Tim Kizer

WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU

Also by Tim Kizer:

Mania

Days of Vengeance

The Mindbender

Deception

Intoxication

Sixtus

Hitchhiker

Hello!

If you would like to drop me a line, please go to

www.horror-suspense.com/contactme.html. I will do my best to reply to each email! Thanks!

Tim Kizer.

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CONTENTS

·        Dark Luck

·        The Dreamer

·        Scorned

·        Sample chapters from “The Mindbender”

·        Other titles by Tim Kizer

**

COLLECTION II

**

Tim Kizer

Copyright 2013 Tim Kizer

Description

After winning a four-hundred-million dollar jackpot with the numbers he received from the future, Ted Duplass is as happy as can be. The fun stops when Ted learns that he's going to be murdered by the end of the year. Fortunately, he knows the name of the killer.

DARK LUCK

I despise the Lottery. There's less chance of you becoming a millionaire than there is of getting hit on the head by a passing asteroid.

Brian May

1.

“We’re in this together, guys. You have to remember that.” Ted gave his sons, who were sitting on the couch in front of him, a solemn look. “We’re a team. We have to be the best team there ever was. We need to keep our eyes on the prize.” Ted paused. “And it’s a fucking big prize.” He smiled, and then his sons began to laugh.

It was May 6th, 2013. They were over four months into the year in which Ted hoped to become a multimillionaire.

“Did you get it?” Ted asked, staring at his youngest son, Joe.

“Yes, I did.”

Joe had been able to legally get a tattoo since last Tuesday, when he had turned eighteen. Ted was no procrastinator, so this morning he had handed his youngest son three twenty-dollar bills and instructed him to visit an ink shop by the end of the day.

“Let me see.”

Joe rose from the couch, pulled down the left side of his underpants waistband, and showed Ted the tattoo he had gotten at a parlor in downtown Long Beach an hour ago. The tattoo read ‘Ted2013@tmail.com.’ It was Ted’s special email address. Placing this piece of information on the crotch, just outside the pubic area, was a strategic decision. In addition to being well-hidden, that spot had a very high chance of remaining attached to the body until the end. There hadn’t been many people who’d lost their lower trunks, you know. Pete, who was twenty two, and Mike, who was twenty, had gotten their own Ted2013@tmail.com tattoos on the same day two years ago.

Ted didn’t mind getting an occasional email from one of his sons’ girlfriends—or whomever was going to see his boys buck naked. So far there had been no emails at all, though.

“Looks good.” Ted nodded approvingly. “Thank you, Joe.”

Why had he chosen this login name, ‘Ted2013’? Very simple: it was short and it contained his name and the year in which he preferred to be contacted. A longer login would have increased the risk of typos, which would have undermined his whole plan.

His brilliant plan.

You see, Ted Duplass had a dream: he wanted to win a lottery. A big fat nine-figure jackpot. Well, most people would love that, wouldn’t they? But unlike other people, Ted had a plan.

The plan, which Ted thought to be almost sure-fire, was based on a simple, elegant idea. You see, he had faith in human ingenuity. He believed that one day scientists would invent a time machine. They just had to; there were no limits to technological progress. It might take a hundred, or five hundred, or a thousand years, but sooner or later the time machine was going to be built. Ted’s plan was to get one of his descendants to either travel back in time and give him winning lottery numbers, or simply send him those numbers by means of the time machine. Simple and elegant.

Ted realized that time travel was a far-out concept, which bordered on miracle. The scientists might never be able to send a human being back to the past, but they might find a way to transmit information, and that was where his special email address came into play.

The hardest part, in Ted’s opinion, was to make the descendant remember that among his ancestors there was a guy named Ted Duplass and that Ted Duplass needed a winning lottery combination. He wouldn’t mind to receive the numbers from a total stranger, but, in the end, the only people you could really count on were your family. It was a hard part, all right. How do you pass your message down through dozens and dozens of generations? Taking into account that Ted was not a human marvel like Isaac Newton or Confucius, whose words had lived on—and would continue to live on—for centuries, his best bet was his three sons and his future grandkids.

Ted didn’t worry about the next thirty-forty years—or however long he had left to live. And he was pretty confident that his sons wouldn’t let him down, which should cover the twenty-thirty years after his death. He was hopeful about his grandchildren, considering that he would most likely have a chance to personally communicate his instructions to them. All in all, he could rest more or less assured that his message would survive for the next eighty-ninety years. Beyond that point, this venture was out of his hands completely.

All in all, Ted was very optimistic about his plan. One didn’t have to be particularly smart to remember that Great-Grandpa Ted Duplass needed winning lottery numbers.

“You’re doing for yourselves,” Ted would say to his sons. “Whatever I win is going to be your inheritance. Keep telling that to your kids; it’s their inheritance, too. And they should tell that to their kids.”

However, Ted realized that human memory was imperfect. People forget important things all the time. How many of us remember our great-great-grandparents’ names? How many recall their dreams and aspirations?

His plan addressed this issue. One effective way to ensure that his descendants would remember and carry out his instructions was to overwhelm them with his mantra, bombard them with it day in and day out. Ted’s mission was to become a legendary kooky ancestor of yore who couldn’t stop talking about lottery numbers from the future.

Yes, overkill was the key here. Tattooing his email address on his kids’ bodies was just one rung in the ladder. Ted had even considered creating a cult or a religion; they still remembered what Buddha had said twenty five centuries ago, didn’t they? However, he had abandoned this idea since it was a long shot and required too much effort and resources. Besides, he didn’t want to let total strangers in on his plan.

Ted was also planning to buy a time capsule. Yes, he realized that the capsule was far from being a sure thing: in five hundred years its location would probably be forgotten or it would be buried under a shopping mall or a highway. However, he had nothing to lose by trying, so why not? The capsule wasn’t particularly cheap—it would set Ted back eight hundred bucks—but you have to spend money to make money, don’t you? He was not going to tell his wife, Nora, about the capsule: she would kick him in the nuts if she found out he had spent that kind of cash on some useless can.

Ted told his sons to engrave ‘Ted2013@tmail.com’ on his tombstone. It was an excellent way to keep this email remembered since tombstones could easily last—and remain legible—for four-five hundred years. He had also put the engraving request in his will in case these three pinheads forgot about it. He was thinking of purchasing a gravestone and putting the email on it now, but then decided to wait a few years. If Ted had an extra fifty thousand bucks, he would unhesitatingly go for a private mausoleum—these things had enough wall space to write the entire story of his life.

Another thing that Ted kept telling his sons about was personal safety. He needed his bloodline to last for centuries, which meant that his sons and their children and their children’s children had to do their best to stay alive as long as possible.

“Avoid riding together in one car or flying on one plane,” he would say to his boys. “Stay away from bungee jumping and skydiving; those things are for idiots who got tired of being alive. Don’t use drugs, try not to smoke, and don’t become alcoholics. You only get one chance to live, guys. One fucking chance.”

What were the odds that all three of his sons would die before he did? Ted believed they were pretty low, especially after the guys had heard those self-preservation lectures of his a hundred times.

Would they still have the lottery five hundred years from now? Would they still use email? Would they even remember what lottery and email were?

They’d have to search the archives, he supposed.

By the way, we still know what pigeon mail is, don’t we?

Hopefully, there would be at least one shrewd guy—or gal—among his great-great-great-grandkids.

Ted figured that the time machine would be kept in secret and only a handful of people would have access to it. For his plan to succeed, his progeny would have to either work at the time machine facility or have enough money to bribe someone who worked there. He was willing to bet that bribery would still exist in the year 2500 and even 3000.

One could say it was a tenuous plan. Ted didn’t deny that he was facing some serious challenges. It required determination—lots and lots of it—to overcome them. And he was definitely going to need a boatload of luck, too.

2.

Ted’s idea had received a mixed reaction when he had presented it to his family three years ago. His sons thought it was cool. Like all teenage boys, they loved the prospect of becoming millionaires without having to work too hard.

“It will be our conspiracy against the world,” Pete said to him.

His wife believed he was nuts. And his parents agreed with her. In fact, his dad had gone to the trouble of explicitly calling Ted’s lottery idea the most idiotic thing he’d ever encountered in his life.

“Why don’t you just get a better job?” his dad said. “Or invent something? Why are you looking for shortcuts? You’re gonna have to bust your ass like the rest of us, there ain’t no way around it.”

Ted wouldn’t be surprised if everyone who heard of his plan believed that he had lost a few of his marbles. And he was fine with that. People’s ridicule didn’t bother him at all. Actually, it played into his hand: if no one took his idea seriously, no one would try it and he would have no competition, which was always a good thing.

As for dad’s lecture, Ted appreciated honest hard work, but realized its limitations. The reality was that few people had become multimillionaires working for the man. And inventing the next Snuggie or ShamWow was not as easy as it might seem.

It was his dad’s rejection of his idea that Ted was thinking about when he sat down before his laptop and opened the ted2013@tmail.com email inbox at half past one in the afternoon on June 10th, 2013. He still didn’t understand why his old man couldn’t admit that this plan was at least somewhat clever and original.

“Our conspiracy against the world,” Ted muttered, staring at the laptop screen.

He had expected to see an empty inbox. This bitch had been empty these entire three years! When Ted’s brain processed what he was seeing, he froze.

There was a message in the inbox. Its subject read: ‘Lottery numbers for Ted Duplass.’

The text of the email was simple: ‘5, 16, 30, 33, 42. Mega #22. Megamillions.’ It was signed ‘Nick.’

Interestingly, the ‘From’ field of the message was blank.

His heart quivering, Ted moved the laptop closer and reread the message several more times. He was looking at the numbers with extreme intensity, barely blinking, as if trying to burn holes in the screen. His face was hot, beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

Was this it? Did his plan work? Did Lady Luck finally smile on him?

5, 16, 30, 33, 42. Mega number 22. These were obviously for Mega Millions lottery.

Thank you, Nick. God Bless you, brother.

There was a minor problem, though. The email didn’t specify when these numbers were going to win. It could be years, or even decades, from now for all he knew.

Ted got goosebumps when it occurred to him that the message might have come too late and the numbers might have already won.

The email could be a prank, of course. Even though his sons were old enough to legally buy cigarettes, a childish stunt like this was something they were absolutely capable of.

Half an hour later, Ted entered the neighborhood grocery store, which had a California lottery machine, and purchased a Mega Millions ticket, using the numbers from the email. He paid for the next fifteen drawings. The jackpot for this Tuesday’s drawing was three hundred and eleven million dollars. When Ted came home, he hid the ticket in the back of the bottom drawer of his bedroom dresser.

3.

“I received an email today,” Ted said, looking fixedly at Joe. “With lottery numbers.”

“You did?” Mike said. “Is it from the future?”

Ted ignored Mike’s question and went on, “What I want to know is this: was it one of you who sent it? Just tell me the truth, I’m not going to yell or anything. So… Did you send this email?”

“Why are you looking at me?” Joe asked. “I didn’t do nothing.”

“Okay. How about you, Mike?” Ted shifted his eyes to Mike. “Did you do it?”

Mike shook his head. “No. Why would I do that?”

“Pete?” Ted looked at Pete. “Did you send it?”

“No, Dad.” Pete cracked a smile. “You really received an email with numbers? So, your plan worked?”

Ted shrugged. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

“Did you buy a ticket?” Joe asked. “You’ve got to buy a ticket, Dad.”

Ted nodded.

He could hardly sleep that night. The idea that he could be three hundred million bucks richer in less than twenty four hours was incredibly titillating. His heart was ready to jump out of his chest as he checked the drawing results on Tuesday evening. Unfortunately, his numbers didn’t win anything, not even two dollars. The only consolation was the fact that nobody walked away with the jackpot this time.

Ted felt as though he’d been hit in the gut with a baseball bat.

“Maybe you should finally follow your dad’s advice,” Nora said, looking at him with her deep, judging eyes. “You’re forty three years old, Ted.”

Ted was in no mood to talk, so he didn’t reply.

4.

The Friday drawing was also utterly disappointing. Again, zero, zilch, nada. The jackpot grew by seven million and remained elusive.

This scenario repeated itself six more times. On July 9th, Ted’s luck changed.

5, 16, 30, 33, 42. Mega number 22.

Three hundred and ninety two million dollars, one of the largest jackpots in history.

His was the only winning ticket.

An out-of-body experience, that was the best way to describe what Ted felt when he saw the drawing results. For the first time in his life he could honestly say that the whole situation seemed like a dream.

He took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and grinned. Then he began to cry.

The next morning he quit his position at Long Beach City College. While Ted enjoyed teaching math, he liked having free time even more. He cited a new job as the reason for resignation.

5.

Ted was thinking of keeping his win a secret, but in the end decided that it would be a great motivator for his boys to know that their plan had worked.

“I guess you were right, after all,” Nora said after hearing the good news. “You did it. Congratulations, honey.” She smiled radiantly.

“How much did we win?” Joe asked.

“The jackpot was three hundred and ninety two million,” Ted replied. “I decided to take the lump sum. It’s two hundred and ten million.”

“After tax?” Pete asked.

“Yes, after tax.” Ted smiled and then burst out laughing. “We won, guys! We won! The plan worked!”

“Two hundred million bucks?” Mike’s eyes were as big as saucers with shock.

“Yep, two hundred million smackeroonies.”

“What about the butterfly effect?” Pete asked, smiling. “What if we somehow changed the course of history?”

“I’m okay with that as long as we’re millionaires. We only live once, son. I have no time to worry about mankind and stuff like that. Something tells me the world’s going to be all right.”

Ted didn’t see how their getting rich would make things worse as far as the history of the world was concerned. He also thought that the significance of the butterfly effect was exaggerated. You can delude yourself all day long that history is made by individuals. However, the truth, in Ted’s opinion, was that the world was ruled by hunger and sex.

Just in case, Ted vowed to give no money to politicians or organizations with a political agenda. He didn’t want to inadvertently help create a new Hitler or Stalin.

6.

The day after his winnings had been deposited in his bank account, Ted met with Steve Sandes, a financial advisor from Merrill Lynch. They had a great talk. Steve turned out to be a natural born schmoozer.

Yes, Ted was risk averse. No, he didn’t mind the lower return on his investment that resulted from the risk reduction. Yes, municipal bonds were fine with him. And he’d like to stay away from internet stocks for now.

Steve suggested that Ted set up trust funds for his sons. Ted agreed.

While he chatted to the Merrill Lynch guy, a shocking thought occurred to Ted. What if some—or even most—jackpot winners had received the winning numbers from their great-great-great-great-grandkids? It would be a fun idea to visit a couple of them and ask point-blank if that was the case.

Just imagine their faces when they realize that he figured their little secret out.

And how about those investment gurus who consistently beat the market? Ted wouldn’t be surprised if they received stock tips from the future. Apart from insider trading, that was the best way to explain their performance.

7.

After giving the matter a fair amount of thought, Ted decided to allow his sons to gain full control of their trust funds when they reached the age of thirty five. He announced his decision at the next family meeting.

“Each one of you will receive three grand a week,” Ted said. “You can live very comfortably on three grand a week, I promise you. And I’m going to adjust your allowance for inflation every year.” He turned to Nora and added, “You’re getting five grand a week, honey.”

“Come on, Dad,” Mike said. “Five grand a week? Seriously? We won two hundred million!”

“I don’t want to spoil you, guys. I don’t want you to get complacent. If you lose focus and stop working on passing my instructions down the line, all this money will be gone just like that.” Ted snapped his fingers.

You see, even though the plan had worked, Ted knew he shouldn’t soften his grip—not now, not ever. He and his kids (as well as the future Duplass generations) had to proceed as if they didn’t have two hundred million dollars in the bank. They couldn’t rely on any reminders that they wouldn’t have been able to afford if he hadn’t won the jackpot—such as a fifty grand private mausoleum, for example. A six-hundred dollar tombstone with his email engraved on it was okay because he had the means to purchase it before the jackpot, but a mausoleum would be a dubious bet since community college instructors could only dream about it.

To put it briefly, the outcome couldn’t be its own cause.

“What do you mean, Dad?” Joe asked. “We’ve already won.”

“Are you an expert on time machines?” Ted replied. “Do you know how it works? No, you don’t. And I don’t either. I’m just guessing here, but do you want to take a chance and see what happens? Do you want to risk losing two hundred million dollars?”

Joe shook his head. “No, of course I don’t.”

“The same goes for your future children. Don’t spoil them. Don’t let them get fat and lazy, okay? We have to be very careful here, guys. This plan will work only if we keep our eyes on the prize and act as if nothing changed. Do you understand that? As if nothing changed.”

“Yes, Dad,” Pete said. He exchanged glances with Joe and Mike. “I think I know what Dad’s talking about.”

“Very good.” Ted gave Pete an approving nod. “Let me explain it again: if you don’t want to go back to being poor, we need to keep doing what we’ve been doing the last three years.”

“Repetition is the mother of learning,” Joe said, imitating Ted’s voice. Everyone, including Ted, laughed.

“One more thing,” Ted went on. “I want all three of you to start families in the next three years. You can surely afford that now. And I want you to have your first child in the next four years.”

“First child?” Mike asked. “How many kids are we supposed to have?”

“Three would be great. It’s a numbers game, boys. We’ve got to have as many irons in the fire as possible.” Ted wasn’t sure if this idiom fit the situation but used it anyway because he liked how it sounded. “I want you to be the best parents ever. I want your children to love and respect you. I want you and your kids to be tight as ticks. There’s no other way to make it work, guys.”

8.

Ted spent the first two weeks of August house hunting. Since he wasn’t looking for a mega-mansion, he set his target price at no more than four million dollars. Now, four million bucks could certainly buy you a castle with an inside swimming pool somewhere in Phoenix or Kansas City, but for Encino, which Ted had picked as his new home, it was nothing to brag about as far as real estate was concerned.

He liked Encino for several reasons. It was an upscale city with a lot of beautiful houses in his price range, which couldn’t be said about Beverly Hills or Bel Air, where he would have to settle for a three-bedroom shack. Encino had a low crime rate—always a big plus—and was fairly far from the ocean, which could prove critical if the sea level actually rose at some point in the future.

By the end of August, he was a proud owner of a gorgeous five-bedroom house about one mile north of Encino Reservoir.

Then the fun came to an end.

9.

This question must have resided in Ted’s mind this whole time, but it was after his meeting with the insurance agent that he began to realize that he just had to know the answer to it. After they had discussed the homeowner’s insurance policy Ted was about to purchase, the agent asked him if he had sufficient life insurance coverage.

“Accidents happen, Mister Duplass,” the agent said. “People die young every day. I’m not saying it will happen to you, but one has to be aware of this and prepare accordingly. Life insurance provides a safety net for your family's financial security.”

“They already have a safety net,” Ted replied. “They’re going to have plenty of money without life insurance.”

In the end, Ted promised the agent to think about getting life insurance for himself and his family. He spent the next couple of days pondering the agent’s words. The guy was right; accidents happened all the time, and people—both rich and poor—did die young on a regular basis.

One week after Labor Day, Ted came to the conclusion that he should ask his future descendants to tell him when and how he was going to die.

“Why do you want to know when you die?” Joe asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know that?” Ted replied.

“Nah. I think it’s too depressing.”

Ted waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not surprised. Guys your age think they’re going to live forever.”

Ted had no doubt there was nothing wrong with wanting to know when and how he was going to die. Kings in ancient times—both mythical and real—just loved to ask their seers and oracles this question. Ever heard of the Oedipus complex? Oedipus was the son of King Laius of Thebes. After the oracle at Delphi had predicted that Oedipus would murder his father and marry his mother, King Laius drove a pin through his son’s feet to fasten them together and then left the child on a mountainside to die. Although the Oedipus story was a myth, Ted suspected that things of that nature had indeed taken place two thousand years ago. By the way, the prophecy came true; when he grew up, Oedipus did kill King Laius and marry his own mom, unwittingly, of course.

“What if you find out that you’ll die tomorrow? What will you do?” Pete asked.

“If it’s a plane crash, I’m going to stay home.”

Pete and Mike bobbed their heads thoughtfully.

“So let’s recap,” Ted said. “Now there’s one more message I need you to pass on to your kids and grandkids. I’d like to know when and how I die. Can I count on you to remember that?”

“Sure, Dad,” Mike replied.

“We did remember the lottery thing, right?” Joe said.

“Yes, you did.” Ted shifted his eyes to Joe. “And I’m really proud of you all.”

“Dad, what if we ask them to tell us what year they invented the time machine?” Mike said. “Can we do that? I’m really curious.”

“Sure. Why not?”

As a matter of fact, that was a good idea: it would be quite useful to know how long they were going to have to keep his message alive.

10.

‘14, 28, 29, 33, 48. Mega 1, Megamillions, June, 2035.

Time device was invented in 2222.

If you have questions, write them down, put letter in stainless steel time capsule and bury it at +34° 20' 2.63", -118° 26' 32.64."

Nick Duplass, May 1, 2223.’

Nick’s second email came on September 12th. To Ted’s disappointment, it had no mention of the date of his death.

As Ted reread the message, it crossed his mind that either articles ‘a’ and ‘the’ became optional in the future, or Nick simply didn’t care about grammar.

Ted was glad Nick had signed his full name. And it was nice to know what year he was writing from.

Ted printed the email, then folded the printout and put it in the wall safe. Telling his sons about the second combination now was a bad idea, he figured. They’d start spending like there was no tomorrow if they knew that another pile of cash was coming twenty two years from now.

Nick Duplass. Judging by the last name, it appeared that Ted was dealing with his direct descendant. And it was two hundred and nine years from now that they were going to invent the time machine. Two hundred years was certainly no cakewalk, but it was much more manageable than half a millennium. Nine generations. It made Nick his great-great-great-great-great… Well, who cares?

The realization that his bloodline survived for the next two centuries gave Ted a warm, fuzzy feeling.

14, 28, 29, 33, 48. Mega 1, Megamillions, June, 2035.

It looked like Nick had sent him another winning combination for Mega Millions. And he did it without being asked, by the way. Or maybe one of Ted’s future great-grandkids added a second jackpot to the wish list to enlarge the inheritance. Two hundred million dollars was a lot of money, but when you split it among ten heirs, you suddenly end up with a laughable figure. And don’t forget the estate tax; this sucker could go as high as fifty five percent—and maybe even higher—depending on who was in charge of the government. Yes, a disciplined investor could double this fortune every twenty years, after accounting for taxes. However, the number of heirs was also going to increase considerably in twenty years. Just look at the Rockefellers: there currently were one hundred and fifty living descendants of John D. Rockefeller!

Ted walked to the bar cabinet and poured himself half a tumbler of whiskey from the decanter.

If you have questions, write them down, put letter in stainless steel time capsule and bury it at +34° 20' 2.63", -118° 26' 32.64."

Nick finally took the initiative. Now Ted could see that Nick Duplass had brains.

The coordinates—what else could those numbers be?—pointed to a spot in the middle of Wilson Canyon Park, which was located twenty miles north of Encino in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. Ted was beaming with satisfaction. He liked the fact that Nick had picked a place just half an hour away from his house. Ted was fine with Nick’s choice of medium, too; a written note could last for several centuries in a metal box. Although paper sounded like a flimsy material, there were plenty of books in libraries that were over five hundred years old.

