The Darkest Eyes

By Mick Brady

The Darkest Eyes is an epic portal-crossing adventure with mythic resonance and strong psychological underpinnings.

Will Roan is at the top of her game career-wise. She's a deep-sea submersible pilot who's brainy, daring and cool. Her personal life couldn't be more different. For as long as she can remember, she's

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary McDonough Brady
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733003513

Mick Brady

Mick Brady grew up in Chicago, and spent part of every summer in Wisconsin, so she's a city girl with a strong country streak. She and her eight brothers and sisters were equally at home on the sidewalks and in the woods. Brady earned a BA in political science and an MA in social science from the University of Illinois. She later moved to Asheville, North Carolina, where she earned a BA in drama from UNCA. She taught writing and critical thinking at her alma mater for several years before setting out for California. Brady earned an MFA in screenwriting from the University of Southern California, and she taught writing and critical thinking courses at Pepperdine University in Malibu. Both at UNCA and at Pepperdine, she focused some of her critical thinking courses on UFOs and alien abductions, popular mythology, and paranormal subjects. Brady has worked as an editor in the tech industry for almost 20 years, and she currently serves as managing editor of ECT News Network. She lives in Ventura, California, where she is fortunate to have access to hiking trails in the mountains and bicycle trails along the beach. In addition to writing and promoting her creative work, she fills her free time with gardening, reading, watching movies and TV, and hanging out with family and friends, both virtually and in the real world.

Book preview

Chapter One

Deep Blues

––––––––

Louis Armstrong's trumpet painted the walls of the little craft with soaring blue notes. He climbed, she fell. The contrast pleased her. Will sat back, muscles relaxed, mind drifting in a pleasant state of meditation. The deeper she sank the safer she felt.

She dropped like a stone but the tiny sphere cradled her like her own private bubble. She went deeper, felt lighter. Outside it was dark, cold and forbidding. To Will it was home. She had all the company she needed.

Now, mama, mama, mama, why do you treat me so?

Ah, mama, mama, mama, why do you treat me so?

(I know why you treat me so bad.)

You treat me mean, baby, just because I'm gully low.

It amused Will that Armstrong reached his gully low just as her little craft registered 8,000 feet, about as deep as it could safely take her. Its headlight penetrated the darkness and a field of tubeworms came into view. The primitive creatures rose like a forest, swinging in the gloom as though swaying to the music's rhythm. The hydrothermal vent spewed boiling water from the ocean floor like a giant cauldron. If hell was anything like this, Will reflected, maybe she should stop running from her demons.

Beautiful, she whispered.

Who knew worms could be so sexy? Sheila murmured.

Will had briefly forgotten that even down there, she couldn't really be alone. Someone was always watching, always listening. Not that she minded Sheila, sharing her camera's view while perched on the mothership above. Sheila was more than the expedition's leader; she was one of Will's few friends.

A spidery white crab danced in front of her light.

Showoff, she grinned.

Next her beam played over a towering chimney-like structure.

Wow—look at that huge black smoker.

Crazy cool, said Sheila.

Out of the enveloping darkness, an enormous sea creature swooped into the sub's beam and plastered itself onto Will's view screen. She could see nothing except eyes—large, inky pools, reeling her into their depths. Will's heart raced. Her breath came in ragged bursts. Silently she told herself: It's not real ... it's not real... The sub hit the ocean floor and bounced crazily.

What the hell? Sheila barked.

Uh ... some kind of ray is blocking my view—I can't see—

What are you talking about? There's nothing there. Slow down!

Will forced her eyes from the mesmerizing gaze. Drops of sweat fell from her face onto the control panel. As abruptly as it had appeared, the creature vanished, and Will took in the scene outside. The worm field was dead ahead. She pulled up hard, but groaned with dismay as she plowed into the fragile sea creatures. The sub settled in their midst, bits of detritus floating about her like the snow in a globe.

We're aborting, Sheila said, her tone unreadable. Set for the surface.

Under ordinary circumstances, Will would have responded to the order automatically, but the destruction she had caused so unnerved her that it didn't immediately register.

You need to come up now, Sheila said.

Right, Will muttered.

An icy breeze swooshed through the tiny space, overwhelming her with a new dread. It stopped her hand in mid-air. It stopped her breath. It froze the moisture on her face. Her head throbbed with the effort to resist turning around, to no avail.

Slowly she turned and found herself looking into the deep, liquid eyes of a gray. The thing was about three feet tall, with a big triangular head, overwhelming black eyes, no nose, and a tiny immobile mouth.

It looked just like the aliens Will had seen on book covers, in movies, dangling from key chains at novelty shops in the mall. It looked just like the aliens crazy people claimed had abducted them. Just like the ones in her nightmares. It now stood two feet away from her, telling her in a kind of otherworldly mind chatter that resistance was futile.

Get out! Will screamed.

Sheila re-entered the conversation, sounding detached, like HAL the computer, Will thought, with the tiny corner of her brain that wasn't consumed with terror. Sheila reminded her of the sub's depth limit, that she needed to surface. Will wanted to turn away from the gray, but her eyes wouldn't comply. She dimly heard Sheila's voice warning that she was going too deep, too fast.

