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Chapter Three

Adam McDaris hung up the phone in the Yaz's back office, for the first time realizing just how far apart he and his friend Daryl had gotten in just the past month.

Last summer was nothing like this, Adam thought. He couldn't even think, first angry, then depressed over how screwed-up Daryl sounded.

He picked up the phone and almost called back, but thought, it would be a waste. Besides, there were customers out front, with only one bartender besides himself working today. Adam sat at a brown pressboard desk strewn with accounting pads and a mountain of cash register tapes, wishing he could do something about his friend, but having the presence of mind to know he probably couldn't.

The traffic at the Yaz on a Monday afternoon tended to be unpredictable and varied, even in downtown Dallas, Texas. The juice bar opened only six months ago, but already a tight group of regulars had begun to frequent the place.

The Yaz began as a liquor bar, but as more and more bars sprang up throughout the scenic West End District, business began to dwindle. The owner, a second-generation Korean-American named Jimmy, decided to experiment with the after-hours/underage crowd. And business exploded.

The Marketplace shopping mall, an old four-story brick building that once housed the Sunshine Cookie and Cracker factory, was already a haven for youth. The lower level housed a video/pinball arcade that looked like a carnival, boasting life-sized Western dummies in the laser shoot, elaborate holographic games, miniature bowling, foosball, and dozens of other ways to get rid of quarters on a Saturday afternoon. Upstairs was a miniature golf course next to a bar and restaurant, a cartoon art gallery, several fast-food eateries, an airbrush t-shirt shop, a Western shop, and an Irish shop. All set in a rustic atmosphere of wooden floors, restored oak beams and skylights, original equipment of the old structure, with no concrete, chrome, or stainless steel. Part of its appeal was that it didn't look like a modern mall; the building itself was an antique.

Which didn't explain its appeal to youngsters; perhaps it was just that it was different, particularly with the elaborate arcade. At any rate, Adam thought, it was a perfect location for the Yaz, whose time had certainly come.

He started working on the weekends last January, when it reopened as an after-hours. At first business was slow, but as word got around, the place developed a reputation as an alternative watering hole, where ID's were not needed and the latest in Techno and Industrial music played into the late hours of the morning. The money was good and the crowd not too overbearing, even the drunk ones who came in after two in the morning—with one or two exceptions. It was better than working fast food; here you didn't get burned with hot grease or have fingers removed by roast-beef slicers. In the nightclublike atmosphere, Adam felt a little more sophisticated and mature, more so than he would if he were flipping burgers and wearing a paper hat.

When Adam applied for work, Jimmy hired him right away. Now that the place was fashionable, there were two file drawers of applications, but Jimmy was about to throw them all out. The owner was particularly pleased with Adam, especially when the boy explained how his friends hated to pay two dollars for a soft drink but wouldn't mind so much a higher door cover: the change in pricing increased the profits by 25%, foot traffic by 50%. At the time Adam had just been looking for a place to work so he could make payments on his Geo Metro and the insurance that went along with it. The job ended up heightening his popularity with just about everyone.

The Yaz even found unpredictable but fairly steady profits by opening up early in the afternoon. The only stipulation required by Marketplace management was that they saved the loud, high-energy Industrial music for later hours. No problem. With a subtle changes in lighting and music, the Yaz was a laid-back cafe, specializing in exotic coffees and espresso. Adam was allergic to caffeine, but had no trouble preparing and serving the dark brews, as long as he didn't drink any of it.

Today was no exception; two preteens, a boy and a girl, were pretending to be romantic in a corner booth. The boy had ordered espresso, the "strong kind," and Adam had to fight to keep from laughing when the boy nearly gagged on it. A group of five girls from a private school had left the bar, and Spence, the other bartender, was picking up the cups. Spence was a year older than Adam, but instead of going on to his senior year in the fall, he would be held back a grade. Adam wasn't sure why, as Spence's grades were not that bad, or good, but he'd decided not to pry. Where Adam was well-defined and muscular, Spence was tall and wiry, with a crown of kinky red hair that, when allowed to grow, became a full afro. Others in school had pointed out they looked like brothers, but Adam saw no resemblance; their skin tones were completely different. Adam had French Canadian ancestry, and Spence's was clearly Irish. But they did share some of the same allergies, oddly enough, caffeine being one of them.

That left Colin, the kid sitting at the bar. Spence cast uncomfortable looks at him as he picked up the cups. He'd already replaced the cup Colin was nursing once. The boy shook so much he barely kept his coffee from spilling. Adam put on some Enya, hoping that would calm Colin down, but it had little effect.