Why did Nick decide not to take advantage of the Internet to store Ted’s messages to him? Perhaps, he didn’t want to rely on servers and Internet companies. Two hundred years was enough time for computer data to be lost twice and for a dot-com company—even a giant one—to go bankrupt a dozen times. It was also possible that they did not use the Internet at all in 2223.

Wasting no time, Ted opened the word processor and typed his message to Nick:

‘I want to know when and how I die. My name is Ted Duplass, I was born in Seattle, WA, on March 10, 1970.

Ted Duplass.’

It was not an epistolary masterpiece, but it would do the trick. Short and to the point.

When he was about to send the document to the printer, Ted decided to add his social security number. The more details, the better, he thought. There could be more than one Ted Duplass born on March 10th, 1971 in Seattle, WA.

Then he went online and ordered two time capsules on the site called Future Preservation. He paid for expedited shipping; he couldn’t wait to see if Nick’s idea would work.

Later that day, he drove to Home Depot and bought a shovel. As he placed the shovel in the trunk of his Range Rover, he asked himself how deep a hole he was going to dig, assuming he would bury the time capsule upright. According to its description, the capsule was eleven inches long, so Ted figured that two feet should be deep enough.

11.

Two days later, Ted went to Wilson Canyon Park and, when it got dark, buried the capsule with his letter at the spot indicated in Nick’s email. The hole he dug was two feet deep, just as he had planned.

He couldn’t stop thinking about death as he shoveled the earth.

How old would he be when he left this world? How was he going to die? Would it be a heart attack? Cancer? An accident? Or maybe he was going to be murdered?

Suicide?

No, Ted was positive he would never consider killing himself.

By the way, would Wilson Canyon Park still be a park in two hundred years or was it going to be turned into a residential area? That burial spot could very well be located in Nick’s backyard in 2223.

When he finished filling the hole with soil, Ted was giddy with impatience. He had no doubt that Nick would receive his message, but nevertheless he wanted to see clear and positive proof of that. As Ted walked to his car, it dawned upon him that he probably wouldn’t have to wait too long. He might not have to wait at all. You see, Nick knew the location of the capsule two days ago, the minute he sent Ted the last email. He might have replied yesterday.

Ted took his cellphone out of his jacket pocket and opened the email application. A jolt of adrenaline shot into Ted’s system: there was one unread message in the ted2013@tmail.com inbox.

The email was from Nick. It was brief and to the point, as usual.

‘Ted Duplass was killed by his wife Nora on September 30, 2013.

I found your time capsule.

Nick Duplass.’

Ted stopped walking and reread the email. What the fuck? Nora was going to kill him? Why? How?

September 30th. Two weeks from today.

What the fuck?

12.

“Did Nick tell you when you’re going to die yet?” Mike asked when Ted handed him his allowance check. It was September 22nd, eight days before Nora was supposed to kill Ted.

Ted shook his head. “No. I’m still waiting.”

Honestly, Ted was impressed that he hadn’t hesitated to lie to his son. The ability to think on your feet was a great quality to have.

Why had he lied? Well, telling Mike that his mom was going to kill his dad didn’t seem to be a very good idea to Ted.

Anyway, it was what they called a white lie, so no one had gotten hurt.

Watching Mike shove the check in his jeans pocket, Ted said, “By the way, do you know anything about Mom that I ought to know, too?”

“Like what?” Mike gave him a curios look.

“Cheating, for example. Is Mom cheating on me?”

“Why do you think she’s cheating on you?” Mike lifted his eyebrows.

“I didn’t say she’s cheating on me. I’m asking if you know something that could be of interest to me. And apparently, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry, Dad.”

“It’s okay, son.” Ted patted him on the shoulder.

Later that day, Ted left for Las Vegas. He chose not to fly, fearing that Nora might somehow gain access to airline databases (through a friend working at the Los Angeles Police Department, for example) and find out where he went. He used a fake name when he checked into the hotel. He paid for all his purchases with cash from the moment he left Encino till the moment he came back home.

Ted suspected that his murder would be premeditated. Nevertheless, he kept an open mind and recognized that the possibility, however nebulous, existed that it was going to be an accident. Nora might run him over after losing control of her car. Or shoot him while cleaning a gun. Do you have any idea how many people get injured or killed in gun-cleaning accidents in America every year? One hundred.

It could also be one of those cliché scenarios where a character actually caused the prediction to be fulfilled while trying to prevent it from coming true.

Ted was still alive when he returned to Encino on October 15th. He stayed two weeks past the date from Nick’s email just in case.

He hoped the problem had been solved. He was wrong.

13.

Ted received a new message from Nick on October 17th.

‘Ted Duplass was killed by his wife Nora on October 29, 2013.

I found your time capsule.

Nick Duplass.’

Ted frowned. What did this mean? Was the date in the previous email wrong? Or had Nora simply rescheduled the killing?

Well, he should have expected that. Nora didn’t quit easily.

Depending on her motive, she might never give up this dumb idea. By the way, what was the motive?

Most likely, money. Nora probably wanted to lay her hands on his fortune, which was certainly understandable. She might have a lover. Some hot young surfer type with shaggy blond hair and blue eyes. A woman in love doesn’t care about the law and the consequences of breaking it.

But it could also be the good old spousal hatred. Twenty two years of marriage can do that to you. He had never hated Nora, though; he wondered why.

Ted sighed quietly. At least now he knew that the murder was premeditated.

What could he do to stop her?

Maybe he should tell Nora that he was onto her. That was how civilized people handled conflicts—they talked to each other.

Showing his cards to Nora was risky and accomplished nothing. You don’t tell your killer that you know what he (or she) is up to. The information he had received from Nick was his trump card, and he had to use it wisely.

Divorce? Unfortunately, since he had won the lottery while they were married, he’d have to give Nora half of his winnings, so divorce was not the optimal solution.

He could write Nora out of his will—and tell her about it. She wouldn’t bother killing him if she got nothing after his death, would she? That would be true if his money was all she was after.

He couldn’t go to police since he had no real evidence that Nora was plotting to murder him.

By the way, how did the cops find out that it was Nora who killed him? They couldn’t get this information from him, because he couldn’t be his own source. You see, Nick wouldn’t have known that Nora was the killer if the cops hadn’t cracked the case first.

Apparently, Nora somehow slipped up. She wasn’t a professional assassin, after all. The question was: what was her mistake?

Too bad Nick hadn’t told him how she was going to kill him. If he knew Nora’s plan, it would be easier for him to figure out how she got caught.

Or maybe she never got caught. Maybe she made a deathbed confession to her grandkids to unburden her conscience.

Whatever. Who the hell cared?

The murder weapon—what would it be? A gun? A knife? A sledgehammer? Sodium cyanide? Or a hairdryer in the tub?

Ted got up and began pacing the room.

For some reason, he had no doubt now that Nora was not acting alone.

How about a private investigator? People often hire PIs to sniff out their spouses’ secrets.

No, he’d rather not involve a private eye in this matter. What if Nora ended up dead sometime down the road? The fact that he had hired an investigator would indicate to the police that he suspected his wife of adultery, which would lead them to believe that he’d had a motive to murder her.

If you want something done, do it yourself, isn’t that what they say?

Two days later, Ted managed to install a spy application on Nora’s cellphone, which allowed him to track the cell’s location, see the call history, and read every text message his wife sent and received. He was on the right track, but he didn’t know that yet.

14.

There was a breakthrough in Ted’s investigation on October 21st, eight days before Nora was predicted to strike. The breakthrough happened by accident, around midnight, when Ted came home from a poker game at his buddy’s place. As he crossed the semi-dark living room, he saw Pete sitting in an armchair with the whiskey decanter in his hand. Ted didn’t have to smell Pete’s breath to figure out that his son was drunk like a skunk.

Ted was slightly annoyed that Pete was pouring from his personal decanter. You do not touch Ted’s alcohol, that was the rule. Why hadn’t the kid bought his own damn whiskey?

“What’s the occasion?” Ted eased into the chair on the other side of the table.

At least he wasn’t getting shitfaced at some sketchy bar or a drug den in Pacoima, Ted thought.

“No occasion. Want some?” Pete raised the decanter and gave Ted an inquiring look. His speech was slurred.

Ted shook his head. Under different circumstances, he would not mind having a glass of whiskey, but right now he was too preoccupied with trying to figure out Nora’s plan as well as processing her betrayal. Besides, he didn’t want to cloud his judgment; he needed a clear head more than ever before.

“Is it about some chick?” Ted asked.

This had to be about a girl. At twenty two, at least half of your problems were pussy related (if you were a regular straight guy, of course). As the Beatles said, you can’t buy love.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

After a short pause, Pete asked, “Dad, why did you ask Mike if Mom was cheating on you?”

Ted studied his son’s face for a few seconds, wondering if Pete suspected anything, and then replied, “I was just having a bad day, that’s all.”

There was no distrust or contempt in Pete’s eyes. Perhaps, he was genuinely curious.

“Are you getting a divorce?”

Ted smiled. “No, of course not.”

Pete nodded, then leaned back and closed his eyes. When Ted looked at him again, he seemed to have fallen asleep.

After staring at the walls in complete silence for several minutes, Ted stood up to turn off the lights. As soon as he took his first step towards the lamp, he froze. There was something wrong with his exquisite Rolex Submariner Date wristwatch, which had set him back thirty grand. It had become significantly lighter; Ted could barely feel it on his arm. And what was even weirder, the Rolex was growing transparent. It was fading. Ted could make out the hairs on his wrist right underneath the watch. This was no joke: he could actually see through his timepiece.

His Rolex Submariner was turning into a fucking ghost.

The room was going through the same transformation as the watch. The beautiful rug under Ted’s feet, the furniture, the walls, the ceiling—they were all fading away, like a hologram on a dying battery.

It felt as if he were waking from a dream in slow motion. For a moment, Ted thought that his worst fear had come true, that all of this—the email with the numbers, the jackpot, the house in Encino—had been just a dream, which had finally ended.

Only Ted knew he was not waking up. It was something else. It was the other thing that he had been fearing since winning the lottery.

Ted wheeled around and dashed to Pete. His heart pounding heavily, he shook his son by the shoulders. “Wake up, Pete! Wake up!” He was almost yelling. “Wake the fuck up!”

Pete remained asleep and motionless. Thanks to Ted’s efforts to wake him up, Pete’s head was hanging so low now his chin rested on his chest, which made him appear dead. He could be dead, for all Ted knew.

Horrified, Ted lowered his cheek to his son’s nostrils and waited a few seconds, which seemed like a year to him. Then he closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief; Pete was still breathing. Thank God, his son was still alive. But it didn’t take a doctor to see that Pete’s breath was terribly weak.

Pete was about to die, and with him would die Ted’s chances of receiving winning numbers from Nick. His two hundred million dollars would be gone.

Perhaps, Nick Duplass was Pete’s great-great-great grandson. Or maybe Pete was the only one who would bother to remember Ted’s instructions.

All hope was not lost, however. He could still reverse his slide into the alternate reality in which he never won the lottery; that was why the watch and the house—things he had purchased with his jackpot money—had not vanished completely.

Ted pulled his cellphone out of his jeans pocket and swiftly dialed 911. And as soon as he heard the operator’s voice, the fading stopped. Ted could still see through the Rolex, and the armchairs, and the table, but they were not getting any more transparent.

“What’s your emergency?”

“My son is dying,” Ted said in firm voice. “I need an ambulance immediately.” Then he gave the operator his address.

“What’s your son’s name?”

“Pete Duplass. And my name is Ted Duplass.”

“Can you describe what happened to him? Is he conscious and breathing?”

“It could be alcohol poisoning, but I’m not sure. I need an ambulance right now. He’s unconscious. He is breathing.” Ted told the operator his address one more time.

“Help is on the way, Sir.” The operator read Ted back his address and his cellphone number, and he confirmed that both were correct.

“Are they close?”

“Help should arrive shortly.”

“Okay. Can I hang up?”

“Yes, it’s okay to hang up.”

When Ted touched the End Call button, his Rolex instantly came back to life, solid and substantial. The room looked real and normal again.

15.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Ted asked, peering at Nora’s face. It was October 25th. His death was four days away.

“What do you mean?” Nora took her eyes off the TV and looked at Ted. “You want to hear how my day was?”

“Maybe. How was it?”

“I didn’t spend too much today, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

‘Why the fuck do you want to kill me?’ These words were dancing on the tip of Ted’s tongue, and he was seriously considering uttering them out loud.

How do you start a conversation like that?

It had become clear to Ted by now that the best way to solve the problem was to make Nora disappear. How far was he willing to go? Was he ready to nail Nora’s feet together and dump her in the desert to die?

“Why do you want to kill me?” Ted asked.

He decided to take the bulls by the horns.

Nora frowned. “What did you say?”

“I said, why do you want to kill me.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t want to kill you.” Nora creased her forehead. “Is it a joke, Ted?”

How was he going to take Nora out? Shoot her? Where? He couldn’t do it at home; that would be too risky. Off the top of his head, he’d say that the safest option would be to make her death look like a street mugging gone wrong. A late night mugging on the other side of the county.

A positive thing about guns was that it was fairly easy to kill with them: just pull the trigger, and you’re done. Their big downside was noise; these suckers were very loud, even with a silencer. Besides, an unregistered pistol was not easy to obtain. You could end up in prison just for trying to buy one.

The question was: would he have the guts to pull the damn trigger when the moment came?

Ted didn’t consider knives, blades, or any other cutting instruments. He knew for sure he was not capable of slitting Nora’s throat or stabbing her in the chest. It was just too savage for him. He felt the same about strangling or beating Nora to death.

Hiring a hitman was not an option. Ted had no desire to risk being blackmailed for the rest of his life.

Divorce remained out of the question. Ted couldn’t allow Nora to get rich at his expense after she had betrayed him. He also kept in mind that California had a six-month waiting period for divorces, which meant that Nora would have at least half a year to take care of him.

Anyway, this whole discussion was pointless. Nick had told him his future; Nora was going to kill him, no matter what precautions he would take.

“I want you to stop it, Nora,” Ted said.

“Stop what?” Nora appeared sincerely puzzled.

“They’re going to find out that it was you who killed me. Believe me, Nora, I know what I’m talking about. Just give it up, please.”

“Where are you getting these ridiculous ideas from, Ted? I don’t want to kill you, I swear.”

“You know exactly where this is coming from. You know why I’m sure that it’s true.”

“Really?” Nora knitted her brows. “Wait a second. Is that what this guy from the future told you?”

“Yes. The guy from the future told me that.”

“And you believed him?”

“I’ll tell everyone that you’re trying to kill me. I’ve given my lawyer a letter, which he’s going to give to the cops if I die. This letter says that you’re planning to murder me in order to get all of my money and that I fear for my life. This is bombshell evidence, Nora. Juries love that stuff.”

“The funny thing is that I actually believe you wrote that letter and gave it to the lawyer.”

“If anything happens to me, you’re going to prison, Nora.”

“I’ve had enough, Ted.” Nora got up from the couch. “A shrink—that’s what you need.” She glared at Ted. “Desperately.”

“Sit down.” Ted snarled.

“What did you say?” Nora squinted.

“I had my whiskey decanter tested a few days ago. And guess what they found? Lots and lots of Xanax.”

“Xanax? How did it end up in your whiskey? And why did you have it tested in the first place?”

“You almost got Pete killed, do you understand that?” Ted made a grimace. “Your own fucking son. He could have died. All because of you, you dumb toad!”

Nora lowered her eyes. Ted started counting seconds until she blamed the Xanax on Pete. To his surprise, Nora didn’t do it.

“I don’t know how Xanax got there.” Nora finally sat down.

“Okay. You don’t know.” Ted nodded.

Well, this was it. He had given it a shot. Being civilized hadn’t worked.

He was a peaceful, friendly, law-abiding man, not some bloodthirsty monster. However, he had no other choice but to remove his wife from this world. He had tried to warn Nora, to reason with her, hadn’t he? What else could he do? If you think about it, he was acting in self-defense. It was Nora who had started it; he was just minding his own business, you know. And if he kept sitting on his thumbs, Nora would sooner or later get him, there was no doubt about it. He didn’t want to live in fear, constantly looking over his shoulder. Bodyguards wouldn’t solve the problem; they couldn’t be by his side every minute of every hour. JFK had bodyguards and still got popped off.

“Here’s what I know,” Ted went on. “I know about Chuck. Did he put you up to this?”

“Who is Chuck?”

“Chuck Coyle. Twenty nine years old, lives in Redondo Beach. I know about him.”

“Have you been spying on me?” Nora winced with contempt. “Oh Jesus. I bet you’re recording this conversation.”

“How long have you been fucking him? A couple of months? A couple of years? How long?”

Ted was dying to quote a few of the sexually charged text messages Nora and Chuck Coyle had sent to each other in the course of the past week. He elected not to mention the texts because that would have tipped Nora off that her cellphone had been compromised.

Nora gave a nervous laugh and shook her head. “Oh Jesus, what does it matter to you, Ted?”

“Was it Chuck who got you the Xanax pills?”

Nora remained silent. She was scrutinizing her nails.

“I have a solution.” Ted rubbed his right jeans pocket just to confirm that his Ruger LC9, the unregistered semi-auto compact pistol he had acquired two days after Pete’s brush with death, was still there. The gun was still in his pocket.

Yes, it was illegal to possess an unregistered pistol, but he had gone ahead and bought one anyway. He had no desire to use it tonight, however.

Ted rose to his feet and fetched his whiskey decanter and a glass from the bar. Then he sat down, filled the glass with whiskey, and put it on the table in front of Nora. “Drink it, please.” Ted pointed at the glass. “You thought it was okay for me to pour this shit down my throat, so go ahead... I’m just treating you the way you treat me. I believe that’s fair.”

“I’m not going to drink it, Ted. If you put some poison in the bottle, I won’t drink it. I’m not stupid.”

“Of course, you’re stupid. You tried to kill me. After all I’ve done for you. After all I’ve done for our family. Instead of simply enjoying life, you decided to take it all.”

Their eyes met. Nora suddenly looked ten years older.

16.

Two glasses was what it took.

When Nora fell asleep, Ted suddenly felt a pang in his chest. It was as if his heart had bumped into a cactus. Then his head became hot, and a tiny tear came out of his right eye. He didn’t know what to call the feeling that had overcome him. Sadness? Regret? Shock? A little bit of this and a little bit of that, maybe.

Nora turned out to be an honorable woman, after all. She was capable of feeling guilt, which was quite rare nowadays. He respected that.

There was no remorse, though. He had done the right thing, and Nora had realized that, too.

She might have thought he was bluffing about the tranquilizer, by the way. She might have thought she would just get inebriated and wake up with a headache. But it was a moot point now.

Holding the cellphone in his right hand, Ted fixed his eyes on his Rolex. He was cautious enough to admit that his wife might be critical to the success of his idea. Nora knew about his plan, and, theoretically, she could be the one who was going to ensure that future generations of Duplasses remembered Ted’s instructions.

As Pete’s poisoning had demonstrated, the mix of alcohol and a tranquilizer didn’t kill quickly. Ted had about ten minutes to call the ambulance and thus prevent Nora from dying. He only needed five to determine if Nora had to live.

Ted let out a relieved sigh. The Rolex hadn’t evaporated as he had feared; it was still on his wrist, pleasantly heavy. And the living room had not disappeared either. Ted sprinted to the window and looked outside. Nora’s Mercedes and his Range Rover were still sitting in the driveway.

Ted dialed 911 one hour after Nora stopped breathing. He had no trouble sounding shocked and devastated as he spoke to the operator.

17.

There was a new email from Nick in the inbox when Ted came home from Nora’s funeral. The message read:

‘Ted Duplass was killed by Kenneth Shelton, 27, on January 6, 2014.

I found your time capsule.

Nick Duplass.’

Ted raised his eyebrows, highly intrigued. Then he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly a moment later.

Maybe his efforts to avoid death were futile. Was it even possible for him to change his fate? That was an interesting question.

Look on the bright side: he knew what was going to happen to him, and that was half the battle.

Kenneth Shelton, 27.

27 must be the guy’s age. Good thing Nick had put this detail in the email: it would help avoid a bloodbath in the style of King Herod, who had ordered the execution of all young boys in Bethlehem to get baby Jesus and thus save his throne. How many Kenneth Sheltons were there in America? Probably thousands.

Ted wished Nick had provided more information about his future killer—his address, for example. Or his date of birth, at least.

King Herod, huh?

By the way, was it going to be a premeditated murder or some sort of accident? This Shelton guy could turn out to be the driver of the semi-truck that would smash into Ted’s car on the 6th of January, 2014. Or maybe he mistook Ted for a deer during a hunt.

One thing was certain: Kenneth Shelton had to go. Two months was plenty of time to take care of this guy. The best defense is offence, right? He already had the gun, so he might as well use it.

What if it didn’t end on Kenneth Shelton? What if Nick emailed him another name after he bumped off Shelton? He would have to dispatch that person, too.

How many times was Ted planning to repeat this? The answer was simple: he would keep doing it until he received an email that said he would die of old age. That was the kind of death Ted desired. Death of old age. Very old age. Triple-digit age. By the way, he should ask Nick to figure out a way to send him a life-prolonging drug that would let him live to be a hundred and fifty; they would surely have these in 2223. These pills would probably cost as much as a house, but it was okay—his boy Nick Duplass must be loaded.

A wild thought flashed in Ted’s mind. What if Nick was playing with him? What if Kenneth Shelton was just some random name Nick had pulled out of his ass?

Ted shooed this thought away. Why would Nick do that? He was correct about Nora, remember? She had indeed tried to murder him; that was an irrefutable fact.

Ted lowered himself into the chair, switched on the laptop, and started typing. He was finished two and a half minutes later.

‘Dear Nick,

Thank you for the information. I hope you’re doing well.

You mentioned Kenneth Shelton in your last message. What is his address? What is his date of birth? What is his social security number? Can you send me his picture?

Ted Duplass, October 29, 2013.’

Yeah, he sucked at writing letters, but who the hell cared? Ted clicked the Print button.

A few seconds later, Ted took the letter from the printer, folded it in half, and dropped it in the time capsule. Then he printed his first message to Nick—the one with the death question—and put it in the capsule, too.

Ted was glad he had purchased a metal detector. He would have spent hours looking for the old capsule without it. Once again, his instincts proved right.

He screwed the cover on the time capsule and headed for the garage.

Fuck fate. He was going to kick this bitch in the face until it got tired of trying to kill him.

THE END

THE DREAMER

A psychiatrist discovers that a man claiming that the world is just a dream could be right.

1.

“No, you’re not real, either,” Richard said. “You’re a product of my imagination just like everyone and everything else.”

“So the entire world is just a dream?”

Richard nodded confidently. “Yes, just a dream. But not an ordinary dream. It’s what I call a high definition dream.”

“High definition?”

“Yes. Did you notice how crisp, how vivid and detailed everything looks here?”

“Actually, I wanted to mention that, too. Dreams do tend to be somewhat blurry.”

