Chapter 38

Cassie's eyes snapped open, and she sat up. She looked around the bed, as if expecting to have carried the screwdriver with her.

She sighed and dropped her face into her hands. Of course she knew who SF was. It had to be Stephanie Fowler. She had climbed up there, probably on a dare, intending to leave proof of her visit. In the middle of carving her message, something happened.

Cassie raised her head. "Is that what you're trying to tell me? That Stephanie had visited that place?"

She received no response, and nothing touched her empathic sense. She continued anyway, if for no other reason than to get it straight in her head.

"Did she receive something? Her Projection power? She got it from you, and then I got..." She trailed off, paused, and shook her head. "No, you couldn't," she said in a shaky voice. "Not my Dream Gift. I didn't..."

Emotions spun in a tumult. She did not know what to think. For the longest time she had wondered from where her powers came. She had thought it had something to do with being born atop the mesa, but she had never expected a link like this.

Above all else was the question she did not know how to answer: did it matter from where her power came?

Richie bounded down the stairs, slapping his hands against the pockets of his jacket to verify the presence of his baseball and the cell phone. He jumped the last three steps, landing with a thud which rattled the vase sitting on the little table near the entry hall, motes of dust covering its plastic flowers fluttering in the morning sunlight.

Sandra emerged from the kitchen, a tight dress painted to her voluptuous body. "About fucking time you came downstairs after missing..."

She trailed off as Richie ignored her and barreled on towards the door to the garage.

"What the fuck, Richie?" Sandra cried as Cathy stepped out from behind her, looking uncomfortable in her dress. "Where the hell are your Sunday clothes?"

"Still upstairs, I figure," Richie muttered, still heading towards the door.

Sandra followed. "You are not going to church dressed in those ratty jeans!"

"Who the fuck says I'm going to church?"

He reached for the doorknob, but his mother raced up behind him and slammed her hand against the door. Richie looked up and gave the door a vicious yank. It opened an inch, then slammed with enough force to rattle the nearby light fixtures and make Cathy flinch.

Richie spun around and glared as his mother. "I have better things to do today."

"Like hell you do," Sandra growled.

"Why the fuck do I need to be there? Not like I'm listening to anything the reverend is saying. It's all bullshit anyway, just like everything else in this armpit of a town."

"I want to know what the fuck you're up to."

"Why? So you can go tell the fucking Big Bitch of Haven?"

"So help me, Richie, if you--"

"Will you just stop it?!" Richie shouted. "Stop doing this! Stop trying to draw me into these fake arguments!"

Sandra paused, her face uncertain. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said in a lower voice.

"Stop lying! This is just a fucking joke. Something to pretend everything is normal. Either you or that Dark bitch don't understand what normal is around here anymore."

"And you think I would let you get out of going to church if things were normal?" Sandra roared. "Then you have another thing coming to you."

Richie was about to retort when he realized that his mother had finally, if indirectly, acknowledged that things were not normal. He let out a ragged sigh, the feeling of relief almost alien to him. He had given up on her; or more accurately, he had wanted to give up on her to have one less thing to distract him, but that had been based on cultivating a relationship with his father through the link he supposedly shared with him.

Richie frowned. Supposedly? Where did that come from? Of course he shared a link. His father was practically taking up residence in his head.

Yes, his real mother would not let him abandon his Sunday morning responsibilities, which is precisely why he resisted. She was still not his real mother, and he did not want either himself or her to forget that. "You can't hold that door closed forever," Richie said in an even voice. "Soon as you let it go, I'm outta here."

"And if I go into the garage and smash that fucking bike of yours?" Sandra said in a deadly voice.

Richie's eyes widened, but he quelled the reaction by his next breath. He returned a gaze as determined as her voice. "Fine. I'll steal another bike like I did before. Or I'll get one from a friend. You can't fucking stop me if I want to leave."

Sandra paused, still glaring at him, but her eyes darted as if searching for a new angle or vulnerability. Cathy stepped out from behind her and gave Richie a forlorn look. "Richie, you're not going to be out all day like you were yesterday, are you?" she asked in a miserable voice.

Sandra's eyebrows rose. "Wait, he did what?"