The gray's small, slit-like mouth didn't move, but a deep vibration cut through Will like the chant of a Tibetan monk. It told her not to be afraid. She reached blindly behind her, groping for anything she might use in her defense.

The craft lurched—the lights flickered off and on. Armstrong's trumpet wailed. The alien told Will to obey. One part of her was swept into its hypnotic gaze. Another part told it to go fuck itself.

The sub careened drunkenly over the ocean floor, its mechanical arms flailing. Its beam revealed a fast-approaching drop-off. Will didn't hear Sheila yelling at her to pull up. She didn't hear Armstrong. She could only hear the deafening drone of the alien, commanding her to give in.

With a monumental effort, Will slammed her fist into the creature's head. It took the blow without comment, merely bending sideways, then springing upright again. Will reached for its slender neck. Her fingers closed around it, sinking through the disgusting substance that passed for flesh. Will felt a wave of nausea rising. The creature stared at her, unfazed.

Sheila's shrill voice suddenly penetrated. Will!

She spun around, maneuvering the sub away from the drop in a swift, reflexive motion that made her feel, for an instant, back in control. Panting, adrenaline surging, she swung back to face her adversary. The alien was gone. She was alone, except for Armstrong.

If you listen baby / I'll tell you something you don't know. (You don't know.)

If you just listen to me honey, I'll tell you something you don't know.

Chapter Two

The Great Barrier

––––––––

Will Roan never actually wanted to be a man, but she grew up in a world that regarded them as smarter, braver and stronger, and she always felt she belonged in that class. Her name was a way of claiming her place. Her own invention, it was one of the few things she liked about herself.

She had been christened Willabelle, which might have worked in the South. In Lake Maygone, the small Michigan town where she grew up, it made her a target of childish taunts. Willbilly, the kids called her. When she went away to college she decided to drop the belle part, becoming Willa B., but she soon tired of explaining that the B stood for nothing—like Harry S. Truman, ha-ha.

On the day she legally changed her name, it felt like a wild impulse, though the decision was years in the making. With the stroke of a pen, she uncreated her born self and Willoughby Roan arrived complete. Then she could honestly tell anyone who caught a glimpse of Willabelle on the pastel scented envelopes that arrived with regularity in her mail that it was just a name her mother called her. She had to humor the old lady because she was not quite all there—that part was true, of course.

Will never felt self-conscious about being tall. She liked her height and her sheer, unfeminine strength. She enjoyed unfolding her sinewy frame as she awoke each morning, stretching like a big cat. Paradoxically, she also liked small, dark places. She liked being in control and out of reach.

Her drive to excel, her physicality and her emotional aloofness made her the kind of woman many people found unapproachable. At an age when her contemporaries were attending their kids' college graduations, she was aggressively—perhaps defensively—single.

"A Life Unlived." That would be the inscription on her tombstone. A heart unopened, a womb unfilled, a mind undone. Forever on the move, Will unmade her tracks, her bed, her decisions. She unmade friendships and connections. She unmade the best of it.

Will's job did not lend itself to lame excuses. Hey—sorry for the screw-up. The fact is, a little alien on board distracted me. At best, such an admission would suggest a hallucination due to pressure sickness, a susceptibility that in itself could end her career. She couldn't very well offer her proof against it, though—that the little devils had been hounding her at sea level for years.

So she sat mutely as Sheila struggled to write a report that wouldn't damn her completely. One of the few who had made the effort to look behind Will's carefully constructed facade, Sheila knew there was much more to her than met most people's eyes.

Seriously, what happened down there? she asked for the hundredth time.

Will shook her head slightly. It's not what you think.

I don't know what to think.

I don't know what else to tell you. Just do what you have to do.

Sheila raised her eyebrows. There was precious little funding for manned ocean exploration, and Will was one of the few people on the planet capable of operating the deep sea submersibles used to carry it out. In fact, she was the best. Still, she had torched the mission and very nearly wrecked the craft.

Can you work with me here? Sheila asked.

Will stood silently—not defiant, not contrite. Just still.

How are things at home?

Will caught her drift. Not good. My mother is very ill. It was true.

Family emergency became the official reason for Will's abrupt departure and the untimely halt to the research. Privately, Sheila told Will she would need to present pristine medical and psychiatric health reports to be considered for any future expeditions. She kept to herself her doubt that her friend would ever pilot a sub again.

*****

Will headed south. She thought she might go as far as Antarctica—all the way to the Pole, maybe. Perhaps the little shits would turn blue and shatter into a million ice crystals, like cartoon characters. Then she remembered all the long, bone-chilling Upper Peninsula winters of her youth and decided to stop in Australia, where she quickly landed a job guiding tourists on scuba dives near the Great Barrier Reef.

A white owl followed her.

Will caught it mainly with her subconscious sight—swooping in and out of the corners of her dreams as she drifted in and out of sleep. She couldn't quite decide whether the thing evoked fear or just revulsion, but she slept with all the lights on and the ancient TV flickering dully.

The owl peered wisely through the tiny apartment's second-floor window. Will was stretched out on a heavy leather sofa that had seen better days, wearing a tank top and bikini pants. A crocheted afghan was jumbled at her feet, and a thin pillow was doubled under her shaggy head. Her long arms and legs were dotted with bruises.