“No surprise at all. We think alike because your thoughts come from me.”

“I see.” Stanley made a note in his notepad.

“You know what I call reality?”

“Shoot.”

“God HD.” Richard laughed softly.

“Clever.” Stanley bit on his pen. “And you are the one who’s dreaming this dream?”

“Yes, Sir. The entire thing comes courtesy of my fertile mind.”

Stanley took a moment to process what Richard had told him in the last two minutes.

The guy was either a genuine schizophrenic, or a bored jackass with too much free time on his hands. Anyway, as long as his insurance company paid the bills, Stanley was ready to listen to his drivel till the cows came home.

“How long do you think you’ve been dreaming?”

“Good question, Doc. This is a very long dream. It could be many years since it started.”

“And in all those years, this dream’s never been interrupted?”

“Never.” Richard paused. “I suspect it’s a permanent dream.”

“What do you mean?”

“In all likelihood my dream will never end.”

“I guess it’s good news for all of us living here.” Stanley flashed a thin smile. Richard’s face remained serious. Then Stanley went on, “Where is your real, physical body, Richard? Do you know what happened to it?”

Richard shrugged. “Perhaps, buried in the cemetery. Or maybe it’s in one of those cryogenic freezers, waiting to be revived a hundred years from now.”

“How did you discover that you’re living in a dream? Why did you question reality in the first place?”

“I’m glad you asked. You see, Doc, I’ve been curious about this matter for many many years. Back in high school, I read about this French mathematician by the name of Rene Descartes, who lived in the seventeenth century. He said that the sensations we experience in our dreams feel as real to us as those we experience while we’re awake. Therefore, any beliefs based on sensations could be called into doubt, because it all might be a dream. The logical conclusion was that the whole world could be nothing but an illusion. And ever since I became familiar with this proposition, I’ve been regularly wondering, especially when I was having some kind of trouble: is this world still real or am I stuck in a dream?”

Richard glanced at Stanley to see if he had any comments; Stanley had none.

“My dad was a very skeptical man,” Richard went on. “He said that until he saw or touched it, he reserved the right to doubt that it existed. I remember him telling me that Australia might not be real. ‘I’ve never been there,’ he’d say. ‘How do I know it’s not just a fairy tale? They call it the land of Oz, don’t they? What if it’s nothing but a stupid hoax the government’s playing on us?’ I’d tell him that you can’t question every single thing in the world. And he’d say, ‘Why the hell not? You can’t blindly believe what you’re told. Always look for proof. People used to think that Earth sat on the backs of four elephants. How dumb is that?’”

“So how did you find out that everything around you is not real?”

“It didn’t happen quickly. It was a series of observations I made over a week or so. First, I noticed that every single movie I saw completely lacked originality. None of them was anything that I couldn’t have written myself. The same went for every fiction book I read and every TV show I watched. Nothing surprised me anymore. Literally nothing.” Richard paused. “I was looking for something that would make me say, ‘Wow, this is brilliant. I couldn’t have thought of it myself.’ Unfortunately, everything I came across was predictable, derivative. I stopped being amazed.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Every science book I looked at contained information I already knew. To me, that was one of the most convincing pieces of evidence that I’d fallen into a dream.”

“Are you a scientist?” A moment later Stanley corrected himself, “Were you a scientist before you fell asleep?”

“I was involved in research, so yes, you could call me a scientist.”

“And you know everything in every science book there is?”

Richard nodded silently. To Stanley’s amusement, the man managed to keep an absolutely straight face.

“So, to put it briefly, your theory is based on the fact that nothing impresses you anymore and that you know everything there is to know, is that correct?”

“That’s what gave me the first clue. But you must admit it’s nothing to sneeze at. In the real world, it’s impossible for one man to possess the entirety of human knowledge and creativity.”

“I can’t disagree with that.”

“There were other signs, too. For example, one day I crashed into a concrete wall while driving on the freeway. I was going more than seventy miles per hour when it happened, but the next day I didn’t have a scratch on me and my car was in perfect shape. The hardest part here was to remember that I’d been in a crash the day before.” Richard cleared his throat. “Yes, the trick to figuring out that you’re dreaming is to recall that something weird took place and to have the sense to realize it was weird. It appears every character who lives here is unable to retain the memories that could help them make the same discovery I did. It’s probably by design, I don’t know.”

“Character?”

“That’s what I call people who live in my world.”

“People are just characters to you? That’s cold.”

“You don’t have to like me, Doc. I’m not trying to start a cult dedicated to me, although I’m one of the few who actually deserve it. I’m just reporting the facts.”

“I understand.”

“And then I jumped off the roof of that ten-story building across the street from here.”

“The Allied Bank building?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“And you survived the jump, of course.”

“The next morning I was as good as new.”

“Fascinating.” Stanley scribbled in his notepad. “Why did you decide to come to me?”

“Boredom, I guess.”

“Is it possible that you have doubts about your theory?”

Richard shook his head. “You know, I’ve always wondered if my dream’s characters have their own lives, their own thoughts and feelings.”

“Well, let me satisfy your curiosity. I do have my own life and thoughts.”

Richard smiled. “How do you know that those thoughts were not planted by me?”

“Touché!”

Richard leaned back and crossed his legs. “If I indeed managed to create characters sophisticated enough to have their own thoughts and feelings and to come up with some sort of daily grind, that would make me feel like…” Richard creased his forehead, looking for the right word.

“Like God?”

Richard’s lips stretched in a thin smile. “You said that, not me. But yes, I guess that’s how it would make me feel.”

How many months of therapy was this gentleman going to need?

No, wrong question. How many years of therapy was he looking at?

“Your registration form says that you’re a judge at the Richmond Circuit Court,” Richard said.

“I made it up. I’m not a judge. I have a very superficial knowledge of the law. I used to dream of becoming a judge when I was younger. Even when I was finishing my PhD program, I still entertained this idea. And now that I’m dead, I can be anything I want, can’t I?”

“You sure can.”

“Oh, I was curious, Doc. What medical school did you go to?”

“I got my medical degree from Michigan State. Why are you curious about it? You have doubts in my competence?”

“No, that’s not it. You see, it was me who gave you your background, and to tell you the truth, I’m not particularly knowledgeable about medical schools. I’m not sure the real world Michigan State University even has a medical school.”

“Of course it does. I studied there.”

“Well, unfortunately, there’s no way to independently verify that.”

“Come on, are you telling me that I printed this off the Internet?” Stanley pointed his thumb at the framed diploma hanging on the wall behind him.

“No, not at all. I’m just saying that in the real world this piece of paper might be completely worthless.”

“I see.” Stanley took a sip of water from his glass and continued, “Let me return to the characters of your dream. You believe that I’m just an imaginary figure, right?”

“Yes.”

“And all those people in the streets are imaginary, too?”

“Yes. They’re mental replicas, just like you.”

“And my family? They’re not real either?”

“That’s correct. They’re not real.” Richard raised his left hand. “I have an idea, Doc. Let’s conduct an experiment. Call your son. Let’s see if he exists.”

Their eyes met, and they stared silently at each other for a few seconds, which was enough time for Stanley to realize that Richard was not joking. Having quickly weighed all pros and cons, Stanley nodded and said, “Okay. Let’s call him.” He took out his cell and opened the contact list.

“What’s your son’s name?” Richard asked.

“Derek.” Stanley dialed his son’s number and pressed the speaker button so they could both hear Derek’s voice.

“How old is he?”

“He’s nineteen.”

The phone rang a third time, and Stanley reckoned Derek was going to answer any second now.

“Are you married?”

“Yes. My wife’s name is Gina.”

A fifth ring. Stanley shifted in his chair, being acutely aware of how embarrassing and awkward the situation was getting.

“He’s not picking up,” Richard announced in a satisfied tone.

“Just a second, okay? He’ll pick up.”

A sixth ring.

“Are you sure you dialed the right number?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“It’s okay, Doc,” Richard said. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

The answering service picked up the call, and Stanley hung up. Knitting his brows, Stanley glanced at his watch and said, “Unfortunately, our time is up. I will see you next week, Richard.”

“See you next week, Doc. It was fun, by the way.”

2.

On the way home after work, Stanley caught himself worrying that he might not see Gina tonight—or ever again. What if Richard was right and his wife was a figment of imagination? Of course, it was not a serious concern—rational people didn’t doubt that the universe is real—but he still couldn’t shake it off.

Stanley reined in his anxiety by the end of the trip. He didn’t panic when he saw that his house was empty. As soon as he found himself in his study, he did what he’d forgotten to do after his first session with Richard a week ago: he went online and checked if there was a judge by the name of Richard Marshall in the Richmond Circuit Court. Then Stanley searched for Judge Marshall’s photo and was relieved to find out that the man had not lied on the registration form; his name really was Richard Marshall and he indeed was a judge.

Then he called his son. Derek was a freshman at University of Southern California, majoring in business administration. Stanley didn’t mind Derek not following in his steps.

The uneasiness returned once Stanley pulled his cellphone out of his pants pocket. He was afraid of a repeat of the fiasco that had taken place during his session with Richard Marshall, and he was irked with himself for that. The fact that Derek had not answered his call should not have discomfited him the way it had. He was a rational person, after all.

Fortunately, his fear did not come true.

“Where were you, Derek?” Stanley asked in a noticeably upset voice. “Why didn’t you answer the phone when I called you three hours ago?”

“I was in class. Was it something important? Why didn’t you text?”

Oh brother. Derek always tried to shift the blame to someone else.

“Next time I call, you pick up the phone, okay?”

“Oh Jesus. What is this all about, Dad?”

“Just pick up the damn phone. Class or no class.”

When Stanley hung up, it suddenly occurred to him that he couldn’t be certain it had actually been his son who he’d just talked to. He had not seen Derek, he had only heard his voice, and a voice could be imitated. For all he knew, it might have been a computer on the other end of the line. A very smart computer.

3.

“Last week you said that it could be many years since your dream had started.”

“It could be a week. It could be a year. And it could also be ten years. Or fifty. It’s hard, perhaps even impossible, to keep track of time when you’re dead.”

“Are you suggesting that this world,” Stanley drew a circle in the air with his index finger while pointing it at the ceiling, “could be only a week old?”

“I was talking about the real world time. In a dream, time flows much faster.”

“I see.” Stanley made a note in his notepad. “You also said that this dream might last forever.”

“Yes, it might. And, honestly, I wouldn’t mind if it did.”

“In other words, you don’t want to wake up and face reality.”

“I didn’t say that. I believe this dream might never end, because I suspect that I’m dead, and you don’t come back from the dead in the real world.”

“So this is an afterlife dream?”

“That’s a good way to put it.”

“Did you believe in afterlife when you were alive?”

“No, I didn’t. I might have had a hope, but that’s as far as it went. Now it looks like I was wrong, assuming I’m dead, of course. I must say I’m certainly glad it’s not just lights out when you die.”

“Do you believe in God?”

Richard shrugged. “There may be God, but he’s not almighty. An almighty god wouldn’t allow war and diseases. And if he would… Then he’s not the kind of god I want to believe in.”

Stanley nodded pensively. “Did or do any of your blood relatives have a mental disorder?”

Richard shook his head. “None. I believe I’ve already answered this question on your questionnaire.”

“Yes, you have. Do you find this question offensive?”

“It’s all right. Everyone thought that Galileo was insane, too.”

“I didn’t say you are insane. I’m just collecting information, that’s all.”

“I understand.”

“Okay.” Stanley smacked his lips enthusiastically, staring at his notepad. “So you dreamed me up, you dream up this office, this building. You dreamed up this whole city. It sounds like a very difficult undertaking, doesn’t it? Very large-scale. Very elaborate. Would you agree with that?”

“Elaborate? I’ll tell you what, Doc. The world that I created—with all its cities, rivers, mountains, people, animals—can’t hold a handle to a pebble from the real world. The pebble consists of trillions of trillions of trillions of molecules, which in turn consist of atoms, which in turn consist of protons, neutrons, and electrons. That’s what I call elaborate, Doc. What I have done here is just a child’s play.”

“Child’s play. Sure.”

“By the way, I believe this room is an almost exact replica of my cousin’s office.” Then Richard added, “My cousin is a psychiatrist, too.”

“But your cousin’s still alive, isn’t he?”

“I hope so. He’s a great guy.”

Bobbing his head, Stanley leafed through his notepad for a while and then said, “Last week we talked about how you made your discovery. Let’s say someone came up to you and asked you if you had any proof. What would you tell him?”

“I’m glad you brought this up, Doc. I have proof.”

“Can you show it to me?”

“Sure.” Richard opened his bag and took out a computer tablet. “As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.” He turned on the tablet. “Look at this picture.” Richard poked at the screen. “Do you recognize this place? That’s the area in front of your building.” He swiped at the screen, changing the photo. “I took these pictures from this window.” He waved at the window behind Stanley’s desk. “Do you see Lakewood Boulevard?”

“Yes, it does appear to be the area in front of this building.”

Stanley was curious where Richard was going with this.

“But here it looks a little different, doesn’t it?” Richard put the first photo back on the screen.

He was right. On this photo, there was a small green park with lush trees instead of the parking lot.

“Yes, it does,” Stanley agreed.

“There was no parking lot there a week ago. And now there is one.”

Stanley examined the photo for a few moments and finally said, “It doesn’t prove anything. I know there is software that allows you to manipulate pictures any way you want. I figure you either found someone who can use this program or did it yourself.”

“What a smooth theory.” The corner of Richard’s mouth rose in a slight smirk. “Have you ever noticed that insane people are very good at rationalizing their crazy beliefs?”

“Have you?”

“I just presented you with photo evidence. If you want to check if it was manipulated, go ahead.”

“Let me ask you a question. If there was no parking lot there, where did people park?”

“In the parking structure on Lakewood and Carson.”

“There’s no parking structure on Lakewood and Carson.”

“There used to be one.”

Stanley smirked. “I see. And who replaced that nice park with a parking lot?”

“Me. I did it.”

“So you can change the scenery at will?”

“More or less.

“What do you mean?”

There was a short pause, after which Richard asked, “Do you have dreams?”

“Yes. They’re not as sophisticated as yours, of course.”

“Have you ever had a lucid dream?”

“A dream where you’re aware that you’re dreaming? I believe I’ve had a couple of those.”

“Then you must understand that even in a lucid dream you can’t change things with a snap of a finger. It takes lots of practice to learn to manipulate the environment in a significant way.”

“So if I ask you to make a tiger appear in this room, you won’t be able to do it?”

“I could try, but I can’t give you any guarantees.”

After a short hesitation, Stanley said, “On second thought, let’s not involve tigers.”

“Okay.” Richard slid the tablet back into the bag. “I have a question, Doc. What medical school did you go to?”

“UCLA. I went to University of California, Los Angeles.”

Richard nodded thoughtfully. “Last time we met you said that you’d studied at Michigan State.”

Stanley shook his head. “I never said that.” He pointed his pen at the framed diploma on the wall. “Please go and take a look. UCLA, class of 2004.”

“Actually, I can see your diploma from here. That’s why I asked. I clearly remember you saying that you went to Michigan State.”

“Let’s just agree to disagree.”

“Sure.” His face beaming, Richard raised his index finger. “I have an idea. Another experiment. I think you’ll like it. No tigers or anything like that.”

“Go on.”

“I’m going to ask you a seemingly simple question and I’m going to bet that you’ll be unable to find the answer to it no matter how hard you look. Are you down to play?”

“And what is the point of this experiment?”

“I want to show you that if I don’t know something, no one in the whole world knows it. I don’t know the answer to the question I’m going to ask you, which is why I’m confident that you’ll never find it, either.”

“How much time will I have to look for the answer?”

“A week. I believe it should be enough; do you agree with me?”

“It depends on the question, I suppose.”

“As I said, it’s a pretty simple question. No tricks. And you can use any source of information you please: your friends, encyclopedias, textbooks, the Internet—anything and anyone.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Here’s the question: will you go to prison if you run over and kill a person crossing the street on the red light?”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all.” Richard ran his hand through his hair. “So do you think you can find the answer by my next appointment?”

“I guess a week should be enough.” Stanley began to write in his notepad. “And you’re saying you couldn’t find the answer to this question?”

“As I mentioned before, I know little about the law. This particular situation is very puzzling to me. It would be easy to figure out if the person was not jaywalking—the driver would certainly be punished. But here we have someone who broke the law by crossing on the red light. Who’s at fault? Do we lock up the driver? Is the pedestrian liable? I honestly have no idea.”

“All right. It sounds like a fun idea. I’ll do my best.”

“Very well.”

“Before you go, Richard. I can see that you put Helen Woods as your emergency contact. Is Helen your wife?”

“I had a wife before I died. And her name was Helen. Now I’m just imagining her. In other words, she’s as real as you are, Doc.”

“Can I talk to her?”

Richard spent a while thinking over his question and then replied, “I suppose you can. What are you going to talk to her about?”

“About you, mostly. I’d like to learn more about your life, your circumstances. I believe it will help me understand you better. Are you okay with that?”

Richard moved his jaw, as if chewing something, and then nodded. “Fine. Why not? There’s no harm in it, is there?”

“Can you bring her with you next time we meet?”

“Why don’t you drop by my place and catch her there? Can you do that?”

“No problem. See you next week.”

4.

Before leaving his office for Richard’s house, Stanley did something that was completely out of his character.

His eyes fixed on the UCLA diploma, Stanley stepped over to the wall and put his hands on his hips. What he was thinking of doing was outrageous and ridiculous. He’d be happy if he could come up with a compelling excuse to just turn around and get out of the room, but nothing good came to mind. Instead Stanley found a reason why he ought to examine the damn diploma right now: he was alone and no one was going to find out what he’d done.

The diploma was real, he had no doubt about that. And it did say that the UCLA School of Medicine had conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Medicine.

With a stupid grin, Stanley hung the diploma back on the wall and headed for the door.

5.

Richard’s wife had a pleasant, soft-featured face, which was framed by long dark hair. She appeared to be in her late forties, and it was obvious she took very good care of herself. She was what one would call a well-maintained woman. Helen wore little make-up when she met Stanley.

“You have a beautiful home, Missis Marshall,” Stanley said as he followed Helen inside the sprawling two-story house.

“Thank you, Doctor Blake.”

“I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me.”

Helen led him into the living room and asked if he wanted anything to drink. Stanley opted for a glass of water.

“How long have you been married to Richard?” Stanley asked when they both took their seats.

“Twenty years.” Helen’s voice was soft but confident.

“That’s impressive.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Did Richard tell you why he came to see me?”

“He was looking for someone who would listen to his stories.”

“Do you know what kind of stories those are?”

“I have a general idea.”

“Did Richard ever tell you that we all might be living in a dream? His dream?”

Helen half-nodded. “I believe he mentioned that a couple of times.”

“And what do you think about it? Is that some sort of joke or does he sincerely believe that the whole universe is just his dream?”

“Dick is not the joking kind, so I assume he means what he tells you.”

“Has Richard ever shown any signs of violence?”

Helen shook her head. “My husband is a calm man. He’s never raised his hand on me or our son. I don’t remember the last time he got angry.”

“Did any member of Richard’s family have a mental disorder?”

“I don’t know of anyone who does or did.”

Stanley opened his notepad at a blank page and started writing. “When was the first time he mentioned this dream theory to you?”

Helen thought for a few seconds and replied, “About a year ago.”

“Did he try to prove it to you?”

“No. Honestly, I don’t really remember whether he did or not.”

“Does Richard want you to believe that he’s right?”

“I don’t know. I’m not one of his egghead friends. I doubt my endorsement of his theory would mean much to him.”

“I’m sure he values your opinion.”

“Maybe. To tell you the truth, I haven’t had a chance to chat with my husband at length lately. Our schedules have been incompatible the last few months, you see. He leaves the house while I’m still in bed, and when he comes home, I’m already asleep.”

“Even on weekends?”

“Yes, even on weekends.”

“I see.” Stanley quickly scanned the notes he’d made before coming to Richard’s house. “Has Richard gotten into a car accident of any kind recently?”

“If he has, he’s never told me about it.”

“So you don’t remember him crashing his car into a wall on a freeway in the past year?”

“No, he did not crash his car in the past year or even ten years.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Although I’m a woman, I’m not completely clueless about cars. I can tell a car that’s been in a crash from one that hasn’t.”

“Do you think Richard would ever hide from you the fact that he’d been in a bad accident? To spare your feelings, for example.”

Helen shook her head. “My husband loves telling the truth. Even if it’s cruel.”

“All right.” Stanley took a sip of water from his glass. “What do you think could cause Richard to invent the dream theory? What was the trigger? Did he seem depressed or disturbed in some way lately?”

“No, he didn’t seem depressed to me.”

“Would you consider institutionalizing Richard if there ever was a need for it?”

“Am I the one who’s supposed to decide?”

“I believe so. Are Richard’s parents still alive?”

“No, they’re not. His father died four years ago, and his mom passed away two years later.”

“Then I guess it’s going to be on you.”

“So it’s your opinion that Dick might need to be put in a mental hospital?”

“I can’t rule it out.”

Helen smiled. “Good luck with that.”

“Why?”

“Did you forget what he said? You’re living in his dream.”

There was no humor in Helen’s voice, and the smile was no longer on her lips. Stanley was thinking of telling Helen that it had been a good joke, but chose not to do it. Instead he said, “I’m sorry.” His tone suggested that he’d misheard Helen.

“Listen, Doctor Blake. If I were you, I wouldn’t do anything to piss off my husband.”

Now Helen sounded like one of those women who loved to criticize and nag at their husbands but hated it when others tried to do that.

“Why? Is he dangerous?”

“You know why.”

A puzzled smile crawled onto Stanley’s face. “Helen, do you believe that Richard could be right about all this dream stuff? You can be completely honest with me.”

Helen gave him a long look and then replied, “I’m not an expert in things of that nature.” She paused. “Let me ask you this. How far back do you remember your life? Do you remember being born?”

“No, of course not. Nobody remembers that.”

“It’s a presumptuous statement, Stanley. Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that you don’t know for sure how you were brought into this world.”

“Come on, Helen. You can’t be serious.”

“When was the last time you had flu?”

Stanley shrugged. “Why does it matter? I don’t get sick a lot, what does that prove?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.”

6.

Let’s try and have an open mind.

What if Richard was right? What if the whole world was just a dream in this man’s head?

But what about his thoughts? Stanley knew he had thoughts in his mind; the very fact that he was having this internal discussion proved that he was engaged in mental activity. I think, therefore I am, that was what Descartes had said, and he was one of the greatest philosophers in history. Stanley thought, therefore he existed, right?

What if his thoughts were not his own but came from Richard the Creator? How did that work, by the way? Was Richard feeding streams of thoughts directly into his dream’s characters’ minds? Or had he set up a list of rules that dictated what to think in any given situation, and let the characters roam around on their own? That must be one hell of a list, but then again Richard was a PhD.

Just imagine: everyone in this town, except Richard of course, could be nothing more than a sophisticated version of those vacuum robots that crisscrossed the floor, knowing exactly what to do when they bumped into an obstacle. Well, ‘knowing’ was the wrong term. A robot was incapable of knowing by definition. Robots were programmed. The program told them what to do and when to do it.

