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Chapter One
Nick’s Tavern. Had he ever been here before?
Jack Gardner couldn’t recall, but then again, that wasn’t a big surprise. Not for him, anyway.
The
But he had to tell someone—and soon. It was driving him nuts. The same damn nightmare, over and over; it had to mean something. Just thinking about it made him queasy. Luther was the only one who might possibly understand.
The tavern sat at the end of a dead-end street, shrouded by a clump of unkempt palm trees. No billboards or marquees proclaimed its existence. Thin lines of withered morning glories weaved along the cracks on its bleak façade. The washed-out exterior seemed virtually colorless in the waning afternoon, and from all outward appearances, the place looked abandoned. Except for one thing: a small neon sign hanging on the door—three concentric circles glowing red, white and amber. As Jack approached the entrance, the erratic hum and flicker of the peculiar sign instigated a wave of anxiety so strong it stopped him in mid-stride. Goosebumps prickled his flesh, and he shivered despite the oppressive heat.
This was all wrong. He shouldn’t be here. There was something he needed to do, somewhere he needed to be . . . but where?
As always, the answer danced just beyond his grasp and the spark disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving him frustrated and aggravated. And yet the reluctance to enter Nick’s Tavern remained. Jack buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans and shook his head, trying to stave off the insistent anger gnawing at his gut, a constant companion over these past weeks.
It was just a bar. He usually liked to do his drinking alone, but it wasn’t like he’d never been in a bar before. And that stupid sign—well it was probably some new trendy beer or something. Just a sign. Nothing to worry about. Besides, Luther never would have suggested the place if there was any problem. The stress of the past few weeks had jangled his nerves, that’s all. But still . . .
“Jack? You okay?” Luther stroked the white stubble on his chin, concern reflected in his cobalt eyes, so startling against his charcoal complexion.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Luther nodded and swung the door open. A handful of people seated at a long bar turned in unison. Their chatter ceased as they stared at the doorway.
Jack hesitated, and the goosebumps returned in full force. “Luther, are you sure . . .”
But his friend had already marched inside. Jack took a deep breath and followed him into the haze of cigarette smoke, his head down as he passed the long bar. The place was eerily quiet. No music played in the background, no televisions blared with ESPN. The only sound came from his own sneakers squawking on the sticky tiles as he made his way to a small table across the room.
As the burst of illumination from the open door receded, the people at the bar returned to their drinks and resumed their muffled chatter. Jack sat with his back angled to the bar, his cheeks still hot with embarrassment. He didn’t like crowds to begin with, let alone crowds that stared at him. Did everybody get the same unsettling reception? If so, it was no wonder the place had such a grim air about it.
“Have a seat,” Luther said as he motioned to the waitress. “You sure you’re okay?”
Jack nodded absently as the waitress hustled over to the table. She was short and stubby, and with the look on her face, would have made a perfect model for a gargoyle. No “good afternoon” or “may I help you”; she just glared at them silently.
Luther smiled, deepening the creases on his face. “How you doin’ today, Selina?”
Selina scrunched her face. Her marble eyes darkened beneath her heavy brow. “I was fine before you two came in. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Luther’s pleasant expression didn’t change. “I’m orderin’ a diet Coke, that’s what. And my friend here will have . . . ?”
“Uh . . . Miller. Draft, if you got it.”
Selina swiped a strand of hair away from her face. “Your friend? Is that what you call him now?”
“A diet Coke and a Miller, Selina. If you please.” His smile didn’t waiver, but his eyes narrowed with a determined look Jack knew well.
Selina grunted and cast a venomous glance in his direction before scurrying away.
“What the hell is with her? You know her?”
Luther waved a hand in Selina’s direction. “Don’t pay her no mind. She just takes some gettin’ used to, that’s all.”
Jack fidgeted in his seat, his right leg bouncing up and down. This was crazy. He shouldn’t be here.
Luther was saying something about a bag lady that had wandered into the diner before lunch today, how he’d have given her a soda if he was in charge, but Jack was only half listening. This weird little bar rubbed him raw. It wasn’t just Selina. The whole atmosphere of the place seemed off kilter—hostile, even. He’d been on edge to begin with and this place wasn’t helping. Maybe his nerves were just getting the better of him again. He should have ordered a scotch instead of a beer. At least it would have calmed him a little. One beer wouldn’t do much to ease the tension creeping up his spine.
With a huff, Selina delivered the first round of drinks, then stormed away without a word.
Luther shook his head. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
Leave it to Luther to get right to the point. But it wasn’t that easy—not like talking about the weather or the latest loss by the Marlins. This story needed a little lubrication.