Cathy turned to her. "It's true, he went out early in the morning and wasn't back until mid-afternoon. And then it was like ... like he didn't really want me."

"Oh, come off it!" Richie cried. "I fucked you yesterday afternoon, and then again at night before going to bed."

"But it just wasn't enough. I--"

"Stop whining all the time, for chrissakes!"

"Don't talk to her like that!" Sandra yelled. "She's your fucking cousin."

Richie slapped his forehead. "You're doing it again! Look, what's the big freaking deal about me being out?"

"You know Cathy has needs, and you have a responsibility to--"

"I don't have squat. I didn't decide to do this shit, you did. Or the Dark bitch did. Why is this my problem?"

Sandra uttered an exasperated sigh. "Cathy, go back into the kitchen."

Cathy looked stricken. "Why? I didn't do anything wrong, I just--"

"Go into the fucking kitchen!" Sandra screamed.

Cathy gasped and fled.

"Way to go, Mom," Richie muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Shut up," Sandra hissed through clenched teeth. She shook a finger in his face, her eyes blazing. "Listen up, you little fuckwit."

Richie flinched as if struck. He swallowed, his hands clenching and unclenching. It had been months since he had heard that epithet, and it still felt like being gouged with a butcher knife. His eyes flicked to her Aura, which churned like boiling black ink. He had never seen it so agitated, and he tried to convince himself that it was the source and not her.

His belief that this woman was no longer his real mother had been his anchor, and it had taken a single word for the chain to snap.

"We've been through this shit before," Sandra growled. "I've explained to you what could happen to Cathy if you don't give her what she needs."

"C'mon, Mom, this is stupid," Richie declared, though his voice quavered and had lost some of its conviction, though none of its hostility. "It's like you're saying she has a rare disease and I have to cure her even though I'm not a goddamn doctor."

"You are going to keep your word to me, you understand?!"

"I'm trying! But I have other things I need to do, I--"

Richie was yanked away from the door with surprising force. He did not realize his mother had done it until he rubbed the sore spot on his arm. He stared at her, watching her Aura writhe like angry serpents.

He narrowed his eyes to burning points. His anchor was back. His mother would never, ever use violence. Even their worst shouting matches had never degraded to that point. It was a line neither side would ever dare to cross.

Sandra shoved him hard in the chest. "You get the fuck up to your room, and you change into your Sunday clothes. Then you come back down here and we'll go to church. Then your ass is going to be parked right here in this house for the rest of the day. Do I make myself clear?!"

Richie ground his teeth. "Like crystal."

Sandra swept her arm towards the stairs. "Now go."

Richie glared at her as cover for looking into her eyes. He saw no hint of a shimmer, no trace of regret or sadness. Her Aura was a thick mass of black chaos, tendrils slithering around one another without any apparent direction or purpose. Jason was the one who was supposed to see the patterns and Cassie the one to sense emotion, but he swore he could literally see frustration in her Aura.

He was close enough to her that the Darkness could communicate with him if it so chose. He dared it to speak, to tout its perfect control over the puppet that was his mother. For a moment, he thought it had, but all he got was more frustration and a sense of measured triumph.

Richie was not going to hand it a victory. The fact that it had resorted to browbeating and violence meant it was scraping the bottom of the barrel. Somehow Richie had bested it. Just as Nyssa had resorted to fear with Cassie when lust had not worked, so it was the same with the Darkness.

An idea came to him, but he had no idea from where. It had simply sprung into his head. Did the Harbingers somehow manage to penetrate the interference? No way could he have thought of such a plan himself.

"After I use the bathroom," Richie said in an even voice as he turned down the hall.

"Wait, where the hell do you think you're going?"

"I just told you! The fucking bathroom!"

"Why don't you use the one upstairs?"

Richie rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you caught me. I secretly built a transporter from fucking Star Trek in the bathroom and now I will make my escape. Insert evil laughter here. Get over yourself, 'Mom.'"

Before Sandra could protest, he barreled past her and into the downstairs half-bath, slamming the door behind him.

His heart pounded as he wondered if he could pull this off. He threw the seat down with a bang and made a fanfare of lowering his pants, then sat down with a thump.