But what about the fact that he was questioning the authenticity of his thoughts? Had these doubts been planted into his mind by Richard, too?

Why not? Richard had said he was bored.

Did all characters have an ability to think? Maybe most of them were mindless extras filling up the background. And how many characters were there?

Maybe he should discuss this matter with his other patients.

Stanley broke out laughing when he realized that, if Richard was right, all of his other patients were figments of imagination. Perhaps he ought to stop coming to work. Or maybe he wasn’t allowed to stop coming to his office, because he’d been programmed to be a psychiatrist.

Later that day, as he helped Gina cook the dinner, Stanley said to his wife, “I got a new patient a few weeks ago. He believes that he’s dead and this world is just an afterlife dream. His dream.”

“Afterlife dream? That’s crazy,” Gina replied. “This man is nuts.”

“He told me he knows everything there is to know in the entire world.”

“He thinks he knows everything, huh? I’ve met a few guys like that.”

“Well, it makes sense if he indeed created this world. He must know it all because he’s the Maker.”

“What do you call that? Is there a term for his condition?”

Stanley thought for a few seconds and replied, “I’d call it megalomania.”

“I hope he doesn’t hurt anyone.”

After dinner, Stanley called his buddy Adrian Quintana, who was a lawyer with eight years of experience, and asked for help with the legal riddle Richard had presented him with. Adrian happily obliged.

7.

“You see, Doc, come to think of it, it’s not as crazy as it seems,” Richard said. “As far as I know, Hinduists believe that the world is only a dream dreamed by god Vishnu, who, by the way, sleeps on a thousand-headed snake named Ananta. It’s a billion people, my friend. A billion people believe that.”

Stanley scribbled a note in his pad and said, “Are you sleeping on a snake, too?”

“I hope not. I hate snakes.”

“But you’re not a Hinduist, are you?”

“No, I’m not.” Richard looked meditatively at the tips of his shoes. “I traveled to India the other day. I hadn’t had a chance to go there while I was alive, so I had no real-life impressions of that place. It turned out to be exactly what I’d expected it to be. People hanging from buses, weird smells in the air, endless slums, rats in the streets. All my imagination had to work off of was stereotypes, and that’s what I got—one big stereotype.” The corners of Richard’s mouth lifted in a small smile. “I bet that if I go to Russia, I’ll see bears on every corner and it will be snowing in the middle of the summer.”

“You’ve never been to Russia?”

Richard shook his head. “I wasn’t much of an international traveler. But I did make a point of visiting Australia. I just had to see it for myself.”

“Did you tell your father about it?”

“Yes, I did. And I showed him pictures, too.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Good for you, son.’”

“Did you manage to convince him that Australia is real?”

“I might have. I don’t want to overestimate my powers of persuasion.”

“You were his son. He had to trust you.”

Richard made an uncertain motion with his head. Then he asked, “Did you speak to my wife?”

“Yes. She didn’t tell you?”

“If she had, I wouldn’t have asked, would I?”

“Who knows. Your mind is a mystery to me.”

“What did she say?”

“She appears to be on your side. And before I forget, congratulations on such a long marriage.”

“In a dream, anything is possible.”

“By the way, I have the answer to your question about a jaywalker.”

“Oh really? Let’s hear it.”

“According to my lawyer friend, the driver might be exempt from criminal liability under certain circumstances. It all depends on the situation. However, he’d almost certainly be civilly liable for the loss of life, so the jaywalker’s family could sue him even if he was cleared by the police.”

“In other words, you don’t have a straight answer.”

“Richard, some questions don’t have a straight answer. This is one of them.”

“All right, Doc. Honestly, I had a hunch you’d come up with something vague and ambiguous.” He picked up his bag from the floor and opened it. “That’s why I brought this.” Staring Stanley in the eye, Richard produced a handgun.

Stanley felt a chill run down his spine. What had Gina said? I hope he doesn’t hurt anyone. She must have second sight.

“What is it?” Stanley’s voice had suddenly become hoarse.

“It’s a gun. I saw guns when I was alive; I know what they look like. Unfortunately, I wasn’t an expert on pistols, so what you see is a generic reproduction. I think I’ve done a good job. Does it look credible to you, Doctor?”

“It looks quite credible.” Stanley licked his lips. “Does it shoot bullets?’

“I hope so. Actually, I’m sure it does.”

“Why did you bring it here?”

“I’d like to demonstrate something to you. Take this gun and shoot me.”

“What?”

“Shoot me.” Richard tapped himself on the forehead. “Right here. Blow my brains out.”

“Why do you want me to do that?” Stanley swallowed a lump in his throat.

“I’d like you to see that I can’t be killed. You don’t die in a dream; you always come back to life.” He slowly caressed the barrel of his gun. “It’s a great way to prove to you I’m not crazy.”

Stanley took a deep breath. “You’re telling me that I could shoot you in the head and you’d survive?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Why can’t you simply make me believe you? I’m just a figure in your dream, right?”

“As I said, some things are out of my direct control. You know how complicated the human mind is.” Richard paused to think. “It’s like pain or fear: these are the product of your mind, but you can’t turn them off at will, can you?”

Well, to his credit, the son of a bitch always had a plausible excuse.

“You could shoot your assistant if you don’t want to shoot me,” Richard said. “What’s her name? Vicky?”

“Please put the gun away. No one is shooting anyone here,” Stanley said assertively, his eyes shifting between the gun and Richard’s serene face.

“Okay, Doc. I’m not going to push you.” Richard shoved the gun back into his bag. “Can you do me a favor? Try to open your mind, and look for the proof yourself. Maybe you have to find proof on your own in order to see the truth, Doc. Perhaps that’s how it works. Is that something you can do?”

Stanley issued a sigh of relief and said, “On one condition. Don’t bring any weapons to my office, okay?”

“You got it, Doc.” Richard gave Stanley a wink. “Let me give you a tip. Look for things that are there that should not be, and things that should be there but are not.”

8.

The name of the store was Juicy Couture. There was nothing special about it, and the only reason Stanley had targeted it was that Juicy Couture had been the first store he’d seen when he’d gotten out of his car.

As he gazed at the fancily dressed mannequins behind the glass, it occurred to him that he must be under Richard’s spell. Why else could one explain what he was about to do?

Find the proof.

Look for things that are there that should not be, and things that should be there but are not.

Stanley grabbed the rock, weighed it in his hand. Then he looked around like a thief about to break into a house. Or like a guy planning to smash a store window with a stone. He was feeling giddy; he had goosebumps all over his arms and torso, boiling over with anticipation. He didn’t know why he was so excited. He also realized that he ought to be ashamed of stooping to such behavior, of succumbing to temptation. He should have ignored Richard’s provocations, but he hadn’t.

Was he really going to do this?

Why not? There was no harm in it, was there? He’d just sit in his car and wait for the cops.

Gritting his teeth, Stanley swung his arm and hurled the rock at the window. The sound the pieces of glass made as they fell onto each other, and the window sill, and the sidewalk was loud and indignant. There were also pleading undertones in this noise; it was as if the store window was asking Stanley through tears why the hell he had broken it.

The piercing shrill of the burglar alarm startled him. Wincing, Stanley climbed in behind the wheel and shut the door. Luckily, the alarm sound was quite tolerable inside the car. Stanley glanced at his watch in order to register the moment his wait began. It was 8:41 pm.

When someone broke into a boutique store in an upscale area, the police should arrive promptly, right?

Yes, that was how it worked.

At five past nine, Stanley got out of his car and peered down both ends of the street, looking for police car lights. There were no red and blue lights flashing in either direction.

Stanley found another stone and broke the window of the store to the left of Juicy Couture.

Fifteen more minutes had passed, and it became clear that cops were not coming.

Did it prove that Richard was right and the whole world was nothing but a dream? Probably not. All it proved was the ineptness of the local police.

Or maybe he was just burying his head in the sand.

9.

“Remember that patient I told you about? The dreamer?”

“Yes.” Gina nodded. “What did he do now?”

“I talked to this guy’s wife last week.”

“What did she say?” Gina scooped some salad from the bowl and put it on her plate.

“Our conversation was a bit odd, to tell you the truth.” Stanley speared a piece of chicken with his fork, placed it in his mouth, and started chewing. “I couldn’t help thinking that she was cuckoo herself.”

“Maybe that’s why they got married.” Gina laughed.

“Maybe.” Stanley chuckled. “You’re funny.”

He opened his mouth to tell Gina about the gun Richard had brought with him, but then changed his mind and said nothing.

They ate in silence for a minute. Gina was half-watching television, and Stanley was sneaking peeks at her face. If she’s a replica, she’s the most authentic looking replica I’ve ever seen, he thought to himself.

“Honey, do you remember being born?” Stanley asked in a nonchalant tone.

“What?” Gina shifted her eyes from the TV to Stanley. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“Do you remember being born? I’m just curious.”

“No, I don’t. I doubt anyone remembers that.”

“Do you remember your childhood at all?”

Gina took a sip of water from her glass and thought for a few moments. “I remember going to some lake with my mom and her boyfriend. I was nine or ten. I had a lot of fun there. I swam, lay on the sand, drank a lot of soda. That guy took us to that lake every two or three weeks the whole summer.” She cracked a smile. “I don’t know why I even remember this.” She gave Stanley an inquiring look. “What do you remember from your childhood?”

“Not a lot. I remember fighting some guy in the schoolyard when I was in the sixth grade.”

“What did you fight over?”

“I forgot. Maybe he called me a name. I got beaten up pretty bad, but I managed to throw a few good punches, too.” Stanley began to tap his fingers lightly on the table. “When was the last time you had flu? Do you remember that?”

“Flu? Why are you asking?”

“No reason. Just popped in my mind.”

He moved his tongue inside his mouth. The chicken was delicious. And the rice was delicious, too. There was no way this marvelous food was imaginary.

“I think when you’re married to a doctor, you get sick less often than other people,” Gina said.

Stanley brought his left hand before his eyes. High definition dream, he thought as he examined the friction ridges, lines, and wrinkles on his fingers and palm. This hand must be real. It was ridiculous to even consider doubting that.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because of all the good habits you pick up and the bad ones you quit.”

Later that night, when they were in bed in their pajamas, preparing to go to sleep, Stanley cocked his head as if he’d recalled something important and asked, “Honey, where did you park when you came to see me at work a month ago?”

“In the parking lot.”

“Was it the parking structure or the parking lot?”

“I didn’t know there was a parking structure there. Is it close to your building?”

Staring affectionately at his wife, Stanley put his arm around her shoulders, kissed her, and said, “Never mind.” He kissed her again. “I love you.”

10.

He woke up around two in the morning. The image of Juicy Couture’s smashed window immediately emerged in his mind. Then Stanley quietly slipped from under the blanket and proceeded to do another preposterous thing.

His palms sweaty, he pressed his ear against Gina’s chest and, holding his breath, listened for the heartbeat. He hated himself for doing this. He would burn with shame if someone saw him right now. Somehow Stanley was sure that it would be easy to guess what was going on here: a college-educated man is checking if his wife is a living being and not just an image in a schizophrenic’s mind. However, the urge was so strong that he wouldn’t be able to overcome it even if he tried. It was as if he were possessed.

He was still under Richard’s spell.

He met no surprises this time; Gina’s heart was beating, just like it was supposed to.

Stanley took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his mouth. One could call it a sigh of relief, and perhaps that was what it was.

“What are you doing?”

Stanley started and immediately got weak in the knees. He drew himself up and, staring at the barely visible face of his wife, replied, “I was just looking for something.”

“What were you looking for in the middle of the night? What time is it?” Gina’s voice was sleepy and displeased.

“Half past two.” Stanley started walking to his side of the bed. “Never mind. I’ll find it in the morning.”

11.

“How often do you experience déjà vu?” Stanley asked.

“Occasionally. Probably as often as when I was alive.” Richard was idly drumming his fingers on the armrest.

“Don’t you think it should become more frequent now that nothing new is happening to you?”

“Why? I’m not reliving my past life, Doc. It’s more like a… like a game now. You know those city-building video games where you set up factories, houses, restaurants, collect taxes, and so on? It’s quite close to that.”

“Are you talking about SimCity?”

“Funny you should mention it. That’s what I was just thinking of. I never played this game, but I heard the name.” Richard grinned. “You see, if you’re thinking something, I’m thinking it, too.”

Observing Richard’s calm demeanor, Stanley couldn’t get rid of the feeling that the man knew about the smashed store windows and the heartbeat check. Then Stanley recalled that he’d driven past Juicy Couture the next morning after destroying its window and found no signs of his rampage, which of course didn’t prove that Richard was right.

“Can you read my mind?” Stanley asked.

“No, I can’t. And I have no desire to be able to do it.” Richard interlocked his hands in his lap. “You know what I’ve been curious about this whole time?”

“What is it?”

“I wonder if everyone gets the opportunity to have an afterlife dream. Could I be the special case? Or maybe you have to earn it somehow.”

“Hopefully, you’re not the only one.”

“I hope so, too. Just imagine what kind of afterlife dream Einstein could have created. Incredibly sophisticated, I bet. I would love to take a peek at it.”

“Maybe you are Einstein and simply don’t remember it?”

“I wish.”

Stanley made a hemming sound as he pondered Richard’s words. Then he said, “If I am a creation of your mind, then doesn’t it mean that when you talk to me, you talk to yourself?”

“I suppose it does.”

“Sane people don’t talk to themselves, do they?”

“A lot of sane people talk to their dogs, cats, and ever cars, although they realize they might as well be talking to the wall.” Richard cocked his head. “They talk to dogs and I talk to my characters.”

Stanley squinted at the window, whose blinds were drawn at the moment, and suddenly realized that he couldn’t remember whether he’d parked his car in the parking lot outside the building or in the parking structure on Lakewood and Carson.

“I’d like to tell you a secret, Richard,” he finally said. “Last Wednesday night I threw a rock at a store window. Did you have anything to do with that?”

“Why did you do it?”

“I had my reasons. But I was wondering if you had a hand in it.”

“How can you blame me for you breaking a store window?”

“Hypnosis, for example. Did you study hypnosis? Do you know how to hypnotize people?”

“I wish. Last Wednesday, huh? Right after we spoke? Were you perchance conducting an experiment, Doc?”

“As a matter of fact, I was.” Stanley shut his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose for a few seconds. “Listen, Richard. I’m willing to discuss your theory with an open mind. Just for the sake of argument, let’s assume that you’re right and we’re living in an afterlife dream.”

Richard narrowed his eyes and cracked a mischievous smile. “What happened, Doc? What changed your mind? Did you notice something odd?”

“Maybe.”

“What was it? Did you finally remember that there was no parking lot there a month weeks ago? Or did you jump off a tall building?”

“No to both questions. What I was going to say is, I want to see more proof.”

Richard put his right hand inside his jacket and said, “I bet you know what have in here.” Then he pulled out a gun, which was probably the same gun he’d brought a week ago.

“Didn’t you promise not to bring any weapons?”

“Come on, Doc, don’t be such a scaredy-cat.” Richard held out the pistol to Stanley.

“Why the hell do you want me to do it?” Stanley noticed that he was getting annoyed and maybe even agitated, and it upset him quite a bit. It was unprofessional to let emotions control him. “Why don’t you—” He stopped before finishing the phrase, because the last thing a licensed psychiatrist should do was telling his patient to commit suicide.

“Why don’t I shoot myself? Is that what you were going to say, Doc? Or why don’t I shoot you?”

“I’m just asking you to leave me out of this.”

“I need you to take a leap of faith. I have a feeling that’s the only way to make it work.” Richard closed his left eye and aimed the pistol at the door. “You see, I’ve already tried shooting myself. Right here, in this room.”

“When?”

“Five weeks ago.”

“Was I present when you did it?”

“You sure were. The problem is you don’t remember it.”

“You’re right. I don’t remember you shooting yourself.”

“That’s why I want you to pull the trigger. Maybe, if you really open your mind, you’ll see the truth.”

Stanley reached for the pistol, touched its handle, and after a short hesitation grabbed a hold of it.

“Excellent, Doc!” Richard exclaimed. “That’s a great start. Now stick the gun in my face and the pull the trigger. I promise you nothing bad will happen.”

Panting, Stanley looked at the gun, then shifted his eyes back to Richard. “You want me to pull the trigger, huh?”

“Yes, I do. This is the proof, Doc. The best proof there is.”

Stanley inhaled deeply, pointed the gun at Richard. “Okay. Just remember it was your idea.”

Then he pulled the trigger.

12.

Saturday morning, Stanley made an odd discovery. As he washed his face, it caught his attention that the scar he’d had on his chin was gone. He’d earned this scar in that memorable schoolyard fight he’d gotten into when he was twelve. Stanley could swear he’d seen the scar while washing his face the night before.

Look for things that are there that should not be, and things that should be there but are not.

Was it possible that he’d had this scar surgically removed and then simply forgotten about it?

That was a crazy proposition.

To hell with the scar. Even if he had indeed imagined that fight, it didn’t follow that the universe was Richard’s, or anyone else’s, dream.

He must be tired.

One thing was for sure: schizophrenia was not contagious, so he didn’t have to worry about catching it from Richard. And since his family had no history of mental illness, chances were that whatever he’d been going through wasn’t insanity.

By the way, at what age did schizophrenia symptoms typically start? After digging in his memory for a minute, Stanley was surprised to find that he didn’t remember the answer to this question. He wished he could say that it didn’t bother him, but the truth was he felt quite uneasy about forgetting what any decent psychiatrist was supposed to know by heart.

What would be the best evidence that he was living in Richard’s dream?

Maybe he should try Richard’s approach and shoot someone? If that person came back to life, he would have no choice but to believe Richard, because in real life people that had been shot dead stayed dead.

13.

“So? Are you satisfied, Doc?” Richard crossed his legs, his gaze fixed on Stanley. “Do you believe me now?”

“Satisfied? Satisfied with what? Did I miss something?”

“You got your proof. You shot me last week. With a pistol. Right here, in the head.” Richard tapped himself on the forehead. “And as you can see, I’m still alive. Not a scratch on my entire body.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I see.” Richard grimaced. “I guess the trick didn’t work.”

“What trick?”

“Never mind.”

“Are you sure? Let’s talk about it.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Something else? All right.” Stanley opened his notepad. “Over the weekend, I read a little about that Vishnu guy and his thousand-headed snake. Turns out the snake floats on the universal ocean called the Milky Ocean.”

“I’m glad I got you intrigued.”

“But here’s the kicker: the Milky Ocean and the snake and Vishnu are all the same thing.”

“Doesn’t that blow your mind, Doc?”

“It sure does.” Stanley looked at Richard’s bag and asked himself if there was a gun in it.

Then a feeling overcame him that he was on the verge of a big revelation. With a grin, he said, “If I’m just a manifestation of your fertile mind, you could have given me any name you wanted, is that right?”

“Yes. I named you Stanley. Is there anything wrong with this name?”

“Why didn’t you name me Frasier Crane?” Stanley’s lips stretched in a grin. “That would have been smart and funny.”

“As a matter of fact, I was considering that. But I chose Stanley.” He took a sip from the glass. “Besides, I couldn’t remember whether Frasier was a psychiatrist or a psychologist. These are two different professions.”

“To tell you the truth, I don’t remember that either.”

“Of course you don’t. If I don’t know it, you don’t know it. By the way, you seem to be in a good mood today, Doc.”

“Are you afraid of anything at all, Richard?”

After a short silence, Richard replied, “No, I don’t think there’s anything I’m afraid of.”

“You must be afraid of something. You’re human, after all.”

“I’m already dead, Doc. Dead men fear nothing.”

“I think you’re afraid of loneliness. That’s why you dreamed up this world, isn’t it?”

After a long pause, Richard shrugged and replied, “Boredom, loneliness—aren’t they basically the same thing?”

Stanley glanced at the bag again. Had Richard brought a gun to their meeting last week?

Why did it matter?

“Remember that question about a jaywalker who got run over?” Stanley asked. “Why did you ask it?”

“It was a test.”

“Why this question in particular?”

“I chose it because it was tricky.”

Stanley shook his head. “I suspect you ran over and killed somebody, and now you’re being eaten by guilt. It must have happened at an intersection. Am I right? Did you run over someone?”

His facial expression unchanged, Richard shook his head. “No, you’re wrong. I didn’t kill anyone. I’m a very careful driver. But you may be interested to hear that my son got run over a while ago.”

“I’m sorry about your son. Is he okay?”

“You’re asking if he survived? I think he did.”

Stanley’s eyes turned glassy, and he froze for a few seconds, absorbed in thought. Then he shifted his look to Richard and said, “I know what scares you. There are people that you’d love to forget, to vanish from your world but can’t. Perhaps people that hurt you, or people you hurt.” He peered at Richard’s face. “Am I correct? I must be correct. My thoughts come from you, don’t they? If I’m thinking it, you’re thinking it, too.”

“Does this mean you believe my theory?”

“Or is it Helen? She said that you barely talk.” Stanley paused to sort out all the new ideas rushing into this head. “She said that you leave when she’s in bed and that she’s in bed when you come home. You know what I think?” He fixed his eyes on Richard’s face. “You can’t see your wife. You can’t make her appear in your presence. Did I guess it right, Richard?”

It was half a minute before Richard replied, “Bravo, Doc. What can I say? Yes, you hit the nail on the head. I can’t see her. I can’t see my wife. And my son—I can’t see him either.”

“Why? You are the master of this dream, aren’t you?”

“Maybe they don’t want me to see them. Maybe I’m being punished.”

“Punished for what?”

“I wish I knew.” Richard heaved a sigh. “Or maybe I just need more practice.” He folded his arms on his chest. “I’m afraid that someday I’m going to completely forget their faces. That someday I’ll forget they ever existed.”

“Why are you so pessimistic? If you loved Helen, you’ll remember her forever.”

Richard shook his head. “Eternity is an awfully long time. Everything that may happen will happen. And I figure eventually I’ll stop caring that I don’t remember what my wife and son looked like.”

Suddenly, a shiver ran over Stanley as he recalled what he’d done to Richard at their previous session.

He had pulled the trigger. Yes, he had. The memory was hazy, though.

What had happened after the shot?

Richard leaned closer to Stanley and, peering directly into his eyes, said, “Do you know what a medium is, Doc?”

“A medium? This word has several meanings. Which one are you talking about?”

“A person who can communicate with the spirits of the dead. Are you a medium, Stanley?” Richard put his hand on Stanley’s knee.

“I’m a doctor, Richard. I’m not a psychic.”

“It must be Helen who asked you to contact me. Perhaps she wants to know how I’m doing.” Richard took a deep breath and slowly straightened up, a look of epiphany lighting up his face. “Why haven’t I thought of that before?”

Richard stood up, bent forward, bringing his face within inches of Stanley’s, and then shouted, as though Stanley’s head was a microphone, “Helen, are you there? Helen? It’s me, Dick. Can you hear me?”

Keeping calm and collected, Stanley raised his left hand and said, “Helen can’t hear you, Richard. I’m not a medium. Your wife didn’t ask me to contact you.”

