Tribe, page 12
Henry pushed back from the glass, an imprint of his forehead, nose, and finger left behind on the otherwise clean pane. “Sixty…we’re sixty stories up. Sweet.” He looked around the large room. Sparse furnishing. Two pieces of modern art. Tall ceilings. Marble floor. It wasn’t exactly cozy—the long bench was the only seating—but everything about it felt really expensive.
“That’s the same number of floors as the John Hancock building.” Henry watched Sarah for a reaction and got nothing. “The John Hancock is the tallest building in Boston.”
She still looked startled, but blinked and said, “So…where are we?”
Henry returned to the view. Boston was different from seven hundred feet up. Everything was little. Henry wondered what it would feel like to jump. To hit the ground at terminal velocity. To be whisked into the afterlife without pain.
Drowning sucked. He’d do it all again, but the pain of drowning was the worst he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t as bad as watching Sarah die, though. That had been worse. Because he’d failed. Because he liked her…not in a liked her liked her kind of way. She was attractive, for sure, but when he thought about her it was different from how he thought about other young, pretty women. It was like…well, something he hadn’t felt before.
“I’m glad you’re alive,” he said, not taking his eyes off the streets below. There were a lot of police, fire, and ambulance lights flashing around the city, amplified by the glass towers surrounding them, all of it overshadowed by the orange glow of a setting sun flooding into the room.
“You, too,” Sarah said, almost a whisper. Then she pointed down and to the right. “Look.”
Henry followed her finger down. He saw police cars first. A lot of them. News crews, too, floodlights illuminating the faces of tiny talking faces. And beside it all, Park Street Church, recognizable thanks to the steeple, the cemetery, and its proximity to the State House—its golden dome on fire in the sun’s light.
He pointed a finger, traced it back to the Daisy Duck Tours building, then across the cemetery to the tall building with a car park hidden in its bowels. From there he followed their previous path through the streets of Boston. “It’s like Google Maps without the labels.”
He stopped on a curved corner, where red umbrellas lay scattered. He followed the road—Franklin Street—right past the tower they were in which meant, “This is Millennium Tower.” He looked up through the glass. Saw nothing but sky. “This has to be the penthouse! Do you know how much this place sold for?”
“Why do you?” Sarah asked.
“Because sometimes I Google the most expensive places in Boston so I can see where I’ll live when I’m rich.”
Sarah looked at him like he’d stepped in dog shit. “Really?”
“You don’t?”
“Well, yeah, I look at nicer apartments…but not this.” She opened her arms toward the view. “How much?”
“Forty-five million.”
Sarah’s eyes widened a bit, darting around the view and then the room like she was seeing it all again for the first time. “Now I feel like I shouldn’t even be walking on this floor.”
Henry shrugged. “Meh. We’re barefoot, remember. Would take like a million years to put a dent in this floor.”
Sarah looked down, and then crossed her arms over her chest. “Speaking of…” She turned and headed for the fresh clothes waiting for them. “And keep your eyes on that view, okay?”
Henry obeyed, which was easy. He was still fascinated by the view, identifying all the places he’d slept. “Don’t worry. I don’t think of you like that. I mean, I thought I might when I touched your crotch.”
“Say what now?” Sarah said. Henry didn’t turn around, but could feel her eyes leveled at the back of his head.
“It was more like your inner thigh,” he said. “When we were taking care of your leg. Me and Linda. Don’t get me wrong. You’re a stone cold hottie, and I should want to jump your bones, but…I don’t. Who knows why.”
Sarah was silent.
“Should I still not turn around?”
“‘Stone cold hottie?’” Sarah finally said. “‘Jump your bones?’ 1995 called and wants its slang back.”
Henry smiled. Blinked when a door closed behind him.
He turned around. Sarah was gone. In the bathroom. Her clothing with her.
Henry turned back to the view. “Awesome…” Then he glanced at the ceiling. This was a forty-five-million-dollar mansion in the sky. It had to have everything, right? “Hey Alexa,” he said. “Play Nothin’ But A Good Time by Poison.”
