Falling Awake II: Revenant

By Kristoffer Gair

Andrew O’Donnell’s childhood friend, Thomas, was murdered when they were ten years old. Nightmares and guilt have plagued Andrew ever since. And he believes himself responsible for delivering Thomas into the very hands of the men who committed the atrocity.

Now, fourteen years later, Andrew is driven to uncover the mystery of what really happened to Thomas, the reason behind the brutal abduction, and whether the assailants—who were never caught—have set their sights on someone else.

Even the help of an unlikely ally may not be enough to stop the darkness, the threat of what it will do to them in this life...or the next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristoffer Gair
• Release date: Jun 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463029893

Kristoffer Gair

Kristoffer Gair grew up in Fraser, MI and is a graduate of Grand Valley State University. He currently lives with his husband in a suburb of Detroit.

Book preview

Falling Awake II

Revenant

Kristoffer Gair

Thank You: Ralph, Kiernan Kelly, Trish Gillham (who insisted I couldn’t leave the story where I did at the end of the first book), Brent D. Seth for all his suggestions and catches, G.A. Hauser, Patricia Logan, John Carpenter, Jim Kerr, Jeff Adkins, Edgar Froese, Jay Taylor, Jerome Froese, William Cooper, Bob Carter, and everyone who’s gone on this very bizarre journey with me away from my comfort zone.

In Loving Memory of

Ralph C. Wilcox,

Milt Ford,

Dorien Grey (Roger Margason),

Robert Gair,

Maria Paschell,

Cindy Medley,

and Marianne Labahn,

who wait for us now in the In-Between.

A Short Indulgence in Two Parts:

First

Eden Winters, who I first came to think of as my overhaul editor, has very much become a mentor as well as a friend. We’ve developed a shorthand in which I can send her a manuscript with a request to take it apart, and she does. For the better. A correction or comment from Eden isn’t a sign of something I’ve done wrong. Rather, it’s a sign of an area in the story I can improve. I continue to learn from her with each project. If this series reads in any way smooth and free of an abundance of horrific grammatical and story mistakes, this is because of Eden.

My eternal gratitude to her for her patience, insight, seemingly endless knowledge of our craft, guidance, and friendship. These stories would be lesser without her.

Second

I wrote the character of Martha in Falling Awake imagining a woman older than the other characters who exuded mystery, intelligence beyond her years, a hint of sadness, a supportive hug always at the ready, and wisdom. I named the character Martha because, in my head, I was writing her after Martha Davis.

Naming a character after someone I know allows me to keep the mind frame I need to be in when writing their scenes. And, once completed, I can always go back and change the character’s name. I didn’t do this with the character of Martha. Changing the name felt, well, dishonest. Martha Davis may be a talented singer, songwriter, and performer, but she’s also a storyteller in her own right. Watch her when she’s on tour with The Motels. She’s telling us, the audience, a story with each song, and if you observe her body language closely, she’s acting the song out in very subtle ways.

This is how the Martha in Falling Awake moves. Subtly. Mysteriously. Intelligently. Always with a supportive hug at the ready. Maybe with a little bit of sadness, and wisdom. Always wisdom. Very Martha Davis.

My heartfelt thanks to her for sharing her music, her heart, her support, and her enthusiasm.

For those who read the first edition of the Falling Awake novella published under my pseudonym, Kage Alan, there have been some small changes made to the second edition.

Mainly, it’s important to note for this book the character of Eddie has been renamed Alex.

The fiction of days I pass through

trying to focus on something so new

A clawing of nerve, that has to be served

And I still crave the love never earned

(Call Me A Cab by Martha Davis)

Chapter 1

This is only going to end one way.

The stairs creaked under Andrew O’Donnell’s sixty-two-pound weight as he set one foot down, then raised the other and took another step up. He heard every deafening creak and moan each footfall caused. His heart sped right along with those sounds. He gasped for breath, but only until the noise quieted at long last. It wasn’t that he was overweight. Andrew actually weighed slightly under the ideal for a ten-year-old boy and happened to be several inches taller than the average. Only, his size didn’t contribute to the sound either. The cacophony felt intensified because the house was so dark, so still, and so absolutely quiet—minus the creaking he caused—he’d be able to hear the screams of the dead if he listened hard enough.

Not this again. Not again. I know what’s up here. I know what’s waiting for me on the second floor.