Stanley looked around and was shocked to find that he couldn’t recognize his office. A moment later, he realized it had been a temporary memory glitch.

14.

“So how does it work? Will I disappear if you stop thinking of me?” Stanley asked.

“I suppose so. But you see, the tricky thing is that it’s not that easy to stop thinking about something. Especially, when you’re trying to stop thinking of it. Remember that don’t think of a pink elephant thing?”

Stanley nodded.

“After you hear this, all you can think of is a pink elephant.” Richard chuckled. “What do you call that? Is there a scientific term for it?”

“I’m sure there is.”

“But you don’t know it, do you?”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t specialize in pink elephants.” Stanley smiled.

“Okay.” Richard drew his brows together for a second. “I figure ninety five percent of everything and everyone you see here is coming from my subconsciousness. And as far as I understand, you don’t fully control your subconsciousness. So it could take you a while to vanish completely.”

“I guess I should be dancing with joy.”

“If you feel like it.”

“Why are you so sure that it’s your dream? What if you’re only a character, just like me?”

Richard lifted his eyebrows and replied in an amazed tone, “What an astute observation! To tell you the truth, I didn’t expect you to say that.”

“So? Have you ever considered this possibility?”

Richard rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on Stanley. “I know it’s my dream, because I was the first one to realize that this world is not real. You see, characters are not capable of making this discovery on their own. They’re puppets, they’re toys, they have no clue what’s going on. You’d still be ignorant of the truth if it weren’t for me.”

“In other words, you have no direct proof, do you?”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you, Doc. I know what I know, and I’m sure I’m right.”

“But what if you’re wrong? Would you like to go and find this guy? Or gal?”

Richard laced his hands together in his lap and asked, “And how do we find him? Do you have a plan?”

Stanley was silent.

Richard sighed. “That’s what I thought.” He leaned back in his chair. “Do you remember shooting me in the head two weeks ago?”

“I believe I have a partial recollection of that event.”

“That’s a very big deal. Congratulations! Do you believe me now?”

“Yes, I do. You have persuaded me that we’re living in your dream.” Stanley licked his lips. “What do I do now?”

“Is your belief strong enough to jump off the roof of the Allied Bank building?”

“The one across the street?”

Richard nodded. “It used to be ten stories high, but today I added five stories more.”

Stanley could swear that the Allied Bank building had always been fifteen stories tall, but decided not to dwell on that.

“Will you jump?” Richard asked.

Stanley bit his lower lip.

“Yes or no, Doc? If you really believe, you will jump.”

Still silent, Stanley wiped the sweat from his forehead with his palm.

“Very well,” Richard said. “I guess you’re not ready yet.”

As Richard rose to his feet, Stanley cleared his throat and said, “Okay. I’ll jump.”

15.

“What made you believe me?” Richard asked when they found themselves on the roof of the Allied Bank building.

“This.” Stanley pointed at the sky. “Even the best magician, even the richest government in the world wouldn’t have been able to pull this off.”

A grin appeared on Richard’s face. “What is it?”

“Today, for the first time in my life, the Sun rose in the west. And now it’s setting in the east.” Stanley squinted and looked toward the sunset.

“Amazing, huh? I was afraid you wouldn’t notice.”

“I’m ready to jump. I believe you, Richard. I’m ready.” Stanley stepped onto the edge of the roof, adjusted his hair, which had been tousled by the wind, and looked down at the street. The street and the building wall that dropped away below his feet appeared incredibly, undoubtedly real; however, Stanley had no fear at all. He knew he was going to be fine after the fall. The people, the cars, and the trees were very small; Stanley thought that they’d probably be microscopic if he viewed them from the rooftop of a fifty-story skyscraper.

How long was it going to take him to fall the one hundred feet that separated him from the ground? Four seconds? Six seconds?

By the way, did the laws of physics of Richard’s universe differ from those of the real world?

“See you later!” Stanley shouted and plunged off the roof.

16.

“Where am I?” Stanley murmured as he sat up.

“You’re in the hospital,” a young male voice said. It took Stanley only a second to recognize it.

And then it hit him: he had just woken up, that was what had happened! He had been asleep, and now the dream had ended.

“It was me,” Stanley whispered, standing up. “It was me.”

It had been his dream all along. He loved being awake. Reality was beautiful.

God HD, Stanley thought as he looked around. Everything was stunningly clear and sharp. It was as if someone had washed the windshield with super strength glass cleaner. No, it was as if someone had removed the glass altogether.

He could see, sense, hear, feel, taste things at a whole new level of awareness. Stanley attempted to find a word to describe what he was experiencing, but God HD was all he was coming up with.

“What did you say, Dad?”

Stanley fixed his eyes on his son, who was sitting on the bed, with a computer tablet in his hands. Derek was wearing grey sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He appeared a little tired. It was a hospital room, which meant that Derek, his pride and joy, the smartest and the most handsome nineteen-year-old boy on the planet, could be very sick. Stanley was relieved to see that there was no intravenous drip system or heart monitor in sight. He realized he couldn’t draw any far-reaching conclusions based on this fact, but he was happy nonetheless.

Stanley walked over to the bed and sat down on its edge, facing his son.

“How did you get here, Dad? Didn’t we—” Derek stopped halfway through the sentence.

For some reason, the surprised look his son gave him made Stanley uneasy.

“Where’s mom?”

“She left an hour ago. Do you want me to call her? How long are you going to stay?”

“I’ll call her myself.” Stanley placed his hand on Derek’s forearm and squeezed it lightly just to make sure it was there and he was not imagining it.

“What happened to you?” he asked. “Why are you in the hospital?”

“I got into an accident. It was my fault. Everything is fine now.”

“Were you in a coma?” Stanley didn’t know why, but he had to ask this question.

“Yes.” Derek nodded.

“How long were you out?”

“About two months. But I’m okay now, Dad. I’m fine, don’t worry. They’re releasing me in two days.”

“When did you wake up?” Stanley squeezed Derek’s hand gently. The hand was warm; he didn’t want to let it go.

“Five days ago.” Derek smiled. “I’m so glad to see you, Dad.”

“I’m very glad to see you, too.” Stanley leaned forward and kissed his son on the forehead.

When his son’s face began to fade, Stanley suddenly remembered that he had seen Derek’s photo in the living room of Richard’s house. It had sat on the fireplace mantel along with a couple of other framed pictures. For some reason he hadn’t realized back then that it was Derek on that photograph.

17.

The good news was he was alive. He had survived a fifteen-story fall. Moreover, there was not a scratch on his body.

Stanley started rubbing his temples. He had an odd nagging feeling in his head, which he suspected wasn’t going to leave on its own. Something was amiss, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. A minute later it finally dawned upon on him. There had been a mirror in that hospital room, and he’d glanced at it at some point. He’d caught a glimpse of his reflection without consciously processing the image. Only now did he recognize that it wasn’t his face he’d seen in the mirror; it was Richard’s face. This, of course, made no sense, but then again it had been a dream, hadn’t it?

Stanley shut his eyes, and when he opened them seconds later, he was sitting in a chair in his office.

“Welcome back.” Richard waved at him.

Stanley gave him a slight nod and looked around. A warm wave of memories—real world memories?—was washing over him. “Did you do that?” he asked.

“What?”

“I just saw your son.” Stanley took a gulp of water from the glass. “I think I’ve been to the real world.” He drank the rest of the water.

“How do you know it was the real world?” Richard leaned forward and drew his brows together.

“I… It was different. It was… spectacular.” He paused. “I’ve never experienced anything like that before. And for a moment, I thought it was my dream.” Stanley glared at Richard. “Did you do it on purpose?”

“No, Doc, I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Of course you did. You were probably trying to show me who the boss is.”

“I told you that I don’t control every little thing here. At least not consciously.”

“Well, I’m not into holding grudges, so let’s move on.”

“Tell me what you saw there.”

“I saw your son. He’s out of a coma now. He’s recovering.”

Richard frowned, lowered his eyes, and then, staring blankly into space, said, “Why are you telling me this? Why do you think my son has ever been in a coma? Why do you think I even have a son?”

“You told me your son had been run over by a car.”

“Maybe I lied.”

“I doubt that you lied. I believe your son was hit by a car and fell into a coma.”

Richard let out a sigh, put an elbow on his knee, and propped his head with his hand. “Suppose you’re right. How do you know that the person you saw was my son?”

“I saw his picture in your house. And—” Stanley stood up, walked to his desk, picked up one of the framed photographs that were there, and returned to his chair. “Is this your son?” He handed the picture to Richard.

After quickly scanning the photo, Richard nodded. “Yes, it’s him. Why do you have his picture on your desk?”

“You created this desk and everything on it, remember? I’ve always thought it was my son Derek’s photo. But of course, I was programmed to think so by you.”

Gazing at the photograph, Richard ran his finger along the bottom section of the frame. Stanley thought he saw a tear glint in his eye.

“Can you prove that you saw him?” Richard asked. “That he’s getting better?”

Stanley shook his head. “I can’t. I doubt there’s even a way to do it. I can’t bring you a souvenir from the real world, can I?”

“No, you can’t.”

“One more thing. I don’t know how it happened, but I believe that your son saw me, too. He saw you in that hospital room.”

“What do you mean? He saw both of us?”

“No, he saw you. I had your face when I met him.”

“This is so…” Richard creased his forehead. “I don’t understand.”

“You created me. I’m a character in your dream. I guess there’s part of you in me, in all of us populating your dream. That’s how I see it.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“I’m not sure if I should tell you this.” Stanley let out a quiet sigh. “When your son saw me, he looked as if he saw a ghost. You do know what it means, don’t you?”

An artificial smile surfaced on Richard’s face. “It must mean I’m dead,” he said. “And I’m okay with that. There’s nothing I can do about it, is there?” He cracked his neck from side to side. “I told you it is an afterlife dream.” Richard got up and walked up to the window. “So you’re saying he actually saw me?”

“Yes.” Stanley nodded. “By the way, I forgot how long you said you’ve been dead. What’s your most conservative estimate?”

“At least a year.”

“Your son said that he’d been in a coma for two months. How did you know that he’d been hit by a car, if you were dead when it happened?”

There was a short pause, and then Richard replied, “Somebody told me.”

“Another character like me?”

“Yes. His name was Luke.” Richard opened the blinds a crack and peeked outside.

“So it’s been done before. Someone crossed into the real world before I did.”

“Yes, Sir.” Richard turned around to face Stanley. “Maybe someday I’ll be able to do it, too.”

“You know, you’re a good man, Richard.” Stanley lowered his eyes to the floor. “Remember you said that an almighty god wouldn’t allow war and diseases? I just realized that there are no wars in our world.”

“Yes, only in a dream, Doc. Only in a dream.”

“And I’m pretty sure that cancer hasn’t been eradicated in the real world yet. And neither has flu.” Stanley rose from the chair and sat down on the edge of his desk.

“You are a very perceptive man.”

“What do we do now?”

“I have an idea.” Richard raised his hand. “We were on a week-long Caribbean cruise when I was alive. We had a blast there. Lots of great memories. Do you want to go? I’m pretty sure my version is as good as the original, if not better.”

“I vote yes.”

“Excellent.” Then Richard snapped his fingers.

THE END

Scorned

An eighteen-year-old girl exacts vengeance on her cheating boyfriend with the help of a mysterious woman.

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,

Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.

William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

1.

Being eighteen and in love—what could be more joyful than this? Especially when the one you love loves you back.

Heather was the happiest girl in the world. Then she met Loretta, and her life changed forever.

The encounter took place at the coffee shop one block down from Heather’s apartment building. It was one of her favorite spots to kill time when she didn’t feel like going home and dealing with parental pressure. Heather was sitting at a table in the patio, enjoying the gorgeous weather. As she read a text message from her boyfriend, Daniel, she heard a woman’s voice: “Hey, Heather, how are you doing today?”

“I’m fine. Do I know you?” She lifted her eyes and saw a slim good-looking woman who was probably in her thirties.

“Not yet.” The woman sat down opposite Heather. “My name’s Loretta. Do you have a minute?”

“Well, I’m a little busy here.” Heather waved her cellphone. “Are you selling something?”

“No, I’m not. I want to offer you an opportunity that you, I believe, would like very much.”

“What is it?”

“By the way, you’re texting your boyfriend, am I right?” Loretta nodded at Heather’s cellphone.

“Yeah. My boyfriend.”

“His name’s Daniel Bartlett, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I know of him, but I’ve never met him personally. The opportunity I just mentioned concerns Daniel.”

“Okay. So what is it?” Heather looked at the cellphone screen to read the new message from Daniel. The message read: ‘I miss you, baby. Do you miss me?’

“What would you do if you found out that Daniel was cheating on you?”

“If he was cheating on me?” Heather’s fingers, which were about to type ‘I miss you too, sweetie,’ froze an inch away from the cellphone. She lifted her face and gave Loretta a curious look. “I’d probably rip his balls off.” She cracked a mischievous smile.

“What if I told you that he indeed is cheating on you?” Loretta made a short pause and, before Heather had a chance to reply, continued, “How long have you and Daniel been going out?”

“Eight months.” Heather closed the text message app. It looked like Loretta had succeeded in getting her attention. “What did you say about Daniel cheating on me?”

“I was going to tell you that he’s been cheating on you this whole time.”

“How do you know?” Heather had an unpleasant prickly feeling in her chest. She realized there was no objective reason for her to be anxious, but she simply couldn’t help it.

Heather wasn’t a jealous type—at least she didn’t consider herself one—but being interested in information about Daniel’s unfaithfulness had nothing to do with jealousy.

Why was she feeling disquieted? Well, maybe she was a jealous type to a certain degree.

“There’s a girl named Christine Dunsmore in your school. She’s a senior. Do you know her?” Loretta asked.

“I think I do. She’s in my Economics class.”

“She’s cute, isn’t she?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Does she sleep with Daniel?” Heather noticed that her breath rate had increased.

“Yes. And she’s not the only girl Daniel has on the side. Have you met Amy Markowski? She also goes to your school.”

“I know her. She’s in my Health class. So he fucks Amy, too?”

Loretta nodded.

“How do you know all this?”

“Let me show you something.” Loretta opened her bag, took out a computer tablet, and turned it on. “Look at the text messages Christine and Daniel exchanged last night.” She tapped an icon on the tablet screen, expanding an application window to full size.

“What is it?” Heather began scanning the lines of text displayed on the screen. They indeed appeared to be cellphone messages. She quickly recognized Daniel’s cellphone number, from which roughly half of the texts had been sent. According to the time stamps, the conversation had taken place last night, just as Loretta said. “Where did you get this?”

Heather cringed as she read ‘I miss ur cock, honey.’ This message had been sent in response to Daniel’s ‘I love u, baby.’ It was obvious that Daniel had been communicating with a girl. Since Heather didn’t know Christine’s cellphone number, she couldn’t tell whether or not Christine was that girl.

“We installed a text-spying app on Daniel’s cellphone.”

“Who are ‘we’?”

“My friends.”

Heather let out an angry sigh when she saw Daniel’s text that read ‘Do u wanna fuck? I can be at ur place in 20.’

“Are they cops or something?” Heather took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Her hopes of keeping cool went out the window when she read the girl’s reply: ‘But we already fucked today.’

“No, they’re not cops. They’re just very resourceful. Let me show you something else.” Loretta minimized the window with text messages, opened a media player, and clicked the Play button.

It took Heather about a minute to figure out what she was watching, and when she did, her heart stopped. It was a sex tape featuring Daniel and Christine. Right now Heather was looking at them kissing each other on Daniel’s bed. Both were stark-naked. Judging by the angle the video was shot from, the camera was located near the television set, which stood opposite the bed. Seeing Daniel’s room on the screen of a stranger’s computer tablet was surreal.

“Who taped this?” Heather asked in a hoarse voice. “Daniel?”

She felt her lunch backing up into her throat as Daniel’s head bobbed between Christine’s thighs. Yeah, he did love eating pussy.

“No. One of my friends put a spy camera in Daniel’s room.”

“You’ve got more of these?”

“We have one with Amy. Would you like to watch it, too?”

“No.” Heather swallowed the sour taste of stomach acid. Her brain began pulsating, she felt the ground slipping away from under her.  “This is enough.” She tapped the Stop button and shifted her eyes to Loretta, clenching her fists, her scalp sweating profusely with fury. “Tell me more about the opportunity you want to offer me.”

“To put it simply—revenge. I’m offering you a chance to punish Daniel for cheating on you.”

“How? Are you going to beat him up?”

Heather began to wish she had a strong roughneck brother, who could straighten Daniel out in a dark alley.

“No. We’re going to let you do it yourself. You’ll have four—five days to abuse Daniel any way you please. He’ll be tied and won’t be able to resist. There will be no witnesses. You’ll have complete freedom to do whatever you want to him.” Loretta paused to allow Heather to digest her words. “So how does my offer sound?”

Heather knitted her eyebrows. “Did he text her today?”

“Christine or Amy?”

“Either one.”

“He and Amy have been texting each other for the last hour.”

“Oh, I see. Did he fuck Amy or Christine today?”

“It appears that he didn’t.”

Heather dialed Daniel’s number and, when he answered, said, “Hey, baby, I just wanted to hear your voice. What are you doing?”

“Watching TV at home. And you?”

“I’m at McDonald’s, killing time. Do you love me?”

“Of course, baby. I love you more than anything else in the world.”

“And you’ll never leave me?”

“Never, sweetie. I only want to be with you.”

“Me too. Bye-bye, baby. I love you.” Heather hung up. Then she turned her face to Loretta and said, “Okay. I’m in.”

“Very good.”

“What do you want in return? You’re not doing it for free, are you?”

“Yes, we do expect to receive something from you, Heather.”

It suddenly occurred to Heather that Loretta could be a lesbian looking for young pussy.

“Is it money? I don’t have a lot of it, just so you know.”

“No, it’s not money?”

“Is it sex?”

Loretta shook her head. “It’s not sex either. I promise that you’ll find my services quite affordable.”

After Loretta explained what they wanted from her, Heather asked, “When are we going to do it?”

“As soon as you have what we need. How long will it take you to get it?”

Heather shrugged. “No more than a week.”

“Sounds good. Here’s my email.” Loretta handed Heather a card with an email address typed on it. “One more thing. In order to preserve the element of surprise, please do not tell Daniel that you know about his cheating. Can you do that for me? I realize that the temptation will be very strong, but you have to resist it, okay?”

“Sure. I’ll keep my mouth shut. A week is not such a long time.”

“And it goes without saying that you cannot tell anyone about our arrangement.”

“I understand that.”

Loretta patted Heather on the hand. “I’ve been in your shoes, Heather. And I kicked this guy’s ass hard. It was the sweetest feeling in the world. Almost as good as sex.”

“Did this guy cheat on you again?”

“Not until after I dumped him.” Loretta paused. “You won’t feel the same after this experience, Heather. You’re going to feel empowered. Your confidence will shoot through the roof.”

2.

Things went as planned. Exactly one week after the fateful meeting at the coffee shop, Heather emailed Loretta that she had done her part.

Loretta called her half an hour later. “How do you plan to explain your absence to your parents?” she asked.

“It’s spring break. I’ll tell them my friend invited me to her family’s summer house.”

“Tell them the house is in Canaan Valley so you’ll have a reason why there’s no cell phone connection.”

“You want me to turn off my cell?”

“It will be safer if I have it while you are in that cabin with Daniel. We want to keep phones as far from your boyfriend as possible.”

“Will I be able to call my Mom from a regular phone? I know her. She’ll start panicking if I don’t call her at least once a day.”

“I’ll arrange that. And it will look as if you’re calling from Canaan Valley.”

Heather had to admit that it was a neat detail: her parents might get suspicious if she called them from a hidden number.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” Heather said.

“Tomorrow. Please be ready.”

3.

Loretta came to pick her up at nine in the morning. She arrived in a massive GMC Yukon, which surprised Heather, who expected her to ride in an elegant European car. Loretta’s driver was a tanned man in his thirties with a crew haircut; he was what they called ‘ruggedly handsome;’ he didn’t utter a word during the whole trip.

Since Heather had been blindfolded as soon as she’d gotten in the car, she had absolutely no idea where they were when the drive was over. If she had to guess, she’d say they’d brought her to West Virginia. It took them two and a half hours to get to the cabin, but it didn’t mean that the place was two and half hours away from her house. For all she knew, they might have driven in circles around the area for an hour. One thing was clear to her: they were in the woods and the nearest neighbor was probably a mile away. As Heather walked towards the porch, she noticed elegant iron grilles on the windows, which she found to be a useful feature; she wouldn’t want Daniel to escape through a window.

“Are you planning to show Daniel your face?” Loretta asked while unlocking the front door.

“Is there a way to avoid that?”

“There’s a Darth Vader mask with a voice changer in your room. Do you want to try it?”

After thinking for a few moments, Heather shook her head. “I want Dan to see who’s doing it to him.”

“Okay.”

It had just come to Heather’s attention that Loretta was wearing gloves. Did she need the gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints or did she simply think they looked good on her? Frankly, Heather didn’t care.

Then she saw Daniel.

Her boyfriend was lying on his back on the large metal sleigh bed that sat in the middle of the living room. He was wearing nothing but black boxer trunks, his arms and legs were chained to the bedposts. The chains were too short for Daniel to be able to bend his limbs. The bed appeared sturdy; Daniel had no chance of breaking it. Heather was pleased that Loretta’s helpers hadn’t half-assed their job.

It looks like a scene from a bondage porn movie, thought Heather. And to make the picture the complete, she needed to do something about those sexy boxer trunks.

Except for the bed, a medium-sized wooden table, and an office chair with wheels, the room was bare.

On the table there were tools that Loretta believed Heather might need to have handy when giving Daniel his just deserts: a curved claw hammer, a drill, a straight wooden cane, a pair of pliers, several knives of different sizes, a leather bullwhip, and an electric stun gun.

“I recommend this.” Loretta lifted the stun gun and waved it. “Very painful and doesn’t cause permanent damage. If you don’t overuse it, of course.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And before I forget.” Loretta gestured Heather to look under the table and lightly kicked the bedpan that sat there. “You’ll have to help him out unless you’re okay with him pissing and shitting in bed.”

“I don’t know how to use it.”

“It’s very easy, you’ll figure it out in no time.”

Then Loretta showed Heather her room, the bathroom, and the kitchen. At the end of the tour, she said, “If you need to contact me, use this.” Loretta took a black Motorola walkie-talkie out of her jacket pocket and handed it to Heather. “Push this button.” She pointed at the large button in the middle of the device. “And tell the guys that you want to talk to me.”

“Got it.” Heather slipped the walkie-talkie into her shorts pocket.

“One more thing. Please, keep the blinds shut, just in case.”

“Okay.”

When Loretta was about to leave the cabin, Heather asked, “Are you going to lock us up?”

“Yes. For your own safety. I hope you don’t mind staying inside all day.”

“As a matter of fact, I enjoy it.”

Loretta looked into Heather’s eyes, lightly clasped her arm, and said, “Much as you hate Daniel, I don’t recommend killing him. You don’t want to have this on your conscience for the rest of your life.”

