Chapter Thirty-One

“Quit playing with your food, Alex,” Tracy said as Alex placed another finger into her cheese omelet. She had been trying to create an Egg-man.

“But, Mommy,” Alex protested and Tracy shook her head behind stern eyes.

“No buts. It’s a bad habit,” her mother explained and Jack entered the kitchen and glanced over his daughter’s shoulder as he passed her sitting at the breakfast nook which separated the kitchen from the living room.

“Egg-man again?” he asked with a grin and Tracy threw him a look of disappointment

Tracy turned back to the stove and began making her own breakfast. “Want anything? There are four eggs left – I could make you an Egg-man,” she grinned as she looked into the skillet.

He couldn’t refrain from smiling but shook his head. “No thanks. I’ve got an early meeting with a possible publisher today,” he explained and she quickly turned back around, spatula in hand.

“Serious?” she smiled in anticipation.

Jack returned the smile. “There seems to be someone out there who wants to publish Wave Two,” he replied and Tracy ran into his arms and squeezed his neck. He winced from the sudden pain and she quickly released his neck with an embarrassed look in her eyes.

“Mommy, whatcha doing?” Alex inquired and Jack looked down at his daughter.

“Just making sure she knows where to pop my neck out of place,” he answered as he and Tracy smiled at one another.

“Sorry,” she said and straightened his tie. “It’s attic cleaning day,” she explained and he grinned.

“Why doesn’t your mother come over and help? Half that,” he paused and looked over at Alex, who was listening quietly. “Stuff is hers,” he concluded.

“Look, if she comes, Herb comes along and that would cause a huge argument. I really don’t think Alex needs to be put through that,” she said and Jack nodded in agreement and lifted an index finger up at her playfully.

“All right, but the first thing I see that’s hers is going to the curb on Tuesday night,” he replied.

Several hours later, Jack had returned from his brief meeting with the publisher quite earlier than he had expected, and he opened the front door and found his wife sitting on the sofa watching her usual soap opera. When he came through the door, she almost jumped up off the sofa in surprise.

“That was fast,” she commented and he shrugged and placed his leather bag down on the floor next to the door.

“Yeah, they offered me two hundred for it though,” he said and she looked into his eyes with narrowed brows.

“Two hundred, that’s all?” she inquired as he placed himself next to her on the sofa.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Man, two hundred thousand going to go fast around here,” he smirked and Tracy’s eyes widened.

“Two hundred thousand?” she repeated and he smiled. “Oh, well, I could use my own Porsche, you know.”

Jack smiled and took the woman in his arms. “I love you, too. They want me to meet with the publishing house next month in New York. Well,” he said and then quickly stood up. “Let’s get to that attic – We need to get Alex in three hours.” He reached down and helped hoist Tracy to her feet and she gave him a kiss when their faces met.

Later that day they had several piles of Alex’s belongings, Tracy and Jack’s things, and of course, Leslie Jordan’s own pile, and they surveyed the room once more and Jack placed his hands into his pockets. “Where do we go from here?” he asked and she shrugged with a “Beat’s me” expression. He glanced around once again, making sure that they had unearthed everything into individual piles, and his eyes fell upon something glimmering in the light.

He walked over to the far wall and approached an old dresser and found the middle drawer ajar and whatever was in it was making the glimmer. “What’s in here?” he asked and she shrugged again and walked over to him.

“Don’t know – I haven’t seen that since I lived with Mom,” she answered and reached down and opened the drawer. What they found did not shock or even startle them. It was an old suitcase with two pieces of paper taped to the handle. One had “Maybe this will help you remember – Mom,” and the other simply stated "Lungland Psychiatric Hospital – Rm.” The room number had either been sun baked, or else the case had been a victim to a fire.

She hesitated only for a moment before opening the old suitcase. The contents within mildly shocked her. Tracy thumbed through some of her old clothes and found several odd things lying beneath. She pulled out her sophomore year book and three papers fell out as she turned it over. One picture was of a sketch of some kind of creature. One was a letter, reddened by what looked like fruit punch, signed by Connor James Barker. Finally, there was another letter written by her mother. Beneath her yearbook, Tracy found another book. This book appeared very old, she could not even begin to guess how old, and was the size of a typical paper-back book, yet contained a leather cover and back.

They looked at the old book and looked at the strange way the title, Pison, was carved into the cover. She flipped through the book, was not too surprised that she could not read any of the script – she even had trouble understanding fifteenth century English literature – and found her way to the back of the book where she discovered a dagger.

It was Jack who felt disgusted. Why the hell did she have this type of knife? And then his eyes returned to the paper which screamed Lungland Psychiatric Hospital to him.