With a shrug, he drained his beer in one gulp. Before he could ask for another, a stout man, looking out of place in a starched shirt and bowtie, strolled over to the table. He introduced himself as Nick, the owner of the bar. He exchanged a few pleasantries with Luther, then asked for a private word with him.
Luther rolled his eyes and turned to Jack. “Order what you want. I’ll be right back.”
“Sure, okay.”
Carte blanche at a bar—that should help trim away some of the uneasiness. After all, hostile atmosphere or not, liquor was still liquor. He wondered if Luther would think it was rude if he shot for the top-shelf stuff. It’d be a nice change from the rot-gut he usually drank. Then again, Luther probably couldn’t afford the good stuff either. After all, The Nook didn’t pay either of them that well. It’d be great if the bar had a menu. He wasn’t really hungry, but maybe if he got something in his stomach, he’d feel better. With his pittance of a salary, hearty meals were not that common. A bag of peanuts or a Slim Jim usually sufficed, so long as he had something to wash it down with.
Selina was busy cleaning off another table and didn’t seem all that anxious to give him a refill. Just as well; he didn’t need any more of her lousy attitude. It’d be easier to order what he wanted himself.
He got up, stretched some of the tightness out of his back, and wandered over to the long bar, half-expecting the patrons sitting at the rail to turn and glare at him again. But they didn’t. They continued their quiet conversations, uninterrupted.
What the hell were they talking so intently about? It wasn’t like there was a game to discuss, or something like that. Were they talking about him? No, that was just him being paranoid. Still, maybe if he leaned in close enough, he’d catch a snippet or two, just to be sure.
But as he stood at the bar, it wasn’t the army of top-shelf liquor bottles or the bits of idle conversation that caught his attention. It was the mural.
How could he have not noticed it before? The bizarre display took up nearly the entire wall behind the bar—an exotic swirl of colors and images clearly visible even in the gloom. Its vivacity stood out in stark contrast to the rest of the place. The way the colors contrasted and blended was both repulsive and alluring. It tugged at him, pulled him in. As he analyzed the intricate patterns and designs, his insides squirmed and a shadow moved in the corner of his mind. The ever-present anger churning in his gut grumbled more fervently. When he focused on the mural, the colors twisted and undulated every so slightly—a trick of the eyes, for sure, but fascinating nonetheless. He could almost make out a picture, a pattern, but then it changed.
A tap on his shoulder broke the spell.
Jack turned. Selina stood nearly toe to toe with him, barely reaching his shoulders. She held a small, round tray with two half-empty beer mugs, and the scowl on her face suggested she’d like nothing more than to hit him with it. “You’re pretty ballsy, coming in here.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, asshole.”
Jack gritted his teeth, straining against the rising anger. What was it with her? Did she just not like the way he looked? “What’s your damn problem, lady? You’ve been giving me an attitude ever since I walked in here.”
Revulsion glinted in her eyes and her knuckles bulged as she gripped the tray. “Shouldn’t I?”
“You don’t even know me.”
“You think I’m blind? Of course I know you.”
The writhing ball of emotion suddenly mingled with a twinge of hope. Did she really recognize him? Could this miserable little bar jockey really have some answers to his questions?
“Okay, you think you know me? Who am I?”
“You’re a filthy piece of scum. Shit, all you have to do is look in the mirror to figure that out.”
It wasn’t just her words that got to him, but her tone. The flicker of hope melted in the heat of his fury. Disappointment and confusion fanned the flames and his anger surged forward, crashing through a thin wall of resistance he’d built around it. His heart thudded in his ears, dulling the sounds around him and the room pulsated to the internal beat. He knew he should just walk away and go back to his table. Luther even motioned to him from the back of the bar.
But Selina kept pushing. “Did you enjoy your beer? I spit in it, you know. A big hawker.” Her lips parted in a sneer. “I hope it was tasty.”
Her snicker was like a match touching a pool of kerosene. The fury within leapt to life, devouring him with sudden ferocity.
There was no other way—he had no choice.
With an internal flash, his insides exploded. A cry of angry surprise escaped his lips as a white-hot current raced through him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Every nerve splintered and crackled as a powerful pulse leapt from him and struck the jeering waitress.
Selina went airborne.
Airborne? How was that possible?
The round tray flew out of Selina’s hands, ricocheted off the floor and showered remnants of warm beer over several customers. She landed in a heap against the opposite wall. The sight might have been comical if it hadn’t been so alarming.
Selina looked stunned—and more pissed than before. Dazed, Jack ran his shaky hands though his hair, now slick with sweat. He hadn’t touched her; hadn’t even raised a finger against her. At least, he didn’t think so. Yet, against all logic, something told him that he was unmistakably responsible for what had just happened.