He paused and listened until he was sure he heard no footsteps approaching. He stood up very slowly and slid his briefs and pants back up his legs, moving with excruciating care. He held the buckle of his belt so it would not rattle as he redid it.

Richie took a deep breath and let it out as a slow sigh. He turned towards the window, which sat above and behind the toilet. He couldn't believe he was doing this, or that he had even thought of it.

He lowered the seat cover, careful not to make a sound, and climbed atop it. The first of the two latches holding the window locked squeaked, and he froze until he heard nothing from the hallway except an impatient, windy sigh from his mother.

Richie opened the window, his heart hammering in growing excitement. He peered down towards the narrow alley which ran from the back of the garage to the back yard. It looked very far away.

He threaded his torso through the open window, then turned around so he was sitting on the sill, his legs still inside. He took another deep breath and held it as he pulled himself up, until he was standing on the sill with his heels hanging in mid-air.

Richie looked over his shoulder and decided against jumping to the ground from here. He looked to each side and spotted the decorative hook his mother once used to hang plants in the spring. He reached down and grabbed it, giving it a sharp tug. It held.

He held on to the hook for leverage as he lowered himself to his knees upon the sill. Then in what seemed to be one smooth movement, he let go of the hook and grabbed the sill just as his knees slipped out from under him. His grip on the sill was enough to stop his initial fall for a split second before he tumbled to the ground.

Richie scrambled to his feet. Pain spiked through one ankle and his knees hurt where they had scraped the edge of the sill. He trotted to the back door of the garage, limping slightly on his damaged ankle. He tried the knob and cursed under his breath when it was locked.

He headed around the side of the garage. The pain in his ankle settled to a dull ache and did not feel weakened. He raced across the driveway and stood by the security keypad.

Richie paused to think out the rest of the plan. He had considered hoofing it and finding a bike somewhere else, but this was a matter of principle. He went over the plan once more, nodded, and thumbed in the code.

He crossed the driveway as the door rumbled upward, and he crawled under it as soon as he was on the other side. He sprinted towards his bike as the door to the house was thrown open. "What the fuck is--?!"

His mother was so surprised that, for a few more crucial seconds, all she could do was stare. As Richie grabbed his bike and was about to run it towards the door, Sandra thumped the door control with her fist. The door reversed, having risen only three feet, and started downward.

Richie grabbed his bike and took a single step before he realized he would never get there in time. He turned around intending to let out a vehement curse towards his mother when his foot struck something. He looked down and saw the can of grease.

Richie kicked the can towards the door. It rolled under with a few inches to spare. The door shuddered to a stop as the safety beam was broken, and retreated upwards.

He ran his bike towards the door. He heard the thump of his mother's fist against the button over and over, but the safety mechanism of the door forced it to continue upward, lest it accidentally crush some kid's skull that its simple programming was convinced now lay in the path of the door.

Richie ducked his head as he ran into the driveway and mounted his bike halfway to the street. He barely discerned his mother's shouts of rage as he sped away, and it was all he could do not to shake a fist in the air in triumph.

He knew following Jason would accomplish little. It didn't matter. What mattered was that it was something the Darkness did not want him to do, or it would not have tried so hard to stop him. That alone had made it worthwhile.

Mike dragged himself out of a restless slumber, blinking as the dreamscape was loathe to yield to the influx of reality. He shook his head violently and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, the sheet falling away from his bare chest as he slowly sat up. He still saw the snowy streets of Haven when a figure entered his realm of limited perception. Still groggy and disoriented, all he could do was to demand of it, "Did he get away?"

The figure paused before saying in a voice of both amusement and concern, "Good thing for you I like my coffee as strong as you do."

"What?!" Mike blinked rapidly and stared until the lingering sleepiness burned off like mist in sunlight by sheer force of will. His shoulders slumped, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "Shit, not again."

Betty gave him a sympathetic smile and stepped into the bedroom, her robe swishing around her bare feet. She balanced a tray in her hands, and upon it was a plate holding a steaming mountain of scrambled eggs and hash browns, next to a mug filled with black coffee. "Another dream?"

Mike uttered a bark of humorless laughter. "I wish I could call these fucking things dreams."

Mike pulled the sheet away and started to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Betty balanced the tray on one hand and crouched, slapping her free hand against his nearest leg. "No, you don't, you get back into bed."

