentiment and went back to work.

Robbie took him to lunch to discuss possible assignments. Mike suggested a bio on Dr. Bering. Robbie, despite being the one who had originally pushed Mike to do the UFO story, nixed the idea. “Aliens are so last month,” he joked. Mike insisted that the newest cow mutilation would renew interest and that Bering wasn't a believer in UFOs in the strictest sense.

“Listen,” Robbie responded, “we did the history of UFOs as a serious piece, but printing this stuff about other dimensions and wormhole travelers would put us right there on the bull pile with all the pulp magazines.”

Mike arrived home later and connected his phone to the charger. After a few minutes, it lit up to life and buzzed the announcement of a message.

Somehow he knew it was bad news.

Maybe Molly found a job.

Maybe she wants a divorce.

Maybe she hates my guts.

The moment before he pressed the PLAY button, he attempted to wipe his mind clean of depressing forethought.
It'll probably be Rob
bie with a final decision. Maybe it'll be Dr. Bering with an invitation for coffee.
He clicked.

A woman's voice played back, soft and hoarse. It was a voice he would have found sweet had the message been anything other than her sobbing, quiet words: “Mike … Mike … This is Molly … Mike, are you there? It's … I … I don't know what to do … It's Vickie, Mike … I don't know what to do. Vickie's dead, Mike. Vickie's dead she's dead she died”—his wife's frantic outpouring continued, sounding like a plea for help—“she's dead she died oh, Mike, she's dead they say she died—” The message cut off.

Mike wanted desperately to call her and console her. To tell her everything would be fine. That he would have it all under control. He knew he would have to.

Molly and Vickie grew up as orphans. They didn't have any family. He was it. Molly had one sister, and now she was dead. And she had one husband, and she had left him.

He returned the call.

 

The phone was ringing, but Molly Walsh was in a state of shock. She stared at Vickie's painting—the finger-painted lady—and blocked out the world around her. Her cheeks were a vivid red and streaked with dry lines of mascara, the riverbeds of tears. The phone rang, and she did not hear it. Whoever was calling was persistent, though, and eventually her mind cleared to the recognition.

“Hello,” she whispered.

“Molly?”

She raised it a little bit, but it was hard. Crying for hours makes the vocal cords sore. “Mike?” She began to cry again.

“Tell me what's happening.”

“The police called … they said Vickie died last night. They want someone to …” She broke down, sobbing loudly into the telephone.

“To do what, Molly?”

“To … to …”

“Just take it easy.”

“… to make sure it's her.”

“Make sure it's her,” he repeated. “Molly, listen to me.”

“Uh-huh?” she whispered.

“I'll be there as soon as I can.”

 

Evening seeped into the sky, drawing chalky curtains of clouds with it. The moon hung high and full. It was bone white, a huge celestial snowball overlooking the winter scene in Trumbull. Abby Diaz cupped her tiny hands to her mouth and blew into them like she had seen Daddy do. Her breath provided fleeting warmth. It grew darker, and she began to cry, not for any particular reason, but because she was a little girl walking home at night all alone. The tears cascading down her rosy cheeks felt hot against her freezing skin. She sniffed and sobbed, puffing foggy breath into the air.

Abby had spent the afternoon at her friend Elizabeth's house. They played “school” (always more fun than the real thing) and Barbie dolls and then watched cartoons. Elizabeth's mother noticed dusk approaching and suggested Abby head home. There had been the usual childhood petition by her daughter, begging that Abby be allowed to stay for dinner. The answer was no, and Abby was urged on her way.

Abby Diaz, bless her heart, was a slow walker. A real stop-and-smell-the-roses little girl. She petted a stray dog, pausing long enough to give it a good scratching behind the ears. When the dog fell into utter delight at the attention, lying down and thumping its hind leg on the ground, she was love struck and petted him longer than she intended. She spent a considerable amount of time trying to get the mutt to follow her home. He would not budge, though, and eventually Abby gave up. She resumed her journey, stopping to look at horses standing around in a neighbor's field. She climbed up onto the wooden fence and thought,
I bet they're really cold
. Then she realized that
she
was really cold, and she hopped down to be on her way.

The sky was not black. It was a soupy midnight blue, and the gauzy wisps of clouds and the full moon reminded Abby of nights in the scary movies Daddy let her watch with him. She always hid her eyes when the monster appeared, or buried her face in Daddy's neck. She remembered how the sky always looked in those movies—haunted, just like the night sky looming over her at that very moment.

She made the right turn off of the paved street that led to Elizabeth's house and onto the gravel road that led to her own. It was the home stretch. On each side of the road ran two long rows of bushes. They were three or four feet high and very thick. Open fields lay beyond the bushes on the left side. She walked on the right side of the road, closest to the bushes backdropped by woods. The trees stood close to each other, their branches gnarled and twisted together in conspiratorial embraces. Woods always looked frightening at night. The trees seemed alive, tall wooden ghosts with hideous faces of bark and shadow and knotty eyes that frowned, and long, stick-arms with claws that reached out and down. Out and down to snatch up little girls and eat them. She started to cry now, and she barely noticed the chilly air because she was sweating and burning up with fear. She tried not to look at the trees. The huge, ghoulish trees.

Something in the bushes behind her moved, and she jumped. She wanted to scream, but all that came out was a soft whimper. She increased her pace. Tears streamed down the front of her pink winter coat. Her feet crunched against the gravel. She concentrated on that sound, the grinding crunch of rocks beneath her little shoes, and tried to block out any other noises around her. The nearly silent rustle of a breeze swirling through the foliage. The steady whistle of the crickets. More movement in the bushes. The sound of her own footfall overcame all. She began to count her steps.