Strange Geometries

By Anthony J Fuchs

Seven stories by Anthony J Fuchs are included in this first collection, along with an Afterword by the author.

In "Anywhen," Jack Finnegan's rare talent makes him a unique asset to the police department, but an investigation into a missing teenage will force him to stretch the limits of his ability.

In "Dawn," Adam Westing is a skeptic in a world of believers, but a horrific accident on Christmas Eve may force him to reconsider his own perspective.

In "After/Thought," Ethan Gibson must undertake a quest to find the most treasured prize in all of his existence: his own mind. But how many times must he walk the same path to find it?

In "Unstuck," Timothy Lineman and Mickey Comiskey are freshly seventeen and convinced of their own mortality, but they cannot imagine the consequences of a chance encounter with a friendly stranger or the impossible gift he bears.

In "That Final Darkness," two men and a boy take refuge in an abandoned movie theater during a blinding blizzard, but the snow may be the least of their worries.

In "Coming Home," Mike Everett organizes a friendly pick-up game to get his baseball fix when the World Series is cancelled, but 42 innings into a deadlocked grudge-match, a fortunate accident is going to give him a new insight into the meaning of the game.

And in "Out of Joint," Jeromy Pratt is a haunted man living in a haunted house, and since his wife's death, his life has made a lot less sense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony J Fuchs
• Release date: Nov 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465777928

Anthony J Fuchs

I am a Philadelphian by birth, a North Carolinian by choice, and a writer by nature. And I have baseball in my blood, having come into this world right around the time that Manny Trillo hit that famous single to drive in Del Unser and give the Phillies a 4-3 lead in Game 5 of the World Series. I have been a teller of stories for as long as I have been able to brandish the force of language. One of my clearest, earliest memories is of watching Michael J. Fox on a 40-foot movie screen as he pushed that Delorean up to 88 miles-and-hour and barreled into the past on a pair of flaming tiretracks. A few years later, I went to a sleepover birthday party at a classmate's apartment, and as midnight gave way to the next day, those of us who dared to brave the darkness began telling horror stories, each determined to terrify everyone else. The next afternoon, my mother received a phone call from my friend's mother: whatever tale I had spun had given him nightmares. Since that day, I have never stopped chasing the intoxicating thrill that comes from the power of fiction. He is the author of "The Danger of Being Me," as well as a growing body of short fiction and poetry. You can contact me at [e-mail], or follow me at www.facebook.com/anthonyjfuchs

Book preview

STRANGE GEOMETRIES

Stories by Anthony J Fuchs

SmashWords Edition

Copyright 2011 Anthony J Fuchs

Cover photo by Jaymie Koroluk

All rights reserved

anthonyjfuchs.livejournal.com

# # #

TABLE OF CONTENTS

"Anywhen"

"Dawn"

"After/Thought"

"Unstuck"

"That Final Darkness"

"Coming Home"

"Out of Joint"

AFTERWORD

# # #

ANYWHEN

Finnegan.

I'm halfway around the side of the cabin when I hear my name. I look toward the backyard, my right hand resting on the butt of the Sig Sauer on my hip. Ross stands away from the corner of the house, his head tilted to the right as he studies something near the base of the rear wall. He's a wiry guy almost twice my age, but he doesn't look it. He looks more like my sophomore English professor than a veteran detective.

Ross glances up and spots me. Take a look at this.

I reach the back of the house and turn the corner to see what he's seeing. A wooden deck built onto the back of the house. Sliding glass doors that lead into what looks like a kitchen. A short flight of steps from the deck down to the ground. And in the corner of the house nearest to us, a pair of cellar hatchway doors huddled against the house.

Dead leaves and dry branches obscure the cellar doors. The planks of the wooden hatch are starting to molder. It might once have been painted red, but it's so filthy now that it's gone brown. The bottom of the doors is mostly buried under leaves, but the wind has shuffled them enough to expose the handles. A rusted length of chain secures them.

Then I see what caught Ross's eye. The high afternoon sun ricochets off something hidden among the leaves, throwing a gilded reflection. I tilt my head to the right, and spot the brass Master padlock fastening the ends of the chain together.

Rusted chain on a rusted door, I say, but the lock's brand new.

Ross nods. It's the sort of insignificant thing he notices when he's not looking for anything. He looks across the rear wall again, to the window above the cellar hatchway, then turns to the woods that stretch away behind the house and up into the Poconos.

I consider the hatchway. What's he got down there that needs a new lock?

Don't know, Ross says. He turns to me with a smirk. I'm not the psychic.

I glance up, and return the smirk. To be fair, I can't actually see the future.

That's right, he says, snapping his fingers. You can only read minds.

"It's tactile retrocognition," I correct him. That's the department's official phrase to describe what I do. It's not the whole truth, but it's true enough, and I laugh because we both know he knows it. He knew it before I showed up on day one. He'd already read my evaluations from cover to cover when he'd accepted the mentoring assignment.