Tracy looked over the letter from her mother once again.

My dearest daughter,

Whenever you discover this letter, either two things may have happened: One, I’ve died and you’re finally getting rid of the items I left in your care. Two, you’ve found the dresser and this inside. I left these things in your house in the hopes that they would help you remember – the doctor who made you forget has since died, he burned in the hospital the night you left. There was another doctor who confided with me about the time you cannot remember.

Since Whitaker believes that He is truly dead, he has entrusted this book to you and prays that you will guard it for all time, he tells me that he’s too old to do it himself. He also tells me to warn you that the Sleepwalker is not dead – whatever that means.

I’m very sorry you had to find these things this way, but Rick would not want you to remember if remembering causes pain.

Mom

Tracy opened her year book and instinctively turned to a picture of a boy by the name of Rick Hopman. Who he was, she had no idea, but she did know that this was the one who would help her remember that which she could not.

Without saying a word, or even looking at Jack, she turned and headed for the door and exited the attic leaving her husband staring after her for several minutes. When he decided it was time to catch up with her, he found her in the dining room with a phone book open to the ‘H’ page and she discovered that this particular part of New York did not have anyone with a name of Hopman, Richard.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Just as Jack approached her, his nerves were getting the better of him as he was unsure and unable to say anything to help; she stood up and brushed past him as she headed to the computer.

It only took Tracy about two minutes to do a search of all the Richard Hopmans and was lucky to find that only twenty lived in the United States. Once the Print icon was pressed, Jack entered the room and leaned against the door frame as he watched her. “Aren’t you taking this a bit too far?”

As if struck in the face, Tracy turned her head so fast she felt that her neck might break and glared at her soul mate. “A bit too far?” she repeated. “This man may be the only link to finding the two weeks that I’ve lost. Something happened during that time and I’m going to find out what it was,” she replied and threw him a disgusted look. “A bit too far,” she concluded and turned back around to stare at the computer.

There was nothing he could say – this was her voyage of discovery and for some reason she felt as if she needed to take it alone. All he could do was stand aside and be there ready to catch her when she fell, and he knew that she would fall.

All Tracy had to do was inquire whether or not they went to St. Williams High School. Thirteen calls were a “no” and six were “please leave messages,” but at last, only forty minutes into calling, she received the information she needed. It was his wife who answered and told Tracy that Rick was working at the present time. When she said her name, Rick’s wife found an entirely different tone with which to speak.

“Tracy Kingston?” she almost shouted. “Now that’s a name from the grave, isn’t it? I’m Emily – Emily Karlson back then,” she explained and Tracy smiled.

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long time – I don’t remember the name,” Tracy admitted and heard Emily sigh.

“I suppose you wouldn’t; I was pretty much hidden from your ‘In-crowd’ of friends,” she said and then paused. With a little clearing of her throat, “Anyway, Rick’s at work like I said, but I can take a message and he’ll call you back.”

“Yeah. Tell him that I have an old book called Alexius – I thought it might have been his. It looks pretty important, too,” Tracy explained as best she could without revealing the fact that she couldn’t remember; that’s just what she needs an old classmate to know.

Emily acknowledged the message and wrote down her phone number and told Tracy that he’ll call her tonight if possible.

That wasn’t good enough. Tracy knew that Jack was at wits end and his trust in her was diminishing unless she could tell him something concrete. That, unfortunately, was not going to be possible until a later time.

And it happened several hours later. Jack found Tracy in the living room rereading the letters she found in the suitcase and he shook his head more out of pity than anything. He felt as if she were running in circles chasing her tail. Perhaps if she had temporary amnesia, there was a reason God let it be.

Tracy looked up and saw Jack staring at her behind pitiful eyes. She read those eyes and tears welled in her own and she stood up off the couch. “Where…?” she could not complete the question.

“I’m having a hard time with all this,” he began and took a deep breath. “You’ve never mentioned anything about being in a psych hospital before.” Jack had been pacing back and forth, never looking into his wife’s eyes.

Tracy nodded and tried to smile. “I know. That must be the part I can’t remember,” she replied and he stopped and turned to face her.

“Please,” sarcasm spilled from his tone. “You couldn’t have spent time in an institution without remembering that,” he shook his head. He didn’t know which end was up anymore. Nothing made sense.

“When I have all the pieces,” she paused and grabbed hold of his forearm. “All the pieces, then I’ll tell you everything.” All she had to do was hold out long enough until Rick Hopman called her back. But Jack was not so ready to wait for that phone call.

He brushed her hand from his arm and grabbed his jacket which lay over the back of the chair. “When you want to talk, I’ll be at the hotel down the street,” he explained and for the first time in their life together, he turned his back on Tracy and walked out the door.

