under his feet. He looked up, to the end of the hall where it opened into the foyer and front living
room. A large whitish form was standing there, squared off as if blocking the exit, waiting for him. It was a man. Mick’s
soft insides seemed to swell and shudder, his head began to throb. The man did not move but there was a steady
pat pat pat
on the carpet where water yet dripped from his arms and sodden shorts. Mick couldn’t see the face, but something about the
man’s posture – the set of his shoulders, the slight bend in the left knee, blocky head – was disturbingly familiar.
‘Come on, Mickey,’ the pale figure said, and though he was still twenty feet away, the dentist’s voice carried as if he were
whispering in Mick’s ear. ‘We have to go now.’
The steel pipe slipped from Mick’s fist, thudding on the floor. Roger Lertz wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in the middle
of the night, not in his wet swimsuit.
‘What do you want?’ Mick said in a dull croak.
‘This is your fault. You owe me. If you don’t come with me now, it’s all going to be very bad for you. For Amy and the kids.’
The bald fact of Roger’s presence here at this hour carried Mick forward. Whatever the hell Roger wanted, he did not need
to be here, inside the house. Mick hadto get him out before Amy woke up and this turned into some kind of scene. He approached slowly on unsteady legs.
Up close, Roger’s hair was matted to his skull. The lake smell was on him, and something sweetly decaying with it. His skin
was so pallid in the darkness it seemed cold blue. Gaping wounds in the flesh appeared like plaster impressions taken from
sharks. Three of his ribs were exposed and his throat was slit, ragged near the ears. His mustache and chin hair were a deep
amber, sodden over his plump lips, and the eyes were filmed over with a cotton glazing that reminded Mick of old dogs, searching,
caressing Mick with a gentle desperation.
What happened to you?
Mick said or thought. He could not hear his own voice beneath the ringing panic in his ears.
The dentist leaned closer. ‘My demons caught up with me. Soon yours will too.’
Mick did not know what that meant but he knew Roger was dead, which meant this could not be happening, which meant it was
a nightmare and he would wake up any second now. He thought about waking up, willed it to happen, but Roger only stared at
him with his filmy eyes and nothing changed.
‘You’re not supposed to …’ Mick couldn’t finish. It was too awful to speak of.
‘You’re in a lot of trouble,’ Roger said and, without waiting for a reply, turned and walked away. Mick followed him across
the first floor, out into the backyard.The air was warm. They moved past the pool and the guest house, toward the row of pine trees at Mick’s property border, then
down the old Jenkins driveway that had been repaved for the new house. The ground seemed to move under them, the borders of
his property retreating in great gaps and strides, and the land beneath his feet changed – fresh asphalt to cracked dry dirt,
then grass again, then back to dirt and the rocky prairie of Boulder’s open space. Seconds turned to minutes and Mick began
to think in terms of acres, a country mile, with no sense of direction.
This is exactly how location and distance get warped in dreams
.
The thought was not comforting, but it was enough to allow him to continue.
No owls hooted, no dogs barked. If they crossed near prairie dog holes and darting foxes and bull snakes nestling beneath
rotting timber, the fauna called no attention to itself. The land felt barren, cooling as night progressed. There were fields
and the occasional tree far off in the distance, but no other houses, and Mick found this to be further proof he was dreaming.
Roger continued with purpose, a man in a wet swimsuit out for a brisk hike, off to some newer, better beach. ‘That’s it. This
is how we do it, Mickey,
room. A large whitish form was standing there, squared off as if blocking the exit, waiting for him. It was a man. Mick’s
soft insides seemed to swell and shudder, his head began to throb. The man did not move but there was a steady
pat pat pat
on the carpet where water yet dripped from his arms and sodden shorts. Mick couldn’t see the face, but something about the
man’s posture – the set of his shoulders, the slight bend in the left knee, blocky head – was disturbingly familiar.
‘Come on, Mickey,’ the pale figure said, and though he was still twenty feet away, the dentist’s voice carried as if he were
whispering in Mick’s ear. ‘We have to go now.’
The steel pipe slipped from Mick’s fist, thudding on the floor. Roger Lertz wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in the middle
of the night, not in his wet swimsuit.
‘What do you want?’ Mick said in a dull croak.
‘This is your fault. You owe me. If you don’t come with me now, it’s all going to be very bad for you. For Amy and the kids.’
The bald fact of Roger’s presence here at this hour carried Mick forward. Whatever the hell Roger wanted, he did not need
to be here, inside the house. Mick hadto get him out before Amy woke up and this turned into some kind of scene. He approached slowly on unsteady legs.
Up close, Roger’s hair was matted to his skull. The lake smell was on him, and something sweetly decaying with it. His skin
was so pallid in the darkness it seemed cold blue. Gaping wounds in the flesh appeared like plaster impressions taken from
sharks. Three of his ribs were exposed and his throat was slit, ragged near the ears. His mustache and chin hair were a deep
amber, sodden over his plump lips, and the eyes were filmed over with a cotton glazing that reminded Mick of old dogs, searching,
caressing Mick with a gentle desperation.
What happened to you?
Mick said or thought. He could not hear his own voice beneath the ringing panic in his ears.
The dentist leaned closer. ‘My demons caught up with me. Soon yours will too.’
Mick did not know what that meant but he knew Roger was dead, which meant this could not be happening, which meant it was
a nightmare and he would wake up any second now. He thought about waking up, willed it to happen, but Roger only stared at
him with his filmy eyes and nothing changed.
‘You’re not supposed to …’ Mick couldn’t finish. It was too awful to speak of.
‘You’re in a lot of trouble,’ Roger said and, without waiting for a reply, turned and walked away. Mick followed him across
the first floor, out into the backyard.The air was warm. They moved past the pool and the guest house, toward the row of pine trees at Mick’s property border, then
down the old Jenkins driveway that had been repaved for the new house. The ground seemed to move under them, the borders of
his property retreating in great gaps and strides, and the land beneath his feet changed – fresh asphalt to cracked dry dirt,
then grass again, then back to dirt and the rocky prairie of Boulder’s open space. Seconds turned to minutes and Mick began
to think in terms of acres, a country mile, with no sense of direction.
This is exactly how location and distance get warped in dreams
.
The thought was not comforting, but it was enough to allow him to continue.
No owls hooted, no dogs barked. If they crossed near prairie dog holes and darting foxes and bull snakes nestling beneath
rotting timber, the fauna called no attention to itself. The land felt barren, cooling as night progressed. There were fields
and the occasional tree far off in the distance, but no other houses, and Mick found this to be further proof he was dreaming.
Roger continued with purpose, a man in a wet swimsuit out for a brisk hike, off to some newer, better beach. ‘That’s it. This
is how we do it, Mickey,
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