“Here’s Nothing But A Good Time, remastered 2006, by Poison. Starting now, on Amazon Music,” replied a computerized woman’s voice from high def speakers embedded in the ceiling. It was followed by the addictive guitar riff that kicked off the song. But it wasn’t loud enough.
“Alexa, turn up the volume.”
Nothing happened.
“Alexa…uhh, volume five.”
The music volume increased. Henry grinned. “Alexa, volume ten!”
The music blared. Henry bopped his head. Broke into a dance worthy of an 80s hair metal band strutting for the camera. Henry not only knew all of Poison’s music to the note, but he also knew the videos. He hopped along the line of windows, playing an air guitar. When the singing started, he peeled off his robe and spun it over his head.
He faced the window, legs spread wide, one foot thumping. He stretched the robe between his hands, converting it into a guitar, thrashing his shaggy hair for all of Boston to see.
He barely noticed when he was struck from behind, but noticed the second impact. A shoe. The first projectile had been a T-shirt.
“Alexa,” Sarah shouted. “Stop!”
The music winked off.
“Seriously, dude…” Sarah was blocking her eyes with an open palm. Used her free hand to pick up Henry’s clothing, throwing it all at him. “No one wants to see that. And in case that was the point, this building has mirrored windows, remember? The only person whose day you’re ruining is mine.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “No fun.” He slipped into a T-shirt. It was the softest shirt he’d ever felt.
“So,” Sarah said. “Weird question. How does your butt feel?”
Henry twisted around, looking at his wound. The bandage looked fresh. “The better question is, how does it look?”
“Try to be serious for a second,” she said.
Henry flexed his butt-cheek. Over and over. It should have hurt. “Uhh, fine mostly. Stings a little I guess…”
“But not bad enough to stop you from being possessed by the spirit of Bret Michaels?”
“Bret Michaels is alive,” Henry pointed out.
“Thrilling.”
“Why do you ask?”
Sarah lifted her leg, bringing her knee to her chest. Then she hopped on one leg. “I should be on the floor crying in pain.”
“Huh…”
“Exactly.”
“So,” she said, “hurry up. I want to know what the hell is going on.”
Henry finished dressing. He’d seen things that day that should have been impossible. He drowned in Boston Harbor and woke up in a mansion sixty floors up. But the lack of pain seemed impossible, especially for Sarah’s wound, which had been grievous. “Maybe we’re hopped up on painkillers?”
She shook her head. “I’m lucid. More awake than usual. Though…drugs would explain the dream.”
“Couldn’t have been as weird as mine,” he said, slipping into wrinkle-free gray shorts. He gave a little stretch. “Everything fits.”
“I think she measured us, while we were out.” Sarah motioned to her perfectly sized outfit—khaki capris, a white blouse, and sporty looking sandals—Mediterranean casual. “Or some butler did. Either way, creepy.”
“I had an odd dream, too,” Henry said. “You were ahead of me, on a path. I don’t remember what you were wearing. It was kind of hazy. Hard to remember. Lit in orange.”
“What?” Sarah held onto the doorframe. She looked pale. “Were you in a cave? With orange words?”
“Was I dreaming about a TV show or something?” He shook his head. Henry hadn’t watched a lot of TV in his life.
“You said I was there,” she said. “Was there writing on the wall? Or a river? Someone walking with me?”
Henry’s brow furrowed. “How…”
“Because I was there,” she said, and then she turned toward the hallway leading to the open-concept living space. “And I think she was, too.”
“In our dreams…”
“People don’t share dreams,” Sarah pointed out.
“Right,” Henry said. “Cool.”
“Not cool.” Sarah started down the hallway. “Let’s get some answers.”
Henry followed her, new shoes in hand. He liked the way the hard, cool floor felt on his bare feet, and the gentle slap they made with each step. It reminded him of the cave. The well-worn path. He knew what it was the moment he saw the riverside ferryman, and heard the howling trio; he just hadn’t believed it was real.