The second he left the house, Tracy slumped back down on the sofa and tears streamed down her face. Why can’t I remember? Then she glanced down at the letter Connor Barker had written. She remembered him from school, she thought it was her Spanish class, but could not recall how he died or even how she knew Rick Hopman.

A moment passed and Tracy stood up and walked over to the window. Oddly, darkness had taken the place of light. Was there an eclipse today? she thought. But the darkness seemed to be breathing. The breath of the darkness blew a strange sense of déjà vu. There was something very familiar with the way the darkness was making her feel – and she didn’t like it.

Someone had screamed her name just then which made her leap back. She thought the voice had originated outside the house, but she couldn’t be too sure. Tracy slowly moved to the center-most point in the room, just in front of the sofa. “Who are you?” she asked, in hopes for a positive response.

“Don’t you, remember?” asked the voice with emphasis on the final word.

Shaking her head in fear, “No,” she said and then heard a strange sound coming from the fireplace. There, she saw strands of red liquid oozing down the walls beside the fireplace on either side. And then the bricks in the fireplace had begun to smoke and around them glowed a bright white and blue light.

Moving backward, away from the fireplace, she turned and saw that the front door had changed in formation and a softer material remained. Slowly, a three dimensional face began pushing its way through the door and once it had completed making its face, its eyes snapped open and they turned to look at Tracy. “The door’s open, Tracy,” the mouth said in a perverse manner.

She was about to ask a question, at least she now had a face to talk with, but then a loud crash erupted from within the house and Tracy gave a sudden yelp. She turned around and noticed that the fireplace had also changed shape. The mouth of the fireplace had grown to be the same height as the room and she read a sign which now appeared above the new door within the mouth of the fireplace. All the sign implied was Lungland.

“Remember yet?” asked the voice in the door.

Ignoring the voice, Tracy studied the door with concern. Will going through this door help me remember? If it does, will I want to remember? Even if I don’t, I need to know. She battled her conscious mind for another minute or so before concluding that she will push through the door.

The hospital only had one room and this room was being occupied. She thought that maybe she was looking into her own past and that she would discover herself to be eleven years younger. Upon closer examination, however, she found that she was mistaken. Instead, she found a young boy lying on a typical hospital bed. Tubes and IV’s were keeping this pitiful boy alive, she knew, as she saw the heart monitor.

She studied the boy and saw that he was missing his right hand and that he had obtained serious cuts sporadically across his face. “Rick?” she whispered and lowered her brows – she was trying like hell to remember.

“Yes,” hissed the voice with pleasure.

And like a light switch being turned on, Tracy raised her head and her eyes had changed from wonder to those of fear and shock. “Orion,” she said and the voice then burst into insane laughter.

* * *

At that moment, several states away, Rick Hopman found himself lying in a hospital bed. He glanced around and recognized the room as the one he was in eleven years ago when he fought Orion; fought him and won. Standing up and walking to the door, he moved back as it was pushed open by someone behind it.

“Bolan, what’re you doing here?” Rick asked as he looked at the new Bolan who was wearing a mustache and beard.

He shook his head in a pitiful gesture. “Really, Richard. What am I doing here? I work here,” he answered, then, “Now, back in bed, please.”

Rick was about to ask Bolan what was going on, but before he even said one word, the door exploded open and in strode the cloaked figure with long strides. “No!” Rick screamed at the figure. “I killed you!” He almost fell over the bed, but only stumbled to the floor. He never removed his eyes from the cloaked figure.

Orion stopped when he reached Bolan and brought his arm up around Bolan’s shoulder, revealing bones of unusual length. “Well, something happened and now I’m back,” he explained and almost laughed. “A little resurrection has occurred.”

“You son of a bitch!” Rick screamed and began thinking about the different ways to attack Orion.

“You knew my mother, too?” Orion asked behind sarcasm.

It has finally come to this. Eleven years later, Rick felt that he was going to become Orion’s victim just as he almost was way back when.

“It’s still not too late, Richard,” began Orion. “Don’t let me destroy you. Become a Dreamkiller and let me teach you,” he almost pleaded and Rick shook his head.

“After a decade, the answers still no,” he said and he saw Orion’s fingers flinch upon Bolan’s shoulder.

“Well, then,” Orion turned his hood toward Bolan. “Diagnosis: Fatal. Procedure: Amputation of the right hand.” Then he thought of something and laughed. “No wait, Allen’s already done that, hasn’t he?”

The hand which lay to his side, he knew, would never feel hot or cold, but at the mention of Allen and the battle in the caves, he became nauseated.

“Time to die,” exclaimed Orion and Bolan licked his lips as he approached Rick.