Mike sighed. "Betty, I don't think I'm up to..." He trailed off as she straightened up, still balancing the tray on one hand. He sniffed the air, and his eyes widened.

Betty smiled and took the tray in two hands again. She lowered its legs and placed it across his lap.

"Oh, fuck, you didn't have to do this for me," Mike said, even as his hands reached for the knife and fork.

Betty sat on the edge of the bed and lay her hand on his thigh. "From the way you were tossing and turning towards morning, I had a feeling you'd need some fortitude."

Mike paused to shovel a few forkfuls of breakfast into his mouth before he replied. "Shit, I hope I didn't wake you. Surprised I didn't wake myself up."

Betty smiled. "It helps when you don't have to sleep in a place where you bump your head on a steering wheel or gearshift every time you turn over."

Mike had wanted to fill his stomach a bit more, but both the enticing aroma of the coffee and his fear that somehow his not-quite-a-dream would envelope him again drove him to pick up the mug and take a long sip. "Fuck, that's good. How the hell is it you're not someone's wife?"

"Marriage just wasn't for me, hon."

"Yeah, maybe it wasn't for me, either," Mike grumbled. He took another sip and felt anchored in reality again. He put down the mug and smirked. "And how did you balance that thing so well on one hand?"

"Used to be a waitress a long time ago, back when guys would still grope my ass when I walked away."

"Another mug of this stuff and I might be alert enough to do the same and maybe a bit more."

Betty smiled, but not in the way which suggested horizontal action, much to Mike's chagrin. He knew he was risking another flame-out, but he needed something to distract him from what he had just witnessed while he slept. Instead, her smile looked motherly, and he could not decide whether or not he cared for that. He hated the idea of finding any reason to dislike this woman, as much of a breath of fresh air her simple manner and candor had been for the past six months.

Mike at least gave her credit for waiting until he had dug more into his meal before she finally sprang the question he knew had been on her lips since she first sat down: "Care to talk about it?"

For once, he might want to. Having her not call him crazy the day before and then not dropping any hints that he should find someplace else to crash helped loosen his tongue. Yet he had to play his expected role. "Talk about what?" he grunted before swallowing more of the black elixir which kept the demons at bay.

Betty smirked and gave him a look.

"Yeah, okay, fine," Mike said. "Like you can't already guess what it was about."

"Your son Richie?"

Mike picked up his knife and fork, but stared at his half-finished breakfast and set them down again, his appetite having waned in the wake of the horrible imagery of his ex-wife skirting a line he would never have allowed her to cross. "I think I just helped my son escape from his mother."

"Escape?" Betty said in a confused voice.

"Yeah, escape, 'cause that's exactly what it felt like. He was trying to get out of going to church and--"

Betty chuckled. "If your son is half as non-religious as you are, I can understand why you'd think of it in those terms."

Mike frowned and shook his head. "No, you don't get it. I can't really convey to you in words what I was feeling. It was like he thought something really bad would happen if he stayed with Sandra."

"And you said you helped him?"

"He wanted to get into the garage so he could get to his bike." Mike snorted. "Kid thought he was fucking invulnerable on that thing, like he was greased lightning and no one could catch him. But Sandra was blocking access to the door from the house. I had this fucking insane idea he could climb out through the downstairs bathroom window and come around the front."

"You were there?" Betty asked in a curious tone of voice. "I mean, in the dream, telling him this."

Mike sighed and ate a few more mouthfuls before he responded. "It wasn't a ... I mean, it didn't feel like a dream. And no, that was the weird part of it. I was seeing everything happen, but I wasn't there, but I still somehow gave my son the idea." Mike frowned. "Yeah, I know what you're thinking."

Betty grinned. "Do you?"

"Yeah. You're thinking that all I'm describing is the act of having a dream, that not everyone appears in their own dreams. I've had dreams like that. This wasn't one of them."

Betty shook her head. "No, that's not what I was thinking."

Mike stared and set down the fork. He took the mug in hand. "Okay, then, lay it on me, Madam Freud. What are you thinking?"

Betty's smile was bittersweet this time. She stroked his thigh and slid her hand along his hip. "I'm thinking that you're not going to rest until you see him again."