But now?
Maybe it was.
And if so…they’d both visited the River Styx.
How cool was that?
21
“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” Helen said. She was seated in the open living room, relaxing on a red, leather couch that looked like it had been designed by Andy Warhol.
Henry broke formation, slipped into the gourmet kitchen, and opened one of two brushed metal fridges.
Sarah was hungry, but she ignored the temptation. She headed for a wooden chair opposite the couch. It looked like it had been formed from a single piece of wood, bent and smoothed into a form fitting chair. She lowered her weight onto it. There was some give, but then it resisted.
“It can take a lot more weight than you,” Helen said.
Sarah relaxed. Without realizing it, she started bouncing in the seat. The motion took her back. To a playground. The playground. She clenched her eyes shut. Stopped the bounce. Focused. “Why doesn’t my leg hurt?”
Helen smiled. Sipped from a glass of red wine. “Really? That’s your first question?”
“I’m warming up,” Sarah said. She had to resist the urge to keep bouncing in the chair. Some still-a-child part of her couldn’t. But that side of her had been squelched for a long time, and couldn’t compete with her desire to not remember. She sat in silence, waiting for an answer. Helen seemed happy to make her wait.
Henry sat at the mirror-topped coffee table, unloading an arm full of cookies, chips, and three bottles of beer.
“That’s revolting,” Sarah said, looking at the food assortment.
“I know,” Henry said. “It’s awesome.” Then he tried to twist the top off a beer, and failed.
“Noob. Have you even had beer before?” Sarah asked.
“Nope,” Henry said. “Never had the chance.”
She tired of watching him struggle and reached out for the bottle. “Give it.”
He handed it to her and watched in amazement as she got her thumb up under the cap and popped it off. It was an old trick. She didn’t really know how it worked, and didn’t know anyone else who could do it, despite many a college bro giving it a whirl. Some relented to the pain. Others when they bled. All failed. It was a talent she’d been born with. Made for a good party trick.
She handed Henry the open brew—some kind of import in a language she couldn’t read—and then she took a second for herself. Popped the top. Took a swig. Not bad.
“Hey,” Henry said.
Sarah raised an eyebrow at him. “They’re all for you?”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t even know if you like it yet,” Sarah said. She was aware that bantering with Henry wasn’t getting her any closer to the answers she wanted, but she also didn’t want to let Helen think she was irked by the woman’s silence.
Helen leaned forward, placed her wine glass on the table and took the last bottle.
Henry groaned. “C’mon…”
Then Helen popped the cap with little effort. The metal disc landed on the coffee table. Sarah watched it spin to a stop.
Huh…
Sarah sat back. Then said to Helen, “So?”
Helen took a long pull from the bottle. Settled back. “A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”
“Really?” Sarah said. “You’re going to quote GTA?”
“Grand Theft Auto?” Henry asked, sitting up straighter.
Sarah pinched her nose, eyes closed. “Good Times Ahead, they’re a…never mind.”
Helen just watched them, a curious grin on her face, like she was watching monkeys in a zoo.
“Seriously, lady,” Sarah said. “What the hell?”
“The saying was around long before the song,” Helen said, lasering her gaze into and through Sarah. “If you must know, I stitched the wounds myself and applied a topical anesthesia made from herbs.”
“But that’s not how you saved our lives,” Henry said.
“How did you get us out of the water?” Sarah added.
“I saw her down there.” Henry raised the beer bottle to his lips. Took a drink and did an immediate spit-take. “Ugh. That’s horrible.” Then he immediately took another drink, held it in his mouth for a moment, shrugged, and swallowed. “I didn’t see her pull us out, though. We were both dead by then.”
“We were dead,” Sarah said. She’d known it from the moment she opened her eyes. It wasn’t like waking up from a deep sleep—the mind slowly emerging from a dream state. It was more like settling back into her body. Her anger and distrust fizzled. “Thanks… So…did you do CPR or something?”