A ceiling fan rotated slowly overhead. An empty bottle and half-full glass of red wine sat on the coffee table next to her, along with a dark orange slab of sweating cheese. The TV was barely audible—a morning talk show was on.

A young woman with long, dark hair pulled into a limp ponytail spoke.

It's completely terrifying, she said.

The host frowned skeptically. They're not exactly ferocious-looking.

Artistic renderings of gray aliens flashed onto the TV screen—some crudely drawn, others lavish with detail.

What's so terrifying? he pressed. I'd love to meet an E.T.

Under other circumstances, the suited middle-aged man who responded might have been taken for a corporate attorney. Occupying a place on a panel of alien abductees automatically made him look weak.

It's impossible to fully understand unless you've been through it, he said. It's not an adventure. There's a complete loss of control. People have been driven to suicide over this.

A heavily made-up blonde chimed in.

You're conscious, but you're paralyzed, she said. They physically paralyze you, and they... paralyze your will. Her hand made a nervous, fluttering motion.

A rooster crowed. The sound came from a novelty alarm clock sitting a few feet away from the abandoned wine and cheese. A chirpy digitized voice told the sleeping Will it was six o'clock a.m. The rooster crowed again.

Without opening her eyes, Will groped for the clock and hurled it unerringly at the owl. The windowpane shattered. She picked up the remote and clicked the TV to darkness. The room was silent. She sat up, trembling.

Will stripped naked, exposing a few more bruises, and performed her morning ablutions, which consisted of going to the bathroom and brushing her teeth. She pulled on a faded one-piece swimsuit in a moss green shade that matched her eyes, covering it with shorts and a tee bearing the Wind Spirit logo. She grabbed a bagel from a bag on the counter, saw a bit of mold on the edge, and tossed it into the trash.

She emerged from a doorway next to a Chinese takeaway and began to jog effortlessly down the street. She passed fast-food stalls and cheap souvenir shops where workers raised awnings and set up displays. The promenade teemed with scruffy backpackers, tailored professionals, and sunburned tourists sporting floppy hats and cameras.

Cutting through the crowd, she angled across the street to a park, where she jogged past rows of evenly spaced palm trees, hedges of bougainvillea and scampering wallabies. A haze lay over the ocean beyond the mudflats that bordered the far side of the park. Will inhaled deeply, tasting the salty air.

Few things gave her the release running did—this short jog qualified as a tease. Crossing back to the busy side of the street, she bounded onto a tour bus parked in front of an expensive hotel.

A conspicuously handsome driver greeted her with a smile.

Mornin', mate.

Will sighed. Another irritation and the day wasn't yet an hour old.

Morning, Johnny.

The bus pulled away. Will's eyes swept the group of tourists—they looked just like yesterday's tourists.

Johnny began his patter, speaking through a microphone.

"Hope you folks didn't eat your brekkies yet, because a feast awaits you on board the Wind Spirit, and all our ship rations are guaranteed seasick-proof. If you ate anything on your own, we make no promises."

Now you tell us, a passenger interjected.

The crowd laughed. Will stared studiously out the window. Johnny lowered his microphone and turned his attention to her.

Going by the Half Shell tonight?

Not likely.

He grinned as though encouraged and picked up the microphone.

Today we'll be sailing out to the reef, where we'll see masses of black geese roosting—quite a show. Among the extras on offer is a chance to view marine life in our glass-bottom boat or join a scuba-diving adventure led by our own princess of the deep, Willoughby Roan.

Johnny winked at her, all boyish confidence. Will groaned inwardly. Her persistent sense memory of their one and only intimate encounter was the clammy texture and musty odor of his sheets. Even the drunken stupor that led her to think it would be a good idea to couple with him one night hadn't prevented her from noticing that.

You should do your laundry more often, she said coolly.

Will gazed out the window. A brilliantly colored parrot swooped through the sky over blazing masses of wild poinsettias.

The bus turned a corner, and the masts crowding the harbor came into view. The remaining few minutes of the ride brought no more clever remarks from Johnny. The first to jump off, Will hurriedly brushed past a group of tourists having their picture taken, and boarded the huge catamaran.

Crew members gathered for their last few minutes of free time in the galley, where a vase of long-stemmed yellow roses occupied the center of a table loaded with pastries and fruit.

Danny, a muscular sailor with perpetual sunburned fair skin, pounced as Will entered.

Secret lover? he asked, gesturing at the flowers. Wish I could say they're from me, but I'm short the cash.

And the class, shot Bernard. Fiftyish and gay, the head chef identified with Will. They were both outsiders.

Look at those bruises—heat of passion? Danny smirked.

Will opened the card and her expression darkened. Stuffing it into her shorts pocket, she removed the roses from the vase and pitched them through a porthole. Then she calmly sat down, poured coffee, deliberated between a blueberry and a raspberry Danish, and chose blue.

Trish, a friendly Midwesterner who thought people like Will made the rest of the world hate Americans, wondered if they would be motoring out.

Yeah, Danny said. Wind's too light.

The ship's engine rumbled.

*****

Will might have been less contemptuous of the tourists who signed up for her guided tours if she didn't feel so utterly responsible for their safety. Every day she forced herself through the same nerve-splitting drill: sizing them up as they squirmed into their wetsuits, wondering which of them might absorb something from her one-hour crash course, and which already knew just enough to be dangerous.