Colin wore boots, a pair of jeans with a leather motorcycle jacket, and no shirt. He reeked of gasoline and booze, leftover booze from the night before. Here on the quiet side of the Yaz were several bay windows looking over a patio and street, and beyond one of these at the curb Adam saw Colin's bike, a fast and scary Katana 750 that looked like it was doing 120 sitting still. But Adam knew the bike had nothing to do with the reason why Colin was so rattled.

"He's still there," Adam said to Colin, who had looked up as he walked behind the bar. "Still stoned, but there."

"And?" Colin asked. The ceramic cup rattled loudly against formica.

"If something's wrong, he doesn't know it," Adam said calmly. He pulled four limes out of the cooler, laid them out on a plastic cutting board, and began slicing them into eighths with a Ginsu knife.

"Weird," Colin said, sipping the coffee, this time not spilling any of it. "Maybe I should just . . ."

"I think you should just go on home. Or go to a meeting. Look, just because you got drunk once doesn't mean it's hopeless."

"But dammit, I had a year," Colin said. He looked at the A.A. medallion hanging around his neck. "Thought I had it licked."

Adam didn't know what to say. Colin had just turned seventeen, had been an alcoholic since he was eleven, and had started going to A.A. meetings in his freshman year at high school. He might have been sober today, except that he'd gone to the same party at Steve's. Something happened, and he got drunk. And Colin was kicking himself all over the city today, first riding past Steve's house to see who was still there, then his sponsor's house, who he was too humiliated to visit, then a church where an A.A. meeting was in progress. He didn't stop anywhere except to ring the Wintons' gate, which went unanswered. Not wanting to be with the people he used to drink and drug with or the recovering alcoholics he knew in sobriety, he turned to Adam, who was neither, for an attentive ear.

At noon Adam opened the Yaz, and five minutes later Colin came in and told Adam he'd been by the Wintons' mansion. Ten cars remained parked in front of Steve's house, and short of breaking the gate down, he had no way in. Three of the cars belonged to friends who had to be at work that afternoon and had not yet shown up. The carpet cleaning people came and went, since no one answered the bell outside. Steve's parents were due at the airport at 9:00 P.M. And the house was a mess.

Colin is obsessed over everyone else's problems and afraid to do anything about his own, Adam observed. But he had to admit the situation at Steve's didn't sound right. He understood why Steve would throw a party—because the parents were gone—but he also knew Steve would go out of his way to make sure all evidence of the party was cleaned up. Adam also felt a strong sense of dread, a black, evil feeling when he envisioned the Winton mansion. Nothing more. Just a feeling of danger and of . . . death.

Adam shook his head, his Ginsu poised above his index finger, a half inch from carving a good slice out of it. Back to reality. He finished cutting up the limes and put them in the well box with the other pretty trappings for dressing up cocktails without the alcohol.

"What the hell," Colin said. "Freedom Recovery Group meets in fifteen minutes. Guess I'll go there," he said, dropping a dollar on the counter and leaving.

Through the bar's window, Adam watched Colin mount the bike. He had a different air about him, like he had a real purpose now and wasn't just killing time. Now it's time for Colin to deal with Colin's problems, Adam thought. Now what about Daryl's? Is that something I should even think about right now?

As Colin's bike screamed down the street, he caught a glimpse of Moira walking past, heading toward the front entrance of the Marketplace. She worked at a salon upstairs, a progressive shop called Skary Hairdos which catered to the Alternative music, Gothic and grunge crowd. She was evidently going into work, as she was wearing a black dress trimmed with leather and lace, large, frightening earrings that could double as shurikens in a pinch. She had big, tornado-proof hair that generated wind when she walked. She had been dressed more sedately with him last night when they went to Steve's party, more as friends than a true date, although Adam had recently taken a physical interest in her. She looked preoccupied with dark thoughts, as everyone seemed to be this afternoon. When she vanished from sight, Adam wondered what color, and how long, her fingernails were today.

He looked around the Yaz, mentally ticking off all the things he needed to do for Jimmy that day, finding that he'd accomplished everything except dusting the blinds. But that was a low-priority thing, busywork he saved up for when Jimmy was there.

Adam carried the Ginsu knife and a few other implements to the sink in the back, but before he got everything into the water he yelped as the Ginsu blade, which he accidentally touched, started burning his skin. The Ginsu clattered to the floor.

"You okay?" Spence asked, carrying a bus tub full of used coffee cups.

"Yeah, just touched metal, is all," Adam said, examining his skin where the blade had touched, leaving a slight pink patch. Spence picked the knife up by the handle and tossed it into the sink. If Adam had touched the metal any longer than that, it would have left blisters.

Spence nodded. No other explanation was necessary, as Adam's coworker was also allergic to steel. He didn't advertise the allergy to others, since he knew they wouldn't understand. His mother explained the allergy as a homeopathic ailment, a rare one which few people had, and even fewer doctors understood. His gut-reaction was to say nothing about it, except to others with the same condition.