She knew the answer to that. Her ribs weren’t broken. So what had Helen done?
“Or something,” Helen said.
“I’m getting tired of the Yoda answers, lady. Just tell us—”
“She brought us here, put us back together, and then followed us into the afterlife,” Henry said, like it wasn’t the most ridiculous thing to ever come out of his ridiculous mouth. He noted her disbelief with a grin. “That guy walking with you was Hermes. The dude at the boat? Charon. And the howling wolves… That was Cerberus.”
Sarah stared at him. He’d just upped the ante on weird, but also reminded her that they’d had the same dream. And that wasn’t normal.
“I may have given you some mildly hallucinogenic herbs as well.” Helen smiled like it was no big deal.
But it was a big deal to Sarah. As an athlete, she’d taken good care of her body, avoiding recreational drugs entirely, and most prescriptions stronger than Ibuprofen.
“People can’t have the same hallucinations,” Henry said.
“You were both in here at the time.” Helen pointed to the hallway. Above the entryway was a ten-foot by ten-foot square painting of her dream. A woman being led to a subterranean river. The ferryman. Even a three headed wolf, standing on the far shore. It was an intimidating image and perfectly reflected her dream, right down to the glowing letters on the walls.
“Yeah,” Henry said. “That’s the River Styx, all right.”
“You know the Greek myths?” Helen asked.
Henry shrugged. “The Greeks were hardcore.”
Helen nodded. “Not just the Greeks. And their stories usually end in tragedy.”
“But not us!” Henry yanked open a bag of Fritos, filling the air with the scent of deep-fried corn-stuff. He shoved a handful into his mouth. To Helen he said, “Ish can’t be or food.”
She shook her head. “I got it for you. I guessed at your taste.” She turned to Sarah. “There are an assortment of sandwich meats and fresh fruit for you.”
Sarah’s mouth watered. She ignored it. “So what were you doing with us in there? With the robes and all that?”
“Meditating,” she said. “You could call it praying.”
“To who?”
“Does it matter?” Helen asked.
“Most people would think so.”
Henry took a swig of beer. Winced. “I think we’re still asking the wrong questions.”
Sarah sighed. Pushed herself up from the chair, which Henry promptly stole, and headed for the kitchen. Hunger had faced pride in a no-holds-barred, mental cage match and come out victorious. Sarah opened the fridge, sure she was going to find prosciutto or some horrible fancy meat that tasted like death. Instead, she found her favorites—onion rolls, honey ham, provolone, pickles, and barbeque sauce.
“Who are you?” Henry asked, speaking like a bona fide interrogator—who enjoyed his job too much.
“Helen Atreidai.”
“That’s just a name,” Henry said. “Means shit. So, who are you?”
Helen took a drink of beer while having a staring contest with Henry, neither of them blinking. Sarah went back to making the most epic sandwich of her life and just listened to the pair.
“You tell me.”
“Okay… You’re crazy rich. I’m guessing generational wealth. You don’t work. Never have. But you’re not soft, either. I mean, you killed people today. You also took more than a few hits, but you don’t look like it. You’ve trained your whole life for something… For today.”
Henry stood and walked to the other set of windows, facing east. A view of downtown and the ocean beyond. Sarah watched him from the corner of her eye, layering on her ham. He was putting a lot of thought into this. More than she had.
“So the next question is, who is chasing you? They hate you enough to kill anyone associated with you…and are willing to die in the attempt. So…a cult. But they’ve been around for a while. Long enough to have a lot of members. There were cops, and businessmen, and blue-collar types all working together. Only one of them seemed like a trained killer—the guy who actually killed us—by proxy. I mean, it was the ocean that killed us, but he chased us there. And I think he was FBI or something. So, what did you do to piss off this cult? Did you leave it?”
“Close… But they don’t hate me.” Helen stood and joined Henry at the window, watching the people far below. “They worship me.”
22