She usually took a dozen down, and more often than not at least one of them would require some kind of special assistance. One problem was one too many. It meant leaving eleven on their own.

When two or three got into trouble, which had been known to happen, Will did triage, dealing with the most imperiled first and hoping the rest would survive until she could get to them. She always got to them, and in the end, everyone, except Will, would chalk up the incident as no big deal—just the sort of thing that made vacations exciting.

The Wind Spirit boasted a perfect record of survival on their scuba-diving excursions, but Will scoffed at that statistic, knowing full well the large part luck played. She once said as much when arguing for a second guide on each dive, but the corporate guy who heard her graphic description of the latest near-catastrophic incident just shrugged it off.

Someone could have died, Will said. She spoke quietly, hoping it would sink in.

She had traipsed over to the cruise company's headquarters, dressed for business, speech well-rehearsed. She had kept her cool, not wanting to put the guy off.

That's why we have insurance, the exec replied. They all sign releases. End of meeting.

Will told herself that she would quit the job as soon as she could get another scientific gig. As soon as she could get a doctor's note. Pick a name. Make an appointment. She would do that tomorrow.

Today she would lead this group into the sea—and even if she could descend just a couple of hundred feet, even saddled with the burden of keeping a dozen strangers from drowning, she couldn't wait to get there.

Will made eye contact with each of her charges in turn as she gave them her final cautionary lecture: We're all out to have a good time, but let me emphasize, if you get into trouble, it's not just your trouble.

She held for a moment on Brad, a guy in his thirties wearing a confident smile. Something about him bothered her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She continued to address the group but focused her attention on him.

I promise you, if you go down knowing that you're not fit for this, you'll either die below or you'll answer to me up here—and that could be almost as unpleasant.

Will smiled sweetly—they were paying guests, after all.

*****

She led the group through aqua water, past brilliant coral formations, through schools of orange and yellow-spotted fish, past fluorescent sea fans. She pointed out a clownfish, motioning her charges to stay away from its venomous tentacles. A herd of seahorses galloped by.

The dive started smoothly. As usual, a couple of younger, more athletic swimmers ventured too far out in front, and a middle-aged couple lagged too far behind. She should tether each person to her on a separate line, Will thought, so she could move through the water like the mother of twelve toddlers navigating the mall, or a twelve-tentacled octopus, or a twelve-plaited Medusa. She hated being out of control.

Someone grabbed her from behind. Will took the grasping hand in her own as she turned around. It was Brad.

The rest of the group vanished from Will's attention as she struggled to control him. He was panicking—and strong. She couldn't keep him at arm's length—he clutched at her desperately and managed to get a grip on her mask with one hand, while clinging to her arm with the other.

Will tried to protect her air supply as they tussled, but a strap broke and Brad won the tug-of-war, with her mask and mouthpiece as his prize. With a surge of power she freed her arm from his grip, swam a few feet away, and then looped back to grab his wrists. Lungs about to burst, she swam for the surface.

Will broke through the water first and gulped air. Brad came up next to her and immediately resumed his thrashing and clawing. She pulled off his mask, and one look at his wild eyes left her no choice. She landed the hardest punch she could manage and he went limp.

Will treaded water, catching her breath, Brad's lolling head cradled in the crook of her arm. Blood streamed from his nose as the rest of the divers bobbed up one by one. She led the bewildered group back to the boat.

As Brad came to, the ship's paramedic hovering over him, he gasped a request for the inhaler that could be found in his backpack.

Fucking idiot. Will turned away in disgust.

*****

The Wind Spirit's captain, Jack Ellis, was healthy, handsome, and possessed of abundant patience and good humor. Several crew members were hanging out with him on the bridge when Will stormed up.

Something wrong? he asked mildly.

Will turned her glare on the others.

Could you please leave?

Jack seemed curious but not intimidated—he motioned them to stay.

Fine. Have it your way, Will fumed. Number one, I'm sick of risking my life to rescue morons. Number two, I don't appreciate being the laughingstock of this ship. Number three, I quit.

Jack turned to the crew, now openly gawking. Could you please leave?

And flowers. What made you think I wanted fucking flowers? Will didn't care any longer who heard her. We're not in a relationship. You're acting like a female.

Maybe one of us ought to, Jack shot back. If we're not in a relationship, what do you call what we've been up to all summer long?

Nothing. Who cares? I don't need to give it a label.

Aren't you getting on a bit for the madcap single girl routine?

Will felt her face flush.

You're scared, aren't you? Jack's voice dropped to an awed whisper. Maybe all you ever wanted was someone to hang onto in the dark.

She wheeled around and left.

*****

The ship engine stopped. Will stood at the rail and watched the setting sun as the crew hoisted the sails. Golden ripples danced across the sea.

From the upper deck, she heard a guitar playing and the soft chorus of voices. It was the way they ended every excursion—sailing back, lulling the tourists into a nostalgic stupor with old folk songs. Corny crap like Michael Row the Boat Ashore and Kumbayah. She put on her sunglasses to keep the wind from stinging her eyes.

