Otherworld (40 page)

“Streets are kinda wet tonight,” Steve said, trying to hint without hinting.

“Uh-huh,” Graham said.

“No Mike, I guess,” Steve said.

“That is probably for the best,” Sutzkever answered. “One can never know how things will go. A bit too much for him, perhaps.”

“Sure,” Steve said.

Drops of water plunked onto the windshield.

“Is it raining?” Steve asked.

Graham gazed out into the distance. “No. No, I think that's … Naw, can't be.”

“It's snow,” Sutzkever said.

The three men sat in silence for the duration of the ride, each mesmerized by the sight of snow falling in Houston, Texas. Sutzkever seemed oddly pleased, a thin smile parting the beard on his pale face.

The cruiser careened onto Bering's street and raced toward the professor's house. The shadows hung more heavily over it than the others.

“Hey, I think I see Mike's car,” Steve said. “Think he's here already?”

“I don't think so,” replied Sutzkever. “I took him home yesterday from the university. He mentioned leaving his auto here.”

Graham brought the car to a skidding halt inches from Mike's fender.

“Well, men, are we ready?” Sutzkever asked.

“Guess so,” Steve offered.

“Yeah,” said Graham. The brusque cop carried an air of anticipation

“Just remember you are a child of God,” Sutzkever said. “Satan has no authority over you, and God will crush him beneath His feet shortly.”

“How 'bout we pray before we go in?” Graham asked.

“Excellent idea.”

 

As Graham did what he did best, the exchange between Mike and Malcam in Bering's sealed-away basement took a mysterious turn. Malcam's face became pain-stricken. He released Mike's neck and staggered back.

“What's happening?” Mike asked, not to Malcam but to whoever else could hear.

Malcam froze. A look of unimaginable rage invaded his face. His eyes burned hellish fire, and he bit into his lips. A flush of red boiled up and into his flesh. Mike noticed the cloth of his natty suit pulling taut as the muscles within flexed and strained. He vanished.

Mike cowered, alone in the darkness.

 

The three uninvited visitors made their way up the freshly iced path to Bering's front door. Graham walked with resolve, his strides long and sure. Steve shuffled forward, his eyes occasionally darting out suspiciously at the falling snow. Dr. Sutzkever led the way, an unmistakable spring in his step, a look of earnest compassion on his face, and his Bible cradled under his armpit.

Maybe he's not home
, Steve thought as Sutzkever rang the doorbell.

They waited a minute.

“I'm positive he's here,” Sutzkever said, answering Steve's unspoken question. He knocked. Hard.

No answer.

The old man put his ear to the door.

“There's no lights on,” said Steve.

Graham peered through the panes on each side of the entry. Sutzkever closed his eyes. He cupped his hand around his ear. “I hear something,” he said.

“What?” asked Steve.

“It is Samuel. He's speaking to someone.”

“Mike?”

“No. There is no one answering.”

“Maybe he's on the phone.”

“Maybe. I can't hear what he's saying.”

“Knock again,” instructed Graham.

“Very well.” Sutzkever did.

They waited. Steve shuddered in the cold. Then a light appeared inside the house.

“Here we go, then,” Sutzkever said.

The door opened inward, and Samuel Bering stood before them, a shell of a man overcome with aggravation. One hand held the door handle; the other hung at his side, balled into a white fist. The rips in his disheveled clothes revealed scratched flesh, dried blood. His gray hair stood out, frazzled as if electrocuted. “Leo,” he said through gritted teeth. “Whatever can I do for you?”

“Are you all right, Samuel?”

“What do you want?” Bering said.

“What's happened to you?”

“Nothing,” he said coolly. “Now, good night.”

“We'd like to come in and talk awhile.”

“This isn't a good time. See me in my office.”

“No, I think we should speak now.”

“I don't want to speak now.”

“Samuel, this man's a police officer,” Sutzkever said, waving a hand at Graham. “We'd like to come in and talk. He can take a look at you. You have some nasty cuts there.”

Bering glanced down at his blood-spotted shirt. “It's nothing, really.” He looked back up at Sutzkever, zeroing in on his eyes with a steely stare. “
Really
.”

Sutzkever remained convivial. “Nevertheless, we would still feel better if we could come in a while.”

Bering hesitated. He turned back, looking over his shoulder.

“Is anyone else here?” Sutzkever asked.

Bering sprang back. “No,” he said sternly. Then his nervousness became apparent. “No, of course not. There's no one here.”

“Samuel, it's cold out here. Let us come in, and I'll make us some tea.”

 

Bering's clenched fist relaxed. Had he given it away?
Do they know? Why did Leo bring a policeman?
He looked over their shoulders and saw Mike's car next to the curb. The Trumbull Police cruiser was inches behind.
Why didn't I move Mike's car? They've come to get him and to put me away. What to do?

“How 'bout it, Professor?” It was the cop.

Bering didn't like the man's look. He was big and obviously strong. Even worse, though, his face was unforgiving, all business. Bering was in no mood for someone so pedestrian. He probably had a gun tucked away in his coat, too.

Bering couldn't think of an out. If they knew, they would find a way in anyway. If they didn't know, perhaps he could give them some tea and get rid of them. He looked at Sutzkever, noticed the Bible under his arm.
This could get out of hand
, he thought. He looked again at the cop.
This could be trouble.
He looked at the third man, a stranger who hadn't said anything.
He'll go first.

He said, “Sure, I suppose some tea would be all right.”

 

In the house next door, Pops Dickey searched kitchen drawers for a can opener. The can of tuna in his hand proved too tough for the knife he had yanked from the cutting block. Jimmy Horn stared through the kitchen window, which happened to look out onto Bering's house. He periodically wiped condensation from the glass. Random images from his recent history of violence replayed in his head, flashing with strobe-like effect and twisting back onto themselves in a Mobius strip of memories. He saw his mother, the little girl, her father, the cop, and even the grocery clerk. Jimmy's brain contorted, playing the images in a loop, opening a mental vortex, sucking his consciousness into the otherworld.

Jimmy? Hey there, Jimmy. One more last favor. One last crazy favor.

“That's the one, eh?” Pops asked.

“What? Oh. Yeah.”

“And when—?”

“Soon.”

 

The four men entered Bering's study, the three visitors seating themselves on a couch across from Bering, who perched alone on a loveseat.

Sutzkever asked, “Are you sure you're okay, Samuel? Those cuts look quite nasty.”

“Quite,” said Bering. “I mean, quite okay.”

“If you say so.”

“I'm fine.”

An uncomfortable silence followed.

“How about that tea, then?” Sutzkever asked.

“Right, tea. I'll just put some on.”

“If it's no trouble.”

“No, none.” Bering rose and exited into the kitchen, keeping a wary eye on the trio until he reached his destination, at which point he checked the basement door anxiously. The locks held secure. He hoped his soundproofing would keep Mike's calls for help futile.

 

When he considered Bering sufficiently out of range, Sutzkever began his instructions. “Graham, you begin praying. Aloud but quietly. Quietly but not meekly. I'm assuming you know what to pray for. Reverend Woodbridge here tells me you certainly know how. Reverend, take the book here. Turn to Psalm 62 and begin reading aloud in the same manner Graham is praying. Keep reading each psalm following until I tell you to stop. Is everything clear?”