Ross laughs once, digs into his pocket. He fishes out his phone, holds it up. Then he returns it to his peacoat, and tells me, Making sure we're still getting a signal.

I nod. I'd expected to wind up deep inside a dead zone this far into northern Carbon County. That's why I left my own phone hooked to the car charger in the Ford.

Ross starts toward the short flight of steps leading up to the deck. All those leaves and branches crackle under his steps as he passes the hatchway, but he stops short with his hand on the wooden railing. He twists halfway back around, squinting off into the trees beside the house. Then his eyes flick to me and he asks, You hear that?

I listen, and hear nothing. I'm just about to tell him that of course I hear that, it sounds like a girl screaming, would he like me to smash the sliding doors in or does he want to do it himself? But before I can open my mouth, I actually do hear a sound.

Not from inside the house, though. From around the front of the house. I look up the side of the cabin and see only trees at first, but I make out the sound of tires crunching on gravel. Then I see flashes of white between the trunks of the red ashes as a vehicle rolls down the slope of the narrow driveway. The car is still a quarter-mile out as I start up the side of the house toward the front with Ross half-a-step behind me.

Ross has his wallet in his hand by the time we reach our Ford Five Hundred, and I pull mine. A few seconds later, the unmistakable grill of a Jeep Liberty Renegade breaks through the trees where the driveway widens out in front of the house. The white SUV rolls slowly toward us, looks for a moment like it might park us in, then angles to the right of the Ford. The driver pulls the Jeep past us, stops, shuts down the engine.

I hear the SUV's driver-side door open, and my hand brushes the gun on my hip. But before the door can slam shut again, Ross calls out, Rodger Downing?

That's me, a smoky voice says as a man steps around the Liberty's tailgate. He's a tall guy with a warm smile, and blonde hair that looks like wheat under the midday sun. He's perfectly ordinary; perfectly forgettable. The kind of guy who could get away with murder. Downing continues around to the passenger's side of the Jeep.

Something I can help you guys with?

Ross starts toward the Liberty with his wallet open, and says, I'm Detectives Ross, with the Prophecy Creek Police. He gestures to me. This is Detective Finnegan.

Downing pulls open the passenger's door and stops. As Ross reaches him, Downing takes a step forward to look at the open wallet showing Ross's badge and ID. He glances back at me, and I hold up my identification as well. Downing flashes that warm smile again as he turns back to Ross. You guys are kind of far from home, aren't you?

Ross closes his wallet, returns it to his pocket without taking his eyes off Downing. I do the same, and keep my voice friendly as I say, About as far as you are.

Fair enough, Downing laughs. He leans into the passenger's side of his car, picks up a brown paper bag from the seat. I'll be honest, he says, stepping back and kicking the door shut. I was a little surprised when I saw your car there in the driveway.

He holds the grocery bag with his left arm. A folded copy of the Sunday edition of the Morning Call peeks out over the top. When he makes no more toward the house, I tell him, We just have a couple of questions about the Snow Ball this past Friday.

Downing laughs again. It's an untroubled sound, and it sets my nerves on edge. He digs into the pocket of his jeans, and asks, That was worth an hour-and-a-half drive?

Just being thorough, Ross says. Then he cocks his head back in my direction with a smirk. This one's still a little wet behind the ears.

I crack a small grin and nod. Downing nods back with that smile as he pulls his keys out of his pocket and starts up the walkway to the house. Come on in, then.

Ross glances back to me. I pass him to follow Downing along the path of laid stones and up the four wide steps to the wooden front porch. I leave one long footstep of space between us as I tell him, You were one of the chaperones at the dance.

I was, Downing says without looking back. He slips a key into the doorknob and turns it. Confiscated six packs of cigarettes and a butterfly knife. He laughs again, and glances back over his shoulder. I caught one kid with a pack of a dozen condoms.

From the bottom of the stairs behind me, Ross asks, You didn't take them?

What good would it have done? Downing says, shaking his head. I told him he was giving himself a lot of credit, and to be careful, and I sent him on his way. He pushes the door open and heads inside. I follow him, and Ross follows me as Downing says, One of the other chaperones got all self-righteous when she found out and said that letting teenagers have condoms is like letting them run around with loaded guns.

Downing drops the keys into a small bowl on a table beside the door. I pass through after him into a single room that spans the width of the house. A couch, two recliners and a coffee table mark out a living room to the right. Four high-backed chairs surround an elliptical mahogany table under a bay window to the left. Through an open archway off the dining room is the kitchen with the sliding glass doors that lead off to the deck.

I told her that we're born with the gun, Downing continued, passing through the dining room into the kitchen. And that puberty loads it for us. He sets his grocery bag down on the round table in the center of the room, pulls out the newspaper, lays it on the counter. Then he unloads the bag, stashing a gallon of milk