*****

Will poured the last of a bottle of Shiraz into her glass. Every light in the apartment was on. The ceiling fan rotated at high speed. Curtains covered the broken window, but shards of glass were still strewn across the floor. Will held the phone to her ear, counting the rings on the other end.

Sheila—hey. I'm glad I caught you, Will said brightly. Too brightly.

She leaned back and closed her eyes, listening for what she wanted to hear—trying not to hear what Sheila actually was saying.

Will lowered her voice, struggling to sound casual, but she heard her desperation singing through. Come on, Sheila—I can't stand this tourist crap. In fact, I quit today.

Maybe not a good idea to mention the quitting. It pressed another one of Sheila's endless alarm buttons.

Another episode?

No, not another episode. An unfortunate romantic entanglement. The captain sent me roses.

She glanced at the window. The curtain had moved. She was sure of it.

Flowers aren't exactly sexual harassment.

They're stupid. All of this is stupid. You know what I'm capable of. I shouldn't have to beg, but I'm begging. Please—give me a spot—anything.

Will squeezed her eyes shut. Sheila told her she needed to see a doctor. Why was that the only thing she could say anymore?

Don't you think you might be overreacting a little? I'm not the first person to screw up—and there was no damage.

Tell that to the tubeworms.

Will cringed. She had destroyed a beautiful field. A deep sea paradise.

It won't happen again.

Will. I heard you yelling at someone.

Myself. People do that. I was rattled.

You were terrified.

Okay. Fine. She hung up the phone. Sat on the edge of the sofa. Sipped the wine. She couldn't think anymore. The debate was over. Sheila must be right—she must be crazy.

Thousands of miles away, in the kitchen of a rambling Michigan house, a phone rang. The soapy hand that reached for a towel before answering it belonged to Polly Gilbert, a soft woman with a tumbled mane of blonde hair. She stood at the sink, sun streaming through the window. When it registered that the voice on the other end belonged to her sister, she sat down at the big oak table.

Will—what? You're coming home?

Whatever that means. How's Mother?

She's ... you know.

Yeah. Well.

What's going on?

"Nothing. Is this a bad idea?

I thought you were on an expedition, that's all. You said you'd be out of touch.

I'll explain when I get there.

I'm glad you're coming.

Give Becky a kiss for me.

Sure—love you.

Will hung up. A sudden sinking feeling drew her eyes to the broken window. The curtains were wide open. A shadowy figure slunk back into the darkness. For a long time, Will stared at nothing. She didn't know how she had gotten so bruised, but she knew the white owl was behind it.

Chapter Three

Turbulence

––––––––

The clouds looked like huge puffs of popcorn. Will pressed her forehead to the cool window of the jet and peered at the earth below through the clear blue space between. She saw large, perfect circles cut into the ground, clustered at the feet of barren mountains. They were brown and featureless, some overlapping—like crop circles without the crops.

The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round. Nothing looked familiar, but Will felt she had strapped into this ride many times before.

The plane shook, and a large woman working her way down the aisle let out an involuntary yelp as she lurched sideways. A soft chime sounded and the seatbelt light flashed on. The pilot announced they were heading into some turbulence. The woman appeared stricken with indecision for a moment, a mere dozen feet away from the bathroom.

It's starting, Will thought.

The only time she had navigated Midwestern airspace without some abnormal event interfering with her flight was on the single occasion when her itinerary included a layover in Chicago. The things that happened on the ground there made her determined never to go back, but back she had gone—time and time again—every time she tried to go home.

Will always booked her connecting flight through Detroit, but she had yet to catch a glimpse of that city. Inevitably—no matter what direction she came from—something would happen to force her plane to land at O'Hare. A faulty cockpit light. An airport security alert. Tornadoes in Kansas. Once a passenger suffered a heart attack.

Something always brought her down, down from the breathless uncertainty of skimming over a field of popcorn in a tin can full of anxious, smelly travelers to the dreadful certainty of tires slamming into pavement, giant bird riding its brakes, suffocating march into the terminal, ticket clerk saying, Sorry, no more flights to Sault Ste. Marie tonight.

Will knew that the big lady would not make it to the bathroom just as surely as she knew that she would not make it to Detroit. A storm was brewing. Almost as soon as the thought took form, the jet became engulfed in a torrent of lashing sideways rain with thunder drumming and lightning strobing.

The pilot announced they would be making an unscheduled landing in Chicago due to the freak weather. For most of the passengers, hitting the runway ended the terror. For Will, it was the beginning.

She sat in the waiting area near the gate for almost an hour, trying to form a plan that would keep her from leaving the airport. It was only when she caught the sympathetic glance of an airline employee as he shut down the desk and prepared to leave her completely alone that she felt the impulse to get up and walk. Airline employees were rivaled only by hospital nurses for their steely, uncaring demeanors, in Will's experience. That one would look at her with so much unguarded pity was unsettling.

Watch your step, a disembodied voice warned, as Will rode the moving walkway ever closer to a confrontation with the outside world. Neon sculptures glowed menacingly above her. She rode slowly toward the exit she had been determined to avoid. The rain was falling vertically when Will stepped outside. The sound was steady and hypnotic. Under the protective overhang, the air felt hot and stale. A taxi pulled up, and the driver beckoned.

She slid into the back seat. The nearest hotel, please.