There was a short silence, after which Heather said, “But I still have this option, right?”

Loretta nodded. “No one’s going to stop you if you decide to do it.”

4.

Heather scrutinized the drill. No, she probably wasn’t going to use it on Daniel. When you drilled a hole in a human body, the risk was too high of going through some important artery or some vital organ. And don’t forget the terrible scars. Heather didn’t want her future husband to be half-paralyzed or have ugly scars. No matter how passionate she was going to get while handling Daniel in the next four days, she had to make sure that his gorgeous body and skin remained in the same condition as they had been before he found himself on this bed.

And talking about scars—why the hell would anyone think that scars made men more attractive? That was bullshit invented by men with scars.

Now the knives. Most likely, she wouldn’t need them either.

As Heather stood by the table, she suddenly realized she couldn’t stop looking at the bulge in Daniel’s boxers. Could he be having an erection?

In his current situation? Very unlikely.

Heather walked over to the bed and pulled the blindfold off Daniel’s head. The anger on his face quickly transformed into utter surprise when Daniel saw her. His jaw literally dropped, and it took him several seconds to collect his thoughts and say, “Heather, it’s you? What’s going on? Where are we?”

Heather smiled. She loved Daniel’s reaction.

“We’re in a cabin in the woods,” she said. She noticed the beads of sweat on his smooth muscular chest and thought how sexy they were. “You’re about to be punished for what you’ve done.”

“What?” Daniel creased his forehead. “Did you pull a prank on me? I must say, you got me good, baby.”

“It’s not a prank, Dan. This is all for real.” She swung her right arm and slapped Daniel on the cheek. She slapped him again a second later.

“What are you doing?” Daniel shouted.

“You lied to me, Dan. You lied to me.”

Heather had kept the promise she’d given to Loretta and hadn’t broached the subject of infidelity with Daniel this whole time. Now, she couldn’t wait to boastfully announce that she knew everything. The words were bursting out of her mouth.

“How the hell did I lie to you? What did I say?”

“You fucked Christine. And you also fucked Amy. And I’m pretty sure there were a dozen more.”

Heather made a fist and punched Daniel in the crotch. Daniel shrieked with pain and then yelled, “What are you talking about, baby? I didn’t fuck anybody. Who told you this?”

“And you keep on lying, Dan. You keep on lying.” Heather went to the table, took the computer tablet, and returned to the bed. “Here’s what you texted to Christine three days ago: ‘Baby, I want you to lick my balls.’ And she replied: ‘I can’t wait to do it tonight.’ And then you texted: ‘I’m dying to eat your pussy, baby.’ And she replied: ‘You’re making me wet, baby.’” Heather turned the screen to Daniel so he could read the messages for himself. “So did she lick your balls? Did you like it?”

Damn, what a triumphant, sweet feeling it was! She showed this jerk that she wasn’t that easy to fool, that his web of lies had collapsed.

“Baby. So Christine’s your baby, huh? And Amy’s your baby, too. Baby. What a fucking asshole you are!”

“So what are you going to do?”

Heather spent ten seconds gazing at Daniel silently before she replied, “I’m going to make you regret what you’ve done to me.”

“Why are you doing this?” Despite the grimace of horror and disbelief, Daniel’s face remained handsome.

“Before you say once again that you didn’t fuck Christine, watch this.” Heather opened the media player and began playing the video of Daniel fucking Christine on his bed.

A minute later, with a stunned look on his face, Daniel shifted his eyes from the tablet to Heather and asked in a husky voice, “Where did you get this? Did you and Christine set me up?”

“Jesus, Dan, you really think I’d ask some whore to sleep with you? Oh my God, you are such a moron!” Heather swallowed the lump in her throat. “Why am I doing this… It’s payback time, asshole. You told me you loved more than anything else in the world. What a liar!” Heather put the tablet down on the floor.

“I made a mistake. I’m sorry, baby. Please forgive me. I’ll never do it again.”

“I knew you’d say that. And I don’t believe you.” Heather walked to the table, picked up the bullwhip, and started examining it. “I must teach you a lesson, baby. What you’ve done is unforgivable, and I might never recover from that, but punishing you will ease the pain. At least I hope it will.” She put the whip under her left arm. “You must understand that you deserve this.” She looked at Daniel. “Do you admit that you deserve punishment?”

“I guess so. If it’s not cruel.” Daniel exhaled loudly. “What do you have in mind?”

“What do I have in mind?” Heather picked up a small knife from the table and marched back to the bed, her eyes fixed on Daniel’s face. Just as she’d expected, the sight of the knife in her hand made Daniel uneasy. Still looking at her boyfriend’s face, she hung the whip on the footboard, sat down on the edge of the bed, and slid her left thumb under the waistband of his boxers.

“Are you scared?” she asked. Then she lifted the waistband an inch above Daniel’s skin and dramatically stuck the knife blade into the opening.

“What are you doing?” Daniel asked when the top of the knife touched his penis.

“It’s okay, sweetie. Don’t be scared.” Heather grabbed hold of the waistband. “I’m not chopping your cock off.” Then she added, “Not yet.” She began cutting the boxers.

After realizing that Heather was going to remove his trunks, Daniel cracked a weak smile and said, “You want to have some fun, baby?”

Heather gave him a studying look and said, “Do you think you’re here to have fun?”

Heather’s heart was pounding faster and faster as her gaze moved from Daniel’s gorgeous face to his smooth chest, to his hairy armpits, to his flat stomach, to his neatly trimmed pubis, to his flaccid dick. His body was glistening with sweat, and Heather was dying to touch it, to grind herself against it. Daniel’s musk—the smell of a boy who was turning into a man—was intoxicating.

After fighting off the desire to grab Daniel’s cock and put it in her mouth, Heather shifted her eyes to his muscular thighs and then to his shins and feet. His toes were exquisite, and those little hairs on his big toes made Heather’s heart skip a beat. The memories of Daniel’s hairy legs brushing against her body during those long blowjob sessions in his bed immediately emerged in her mind.

It came to her mind that Daniel might suspect that all this was an elaborate sexual role-play game. If that was the case, he was dumber than she thought.

After tossing Daniel’s boxers on the floor, she stood up, grabbed the bullwhip, and gave Daniel four lashes with it, which landed on his stomach and legs. Daniel screamed each time the whip struck him.

“You fucking whore,” she said, scanning the welts left by the bullwhip on Daniel’s body. “You lied to me. You fucked those cunts.” She hit Daniel with the whip again. “You said you loved me and then you fucked them.”

Heather made sure not to shrill, not to look mad, unhinged. When people think you’ve gone insane, they dismiss whatever you say as crazy talk resulting from the temporary eclipse of the mind. She wanted Daniel to take her words seriously.

She lashed him one more time, on the chest, and dropped the bullwhip on the floor. Then she carefully inspected the welts and was glad to find no lacerations on Daniel’s skin.

“I’ve never thought you’d do something like that,” Daniel groaned. Tears were rolling down his face, and Heather had a sense that he was one kick in the balls away from weeping. Honestly, she was surprised Daniel had such a low tolerance for pain. Or maybe she’d hit him harder than she’d thought.

“Are you going to kill me?” Daniel asked.

“Are you afraid that I am? That’s interesting.” Heather smiled.

“I don’t know. You look pretty upset. You probably hate me.”

It dawned upon Heather what her biggest fear had been so far. She wasn’t afraid she’d get caught by the police, as would be the case for most women in her situation. She feared that she would lack the resolve to follow through, that she would back out, driven by her feelings for Daniel.

Well, now that she had tried her hand at terrorizing Daniel, she didn’t doubt herself anymore. She knew she possessed the strength to go to the end.

5.

At half past six, Loretta came back to the cabin, carrying a laptop.

“Are you ready to call your parents?” Loretta opened the laptop and typed in the password.

“Call my parents?” A moment later Heather remembered that she had promised her mom to call at least once a day. “Oh yes, sure. Let’s call them.”

Loretta handed Heather a wireless headset with a microphone and waited for her to put it on. Then she dialed Heather’s home phone number.

The conversation with her mother turned out easier and shorter than Heather had expected. She told her mom that everything was fine, that she and her friends were having a great time, and, thankfully, no probing questions followed.

“They’re probably happy to take a break from you, too,” Loretta joked.

When she was on her way out of the cabin, Loretta came by the living room and said, “Don’t do anything stupid, Daniel, okay? We’re going to keep an eye on this house.”

After Loretta left, Heather got hungry and went to the kitchen. On the way there, she realized that this getaway was the first time she and Daniel would spend the whole night—several nights, in fact—together. It was indeed a momentous occasion. They were almost like husband and wife!

No matter what happened next, at least this particular dream of hers would come true.

Heather opened the refrigerator and reviewed its contents. Loretta had not exaggerated: there was indeed enough food to last Heather and Daniel at least four days.

“If you don’t like it, let me know,” Loretta said to her. “I’ll order takeout for you.”

It appeared that Loretta cared about her guests’ figures—the fridge was filled with boxes of Jenny Craig frozen diet meals. After pondering the available options, Heather grabbed a box with Chicken Carbonara and headed for the microwave. She had been tempted to starve Daniel, but Loretta advised to feed her boyfriend at least a bare minimum so as to keep him alive and conscious. Heather figured that there was a point in supplying Daniel with nourishment, after all; food cravings would distract this asshole from the lesson she was teaching him, and she didn’t want it to happen.

While eating her dinner, she asked herself if she should give Daniel something to eat right now and elected to postpone the feeding for a few hours. Let this jerk suffer a little.

After finishing the chicken, Heather whipped Daniel for twenty minutes, focusing on his legs and stomach. She used the cane instead of the bullwhip this time. The cane offered a greater control over the damage she was going to cause to Daniel’s body, which was important to her since she was trying to avoid mutilating her boyfriend. She had a job for him to do tomorrow, and open wounds could jeopardize the success of the project as the job required a certain mental concentration. Interestingly, she didn’t enjoy hearing Daniel’s screams; she was rather annoyed by them.

She spent the rest of the day watching TV in her room. Loretta didn’t let her down: the television set was large—at least fifty inches diagonally—and the satellite package had over a hundred channels, including all the premium ones Heather liked: HBO, Showtime, Cinemax, and Starz. Loretta seemed to know the teenage mind pretty well; she realized that boredom wasn’t something to be trifled with.

While Heather lazily surfed the channels, it occurred to her that she didn’t have to dedicate every hour of her stay at this cabin to tormenting Daniel. Being shackled, immobilized was stressful in and of itself. Besides, he must terrified by the idea that she was going to chop off his junk or even kill him someday soon. People fear uncertainty, fear the unknown. Some say that the anticipation of death is worse than death itself. If she managed to keep Daniel on the edge, scared, nervous, helpless, discouraged for the next three days, she would consider her mission accomplished.

6.

When Heather woke up, she heard her name being called out at five-to-ten-second intervals. The sound was muffled, and it took her a while to figure out that it was Daniel. She glanced at her watch. 8:16 am. What the hell did he want from her so early in the morning?

“I’m thirsty, baby,” Daniel said as soon as he saw her in the doorway. “And hungry. And I have to pee.”

“How about taking shit? Do you have to take shit, too?” Heather rubbed her eyes, waking her brain up.

“Actually, yes.” Daniel gave her an imploring look. “I’ve had nothing to eat or drink since yesterday morning. Please, Heather.”

“Okay, okay.”

Half a minute later, Heather came back to the living room with a bottle of Diet Pepsi. With an air of slight disdain—the image of Daniel humping Christine had popped up in her head again—she screwed off the cap, brought the bottle within several inches of Daniel’s lips, and said, “Open your mouth.” Then she began pouring soda into his mouth, deliberately spilling almost half of it on his face and neck. If this jerk expected her to coddle him when it came to feeding, he was going to be majorly disappointed.

To her delight, Daniel didn’t complain, focusing himself on absorbing as much soda as he could. When the bottle was empty, Heather threw it on the floor and waited for Daniel to start whining about the wet pillow and his sticky neck. He remained silent.

Heather took the bedpan from under the table and said, “Get your ass up.”

Daniel followed her instruction, and, when there was sufficient clearance, she slid the bedpan under his buttocks. After making sure the bedpan was in a proper position, she stood by the footboard and said, “Go ahead, Dan.”

“Are you going to watch?” Daniel gave her a worried look.

After a short hesitation, Heather nodded. “Why not? Are you shy?”

“I... I don’t want you to see me taking shit.”

“Duly noted. Now do your business, we don’t have all day.”

Observing Daniel defecate, Heather realized that she had never seen him take shit or pee. For some reason, Daniel had been reluctant to let her in the bathroom while he was on or by the toilet. It suddenly occurred to her that you were not a real couple until you began letting your partner watch you do your bathroom business. One could even say that sitting by your boyfriend while he was on the can was the ultimate in intimacy.

“I’m done,” finally said Daniel. A humble smile appeared on his lips.

Slowly, with great care, Heather pulled the bedpan out and headed to the bathroom to dispose of the waste.

“Can you get me some toilet paper, please?” Daniel shouted.

7.

Heather pierced a piece of chicken with the fork and brought it to Daniel’s lips. “Open up, baby.”

Daniel obediently opened his mouth and bit the meat off the fork. “Can you unchain at least one arm?” he asked while chewing.

Heather shook her head. “No, honey, I can’t. I don’t have the key.”

“Can you ask them to do it?”

“What do you need the arm for? You don’t like being fed like a baby?”

“It’s not about that.”

“Or do you want to jerk off? I can help you with this, too.” Heather placed her left hand on Daniel’s soft penis and began squeezing and rubbing its head and shaft.

She kept stroking his dick throughout the rest of the meal. When she was in the kitchen, where she went to throw away the plate, she spent a few moments assessing the situation.

Okay, what do we have here?

She’d fed him, she’d taken care of his bathroom needs—he must be in a fairly good mood, right? Hopefully, good enough for him to maintain a solid erection for five-ten minutes. Now seemed to be the perfect time to get the ball rolling on her pregnancy plan.

Yes, she had a pregnancy plan.

Since Daniel hated sex with condoms, he made her buy birth control pills and personally observed her take them, usually at school, during the break after the third or the fourth period. Why did he go to the trouble of making sure she took the pills? Was Daniel afraid that she would deliberately get pregnant from him in order to make him marry her? Did he not trust her?

Did she consider a shotgun wedding a viable possibility? Well, she wouldn’t mind having Daniel’s child.

Would Daniel force her to abort the baby, if there was an unplanned pregnancy? Now that she knew he was a liar and a scumbag, she wouldn’t put it past him. And from where she sat, that was all the more reason to get knocked up by Daniel. So... Well, her mind had been made up the morning after she’d first met Loretta. And that was when Heather had gone off the pill. Hopefully, by the end of this little adventure a new life would begin inside her. She was glad that after missing seven pills, her chances of getting pregnant were as high as ever.

Besides, she was really horny. You see, she hadn’t had sex with Daniel since learning about his cheating, mainly due to the fact that he disgusted her.

Heather took off her T-shirt as she approached Daniel’s bed. She was naked above the waist now since she was wearing no bra.

“Do you want to fuck me?” she asked in a low voice, slipping out of her shorts. She climbed on the bed and removed her panties. When she reached for his dick, she found that Daniel had a raging boner.

Staring into Daniel’s half-closed eyes, which were misty with arousal, Heather took his rock hard penis, pressed its head against her vulva, and began lowering her vagina onto its shaft. “Do you like it? I bet you do.”

“Yes. Don’t stop, please.”

It was an amazing, indescribable feeling. Riding the dick of a guy who was under her total control turned out to be a mind-blowing experience. One the one hand, Daniel was the one doing the penetration; on the other hand, he was only doing it because she forced him to.

It took Daniel two and a half minutes to reach orgasm and ejaculate.

Now all eyes were on his spermatozoa. Hopefully, they would not let her down and she would have a zygote inside her by the end of the day. Heather felt goosebumps spread over her body when she imagined herself with a pregnant belly. For some reason, she was completely confident now that Daniel was going to love their child.

When Heather put her panties back on, she decided to give Daniel’s sperm a hand and went to her room, where she spent an hour lying on the bed, with a pillow under the small of her back. She wasn’t sure how big a help that was, but she had read that the longer the semen stayed in the vagina, the higher the odds of conceiving were.

8.

For some reason, Heather found it quite amusing to sit in the chair and simply observe the nude Daniel lying on the bed. She relished the thought that Daniel must be in mental agony. He must be asking himself: would Heather kill him or not? Would she cut off his dick or not? This moron was on the edge, this moron was nervous.

It was two and half hours since Daniel had shot his sperm into her pussy, and she was in high spirits.

She wondered who had the key to the shackles. Would they give her the key if she asked for it?

With those chains on his arms and legs, Daniel was out of luck, considering that his favorite sexual position was doggy style. By the way, Heather didn’t understand why any guy would prefer to fuck girls from behind. Why would you choose to stare at a girl’s back instead of her face (provided, of course, she wasn’t ugly)?

Heather closed her eyes and recalled the first time Daniel had fucked her doggy style. The memories made her stomach flutter: Daniel ramming his dick inside her all the way up to his balls; his hands slapping her butt; the grunts and the moans; Daniel’s hot breath blowing against her neck; the drops of sweat falling down on her back; the amazing tingling in her pussy.

Then came the image of Daniel bending Christine over—both of them totally naked—and slapping his hard penis against her butt. A sharp pang shot through Heather’s heart as she pictured Daniel thrusting his dick into Christine’s vagina, rocking his hips forward and back, in a fast rhythmic motion, non-stop, until he ejaculated inside her.

Heather opened her eyes, inhaled deeply, and said, “Did you fuck them from behind? Did you do it on the bed or on the floor?”

There was a long silence before Daniel replied in a low voice, “Mostly on the bed.”

“So you fucked them doggy style? You bent them over and put your cock inside their pussies?”

“Yes.”

“Did you let them be on top? Did they ride your dick?”

“Yes, we did that, too.”

“Did you fuck in missionary position?”

“Yes. What’s the point of all these questions, Heather?”

“Did you fuck them without a condom?”

“Mostly without it.”

Heather breathed a sigh. “Did you make them take birth control pills?”

“They were doing it on their own. I didn’t have to make them.”

She had to keep this moron on the edge, remember?

Heather silently rose from the chair, grabbed the stun gun, marched to the bed, switched the stun gun on, and stuck it to Daniel’s left shin.

The gun began to crackle menacingly, a bright white spark dancing between its probes. It looked like every muscle in Daniel’s body became tense, strained, tightened. Groaning and growling, Daniel arched his back and began to convulse, his teeth gritted, his fists clenched, his toes curled. His jaws were locked, so he couldn’t utter a word, couldn’t beg her to stop.

“It’s working,” Heather muttered. A few seconds later, she let go of the button and drew the stun gun away from Daniel’s leg.

“What are you doing, you stupid...” Daniel didn’t finish the phrase, having apparently realized the consequences of calling Heather a name.

“Stupid what?” Heather shifted the stun gun from her right hand to her left. “You were saying, Dan. Stupid what?”

“It hurts. Please don’t do it again.”

“If I asked you to stop fucking Amy, would you listen to me?”

“Yes, sure. I don’t love her. I don’t care about her.”

“You’re just saying it, baby. We both know it’s bullshit. You men are weak. You think with your dicks. It’s going to take a lot of work to teach you to be faithful, baby.”

She eased into the chair, which she had rolled closer to the bed, and crossed her legs. “Did you think I forgave you, Dan? I fucked you, so you figured that I forgave you, right?”

Daniel shook his head and said, “No. I didn’t think so.”

“Bullshit. You’re used to getting away with everything, Dan. But this time it’s different. I’m not like everybody else. I’m not putting up with this shit.” She took a deep breath. “I will never forgive you, Dan. I will never forget what you’ve done to me.”

“Baby, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Even when I tell you that I forgave you, which might happen sometime in the future, you should know that I really did not.”

“Can I ask you a question? Who are these people? Why are they helping you?”

“They’re my friends. I have all sort of friends, Dan. Are you surprised?”

Heather decided to lie in order to make herself more formidable in Daniel’s eyes. This was an excellent way to motivate Daniel to remain faithful to her. She was thinking about the future, you know—the future after the big lesson. Considering that Loretta had nothing to gain by divulging to Daniel the details of her deal with Heather, one could bet Daniel was never going to find out the truth. Unless Heather told him herself, of course, which had no chance of happening.

She yawned.

By the way, there had to be a surveillance camera in this room, and if Loretta had forgotten to install one, Heather was going to remind her. It was just common sense: what if Daniel somehow managed to break free from one or more of those chains and took her hostage? Someone should keep an eye on this room.

She used the stun gun on Daniel two more times later that day.

9.

“So how were your first two days?” Loretta asked. “Did you have fun?”

“I sure did. Lots of fun.” Heather smiled. “But the thing is I’ve never done this before, so I don’t have a lot of good ideas. Most of what I’d thought up was kind of extreme.”

“Like what?”

“Like ripping his dick off and shoving it up his ass.” Heather laughed softly.

“That’s a classic.”

“Do you think you could get me a poisonless snake?”

“Is Daniel scared of snakes?”

“Who isn’t?”

“I’ll ask around, but I don’t promise anything.”

“Or how about rats? I could put them in a little cage and then make Dan sit on this cage so the rats would bite him on the ass. I think I saw that on Discovery Channel.”

“I guess rats would be easier to find.”

“Or maybe you could buy me one of those dick torture devices? You know what I’m talking about?”

Loretta nodded. “Do you have any experience using them?”

Heather shook her head. “No. But they look cool. I saw them on the Internet.”

“In this case, it’s better to stay away from those. You might accidentally crush his balls, you know.”

“Well, I guess you’re right.” Heather nodded. “I have a question: is there a camera in Daniel’s room?”

“Yes. Does it bother you?”

“No, not at all. Do your guys watch him at night?”

“Yes, they do. Why are you asking?”

“I was thinking, what if he somehow frees himself from those chains and tries to kill me with a knife or that drill.”

Loretta chuckled. “Don’t worry, Heather. He’s monitored twenty four hours a day. And I guarantee you there’s no way he can escape the chains. Daniel’s no Houdini.”

“Good to know.”

Loretta patted her on the hand. “Are you still angry at Daniel?”

“Yes. Angry as hell.”

“Do you feel betrayed?”

“Of course I do. I trusted him. He said he loved me. He said he couldn’t live without me.” Heather heaved a sigh. “What I hate the most is that Dan liked fucking them. That he really enjoyed it. I thought I gave him the best sex of his life. I wanted to believe that no one could replace me, that he’d never find anyone better than me. Now I see I was wrong.”

“Seems like Daniel is very good at bullshitting.”

“Why do you think he cheated on me?”

“Oh, the question as old as time—why do men cheat?” Loretta cracked a smile. “A simple answer would be: Daniel’s a cunt magnet. Girls want to have sex with him, and he lets them.”

“Is there another answer?”

“I think Daniel cheated because he didn’t respect you. He cheated because he thought he could get away with it. Because he didn’t expect you to retaliate.”

“Yes, I totally agree with you.”