He couldn't recall when he'd told Spence about the problem, and he didn't know when Spence told him about his. When they started working together, their mutual allergies seemed to be common knowledge between them. After a few months, Adam assumed he'd known Spence for a long time.

Perhaps something psychic connected us, Adam had thought once, briefly, before the whole notion faded from his mind.

Spence carefully pulled on some black rubber gloves, the thick, industrial kind with almost no give, and began washing the utensils.

"Who died?" Spence asked, looking serious.

Adam frowned. "Am I that obvious?" he said, sorting out and separating the coffee cups. "You saw what it was like over there at Steve's last night."

Spence fixed Adam with steady gaze, as if trying to read more from his body language. "I told you how much he'd changed. His birthday party—his eighteenth birthday party—was guaranteed to be a drugfest."

Spence wasn't intentionally trying to throw the situation in his face, but that's what it amounted to. Adam had persuaded him and Moira to go over there last night, despite their suspicions it would not be an alcohol-only party. Adam knew he was feeling more embarrassed about it than was his due, but he couldn't help feeling remorse for dragging them along.

"At least no one got hurt," Spence said as he labored with the dishes. "I liked the way you bailed out of there before the drugs started going around."

"What else was I supposed to do? I don't like being around that stuff. And my mom's a cop. You all didn't have to leave. . . ."

"Yes we did, and you know that," Spence said. "Don't let it get you down. Daryl's an adult now. Daryl's responsible for Daryl."

"He's a legal adult," Adam corrected. "But he hasn't really grown up at all."

"Well, then, if you've done any maturing this last year," Spence said, his voice softening a little, "prove it by letting go of his problems and getting on with your life."

Adam shrugged, knowing Spence was right, but still feeling emotionally connected to his old friend's problems. "I wish I could. We grew up together, we've known each other since . . ."

He tried to remember when they had met, but could only go as far as junior high, when he was thirteen. And before that, well, he'd moved down from Winnipeg, Canada, after living with his father for a few years. Daryl was new to the school, too, also entering in midterm, and that automatically created a closeness between them. The friendship weathered a minor jealousy over a girl in their freshman year, but she ended up spurning both of them, and the whole thing didn't really amount to much.

"Why don't you go talk to Moira?" Spence suggested. "I think I can handle this place for a while."

As Adam entered the Marketplace, he remembered the bet they made last night, that they would smell pot within an hour of arriving at Steve's. He forgot who bet what, but the wager had irritated him because it showed no faith in Daryl.

But then, does he really deserve any? he thought, taking the stairs to the top level of the Marketplace.

Adam glanced down at the arcade a floor below, the clanging and beeping of the games wafting up through the well. Just after lunch hour, the eateries were doing a bustling business with the suit and tie crowd, the downtown business district being only a few blocks away. On the top floor he passed the miniature golf course, the bar, several abbreviated eating places. He paused for a moment at The Future Image store, specializing in high-tech gizmos. Today in its front window hung a laser rifle, or what could pass for one. It looked more like an assault rifle wired for sound, or a light show.

Intrigued, Adam stepped closer to the window. The Ray Gun squirted a ruby red beam of light into a series of mirrors, angled to form a square around the toy, showcasing it. It retailed for three hundred and fifty dollars, and was recommended for children thirteen and older. Its blue steel surface looked like it could withstand an arc welding torch. The clip, which stuck straight down, was the battery that powered the Ray Gun. Then he saw the recharging rig, which had another clip in it. The Gun looked heavy, and Adam wondered if the average thirteen-year-old could hold it for very long, even with the shoulder strap it came with.

Stopping to window-shop was not something he did, particularly in a place he saw every day. Plus, gawking at a toy gun would not enhance the cool image he was trying to cultivate among his friends, who could happen along at any moment. But there he stood, transfixed by the weapon.

But it wasn't a weapon, it was only a toy. Where have I seen this before? he wondered. The Ray Gun was too small; he recalled something that was much larger, like one of those M50 rigs the Marines carried, and not as refined, almost like a prototype, with lots of exposed wires and components, itself a fragile instrument. . . . 

The image vanished, and he shook his head. Without really thinking about it, he pulled away from the toy, the window, and the store. And walked over to Skary Hairdos, two doors down.

Adam saw her hair before he saw her. Bobbing about energetically in the shop, her mane announced her presence before she could; he wanted to curl up in that glorious hair, maybe weave a hammock for the two of them, or arrange it around them in a nest. She could smuggle a Mexican family, a priest and two nuns in that hair, Adam thought.