Andrew gripped his tiny Eveready flashlight so hard the metal might bend. Not a smart thing to let happen, especially since it took him a month to collect enough bottles to turn in for money to buy the flashlight. The tool didn’t do him a tremendous amount of good at the moment since he had to keep his hand over the beam in case anybody was outside keeping an eye on the house. He didn’t want to get caught. Not there. Not with what he knew waited upstairs.

A few more loud squeaks and settling of the stairs later, Andrew stood at the foot of the long upstairs hallway. He held the flashlight against his chest, then used the back of his hand to wipe the perspiration from his damp forehead. A bead of sweat dripped down from the tangled mass of hair and went right into his eye, stinging it. Andrew waited several seconds for his vision to clear, then stared down the hallway. There were two doors, the closest directly to his left, closed.

I don’t want to go in there. I can’t help anybody there now. They aren’t alive. And they were the first to die.

Andrew started forward, moving cautiously past the closed door and towards the end of the hallway where there used to be another. Framed photos hung along the wall on the right, but whenever he thought to look at them as he passed by, Andrew only saw blurred images. Pictures were memories, and since these particular ones weren’t his, and the occupants of the house were long gone, the images had begun to fade, now blurs of what once was.

How many times had he entered this room at the end of the hall? How many times had he stared at the broken doorframe, studied the fragments splintered in a rage most people would never witness for themselves, glanced at the school textbooks, the hardcover Laidlaw Readers On the Way to Storyland—torn apart and in pieces on the floor—the overturned bed, dresser drawers that had been smashed against the wall, and clothes, ripped and shredded, strewn about?

How many times had he stood there, inhaling deeply, learning the scent of those who’d butchered the two adults in the room down the hall, who’d also taken their ten-year-old son out of the house? How often had he touched the sheets where his schoolmate, Thomas, had slept in that very room? How often had Andrew held one of his friend’s shirts against his face and cried like a baby, knowing the boy would never again wear it? And how often had he blamed himself for what happened to Thomas after the boy’s abduction?

My fault.

If only Andrew hadn’t wanted to go to the carnival. If only he’d never asked his parents’ permission, hadn’t asked his older brother to go, and if only he hadn’t asked Thomas to join them. If only Andrew steered them away from the shooting gallery when he first felt the stirrings of something wrong with the barker. It wasn’t the first time he’d sensed something about someone he didn’t know. It also wasn’t the last.

I should have insisted we leave. I should have pulled you away. I should have kept you safe.

Too many if only and I should haves.

Andrew turned off his flashlight and moved across the room towards the window facing the main street, careful not to step on anything. There were so many sharp bits and pieces scattered across the floor, so many potential ways to get hurt. He stared out into the night, at the farmland, at the lights from other houses with families too far away to have heard the screams or to have helped, and the skyline he couldn’t see, but still knew existed.

They were out there. They, the two men who’d done this, were somewhere out there in the distance. They, who had never been identified, who had vanished from the area without a trace, who inflicted the worst loss of innocence on a community in their wake, and the kind of scars not visible from the outside. They remained out there. They did this.

"No, a guttural voice, making a noise that sounded like it was partially blocked by something wet, gurgling, and sticky, corrected him. You did this."

Andrew’s heart hammered in his chest, and he nearly sent himself sprawling sideways when he whirled around. He gasped, and his legs wobbled under him as if suddenly turning to rubber. The once handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed, gentle, and very special young boy stood before him, only now there was blood seeping from Thomas’s eyes, ears, and mouth, and from several slits and other punctures in his red-soaked t-shirt and pants. One arm dangled at an angle that shouldn’t be possible, fingers also broken and pointing in directions they weren’t made to, and a leg bent at the knee much further forward than it had any right to be.

Thomas— Andrew only managed to get the boy’s name out before his throat seized up and hot tears streamed down his face. He couldn’t bear to see his friend like this. His pal. The boy they knew was destined for great things, but who Andrew failed to protect.

"You led me right to them, Thomas rasped, blood spurting from his mouth and pooling below him on the wooden floor. You did this to me!"

N…no! Andrew hoped his denial would be accepted this time, that Thomas would finally forgive him and leave him be. But it was a lie, and Andrew knew it. They both knew it. He remained responsible for Thomas’s death. He always had been, and he always would be. I loved you. We all did. I would have given my life to save yours.

"You killed me!" Thomas lunged.

* * * *

Andrew sat straight up in bed and screamed, his shivering body soaked in its own hot sweat. He screamed twice more, then his voice went hoarse, and his body wracked with sobs. It took several long moments, but he finally calmed enough to remember he wasn’t in the town he spent less than a year in during his childhood. He was actually several states away in a hotel. And it was fourteen years later, 1972, not 1958.