“And let me tell you this, Heather: you’re in an enviable position. You’ve gotten a chance to realize your desire to stick it to Daniel. The absolute majority of women can only dream of being able to punish their cheating boyfriends. Their vengeance fantasies never go beyond words, beyond wishing. They may make a scene, but men don’t give a shit about scenes, I assure you.”

“Yes, that’s all true.” Heather nodded.

“What do you think would make your pain go away?”

“Maybe... You know, I really hate Christine and Amy. I wish they were dead.”

“Killing Christine, or Amy, or any other girl Daniel has fucked isn’t going to help you, Heather. They’re not the problem. If you eliminate them, he’ll find someone else the next day. There are plenty of easy girls out there, you know. Daniel is the problem. His itch to fuck other girls is the problem. That’s what you ought to focus on, Heather.”

“I see.” Heather nodded. “I must attack the problem at its root.”

The root.

A penis has a root, too.

The image of Daniel’s pubis immediately emerged in Heather’s mind. She remembered how she would play with Daniel’s pubic hair when it grew long. She thought of the musky smell of his crotch right after a jog. She loved breathing in this odor as she sucked Daniel’s dick. She remembered drops of his semen falling down on his pubis, under which was the penis root.

“What else could I do to him?” Heather asked.

“Well, if you’re talking about hurting him, there are countless ways to do it. Let’s see.” Loretta drew her eyebrows together. “You’ve already given him a pretty good whipping. You’ve kicked him, bitch-slapped him. How about pouring boiling water on his body? Or pulling his fingernails?”

“Boiling water? It’s kind of harsh, I think. It will leave burn scars, which are really gross.”

“So you don’t want to go too harsh on him?”

“Um... It’s not about that. I don’t care that he’s going to be in pain. I’m glad that he is, he deserves it. I just don’t want to damage his skin... His body. His organs.”

“Why?”

“Because I want him to remain handsome. For me. I don’t enjoy fucking a guy with ugly skin. You can call me shallow, but I bet most girls think this way.”

“Do you still love Daniel?”

“I don’t know. On the one hand, I hate Dan and wish him to suffer, but on the other hand, I’m planning to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“To me, it looks like you still have feelings for him. It’s okay to be mad at your loved one sometimes. Especially, when they betray you the way Daniel did.”

“You’re so smart.” Heather gave Loretta a grateful look. “You’re like a sister to me.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

After a short silence, Heather said, “I feel like something is missing. I know that physical pain is a good punishment. I know that we scared him shitless and he’ll remember this for a very long time. But I think that’s not enough. I want Dan to feel as terrible as I have. I want to hurt his mind, too. I want him to suffer mentally every minute of every hour, just like I have.”

“You’re absolutely right. Physical pain is temporary, but mental pain can last forever. What are you planning to do?”

Heather shrugged her shoulders. “The problem is I can’t come up with anything that would work. I was hoping you might have some advice.”

“Advice? I’ll need to think about it. But off the top of my head, I’d say that you need to find a way to humiliate Daniel as badly as you can. Men are a proud bunch, and few things hurt them worse than taking away their dignity.”

“Humiliate him?”

“Do you know any of Daniel’s insecurities, any of his weak spots? That’s the key part—determining where to hit him.”

10.

“I don’t know what more you from me.” Heather let out a sigh. “I’m hot, I’m not dumb, I’m not clingy, I love sex. We could be so happy together. My dad has great connections; he could help you get into a top school. He could help you become someone, Dan. You must admit that your parents would never give you what my family could.”

“Are you going to taser me today, too?” Daniel asked in a cautious tone.

“No.”

It was ten in the morning, and there was one important item on her agenda for today that Heather wanted to check off as soon as possible—getting another shot of Daniel’s semen into her vagina. Just in case, you know. It wouldn’t hurt to have more of his little swimmers inside her. She was planning to have sex with Daniel within an hour.

Heather was dying to have Daniel eat her pussy, but she was afraid that he might try to bite off her clit or cause other damage with his teeth. She swirled her tongue around the head of Daniel’s throbbing dick, which was wet with precum, and asked, “Do you want me to sit on your face?”

Daniel’s mouth was half-open, his eyes cloudy with pleasure; he was clearly enjoying the blowjob she was giving him.

“Yeah,” he murmured.

As the temptation had become irresistible, Heather brainstormed for a few seconds and found what she believed could serve as her insurance policy.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said, turning her butt to Daniel’s face. She was panting. “I have your cock in my mouth. You don’t want me to bite it off by accident, do you?” Moaning, she slowly lowered her pussy onto Daniel’s lips and began deep-throating him. She whimpered when Daniel’s tongue pushed at her clit. She kept sucking his dick as she ground her vulva against his mouth.

When Heather was getting close to climax, she was stung by the thought that Christina and Amy must have ridden his mouth, too—and more than once. And Daniel must have enjoyed every minute of it.

That was probably her new reality. These thoughts of Daniel having cheated on her would float in her mind like turds in a barrel of jam.

Heather winced, slid off Daniel’s body, and snarled, “Those bitches sat on your fucking face, too, didn’t they?” She looked at Daniel’s lips and then at his erect cock. “Did you like eating their pussies? Did you?” She made a grimace and spit in Daniel’s face. “Did they like getting fucked with your tongue? Did they moan? Did they come? Did they squirt in your mouth?” Heather slapped Daniel on the right cheek and then the left. “You fucking asshole! How could you do it! How could you fuck them!”

“Are you going to remind me about this every five minutes?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. And I don’t fucking care what you think.”

“Baby, let’s make love instead of fighting. Please. I want to fuck you so bad.”

Heather pondered the suggestion for half a minute and then said, “Okay.”

11.

Heather leaned back in the chair, crossed her legs, and fixed her look at Daniel. After spending a minute immersed in contemplation, she finally said, “Maybe you can help me with this, Dan.”

Daniel turned his head to her and asked in a tired voice, “Help you with what?”

Heather rolled her eyes. This douchebag sounded as though he’d spent the whole day toiling in a mine.

“I’d like to know the best way to humiliate you,” she said. “What can I do to make you squirm inside, Dan? Do you have any ideas?”

“What’s the point of all this?”

“You haven’t paid for what you’ve done to me, baby. And I’m letting you choose your punishment. How can I crush your pride? Tell me, Dan.”

“Haven’t you punished me enough?”

“No. What’s happened to you so far was superficial. I want to get under your skin.” Heather paused. “I want to get into your head, Dan.”

“Maybe that’s enough, maybe it’s time to go home? Ask those people to take off the chains, and let’s go home, Heather.”

“No, we’re not done yet. I still have a couple of ideas I’d like to try.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Maybe I should rip your balls, after all. Maybe I should cut your cock off. Would that be lesson enough for you, Dan? This way you’ll never cheat on me, right? You won’t be able to fuck those whores because you’ll have no dick.”

Humiliate him. She had to humiliate this jerk.

Loretta had just delivered a couple of things that were going to help Heather achieve this goal. She could hardly wait to get to work.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, baby, I’m sorry for my bad behavior. I’m a pig, I deserve everything you’ve done to me. Now, please, let’s go home.”

“You’re not sorry, Dan. Don’t bullshit me, please. You’re not really sorry for cheating on me. You’re not sorry for fucking those bitches. You’re upset that you got caught, that’s all.”

Heather went to her room and brought the bag containing the items Loretta had purchased for her in town.

“Here’s one of my ideas,” she announced, waving the bag in front of Daniel. Then she turned the bag upside down, letting a tube of K-Y Jelly and a ten-inch plastic dildo drop on the bed, between Daniel’s legs.

“Is it a fucking dildo?” Daniel asked in a surprised tone.

“Correctamundo, baby. You wouldn’t mind a little ass play, would you?”

Heather opened the tube and squeezed out a thick line of lubricant on the dildo. “You see, baby, I care about your butt,” she said. “Without lube, this thing would hurt like hell. You can’t imagine how painful it would be.”

Heather realized that her remark sounded sarcastic, but she meant to be serious: she didn’t have to lubricate the dildo, you know, and the fact that she did was significant. This fact was eloquent.

She put the tube down on the bed and began spreading the lube over the dildo.

“What are you going to do with it?” Daniel asked in a cautious voice.

“I think you already know that.” Heather laid the dildo on the bed and picked up the tube with K-Y Jelly. “Now relax your ass. I want to put some lube in your asshole, too.”

“Come on, Heather. This is silly.”

“I want to try it. Are you afraid that you might like having a dildo up your ass?”

“Jesus Christmas.” Daniel heaved a sigh and lifted his thighs as high as he could. “Are you happy now?”

“Yes, that’s more like it. The less you resist, the less it will hurt, you’ve finally figured that out.”

Heather spent half a minute coating Daniel’s butthole with lube. Sticking her fingers into her boyfriend’s ass was a new experience, and she couldn’t decide whether she was enjoying it or not. She wondered how many fingers Daniels could take at once. Could he take the whole fist? Heather had heard of fisting—that was when a fist was inserted into the rectum or vagina—but suspected it was some kind of urban myth.

“Well, let’s get to business.” Heather grabbed the dildo and climbed between Daniel’s legs. She liked the stunned expression on Daniel’s face. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, his eyes glued to the dildo. “Don’t clench your asshole, baby. It will only make things worse, trust me.”

“Just do it already.” Daniel bit his lower lip.

“Okay.” Spreading Daniel’s buttocks with the fingers of her left hand, Heather started to slowly push the dildo into his anus. “Relax, baby, you’ll thank me later.”

“How much is left?” Daniel groaned, wincing in pain. “Are you going to shove the whole thing in?”

“It’s only two inches in, Dan. Don’t be a pussy. And yes, the whole thing.”

When half the dildo was inside Daniel’s rectum, Heather pulled a digital camera out of her shorts pocket and pressed the camcorder record button.

“What are you doing?” Daniel asked in a worried tone. “Are you filming this? Who are you going to show it to?”

“Nobody. That’s for my personal enjoyment, okay?” She zoomed in on the dildo and continued inserting it into Daniel’s anus. Once the last inch of the dildo’s shaft disappeared inside Daniel, Heather aimed the camera at Daniel’s face. “Are you having a good time?”

Seeing that Daniel was not grimacing in pain anymore, Heather said, “I told you, baby, the trick is to relax your butt muscles. You’re getting used to it, aren’t you? Now let me play with this thing a little.” She focused the camera back on the dildo.

Heather began to pull the dildo out until only its head was buried in Daniel’s rectum and then, in a quick motion, thrust it back in. A few seconds later, she repeated this procedure. And then she did it again.

Daniel didn’t appear particularly embarrassed or distressed, but Heather had no doubt he was dying inside.

“Come on, baby, what’s the point of all that?” Daniel pleaded.

“I’m just having fun. It’s so hot to watch your ass being fucked with a plastic cock.” Heather wrapped her fingers around Daniel’s scrotum. “I wonder what your friends would say if they were here.”

“My friends?” Daniel froze. “You said you wouldn’t show this video to anyone.”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Dan. I’m not going to show it to anybody. I just want to say that it would be hilarious if the door opened and your friends came in.”

“Did you invite any of my friends here?”

“No, baby. Relax, I’m just kidding.” Heather put the camera on the bed and took hold of Daniel’s dick. “Can you get hard with a dildo up your ass? Can you come?” she said, rubbing the cock.

“No, I can’t.” He glared at Heather. “I can’t get hard when my ass hurts.”

“Well, you’re taking it like a champ, bro.” She snickered. “I bet last week you couldn’t even imagine that you’d have a dildo up your butt.”

“That’s not the only thing I couldn’t imagine happening.”

“I’ll tell you what: you should be glad I loosened you up.”

“Loosened me up? For what?”

“You’ll know soon enough, baby.” Heather licked the precum off the head of Daniel’s dick. “By the way, you are having a boner. Never say never.”

12.

“Oh my god, it’s so funny, isn’t it? You’re a piece of shit and you’re eating shit.” Heather scooped up more feces out of the bedpan and dropped them on Daniel’s lips. “Open your mouth, baby. Eat this shit. Eat it.”

Three hours after the dildo exercise, Heather carried out another idea of hers that was aimed at humiliating Daniel: she covered him with his own shit and piss. It turned out to be a lot of fun, and there was nothing deviant about her finding this hilarious; when characters fall into outhouse shit pits in movies, people laugh, don’t they?

“I’m not going to eat it,” Daniel muttered through gritted teeth and closed lips.

“It’s okay. I don’t care.” Heather tilted the bedpan, dumping the rest of the feces and urine on Daniel’s face and chest. She was going to let him lie in his own waste until tomorrow morning. It might not be painful, but it sure as hell was sickening and disturbing.

“You look fucking ridiculous.” Heather dropped the bedpan on the floor and made a grimace.

The smell was revolting. She’d be barely able to stand it for five minutes; Daniel would have to deal with it for at least seventeen hours.

An extravagant idea came to her mind: could all this—Loretta, the cabin, the bed with Daniel chained to it—be just a dream? Or could she be a character in Daniel’s dream? Did dream characters have a consciousness? Very unlikely.

No, she wasn’t dreaming. If she were, she would be able to fly, which she was not. She loved to fly when she was dreaming. And there would be no bedpans filled with crap and piss.

She shifted her eyes to Daniel’s dick and then breathed a heavy sigh.

His cock had been inside Christine’s vagina. Heather shuddered at this disgusting thought. Daniel’s cock moving in and out of Christine’s pussy, covered in her pussy juices. The juices oozing from her cunt, flowing down his dick. And then he comes, and his sperm shoots out of that sexy hole in his cock, which Heather likes to touch with the tip of her tongue. The semen fills Christine’s vagina and begins to leak out after Daniel pulls out his cock.

How fucking repulsive!

“You fucked Christine! You fucked this whore! You fucked her!” yelled Heather. “How could you do it? How could you do it to me?” She grabbed the cane, walked over to the bed, and whipped Daniel on the thighs three times. “Is her cunt better my mine? Are her boobs better than mine?” She started hitting him on the belly. “Why did you fuck them? Why did you fuck Christine and Amy? You idiot asshole, you cocksucker, why the fuck did you cheat on me?”

And his mouth. It had touched Christine’s and Amy’s pussies. His tongue had slithered inside their vaginas. There had been pussy juices on his lips, tongue, and face.

Heather was sure that, occasionally, some of those pussy juices had been transferred to her lips, face, and hands when she kissed Daniel on the lips or sucked his dick. She didn’t care if it was only one molecule of Christine’s pussy juice that had touched her skin; that was still terribly gross and vomit-inducing.

And what about anal sex? Daniel did enjoy going in the back door, and Heather reluctantly allowed him do it once a month or so. Just imagine: there could have been particles of Christine’s and Amy’s shit in her mouth and on her face!

“You fucked Amy. You fucked Christine.” Heather stopped whipping Daniel and lowered the cane. “Why did you do it? Why did you do it, Dan?” She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “You stuck your dick in their cunts. You ate them. You put your tongue in their pussies.” She winced in disgust.

By the way, maybe that was why he liked fucking Christine and Amy? Maybe they were more enthusiastic about getting fucked in the ass than she was?

13.

“Do you think it’s possible to force someone to love you?” Heather asked.

After a short pause, Loretta replied, “Sure. People fall in love for all sorts of reasons, you know. Sometimes it’s about looks, sometimes it’s about brains, and sometimes you get used to the guy so much that you can’t live without him, even though he’s nothing special. And when you talk about forcing the guy to love you... What’s the main reason people want their girlfriend or boyfriend to love them?”

“Because it feels good?”

Loretta shook her head. “People are afraid of being abandoned. If the guy loves you, he’ll never leave you, right?”

Heather nodded.

Loretta continued, “So, to answer your question, making someone stay with you provides the same benefit that love does, which I think would be good enough for most people. From the practical standpoint, it doesn’t really matter why the guy sticks around—out of love, for money, or out of fear. The result is what matters. And you need to keep in mind that pure love is too fickle to rely on in the long term.”

“What if Dan thinks I’m crazy?”

No, she wasn’t insane. She was doing the right thing. She was doing the righteous thing. Cheating was a sin, plain and simple. Daniel was a fucking sinner.

“Why would he think that? You’ve been doing fine so far. You’ve been kicking ass, Heather.”

“I don’t know. He just might. It’s all so unusual. I’ve never done anything like that to him before. What if he never forgives me for this?”

“Well, as long as he keeps his opinion to himself, I don’t see why you should care. There are a lot of people who I think are insane and plenty of people that I haven’t forgiven, and I bet they’re not losing one minute of sleep over this.”

After a short hesitation, Heather said, “I believe you’re right. I’m not crazy for teaching him a lesson. It’s like with dogs. When the dog shits in the house, you punish it so it won’t shit in the house again.”

“That’s a great way of looking at it.” Heather took a sip of soda from her cup. “Do you think it’s okay for me to take him back? Does it make me look weak? Will people decide that I have no pride?”

“First of all, why would you care what people think? And second of all, no one will know that you found out about his cheating unless you advertise this fact, which I hope you won’t do.”

“But does wanting to be with him mean that I’m weak?”

“Of course it doesn’t. You’ve punished Daniel for cheating on you. You’ve taught him to respect you. There’s nothing weak or lame about it, is there? Look at it this way: when a criminal serves his prison term, the society forgives him and takes him back.”

“Okay. I’m glad you’re not judging me.”

14.

As she moved the washcloth across Daniel’s stomach, Heather said, “See? I care about you, baby. Would I bother washing you if I didn’t love you?” She ran her finger through the trail of hair stretching from Daniel’s bellybutton to his pubis. “If I didn’t love you, I’d let you lie here dirty and stinky.” Heather bent forward and kissed the hair under Daniel’s bellybutton. “I just love your happy trail, baby. It’s so sexy.”

“Did you have to leave me covered in shit for the whole night?” Daniel asked. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I couldn’t sleep either, thinking of you and Christine and Amy, so shut up.”

“I’m just saying it wasn’t necessary.”

“Well, the nightmare is over. You’re clean again.”

“What about the mattress? I’m going to need a new mattress. This one stinks. And I need a new bed sheet, too.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Heather tossed the washcloth in the bucket and left the room.

She returned a minute later.

“Remember you asked what I loosened up your asshole for?” she asked as she approached the bed.

“Yes.” Daniel gave her an alarmed look.

“Here’s your answer, baby.” Heather nodded at Loretta’s ruggedly handsome driver, who as if by command appeared in the doorway as soon as she finished the phrase. “This is Mario.”

“Hey, man, how is it going?” Mario waved to Daniel.

“What is he here for?” Daniel asked.

“He has the key to your shackles.” Heather turned her face to Mario. “I guess we should do it in my room. This mattress stinks.”

“Yeah.” Mario nodded. He removed the chains from Daniel’s arms and legs and helped him get up.

“Do you want him to take a shower first?” Heather asked Mario as he carried Daniel out of the living room. After spending four days lying on the bed, virtually immobile, Daniel had trouble standing, let alone walking. “I did my best to wash him, but I’m afraid he still smells a little.”

“No, he’s fine,” Mario replied.

“Are we going home?” Daniel asked when Mario seated him on the bed in Heather’s room.

“Not yet,” Heather said.

After Mario unzipped his jeans and pulled them down to his knees, Daniel began to realize why it had been a good idea to loosen up his butthole.

“Now get up for me, bro.” Mario grabbed Daniel by the shoulders, made him stand up, then turned him around, and bent him over the edge of the bed.

“What the hell is he doing?” Daniel squealed.

“I think you’ve already guessed it,” Heather said. “He’s going to fuck you in the ass. Just like you fucked Christine and Amy.”

“Please, Heather, don’t let him do this to me!”

“This is your last punishment, Dan. It’s almost like a dildo, only it’s a real cock. And please don’t resist, because they might kill you if you do.”

Mario took a condom out of the package, expertly rolled it onto his penis, which was already stiff, and wrapped his hand around the shaft for a couple of seconds, as if checking how hard his erection was. Heather handed him a tube with K-Y Jelly, and he carefully smeared the lube on his dick, then gave the tube back to Heather, and gestured her to lubricate Daniel’s anus.

“Don’t be stingy on lube,” Mario said in a knowing tone. “This shit hurts.”

When she was done preparing Daniel’s asshole, Heather picked up a digital camcorder from the nightstand, aimed it at Daniel, and pressed the Record button.

“Heather, please tell him to stop,” Daniel cried as Mario slowly inserted his penis into his rectum. “Please don’t do it. I beg you!”

“We have to do it, honey,” Heather said. “I want you to remember this for the rest of your life.”

Then Mario started moving, his strong hands firmly planted on the teenager’s hips. His every thrust was enthusiastic and shook Daniel’s entire body. Heather had never seen two guys having sex either in real life or on TV, so the image of Mario humping Daniel looked quite grotesque to her. As she watched Mario’s thighs rubbing against Daniel’s buttocks, she thought of Alex Sanchez, a classmate of hers who was believed to be gay. That must be what Alex was doing on his dates.

Judging by the expression of pleasure on his face, Mario was enjoying drilling Daniel’s butt with his cock. Heather had a hunch that Daniel was not the first dude he’d ever fucked.

Daniel wasn’t yelling words anymore. He was just whining loudly and incessantly now, his eyes shut tight, his face distorted with pain and humiliation. When Heather looked closer, she saw tears running down Daniel’s blushing cheeks.

“Yes, cry, Dan, cry,” Heather said, shoving the camera in Daniel’s face. “I cried, too, when I found out that you’d been cheating on me. I cried every night for the whole fucking week, do you hear me? Every night. Yes, I did. I cried. Now it’s your turn, moron. It’s not fun to cry, is it, Dan? Now you see how shitty I’ve been feeling.”

Heather bit her lower lip and took a deep breath.

Two minutes later, Mario climaxed and pulled his dick out of Daniel.

“That was hot,” he said, zipping up his jeans. Then he left the room.

Heather helped Daniel climb on the bed and laid him on his back.

“Just imagine what your friends would say if they saw you getting fucked by a dude,” she said, gently caressing his chest.

Daniel’s brows rose up and his eyes widened in terror. Heather was sure that these words would have had a much less dramatic effect on Daniel a week ago because now he knew that she would actually dare to show his buddies the video of him getting raped by Mario. He must have figured that she would have this recording and that she would hold onto it for blackmail purposes.

“Please, don’t show them the video,” he said in a lifeless voice. “Please, Heather.”

“You must understand that if you ever dare to cheat on me again or dump me, all of your friends will see that video. Every single one of them.”

Judging by the exhausted scowl on his face, Daniel had a few choice words for her, which he had decided to keep to himself. Heather didn’t care that her threat had prevented Daniel from speaking his mind. There had been countless times when she had to keep silent so as not to upset her precious boyfriend. Now the shoe was on the other foot. How do you like them apples, bro?

“And you might have to go through all of this—” Heather circled her right index finger in the air “—again. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Daniel shook his head.

“You should admit that I’m a reasonable person. Some other girl would have just cut your dick off. I hope you appreciate that.”

“I do appreciate that.”

“I did it for us, Dan.” Heather closed her eyes, buried her nose in Daniel’s armpit, and inhaled the pungent smell of his sweat. “I did it for us. You won’t cheat on me anymore. And you’re never going to leave me. Not until I let you.”