He sat motionless behind the wheel. The man was small and slight. He didn't look at all like a cab driver—he wore a black suit and fedora. Will glanced at his ID photo and saw a swarthy complexion and a beaky nose. His name was John Smith.

The nearest hotel? she repeated.

The driver's head whipped around. There are no rooms!

Will stared at him, unflinching. He glared back. He blinked once, slowly.

You don't scare me, she lied.

She opened the door and tumbled to the pavement as the taxi sped away.

Will lay on the wet concrete for a moment, seemingly invisible to the crowd milling around. As she scrambled to her knees, she felt a shadow looming over her. Will looked up and met the sad eyes of the man, possibly a lawyer, who lately had appeared on an Australian talk show.

I can help you, he said.

I need to go home, she whispered.

I know.

He held out his hand, and Will grasped it. He guided her back into the terminal with a light touch under her elbow, which Will found oddly comforting.

I'm Will Roan, she said softly.

Adam Fort, he replied.

They entered an airport restaurant, and Adam ordered large steak dinners for both of them. Will ordered a pitcher of martinis.

I have to warn you—I'm not quite in touch with reality, she said, as if joking. In fact, I don't know if you're who you say you are or just a figment of my latest psychotic break. Don't suppose you can clear that up.

In truth, she was beginning to relax in the man's presence, and it occurred to her that he was handsome in an unobtrusive way. His gray eyes were clear and intelligent.

I can see that you're alone and afraid.

And you just go around rescuing people? Like Batman? Something like that. He smiled. I don't quite have his flair, though.

Will forgot the strangeness of their encounter when the food arrived. She hadn't realized until then that she was famished. She dove in. Adam ate slowly, carefully—as though working through a difficult math problem between bites. They shared a bottle of wine with the meal and sipped brandy afterward. Whether due to Adam Fort's reassuring presence or the effects of the alcohol, Will's nerves at last calmed.

What now? she asked. Though the meal had used up a good two hours, Will still had an entire night to get through. Adam's eyes met hers, and it occurred to her that she might be on her own again. She felt a tingle of apprehension shoot to her fingertips.

I have a room nearby, he said. There are two beds.

I'm not afraid of you, Will said. This time she meant it.

Will didn't wait to reach Adam's room, instead flinging herself at him in the elevator on the way up. She whispered a suggestion into his ear and followed it with a prolonged kiss, burrowing into him as though she might freeze to death without his heat.

Although her onslaught must have taken him by surprise, he didn't resist. He held her as though she was someone he cherished, rather than a brazen woman he just met. Will would always remember the tender expression in his gray eyes.

*****

A dark crystal tower dominated the landscape. It sprang from a fracture in the earth in the center of the city, blooming from the soup of energy and elements at the planet's core. It thrust itself upward like a giant metal cancer—asymmetrical, disorganized. Thunder boomed. Lightning sheared through the violet sky.

As Will walked toward the tower, she saw its shadow begin to move. It formed a canopy over the smaller buildings in its vicinity, shrouding them like a veil. Then the buildings disappeared—engulfed and absorbed by the darkness. The tower leaped higher into the sky.

The shadow rolled outward in all directions like an inky sea. Whole sections of the city disappeared in the flood as Will watched in dumbstruck horror. The tower's girth grew more massive as it continued its climb toward the heavens. Its shadow became a tidal wave of blackness, rising above her, curling with elemental power, poised in a breathless moment before it would come crashing down.

Suddenly, Will found herself in another time/space—disembodied, yet complete. The great, jagged tower had ripped itself from the Earth and was circling the sun, its velocity increasing madly as it whirled around and toward the ball of gas. Will saw the life force of millions of lost souls glowing from within the dark crystal. It burned brighter as it careened toward the solar furnace.

This is the way the world ends, she thought. This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. With a bang.

The monolith exploded into a tremendous ball of cosmic dust. Like the ashes of a global crematory, Will thought. Like spangled stars on a blanket of night. Like the breath of diamonds.

She awoke to find herself lying next to the stinking corpse of a dolphin. She rolled away from the thing, extricated herself from the sheets and stumbled to the bathroom, where she splashed cold water on her face and worked hard to calm the beating of her heart, the trembling of her hands. To force back the impulse to start screaming and never stop.

Her mind groped for a plan of action. She needed clothes. She was naked, having scattered her garments in the trail of her inexplicable passion the night before. Girding herself against a wave of nausea, she left the sanctuary of the bathroom.

Adam lay in the bed, sleeping peacefully. Will dressed hurriedly and left without waking him.

A taxi waited at the curb. She got in and said nothing. John Smith drove toward the city, whistling Take Me Out to the Ball Game, watching her in the rear view mirror, his eyes cold.

He drove toward Willis Tower—a dark, irregular structure that dominated the city's skyline. It seemed to spring like a great crystal from the earth, Will thought, not for the first time. When they got there, she left the taxi wordlessly. She didn't pay.

As she approached the tower, John Smith's whistling reached one, two, three strikes you're out, and abruptly stopped. Will knew his mocking eyes were following her, but she didn't turn around.

She walked into the tower with a mixture of dread and resignation. She had been there many times before. Every time her travel plans had been interfered with and she had found herself unwillingly hitting the tarmac in Chicago, the tower had pulled her like a magnet into its cold clutches.