Bad dream? the man lying next to him asked somewhat hesitantly.

I’d take a bad dream over what I just had any day of the week.

He turned, his head still shaking, and studied the man’s face, any details visible from the dim light Andrew had left on in the bathroom with the door mostly shut. Leaving a light on had become habit over the years, especially if he had company. And he always made sure to warn a stranger so they didn’t freak out if he woke up like he had. Well, so they wouldn’t freak out quite as badly as they would if he hadn’t warned them. This was, of course, if they bothered to stay for the entire night. Few did. And the ones who did never stuck around the day after anyway.

Something from a long time ago, Andrew muttered.

It sounds like it happened two nights ago.

Did he hear concern in the other man’s voice? What’s his name again? Darrin? Darwin? Daryl? That’s it. Daryl from one of the Dakotas—the man didn’t mention which one—a deputy in charge of bringing back a delinquent. There’s a joke somewhere in there. Andrew started a conversation with Daryl at the local diner and tried his best to be charming and funny. It worked. Deputy Daryl struck him as a very guarded person, but they understood each other fine, especially the undercurrent of sexual tension and conversation within conversation. The man hadn’t been too difficult to seduce. They never really were.

The entire reason Daryl stayed calm when Andrew woke up from the nightmare likely stemmed from the man's profession. Or maybe there were kids at home--children suffered from bad dreams--which also meant a wife. There were a great many men on the road looking for overnight situations like this who had families. Few of them possessed the same rugged quality that tugged at Andrew's heartstrings, or green eyes and finely chiseled face that tugged at his zipper, though. If a Mrs. Daryl existed, it’d be something of a miracle the woman could still walk the next morning after a night with her husband! Andrew anticipated having trouble.

Whatever the reason, Daryl avoiding being found out as much as Andrew, which created a match made in Heaven--or at least for a couple of hours. Ah, strangers with benefits.

It was fourteen years ago, actually. Andrew wiped his eyes. I was ten, and one of my classmates was murdered.

That’s awful.

Daryl reached over and rested a hand on Andrew’s shoulder, reassuring him all was okay now, the dream had passed. It wasn’t okay, though. It might never be. But he appreciated the gesture all the same.

The awful part is not knowing the truth about what happened. Andrew took a deep breath and tried to shake the image of Thomas’s mangled body out of his mind, especially the sound of the boy’s voice. Both had been beyond unsettling. I know the police lied about part of it, and I think they lied about the rest so people wouldn’t panic. They said my friend was killed in a vehicle during a police chase. I think something much worse happened, and I don’t believe these dreams are going to stop until I find out what.

Daryl squeezed his shoulder. Further assurance.

You should go and talk to the people at the police department, he suggested. If anybody who worked on the case is still there, you might get more information. You kind of have a way about you for getting people to open up. He smiled. And if they’re no longer there, they’ve always got a buddy who remembers them, probably goes fishing with them once a year, and knows where they retired. Whatever happened fourteen years ago might not be as bad as you think, or it could be worse. But if it gives you closure, then it sounds like it’s worth trying.

The man’s words hung in the air, daring Andrew to pursue the truth rather than suffer a lifetime of nightmares. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t thought about trying to discover what really happened to Thomas. Maybe he never made good on the quest because he’d always felt responsible and didn’t want to live with facts even worse than he imagined. He barely lived with the guilt now. How could he live with himself if something more horrific happened?

Maybe. Andrew shook his head in agreement. You’re awfully nice.

My wife says the same— Daryl froze.

Yeah. Andrew sighed. That’s what I thought. I’m going to take a shower. He peeled the sheets off his lower body, swiveled his legs over and onto the floor, let Daryl’s hand slide off his shoulder, and stood up. He managed to stay standing without falling over despite a bad case of the shakes.

Are you sure you’re okay, Alex?

Andrew, he corrected the deputy and stumbled forward, naked, towards the bathroom.

Are you sure you’re okay, Andy?

It’s Andrew. My name is Andrew. He shut the door and turned the hot water faucet on full.

Deputy Daryl from one of the Dakotas who was picking up a delinquent wasn’t there when Andrew returned from the shower.

* * * *

Des Moines, Iowa

July, 1972

Lather, rinse, repeat.