“Are you serious?” Daniel muttered.

“I thought you’d be happy. Making choices is hard. I just took care of it for you.”

“I’m not going to cheat on you anymore, I promise.”

“Now I believe you. And… Good news, baby.” Heather rubbed Daniel’s thigh gently a few times. “It’s over. We’re going home.” She kissed him on the lips. “Are you happy we’re going home?”

“Yes, I’m very happy.” Daniel shut his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Everything will be all right, baby.” Heather kissed him again. “We’ll get through it together. We’re going to work this out, baby. I love you more than anything else in the world. I wouldn’t be so jealous if I didn’t love you with all my heart, would I?”

“I love you, too, baby,” Daniel muttered. “Let’s go home. I want to go home.”

“Okay.” Heather kissed Daniel on the cheek and wrapped her arms around him. “Everything will be all right.”

15.

“So did you enjoy your stay here?” Loretta asked when she and Heather got in the GMC Yukon. “Are you satisfied with the way things went?”

“Yes, I am.” Heather nodded confidently. “Everything went great. Dan has paid for what he did and will never forget this.”

“Well, you got your point across, that’s for sure.”

“I think so, too.”

“For once, the girl won, right?”

Heather nodded. “The girl won.”

“By the way, I checked the files you gave us,” Loretta said. “I’m very happy with results. I’m glad you didn’t try to screw us.”

“What would have happened if I had?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’ve done a great job, Heather. Did you make sure your father didn’t find out that you’d copied the files?”

“Yes. I was very careful. And I hope your guys won’t tell anyone how they got them.”

“Our guys are professionals; they’ll keep their mouths shut. I suppose I don’t have to remind you that you’ll need to keep silent, too. Under no circumstances can you talk about the files and who you gave them to.”

“I understand that. By the way, can I ask you what’s so special about those files?”

“I wish I knew.” Loretta smiled. “But I assure you we’re not the bad guys.”

“I wonder why you didn’t simply bribe my dad.”

Loretta smiled. “Maybe next time we’ll do just that.”

It occurred to Heather that Loretta’s friends might have actually tried bribing her father, but this honest idiot hadn’t gone for it. Well, whatever.

Heather laid her head on the headrest and closed her eyes. A worrisome thought had just come to her: what if Daniel decided to kill himself because of all the stress and emotional pain he had gone through in the cabin? What if one day, a few weeks from now, she called his cellphone and his mom answered and told her that Daniel had hanged himself in his room?

She got chills when she imagined being the one who discovered Daniel hanging from the noose.

Such an outcome was certainly in the realm of possibility. After all, people committed suicide for more stupid reasons; one might find it hard to believe that someone would take their own lives because they had gotten tired of being bullied at school or feared upsetting their parents with bad grades, but that had actually happened and would keep happening in the future.

In the end, Heather came to the conclusion that this little adventure at the cabin was unlikely to cause Daniel to kill himself. You had to be sensitive to punch your own ticket over hurt feelings and shame, and Daniel was definitely far from being a delicate pantywaist.

She could be wrong about him, though. Daniel might turn out to be an emotional weakling. So, it looked like she would have to wait and see.

Heather let out a heavy sigh. She realized that, from now on, every time Daniel took too long to pick up the phone or reply to her texts, she’d be haunted by the image of his dead body dangling from a rope.

Why did life have to be so damn complicated?

END

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The Mindbender

Description

FBI Agent Peter Anderson arrives at a secret military installation to help break Max Pollack, a Navy SEAL believed to have mind control powers.

Consumed by paranoia, having no one to trust, Peter has trouble telling which thoughts are his own and which have been planted by the mindbender.

All bets are off when the Secretary of Defense is suspected to have been influenced by Pollack.

With the world's fate in the balance, Peter and his colleagues discover that they may be on the wrong side.

Tensions are high as they struggle to figure out whether or not they are being manipulated by the mindbender.

Who are Max Pollack's masters and what are their plans?

The frightening thing is, even the mindbender might not know the answers.

Chapter 1

1.

“Has your husband contacted you in the past eleven days?”

“No, he hasn’t,” Linda Pollack replied in a flat voice. “I’ve already told this to your guys. Twice.” Max Pollack’s wife was wearing no makeup, perhaps because Walsh’s men had confiscated her makeup kit.

Peter Anderson focused his eyes on Linda Pollack’s background data sheet, hoping it would give him some ideas for interview questions.

“You must have spoken to CID agents. I’m from the FBI.”

“Can you tell me where my husband is? Why was he arrested?” Linda pressed her lips together tightly.

“This information is classified.”

“Why are you holding me? What have I done? Is it classified, too?”

Walsh, who was sitting next to Peter, touched his elbow and said, “I think that’s enough. I’ll let Sergeant Kelton wrap this up.” He rose to his feet and gestured Peter to follow him. As soon as they stepped out into the hallway, Sergeant Kelton, who was waiting outside the door, entered the interrogation room.

“I need to show you something.” The colonel led Peter into the viewing room, where he pressed the intercom button on the control console and said, “Sergeant, I’m giving you the green light. You know what to do.”

The sergeant looked at the one-way observation window and nodded slightly.

“You see this?” Kelton waved the pistol before Linda’s eyes. “I’ve just been authorized to take you out.”

A few moments later, seeing that his words had not sunk into the woman’s brain, the sergeant added, “I’m going to shoot you, Mrs. Pollack. Right here, right now.”

Linda froze, her unblinking eyes fixed on the gun, her face blank with shock. Finally, she managed to utter, “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been ordered to execute you because your husband refuses to cooperate with the U.S. government.” Kelton aimed his pistol at Linda’s chest and fired four shots, sending the woman and her chair tumbling backward to the floor.

It took Peter ten seconds to fully realize that he had just witnessed an execution of an innocent American citizen.

“Shit has gotten serious, hasn’t it, Mister Anderson?” Walsh raised his chin.

Kelton put the gun on the table, squatted next to Linda’s body, and checked the pulse in the woman’s neck. The puddle of blood underneath the body was slowly expanding. Peter felt his hair stand up on his arms.

“What was that?” Peter turned his face to Walsh.

Kelton straightened himself up and made an ‘okay’ sign with his right hand. Walsh pressed the button on the console and said, “Good job, Sergeant.”

“Can you explain to me what happened back there?” Peter asked. “Is Linda Pollack dead?”

Walsh nodded. “She sure is. Sergeant Kelton has shot four holes in her chest. It would have been a miracle if she’d survived that. I bet he hit the heart.”

Peter had a feeling that the colonel was fighting an urge to smile as he replied.

“Are you telling me that you murdered an innocent civilian just because Pollack doesn’t want to talk to you?”

“That’s an accurate way to describe it, Peter. We warned Max that his loved ones will be hurt if he doesn’t answer our questions, and now we’re simply keeping our word, that’s all. A threat is worthless if you don’t act on it, Peter.” Walsh set his elbows on the desk and laced his hands together. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs, remember? You said you agreed with that.”

“That’s insane.”

“No, Peter, that’s not insane at all.” Walsh clapped Peter on the arm. “Let’s discuss it in my office.”

2.

Two hours and thirty minutes earlier

“Welcome to the Fairmont Training Center, Mister Anderson,” Walsh said as he rose from his high-back leather chair.

Looking back weeks later, Peter asked himself if Colonel Walsh had been a gentler, more trusting man before crossing paths with Max Pollack. Being in charge of detaining a prisoner who had the power of mind control and who could probably read thoughts as well would make a paranoid out of most people. The stress, the pressure must be enormous. Perhaps that was what had happened to the colonel; he had let the job eat him up.

A better question, though, was, ‘Has he, Peter Anderson, become more paranoid than Colonel Walsh?’ Peter would know the answer, but he’d wish he didn’t.

“Pleasure to meet you, Colonel,” Peter replied, offering his hand. “I’m glad to be here.”

Colonel Steven Walsh, a tall clean-shaven man in his mid-forties with a touch of grey hair at the temples, had an honest face and a firm handshake. As soon as they were done greeting each other, Peter caught himself thinking that the colonel must be a trustworthy guy and a good boss to work for. The funny thing was that even after the brutal and insidious warm-up session with Max Pollack’s wife, which was less than three hours away, his first impression of Steven Walsh would still have a chance of being true.

“How was your trip from Washington?” Walsh asked. “Everything went fine?”

“Uneventful. Just the way I like it.”

“We are called a training center, but let me tell you right away that training is not our focus. You, as an FBI man, can certainly imagine why we would have a misleading name.”

Just like most secret military installations, the Fairmont Training Center was as unassuming and underwhelming as could be. Located in the middle of the woods, it consisted of two dozen or so grey-walled box-like elongated buildings, none of which was taller than two stories. On the way from the entrance gate to the headquarters, Peter had wondered if the buildings were connected with each other by a series of underground tunnels. By the way, there might be more than just tunnels down there. Given its highly confidential and enigmatic status—Peter had had to go through a screening interview and a lie-detector test before being allowed to come here—Fairmont could be one of those places whose surface structures were just the tip of the iceberg. Four fifteen-foot chain-link fences, each topped by barbed wire, surrounded the base, providing protection from snoopy visitors. Peter was sure that the entire forest around the installation was sprinkled with motion sensors, cameras, and whatever else they were using to secure perimeters these days.

“Before we proceed, I’d like to take care of a little formality,” Walsh said. “I do it with everybody, so please don’t be offended. Can I see your FBI credentials?”

Peter reached into his inner jacket pocket. “Sure.” He held out his badge. Walsh took the badge and scrutinized it for half a minute.

“Thank you, Mister Anderson.” The colonel returned the badge to Peter.

“Your people at the gate checkpoint have already looked at it, by the way.”

“I know. I’m a bit OCD when it comes to security.” Walsh rubbed his hands together.

“Are you expecting uninvited guests?”

“You can never be too careful, my friend.”

“I wouldn’t put so much trust in a piece of paper. What if I forged my credentials?”

“I like your attitude. But I’m not relying on your badge alone. Your boss sent me your photo yesterday, so I’m quite confident that you are what you say you are.”

Was it going to be one of those exasperating assignments where your every move had to be approved by the head honcho? Peter hoped it wasn’t.

The colonel’s office had a much more austere interior than Peter had expected based on what he had seen in movies. There were no paintings or mahogany panels on the walls, Walsh’s desk had an unembellished design and was as pedestrian as one you would find in the principal’s office of a high school on a tight budget, the chairs and the sofa matched the desk in its plainness, and the carpeting appeared as if it had been laid two decades ago (which it probably had).

One of the biggest surprises was the fact that Walsh’s office had no windows. Perhaps the colonel didn’t know that the top dog was supposed to have an office with a view. Or maybe he hated sunlight. It was also possible that the colonel didn’t trust iron bars to keep burglars out. What could Walsh be protecting from thieves here? Diamonds? Gold bullion? His baseball card collection?

Peter wondered if the colonel’s safe was bolted to the floor.

The room had the vibe of a deep underground bunker. The steady, sterile light of fluorescent tubes helped make the commander’s office a place where you could end up working late into the night without noticing it.

A perfect setup for a workaholic.

The colonel was twirling a Marlboro cigarette pack in his right hand, which Peter found somewhat curious: for whatever reason, the absolute majority of the smokers he knew didn’t advertise their habit.

Happiness is a cigar called Hamlet. Peter had forgotten where he’d heard this phrase—it must have been decades ago, for sure—and didn’t know why it had stuck in his memory. He remembered that the phrase was an advertising slogan (for Hamlet cigars, obviously). It did fit the situation, didn’t it?

How did that commercial end, by the way?

“Now, first things first.” Walsh opened the black plastic folder in front of him, picked up the two top sheets of paper, which had text printed on both sides, and handed them to Peter. “This is a confidentiality agreement. Please read and sign it.”

When Peter began to read the document, which was simply titled ‘Non-Disclosure Agreement’ and didn’t seem to differ from any other government confidentiality form, Walsh continued, “I suppose you signed a similar paper with the FBI. This one comes from the Department of Defense.” He leaned back in his chair. “I love these guys. They think a piece of paper can stop a guy from blabbing his mouth.”

“It’s not a perfect solution, but I guess it’s better than getting your tongue cut off.” Peter put his initials wherever required, then signed the agreement, and returned it to the colonel.

Maybe Walsh picked a windowless office in order to protect himself from a sniper’s bullet? Peter’s boss, who had personally handcuffed half a dozen drug lords back in the day and developed the habit of always sitting with his back against the wall, would call that a healthy paranoia.

The thought was late to the party, but Peter didn’t mind it. Then he added another idea to the mix: this could be a precaution against long-range laser listening devices that allowed you to eavesdrop from a distance by detecting vibrations of the window glass. No windows—no vibrations.

Walsh smiled. “You have a sense of humor. I like that.” He signed his name in the witness section of the agreement and placed it back in the folder. “By the way, a person without a tongue can still write and type. Just an observation.”

“True.”

“I’ll tell you this: when it comes to protecting state secrets, nothing beats the good old dungeon.”

Peter thought for a few seconds, then nodded, and said with an earnest look on his face, “I guess you’re right.”

Walsh burst out laughing. “I’m glad you’re not one of those sensitive stuffed shirts with a stick up their asses.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

“Now, let’s get to business. Did your supervisor explain to you the nature of your assignment?”

“I was told that you’re holding a high-value individual and that I’m supposed to assist you in interrogating him.”

Walsh nodded. “Yes, that’s what your task is in a nutshell. By the way, I heard very good things about your interrogation skills. How many spies did you break?” His eyes glimmered playfully. Before Peter replied, the colonel went on, “Did they tell you what kind of high-value individual we’re dealing with here?”

“No. Mister Fuhrman didn’t give me a lot of specifics.”

“Oh, I see. He didn’t give you specifics because he’s not privy to them. Don’t worry; I’ll provide you with all the details in the course of time.” Walsh grabbed a bottle of water from the top of the fireproof safe, which sat behind him, unscrewed the cap, and took two sips. “It’s going to be fun, my friend. It’s going to be fun, I promise.”

“So who’s the client?”

“He’s name’s Max Pollack.” Walsh opened a drawer on his left, pulled out a half-inch thick binder, and handed it to Peter. “Here’s everything you need to know about him. Pollack is a Navy SEAL. Perhaps I should say ‘was;’ I doubt they’ll ever let him continue serve. He’s been on SEAL Team Two for the last four years. They’re stationed at the Little Creek Amphibious Base in Virginia Beach.”

“Twenty six years old,” Peter muttered as he scanned the page with Pollack’s biographical information.

“Yes, he’s pretty young, but don’t let his age fool you, Peter. He is very dangerous. Dangerous in a way you’ve never imagined, and I’m not exaggerating.”

“What kind of information are we trying to get out of him?”

“We believe Pollack knows something very important to the national security of our country. However, we have virtually no idea what it is. Pollack refuses to talk.” Walsh woke up his laptop and entered the password. “Two weeks ago, Pollack and his unit were sent to an uninhabited Arctic island called Bradford Island.” The colonel made a few clicks with the mouse and then turned the screen, which displayed what appeared to be a map, to Peter. “The island is not that big, just eight square miles. It’s located about three hundred and fifty miles west of Greenland.” He poked his finger at the screen, pointing out the island.

“It belongs to Canada, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. But our Canadian friends didn’t mind us visiting that place. Their helicopter took off from the Thule Air Force Base.” Walsh touched the laptop screen again, under a red dot on the west coast of Greenland. “Here it is.” He settled back in the chair. “The mission was top secret, and I can’t tell you all its details. I’m going to tell you this: all of Pollack’s unit mates were killed in that mission. Max is the only survivor.” Walsh kept silent for a moment. “Whoever killed those SEALs chose to let Pollack live. Why? What kind of deal did Pollack cut with them?”

“Do you suspect that Pollack has gone rogue?”

“That’s possible. One thing is for sure: he’s hiding something from us.”

“When am I meeting Pollack?”

“In four hours.”

Peter fanned the pages of Pollack’s file, evaluating how long it would take to look over it, and said, “Okay. Sounds good.”

“Before you leave, I have an important question for you, Peter, and I want you to think carefully before answering it.” Walsh leaned forward and continued, “How good are you at following instructions?”

After a short silence, Peter replied, “I believe I’m pretty good at it.” He was struck by how serious the colonel looked and sounded at the moment.

“Excellent. One more question. Have you heard the expression ‘You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs’?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, I have.”

“Do you agree with it?”

“It’s one of my favorites.” Peter began to get curious about where Walsh was going with it.

“Great. In your line of work one can’t wear rose-colored glasses.”

“I stopped wearing those back in middle school.”

Walsh glanced at his wristwatch. “How about a little warm-up session, Peter?” He got up. “I want you to talk to Pollack’s wife, Linda.”

“You brought his wife here?”

“Yes. I prefer to keep my trump cards close by. Besides, I deemed her a flight risk.”

Chapter 2

1.

“Are you going to report this to the Department of Defense?” Peter asked as soon as they entered the colonel’s office. “I doubt they’ll be happy about you killing Pollack’s wife.”

“Secretary Lautner gave me the authority to do whatever I deem necessary to extract information from Pollack.” Walsh eased into his chair. “You see, this is a very special situation, Peter. Max Pollack is an extremely dangerous man. He’s part of a conspiracy to harm the United States. The worst thing is, we have no idea what kind of damage this conspiracy may cause. The whole country could be destroyed a week from now for all we know.”

“Colonel, you killed an innocent person, who, by the way, was an American citizen. I thought only the President could sanction something like this. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to rock the boat. I’m just pointing out that this could get you in big trouble.”

“I understand, Peter. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you that we dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’ when it comes to proper authorization. I personally promised Pollack that his wife would die if he didn’t talk. I gave him two days. Those two days were up this noon. We’re not playing games here, Peter. We’re serious people. If we have to execute Pollack’s entire family to make him spill the beans, we’ll do it without hesitation.” Walsh lifted his right index finger. “Let me show you something.” The colonel swiveled to the safe, quickly entered the combination, opened the door, and produced a black plastic folder. “You’re right, only the President can sanction what we’ve done to Linda Pollack. This is a secret executive order signed by President Moore a year ago. It authorizes me to do whatever is necessary to preserve and promote the national security of this country. It grants me and my subordinates legal immunity from prosecution for any actions undertaken in the name of national security.”

Peter ran his eyes over the document in the black folder and then handed it back to Walsh. “When Pollack finds out that you murdered his wife, you can say goodbye to any chance of him talking to you. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes. Can you do me a favor? When you meet Pollack today, don’t tell him that we’ve executed his wife. I’d like to deliver this news to him myself. When the time is right. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure.”

“Not a word, under any circumstances. Just forget it ever happened, okay?”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut on this.”

“Very good. I’m counting on you.”

There was a knock on the door, and Walsh gave the visitor permission to enter. A man in Army uniform, who appeared to be in his early thirties, came through the doorway and saluted the colonel. Walsh acknowledged the salute with a nod and said, “This is my assistant, Lieutenant Daniel Schmidt. I instructed him to make your stay here as comfortable as possible, so if you need anything, feel free to contact Danny; he’ll do his best to organize it.”

Peter shook Daniel’s hand.

“Lieutenant Schmidt will show you your room. It’s not much, but it’s one of the best we’ve got.” Walsh checked his watch. “You have about two and a half hours until you meet Pollack. I’ll see you later tonight.”

2.

“Do you have a cellphone with you, Mister Anderson?” Schmidt asked when he and Peter stepped out of Walsh’s office.

“Yes, I do.”

“Did you bring any other communication or recording devices?

Peter shook his head. “No, just the cell.”

“Can I have it please? You’ll get it back when you leave the base.”

“Why? You don’t trust me?”

“This is Colonel Walsh’s order. I’m sorry, there are no exceptions, Mister Anderson.”

“Okay.” Peter pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and handed it to Schmidt. “Can you at least let me know when I get a phone call? My boss in D.C. might call me.”

“I’ll ask Colonel Walsh about it.”

“Yes, please do that. My boss hates it when his calls are not returned.”

“Did you bring any weapons with you?”

“I brought my service pistol. Do you want it, too?”

“Yes, please. I’ll give it back to you when you leave.”

Peter debated with himself for a few seconds if he should create a scandal over his gun, and then complied with Lieutenant Schmidt’s request. The Fairmont Training Center must be one of the safest places in America; he didn’t really need a pistol here, did he? Besides, Peter knew whose side his division chief would be in this argument—the guy with a letter of indulgence from the President of the United States.

3.

“Sir, are you carrying any weapons?” the guard asked. “Guns, knives, grenades?”

Peter turned his head back to confirm that the massive boxy device he had just walked through was a metal detector. Well, it looked a lot like a metal detector, and a sophisticated one at that. Perhaps the guard didn’t trust machines.

“No, I left my gun with Lieutenant Schmidt,” he finally replied.

“Please raise your arms, sir. I’m going to search you.”

The guard patted Peter down thoroughly and then motioned him toward the door at the end of the corridor. Peter was pleased to see that he hadn’t been singled out: Sergeant Gary Adams, the soldier sent by Walsh to escort him to Max Pollack’s cell, was subjected to a pat-down, as well.

A large rectangular sign to the right of the door informed Peter that he was about to enter Block D. Sergeant Adams input the passcode into the panel on the wall, opened the door, and said to Peter, “After you, sir.”

They started down the well-lit hallway, Adams following three feet behind Peter. Thirty yards later, they stopped in front of a solid metal door guarded by two soldiers. There was a keypad panel on the wall. Adams handed Peter the folding chair he had brought with him. “This is for you, sir.”

Peter thanked the sergeant and tucked the chair under his arm.

“Can you please step back?” Adams said.

Peter gave the sergeant a nod and carried out his request. Adams turned to the door and, using his body to block the keypad from Peter’s view, punched in the code, which consisted of six digits according to Peter’s count. When the green light lit up at the top of the panel, the sergeant produced a key from his pants pocket, inserted it into the keyhole, and then twisted it.

To Peter’s amusement, the door didn’t open. There apparently was one more step Adams had to take. Or maybe even more than one.

The sergeant pressed the button to the right of the green light and said, leaning towards the panel, “Your move, sir.”

“Okay, Sergeant,” Walsh’s voice came out of the intercom speaker.

“Is Colonel Walsh watching us?” Peter asked with a smile. He looked around, found the surveillance camera, and waved at it.

“He sure is,” Adams replied.

There was a low clinking sound, and then the sergeant pulled the door open.

“I’ll be waiting for you outside, sir,” Adams said as Peter walked into the cell.

END OF SAMPLE

Other titles by Tim Kizer

·         Days of Vengeance, horror novel

·         Mania, suspense novel

·         The Mindbender,  suspense novel

·         The Dreamer, suspense novelette

·         Dark Luck, suspense novelette

·         Scorned, suspense novelette

·         Hitchhiker, suspense/horror novelette

·         Intoxication, suspense novelette

·         Deception, mystery/suspense novelette

·         Sixtus, horror novelette

Table of Contents

Copyright

Description

DARK LUCK

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2.

3.

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6.

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8.

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THE DREAMER

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Scorned

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3.

4.

5.

6.

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8.

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Excerpt from Author: " The Mindbender "

Description

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Other Books