For a moment, there was silence. Conversations stopped and no one moved. Then bar stools scraped against the floor as several patrons rose from their perches, ready to assist Selina or beat the crap out of him. Probably both. Although younger than most of them, he couldn’t possibly hold his own outnumbered ten to one, especially since he still felt weak and unsteady. He could run. But then they’d think he was a coward. Instead, he should stay and fight. But what if they all came at him at once?
A heavy hand on his shoulder proved that Luther had made the decision for him. “I think we best be goin’ now.”
Luther steered him quickly past the patrons, in the direction of the front door. Selina scrambled after them, flooding the air with a caustic river of profanity.
The small crowd eyed him with malice as they murmured and rustled. A big guy appearing quite natural in his Giant’s football jersey clenched his fists and looked ready to take a swing at him as they hurried past. But he and Luther escaped into the late afternoon haze with no further confrontations.
Outside, Jack squinted at the relative brightness and braced himself, waiting for Selina to charge after them, accompanied by one or two burly supporters. But the entrance remained quiet, disturbed only by the sputtering neon sign. Luther stood, his arms folded across his chest, silently studying him.
Jack winced at the stab of guilt he felt. It was his fault—all his fault . . . “Luther, I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“You thinkin’ you got somethin’ to be sorry for?” Luther’s mellow
Jack wiped his palms on his jeans. “I don’t know. Do I? You saw what happened?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I didn’t touch her. I swear—”
“I know you didn’t.”
How could Luther stay so composed? What had happened in the tavern was insane. It made no sense. He’d gotten angry, but that alone couldn’t have caused Selina to fly backward like that. There had to be some explanation for it.
“She must have tripped,” Jack said.
Luther raised his eyebrows. “Tripped?”
“Yeah, you know. Then she fell backwards—”
“She didn’t fall, Jack. She was pushed.”
“I didn’t push her.”
“Not with your hands.”
There was a nervous flutter in Jack’s chest. He took a step closer to Luther, his legs still shaky. “What do you mean, not with my hands? How else could I have . . .” He stopped as Luther eyed him like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit the last hole. Jack had a sudden strong impression that his friend was hiding something, that he somehow understood what had just happened in the bar.
Luther turned to walk away, but Jack grabbed his arm. “Don’t walk away from me, goddamn it! You know, don’t you? Was it the anger? The dream? What aren’t you telling me?”
Luther glared at Jack’s clenched hand. “You don’t wanna be doin’ that now, do you?”
Luther was not a terribly big man—slightly taller than Jack and about twice his age—yet he had a presence that could simultaneously intimidate and inspire. Jack loosened his grip. “But you don’t understand . . .”
“I think you got that backwards, Jack. It’s you that don’t understand.”
This wasn’t like Luther. Over the past few weeks, throughout his many moments of confusion and uncertainty, Luther had been the only one he’d been able to depend on, the only one who had bothered with him. Now he was walking away.
“Luther, please.” He could hear the desperation in his own voice. “Talk to me.”
Luther spun around, his eyes reflecting angst so real Jack had to take a step back. “See, Jack, I can’t do this. I done too much already.”
“Can’t do what?”
“I need to think.”
“Think? Why?”
“You got to give me time.”
And with that, Luther turned away again.
“Luther, wait!”
But this time, Luther kept walking. Jack watched until he was out of sight, feeling somehow more alone than he had since he first awoke in the hospital eight weeks ago.
At the entrance to Nick’s, the strange sign with its three glowing circles still taunted him with a vague but powerful sense of urgency. He needed to be somewhere…needed to do something. But, as always, whatever it was remained just out of reach.
Should he go back in to Nick’s? It was possible someone in there might be able to explain what had happened. That is, if they didn’t kill him first. Probably not a good idea. Besides, if he had to confront that horrible waitress once more, the whole thing might happen all over again. He couldn’t face that. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Dull anger still simmered in his gut, nowhere near as intense as it was before, but there all the same, just below the surface. Could that anger really have been the cause of what just happened at Nick’s? No. That was impossible. There had to be an explanation. And now, more than ever, he sensed that Luther might have the answer. His friend would be at work in the morning, flipping eggs as usual on the prehistoric grill. He could talk to him then, after they’ve both had a chance to calm down. Things might not seem so crazy when viewed from the familiar confines of the back kitchen of the Nook.
With that in mind, Jack headed home to his shoebox apartment on the west side of Palm Cove, trying to ignore the grim feeling that by sunrise things would indeed look different, but not necessarily better.
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