How many times had Andrew heard that phrase announced during a shampoo commercial? It had become such a cliché, much like westerns were becoming. Why John Wayne decided to make another cowboy film in 1972—actually titled The Cowboys—didn’t make sense to him, especially when Robert Redford was said to be doing something a bit fresher with Jeremiah Johnson, which would be released later in the year. Then there were the oddities, films getting bizarre word-of-mouth, like Pink Flamingos and Fritz the Cat. Were Ralph Bakshi and John Waters the filmmakers of the future or would they never be heard from again?

Movies held little interest for him these days, especially if they fell into the horror genre. And arriving closer to the place where he’d spent less than a year of his life when he was ten years old, the place where the nightmares began, didn’t help. His dreams always grew so much worse the closer he got.

Andrew rinsed the rest of the shampoo out of his hair, picked up his toothbrush, squeezed some Gleem onto the bristles, and proceeded to brush while still in the shower. It tended to save time, especially since he wanted to get back out and see if the salesman he met the previous night, two days after Deputy what’s-his-name took off, wanted to get breakfast before they parted ways. Andrew had to get to work and…Charlie, that was his name, Charlie had to get on the road.

Charlie hadn’t been the gentlest lover. Easy to read and easy to seduce, but certainly not gentle. Maybe the guy spent too much time out on the road, frustrated with living out of a suitcase for months at a time instead of wherever he’d rather be, but the man’s aggressive nature was exactly what Andrew craved the previous evening, and Charlie hadn’t disappointed. Charlie liked his men younger, and Andrew wasn’t opposed to someone a decade and a half older than himself, sometimes even older, and sometimes younger than himself too. His guest wasn’t much of a cuddler and didn’t kiss. Pity. Some people were funny that way.

Still, the salesman provided a warm body on a dark, rainy night and quieted Andrew quickly enough when the nightmare came. His guest probably worried folks in the rooms on either side of them would knock on the door because of the disturbance, then the questions would start. People were also strange in how much they’d put up with for a free night’s stay somewhere since doubling up in a bed meant some relief for their pocketbook. Other pockets too.

As for being easy to read, he sensed Charlie would ask for a copy of the bill to turn in to his employer and get reimbursed for a stay he didn’t pay for. Probably wasn’t the first time Charlie cashed in on another’s generosity either and wouldn’t be the last. Something underlying in the man’s voice, a need for companionship, a desire to embody the clichéd good person, couldn’t override a selfishness and belief the world owed him. What exactly society owed him remained a mystery, yet there the attitude was, and made Charlie act contrary to his desire to be and see himself as a better man. In the grand scheme of Andrew’s life, though, his temporary source of affection ranked as basically harmless.

Andrew dried himself off with a fresh towel—far from its glory days of being fluffy and whole—ran his hand through his mid-length, yet easily styled hair, and peered at his reflection in a partially steamed up mirror. His looks always felt like a stranger to him, as if the person behind the eyes didn’t match the person outside them. Maybe if he had black hair. Or darker skin. Whoever he thought he should be didn’t resemble the current reality.

Nope. Definite disconnect. His skin was pale, typical of being a redhead, but he’d outgrown his childhood gangliness. His chest, arms, and legs had filled out nicely. Nothing athletic about him per se, but the amount of walking he did for his job kept him trim. Men whispered in his ear how handsome they found him, especially while lying on his back in bed with his legs raised for their mutual pleasure. They liked his height too. 6’2" meant a lot of man to explore, yet he wasn’t imposing or intimidating, which helped when he needed overnight company.

The men Andrew's instincts labeled safe rarely resisted, and their minds were easily pickable locks. He couldn't read their thoughts, but he did get strong impressions and manipulated those impressions to suit his needs. Sometimes he made mistakes, leading to…uncomfortable consequences. Two broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, broken fingers, a cracked tooth, plus other odds and ends injuries from folks who liked to play rough, or were downright abusive, reminded him to be more careful.

But when reading people actually worked? Andrew always took care not to overplay his hand. His gift also helped on the job when interacting with people who didn’t want him there and resented his presence.

If he played his cards right, Charlie might even want another quickie before breakfast and hitting the road. Nothing wrong with heading into a Monday with a smile on one’s face, especially on a suit and tie day.

Hey, Charlie? Andrew called out and wrapped the towel around his waist, deliberately leaving the edges hanging suggestively low. I was thinking we could get breakfast. Or I could be breakfast. You know? He opened the door and stepped into the main room. "If you’re up to it." He’d meant his words to be a come-on, only Charlie and his luggage weren’t there to hear. There was a parting gift, though.

