Cliff
shot her. Once. In the heart. She fell back onto Carter.
"Now you're really together." Cliff didn't like the
cruel tone in his voice.
In the back of his mind, something kept saying "this is wrong."
He felt detached and nauseous at the same time, as if he were
playing a part in a bad play.
Carter's hand lay on Jeannie's face.
"Get your hands off her you back-stabbing son-of-a-bitch."
Reaching down, he flung the bloody hand aside.
He had killed them.
Cliff stumbled onto the porch, and collapsed into a chair. Just
minutes ago, she had nibbled his ear, telling him --
The sky wasn't gently blue, but the hard blue of cobalt, and the
sun glared painfully off the beach.
His head ached. Half of him reveled in gleeful vengeance, the
other half was crushed with guilt. He started to cry. Wiping away
the tears, he saw the blood smeared on his hand.
Three bullets left? It didn't matter. He only needed one.
Cliff raised the gun to his head.
NO! This wasn't the plan.
Plan?
Again, the voice of the old Apache shaman. "Beware when traveling
between dream worlds. You are one and you are many."
Cliff stuck the gun in his suit pocket, then laid his aching head
back against the chair. "I'll just close my eyes," he
explained to himself. "Calm down a bit."
Cliff awoke huddled in the doorway of his basement apartment.
He shivered, and pulled himself to his feet, muscles aching. This
wasn't right. He was supposed to end up on the air mattress inside.
He put his hand on the doorknob and turned. Locked. He patted
his pockets. They were empty, except for the gun.
Cliff tried again, twisting the door's unyielding handle.
This wasn't supposed to happen. He forced a calm breath. Think.
Maybe these were the traps the old Apache had warned him about.
This is where he lived, or where one of him lived. He had to get
in. He glanced at his hands. Blood. He had to wash off the blood.
The basement window. He pushed tentatively against the glass.
No bars or screen, and he could fit through.
Ignoring the little sticker in the corner announcing "TDA
Alarm Services", he kicked in the glass. Cliff grinned. The
bit of violence was satisfying. He broke the remaining shards
from the frame, then turning, climbed through.
It was mustier, darker, emptier than he remembered.
He flipped a light switch. The bulb flickered off and on.
Movers' boxes with labels were shoved against the wall.
He opened one; books about writing, a wine jug filled with loose
change -- assorted odds and ends not even vaguely familiar.
Something had gone wrong, but not so wrong it couldn't be fixed.
He found the old computer squatting on a scarred kitchen table,
with a half-empty bourbon bottle on the edge.
He pulled up a rickety chair. The gun in his pocket thumped against
his leg.
Cliff took a drink, gagged, and then took another swallow.
He would do things differently this time. No Jim Carter to steal
the woman he loved. He wouldn't let Jeannie break his heart.
The book's colorful dust jacket caught his eye. He picked it up.
"Flying Monkeys" it announced in bold, orange print.
"A fresh first novel by-"
Cliff dropped the book. Wrong. "Flying Monkeys" was
his second book.
The light flickered out.
The voice of the old Apache grew louder in his memory.
Cliff took another drink from the bottle, clicked on the internet,
and searched for the Cliff Brown website. No such name. He tried
again. Same result.
He reached for the bottle. It was cheap bourbon and tasted like
it, but he needed the drink. Things were piling up in an unpleasant
way.
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