years earlier, but the news
hit hard, and soon a heart attack struck and ended his life
too.
Successful people didn’t die of heart
attacks, Chuck told himself repeatedly. He was overweight, like his
father late in life, with high cholesterol and blood pressure. But
Chuck had excellent health care. He didn’t always follow his
doctor’s advice. But he managed his stress better than his father.
Chuck had a happy marriage, or at least a happier marriage than his
parents’ had been. He didn’t have to fight about money all the
time.
While I witnessed Chuck’s past, all my
abilities functioned normally. His various connections led to other
destiny threads that led to others. Yet the next hour in Chuck’s
life, presumably the interview, was hazy. I couldn’t latch onto
anything concrete. All I could do was follow him forward in real
time with trepidation, while hoping for the best.
The ocean was calm. Chuck was still parked at
the beach, taking in the view, thinking the water looked serene,
even though, somewhere out there to the north, human remains were
buried beneath the waves in underwater ruins. The rolling surface
reflected the light from the sun in a dazzle of glint and shimmer.
On the beach, a surfboard leaned against an old shed. A portentous
day. An ideal late-summer mid-afternoon.
Chuck turned left onto a gravel road that
would take him the rest of the way to his destination. This drive
was being undertaken fifteen years after Everett found the bugs in
the orange on his way to the House of Cabal and thirty years since
Lane and Kyle had lived it up on this very beach. The bigger
picture was coming together, but if this was yet another dead end
as I feared, I would be out of options. He rolled down the window
so he could breathe in the fresh ocean air. As my anxiety grew and
he came closer and closer to the end of his destiny thread, he was
as relaxed as he had been in weeks.
Not far south stood a two-story structure
overlooking the water. Everett lived there, hidden away on the
first floor. I had to see inside if I was to write my opera, but I
knew the mansion would deny me, just like the House of Cabal.
I would be a failure. My opera would amount
to nothing.
Chuck parked in the driveway, grabbed his
suitcase, and got out.
As he entered through the mansion’s front
door, his destiny thread became indistinct, as did his
surroundings. I thought all was lost, but I noticed a dimensional
tunnel into which I could slip through that led inside. Chuck was
greeted by a man, but I couldn’t tell who the man was, because his
past and future were blocked to me. While Chuck walked down what
seemed to be an unremarkable hallway, I searched the floor and
ceiling for the causes of my dissociative state.
Unknown to the biographer, above us was a
spider infestation and below us was an abandoned research
laboratory where the spiders had been created. The silk strands had
qualities like destiny threads, yet they were made of a physical
protein in addition to being of a primarily temporal nature. I
folded inward and kept my distance, yet still an invisible gossamer
clung to my celestial essence, binding me to the present moment.
The damn stuff was everywhere, and was the reason I couldn’t see
this place and time from the outside.
I centered my focus back on Chuck. He had
gotten ahead of me. I had to find him.
III
In a decrepit dining room deep within the
mansion, Chuck offered a glass of water across the table. A man
with a brain tumor, the man who greeted Chuck at the front door,
took the water from Chuck’s outstretched hand.
“There you go, Mr. Grimes.”
Chuck sat back down.
Generally, he felt at home in other people’s
homes. Success often made the biographer feel invincible. He had
interviewed a serial killer on death row and remarked to his wife
afterward how normal it felt. Interviewing strangers in strange
locations was his normal world. Today didn’t feel normal. He felt
nervous, and he didn’t
hit hard, and soon a heart attack struck and ended his life
too.
Successful people didn’t die of heart
attacks, Chuck told himself repeatedly. He was overweight, like his
father late in life, with high cholesterol and blood pressure. But
Chuck had excellent health care. He didn’t always follow his
doctor’s advice. But he managed his stress better than his father.
Chuck had a happy marriage, or at least a happier marriage than his
parents’ had been. He didn’t have to fight about money all the
time.
While I witnessed Chuck’s past, all my
abilities functioned normally. His various connections led to other
destiny threads that led to others. Yet the next hour in Chuck’s
life, presumably the interview, was hazy. I couldn’t latch onto
anything concrete. All I could do was follow him forward in real
time with trepidation, while hoping for the best.
The ocean was calm. Chuck was still parked at
the beach, taking in the view, thinking the water looked serene,
even though, somewhere out there to the north, human remains were
buried beneath the waves in underwater ruins. The rolling surface
reflected the light from the sun in a dazzle of glint and shimmer.
On the beach, a surfboard leaned against an old shed. A portentous
day. An ideal late-summer mid-afternoon.
Chuck turned left onto a gravel road that
would take him the rest of the way to his destination. This drive
was being undertaken fifteen years after Everett found the bugs in
the orange on his way to the House of Cabal and thirty years since
Lane and Kyle had lived it up on this very beach. The bigger
picture was coming together, but if this was yet another dead end
as I feared, I would be out of options. He rolled down the window
so he could breathe in the fresh ocean air. As my anxiety grew and
he came closer and closer to the end of his destiny thread, he was
as relaxed as he had been in weeks.
Not far south stood a two-story structure
overlooking the water. Everett lived there, hidden away on the
first floor. I had to see inside if I was to write my opera, but I
knew the mansion would deny me, just like the House of Cabal.
I would be a failure. My opera would amount
to nothing.
Chuck parked in the driveway, grabbed his
suitcase, and got out.
As he entered through the mansion’s front
door, his destiny thread became indistinct, as did his
surroundings. I thought all was lost, but I noticed a dimensional
tunnel into which I could slip through that led inside. Chuck was
greeted by a man, but I couldn’t tell who the man was, because his
past and future were blocked to me. While Chuck walked down what
seemed to be an unremarkable hallway, I searched the floor and
ceiling for the causes of my dissociative state.
Unknown to the biographer, above us was a
spider infestation and below us was an abandoned research
laboratory where the spiders had been created. The silk strands had
qualities like destiny threads, yet they were made of a physical
protein in addition to being of a primarily temporal nature. I
folded inward and kept my distance, yet still an invisible gossamer
clung to my celestial essence, binding me to the present moment.
The damn stuff was everywhere, and was the reason I couldn’t see
this place and time from the outside.
I centered my focus back on Chuck. He had
gotten ahead of me. I had to find him.
III
In a decrepit dining room deep within the
mansion, Chuck offered a glass of water across the table. A man
with a brain tumor, the man who greeted Chuck at the front door,
took the water from Chuck’s outstretched hand.
“There you go, Mr. Grimes.”
Chuck sat back down.
Generally, he felt at home in other people’s
homes. Success often made the biographer feel invincible. He had
interviewed a serial killer on death row and remarked to his wife
afterward how normal it felt. Interviewing strangers in strange
locations was his normal world. Today didn’t feel normal. He felt
nervous, and he didn’t
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