Andrew’s wallet lay wide open on the bed, cash missing.

Yup. Sometimes he made mistakes.

At least Charlie left the book Andrew had been reading.

Wait. Charlie? Or Chad? Chandler maybe?

* * * *

Even dry, semi-stale toast and an ultra-cheap brand of coffee tasted good when free, both of which this particular hotel offered in abundance. What a shame they didn’t have any watermelon juice. Andrew also had the oddest taste for an espresso with frothed milk and mango. A place he frequented in San Francisco’s Chinatown two years prior offered the best of both drinks, and they were to die for. At least the hotel here offered a newspaper he could read when he sat at one of a few small wobbly tables to eat in their guest self-serve area. The tiny meal would do until he could stop by a bank and withdraw some money to make up for the twelve dollars what’s-his-name-took before reporting to the office. At least his overnight guest only got a few bucks and not more.

Payment for services rendered? No. Charlie/Chad/Chandler hadn’t been that good.

Andrew opened the paper and flipped through the pages, scanning the headlines. There appeared to be more to the story regarding the men arrested for attempting to bug the Democratic National Committee headquarters, and folks expressed surprise and confusion with the Supreme Court ruling the death penalty unconstitutional. He deemed both stories uninteresting and not what he sought. Where were the other articles? Gut feelings always stood out with smaller stories, though he never understood why. He’d turned his discoveries into a kind of game over the years, hoping at some point he’d make sense of seemingly random bits of information.

Lots of local news, more local news, a TV grid for the day—he made a mental note what time Here’s Lucy aired, which beat Monday Night Football and whatever movie NBC showed—and then he noticed the headline, so easy to glance right over without a second thought and tucked away on the right side of page nine:

Unlucky Cedar Rapids: City of Cold Cases.

Andrew lowered his gaze to the hair standing straight up on his arms. Here’s the reaction he waited for. This is how his gut feelings pointed him.

* * * *

Cedar Rapids.

Andrew withdrew twenty dollars for food and any incidentals from the bank. He’d gas up at a station where the office had an account, which would save some cash. As for OSHA’s Des Moines State Plan Office, it was only a few miles away from the bank and easy enough to find. He parked his government-issued Hawaiian Blue 1968 Plymouth Fury III in the parking lot, grabbed his suitcase, smoothed his jacket out, and headed towards the main entrance.

Two women sat behind a long counter inside the door. One spoke on a phone when he entered.

Good morning, Des Moines OSHA office. How may I direct your call? One moment please. Click. Good morning, Des Moines OSHA office. How may I direct your call? Who? Mr. Margrander? He’s unavailable until this afternoon. Would you like me to put you through to his secretary? One moment please. The consummate and efficient professional, probably in her forties, curt and no-nonsense, accented by her crisp, professional attire and somewhat unusual short feathered haircut, reminded him of Liza Minelli’s character in Cabaret.

The other woman, younger than her counterpart, though at least a decade older than himself, appeared a bit less formal with her light-colored dress and long flowing brown hair. She looked him up and down.

Good morning. She beamed. May I help you?

Andrew took a moment to study her a tiny bit more. She had perfect teeth, smooth skin, resonated genuine warmth, and seemed a bit taken by his looks. Figures. People tended to regard gingers with either curiosity or pity. Curiosity often got him laid. Pity? He’d quickly move on. Men? Got him laid. Women? He moved on. This woman fell into the curious category. But…a woman. Major strike. Moving on. Unless she had a brother. Maybe he even lived in town.

Good morning. He set his briefcase on the floor next to him, pulled his wallet out, and presented his government ID. Andrew O’Donnell to see Stanley Hiller, please.

I’ll let Mr. Hiller know you’re here. She picked up the phone, dialed a number, and waited a few moments. Mr. Hiller? Andrew O’Donnell has arrived. Yes, sir. I’ll tell him. She hung up. He’s on his way.

Thank you.

She continued to casually glance his way several times while he waited. Fortunately, Andrew didn’t have to stand there for more than a minute before a man who appeared to be in his late forties opened a door to the right of the counter. He marched up to Andrew and extended his hand, which Andrew met with his own.

I’m Stanley Hiller. He pumped Andrew’s hand. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Andy!

Andrew winced.

I said something wrong, didn’t I?

No, sir. Not wrong. It’s just I go by my full first name. People tend to take me more seriously when they’re dealing with an Andrew as opposed to an Andy.

I never thought of it that way—Stanley grinned—"but at your age, I can see that as being an