She didn't know exactly what to expect as she rode the elevator to the Skydeck, but her heart raced. Each previous experience had been different in the details, but predictably terrifying.

She didn't notice the shift when it took place, just that she was sure the elevator was full when she got on, and somehow, while speeding up the shaft, it emptied without her noticing. This is impossible, she thought. As usual. The elevator doors opened, and Will stepped into a waking nightmare.

The Skydeck was crowded. Everywhere Will looked, she saw them—walking and chatting in little groups, gazing out of coin-operated telescopes, snapping photos. Small grays. Not a human in sight.

The aliens ignored her at first, but the screeching white owls seemed angry and impatient. They swooped toward her from all directions, skimming just over her head.

When Will tried to raise her arms to protect herself, she found that her hands were gripped by two taller aliens. How had they taken her without a fight? All at once, she was at the center of a mob of grays, and they were moving her in their current.

She felt a sudden surge of defiance, but it was quelled in an instant when they turned a corner, and she got her first look at an object that took her breath away. Will had never seen anything so beautiful or so threatening.

A huge crystal skull rested on a large platform with twin sets of steps leading up to the thing's eyes. They were dark and liquid, and large enough for people to walk through, four abreast. The eyes pulled Will like a magnet, and the thought came to her that if she entered their recesses, she would find unimaginable suffering on the other side.

Will tried to halt the progress of the alien escort pushing her toward the skull, but she was swept along, the owls harassing the mob like dogs herding sheep. Struggling seemed pointless, but she would not go passively to her doom. She managed to wrench one hand out of the alien's grip and raise it high, in the gesture of a drowning victim's final plea.

There was some scuffling ahead—Will craned her neck to see. Something had broken the ranks of the alien troops. She felt their confusion and dismay as an interloper made its way toward her. What she saw next topped all the other bizarre sights around her.

The rescuer carving a path through the alien mob was a large dolphin, lurching impossibly on its tail. The thing should have looked crazy—even comical—but to Will, the beast looked heroic. It held her in its gaze, telepathically conveying reassurance. Her heart leaped with hope.

Then she watched in horror as the white owls swooped down on the great dolphin, homing in on it with ferocity, taking great chunks of its flesh in their beaks and claws.

The creature wobbled and swayed, and its ragged breathing filled the air, but it continued its stalwart march. Blood poured from gaping wounds. As it reached Will, the aliens encircled her, but the dolphin simply pushed the whole knot of them back until Will found herself slammed against the doors of the elevator, which mercifully opened.

She stumbled backward, and felt the sensation of moving through a gauzy veil. As the elevator doors closed, she caught the dolphin's eyes, deep and sorrowful, and hoped the creature read her gratitude.

Will struggled for calm as she found herself once again in the company of an ordinary group of tourists making the usual mundane observations about the city sights. No crystal skull, aliens or owls for them. No magical dolphin.

The elevator doors opened on the lobby, and Will sensed that all was not right even before she saw the small crowd gathered near the entrance. She elbowed her way through the onlookers and saw a man lying lifeless on the floor.

Adam wore his gray suit and an expression of sorrow in his dead gray eyes.

He just fell like a stone, someone murmured.

Now, Will knew, she would be able to go home.

Chapter Four

Home Free

––––––––

Will descended the stairs of the small plane and found herself under a lavish sunset. The Upper Peninsula airport that marked the end of her long flight was as different from the Chicago hub as a place where travelers landed could be.

The air felt cool and clean. Small craft were scattered hither and yon like a fleet of toys. A group of skydivers trotted across a grassy field toward a plane waiting anxiously on an airstrip to complete the day's last haul. Will felt a prickling desire to join them, but she turned, with an air of resignation, toward the tiny terminal.

Polly's face was a mask of studied nonchalance as she met her sister. Will reflected that the expression must have taken days to achieve. No doubt she had tried on more honest reactions to her dubious homecoming—disappointment, frustration, pity, contempt—and found them too harsh for her delicate features.

The moment that bitter observation crossed her mind, Will realized she was once again projecting her self-loathing on the innocent. Polly's careful neutrality was a sure sign that she expected it.

The sisters embraced and kissed lightly, each reining in the intense emotions that threatened to bring down the crayon-lit sky. They bustled about, loading luggage and arranging themselves in the car. Once they could look at the road ahead instead of at each other, conversation might be possible.

You might not recognize her, Polly said, breaking the silence.

Will tried taking a breath. It worked.

You mean she's starting to look normal? she quipped.

Polly shot her sister a remonstrating look, but Will saw her mouth twitch.

If anything, she's more eccentric. She looks like an extremely eccentric, very sick old lady.

"Eccentric. Hell, you're eccentric. I'm fucking eccentric. Mother's lunatic or psychotic, or some other 'ic' in a category all her own."

The silence returned. Will leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

You know, you don't have to be so hard around me, Polly murmured. I know you.

The sky's luster had faded to shades of blue and purple-gray.

Anyway, she's dying.

A sharp pain stabbed deep into Will's gut. What gave her sister the right to pronounce a death sentence so coolly? To put that idea out into the universe where someone might pick it up and make it so?

Maybe it will be good for her. She hadn't intended that to come out. She struggled to redeem herself.

I mean, she's always going on about 'the other side.' Maybe she'll get there and find some kindred souls. She laughed. I'm sounding manic again, she thought, but the words kept falling out. Maybe that's heaven—finding someone who understands where you're coming from.

Polly turned onto a road that took them into a pine forest, and they mutually abandoned the effort to speak.

Will savored the peaceful gloom of the darkening woods. She inhaled deeply, and memories filled her. Once she and Polly ruled this territory. Together, they discovered the path that led down a steep bank to the Silver Stream, as they named it, and together they followed its twists and turns one fateful day all the way to the Bottomless Pool.

They had lost track of time on the journey, and Will's worry blossomed into alarm. Night was falling, and they were in the middle of the forest. She remembered looking through her twelve-year-old eyes at her sister, and seeing a scrawny, tired, scratched and muddy six-year-old looking back with a wide blue trusting gaze. Polly would have followed Will anywhere.

They couldn't go back the way they came, Will knew. The stream was tricky enough to negotiate in daylight. Polly might slip and hit her head on a rock. Anyway, the little girl was worn out and the air was getting cold.

As Will attempted to think through her mounting trepidation, she caught the flicker of a distant light in the corner of her eye. At first, she thought it was fireflies, but she soon realized there was just one light, and it was moving toward them. With a mixture of mortification and relief, Will realized it must be a flashlight. Mother must have sent a search party after them. She grabbed Polly's hand and hurried toward the beam.

Hello? Will called tentatively. Then, a little louder, We're over here.

No answer came, but in a blur the light was in their midst: a lacy, glowing orb that seemed to Will like a bit of moonlight that had dashed down to take a closer look at Earth. It danced toward them, then moved away in a repetitious pattern that soon made sense.

It wants us to follow it, Polly whispered.

The girls cautiously walked toward the glowing ball. It twirled merrily, changed its shape, and splashed a dazzling display of color onto the night air around them. Polly giggled. She was enchanted, unafraid. The light led the children to a flat trail that widened as the trees thinned. Will heard the unmistakable drone of a car engine.

They emerged from the woods onto a grassy pasture bordering the road that connected their town to the rest of the world. In the dark, Will was uncertain which way to go, but the little light shot ahead encouragingly, turning sharply as it reached the road, as if pointing in the right direction.

Her heart swelled with relief.

C'mon Polly, she called.

Silence. Will turned around and saw her little sister lying in a crumpled heap on the grass.

Polly!

Her sister's lids lifted slightly, but the eyes behind them barely registered. Polly was an inch away from deep sleep. Will struggled to wake her up.

C'mon, I'll give you a piggyback ride, she urged.

Polly rallied long enough to clamber aboard and throw her arms around Will's neck. Will held tight to her legs and leaned forward a little as she trudged up the road toward home.

The light was gone.

Polly slammed on the brakes and lurched to a halt, jolting Will back to the present. A deer bounded across the road in front of them. Polly cut the engine and waited. After a moment, a fawn scampered across. The silence gradually came alive with bird sounds and the rustle of wind high in the trees. The last bit of daylight tossed dappled shadows across the road before them.

Polly? Will said softly.

Yes?

I'm either having a prolonged nervous breakdown, or I'm going crazy like Mother.

The dusk gathered around them like a cloak.

Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, Polly said.

She started the motor and drove.

"What's that supposed to mean? I'm on the goddamn bridge! I lost my job—my life."

Maybe the life you lost is one you weren't meant to have.

Oh. So I chose the wrong career? That's it? Everything I managed to achieve has been an effing big mistake?

I'm not saying it's all been for nothing. I'm just wondering out loud if... if maybe you're meant to do something else.

Like what?

I don't know.

Great.

Sorry, Polly snapped. I'm a little preoccupied. I sort of forgot that the desire to see Mother one last time isn't what brought you here. I guess I'm thinking a little more about her dying days than your mid-life crisis.

I wish you'd quit saying that. You don't know that she's dying. Nobody knows.

"She does. She's decided."

The woods melted away, and they drove through open farmland in the evening's last light. It was fully dark when they reached the outskirts of the sleepy town and veered onto a narrow road that bordered a tree-ringed lake.

Polly pulled onto a long drive leading to a large white frame house, which bore its century-plus existence with stately grace. A porch wrapped around the structure, furnished with a swing, scattered chairs, tubs of geraniums and hanging pots of ivy. Wind chimes tinkled in a light breeze.

Nostalgia swept over Will like an illness. A girl was swinging on a tire hung from a maple tree whose silver-backed leaves glittered in the night. She wore an old-fashioned plaid dress, its bow coming loose in the back. For an instant, Will thought she was gazing through a time tunnel at her nine-year-old self. Then the vision jumped from the swing and ran toward her.

Aunt Will! the child exclaimed, throwing herself into her arms.

Becky!

For the first time in centuries, it seemed, Will felt the delicious warmth of total, unfettered love. No questioning. No judgment. She squeezed Becky tightly, causing laughter to bubble out of her.

Polly tousled her daughter's strawberry blond curls as she passed, carrying Will's luggage toward the house. Will scooped up the girl and followed.

You're getting so big—I can hardly lift you, she laughed.

Becky rested her head in the crook of her neck.

Gran's dying,