Neon framed the store's entrance, with deep green neon spelling SKARY HAIRDOS in an electrifying scrawl, superimposed over an acrylic painting of a zipper that changed to a set of poorly done sutures. Adam passed a pair of girls, one bald except for a two-foot thatch of bright pink hair hanging over her face, the other with a military flattop, both seeming very pleased with their new 'dos.

He suddenly felt out of place without his leather bike jacket, which despite the warm weather appeared to be in style today. Even Moira kept one in the shop, though she seldom wore it in the summer. She was cutting the hair of a very young boy, maybe six, who was wriggling and screaming at the top of his lungs. The kid would have probably bolted altogether, except that Moira, or the mother who sat by impatiently, had tied the kid to the chair with a substantial length of nylon rope.

"This is about as good as it gets," Moira announced, the haircut apparently completed. She was perspiring; Adam had never seen her perspire before.

"I'm sure it's just fine," the woman said, but she started to look like a nanny taking care of a rich brat.

The boy cried relentlessly. Since he was still tied to the chair, Moira took a mirror and held it behind his head. "What do you think, Duane?" Moira asked, as the kid looked up. "I tried to leave as much length as I could. Shaped it up some."

The boy wailed in reply.

With the ceramic scissors, Moira snipped the nylon rope neatly in three places, and the bindings fell away. The nanny gave her a fifty-dollar bill and hurried the brat out of there.

"Please come again," Moira said, snipping the scissors at their retreating backs. This was a hostile side of Moira that Adam didn't get to see very often.

"Hi, Adam," she said, sounding weary. She put the ceramic dagger away and reached for a 7UP, sitting in the chair the boy had just vacated, the rope lying at her feet. "Talk to Daryl lately?"

Adam groaned.

"I'll take that as a yes," she said, meeting his eyes. Lately she'd been using a dark brown mascara and applying it with greater skill than what he remembered in junior high. Her eyes were tar pits, boy traps. His spine melted.

Adam sat in a vinyl chair under an old-fashioned hair dryer. An employee had sculpted a papier-mÉchÇ hand, complete with huge diamond ring, around the bowl of the dryer. When it was down, it looked like a giant was picking the customer up by the head.

"I drove by there today, on my way to work," Moira said. "There were cop cars in front of the house."

"What?" Adam said, jumping up. His head barely missed the dryer's right index finger.

"Sit down," Moira said. Adam sat. "You can't do anything about it now. Whatever went on over there, just be glad we weren't there when it happened."

"How many cars?" Adam asked.

"Four or five."

Then he remembered the dark feeling, which strengthened now with Moira's eyewitness account. "I knew we should never have gone over there."

"And that's exactly what you said last night when we left. And I'll bet that's what you've been saying all day."

Adam shrugged.

She pointed at him with her finger, its false, silver nail as long and menacing as a Bowie knife. "Well, get over it! You are not Daryl's keeper. Whatever grave he's digging is only big enough for one."

Adam looked the other way. "And my mother's a cop."

"Exactly!" Moira said.

"But that's not what's bothering me," Adam said, and turned to look at her. He felt very young and very vulnerable right then, as if her eyes had become the twin barrels of a shotgun. "I know it's best for me to just get away from him. Hell, he's even started pushing me away. On the phone today, he didn't even want to talk to me."

"That's not surprising," she said, examining her nail with ostentatious care. "He probably felt like shit."

"He sure sounded it," Adam said. Cops?

Moira pulled out a bottle of silver fingernail polish and began repairing a chip on her dagger. "Talk to your mom today?"

"No, and I need to. She might know what's going on over there. In a way, I hope she hasn't heard anything yet."

"Why?" she asked, blowing on the nail.

"She's in homicide."

"Oh," Moira said. "Anyway, since last night was such a bust, do you feel like doing something tonight?"

Adam stared at her breasts.

She noticed. "Besides that."

He shook himself out of the trance, his face reddening with an instant embarrassment-rash. Moira giggled, a high-pitched trill that pierced .50-caliber holes in his young male ego. She saw me staring at her! What else does she know about me?

Gathering as much composure as was possible in three seconds, Adam said, "Come over after work and we'll decide. How 'bout . . . ?"

"A movie?"

"Or something. Anything besides a party." Adam rolled his eyes. "Had enough of those for a while."

A little old lady with a walker hobbled into the shop. "Time for me to get back to work," she said, blowing him a kiss.

Now what was that supposed to mean? Adam smiled, feeling a longing that started from his dry throat and reached down past his belly. Sweat broke out on his chest. He left before other portions of his anatomy betrayed him.

Filled with confusion, Adam left the shop and merged with the sea of humanity which filed out of the Marketplace, now that happy hour was over. Soon, his own age group would start showing up at the Yaz. Perhaps, he hoped, with news of the situation at the Wintons'.

In the mall he bumped into a kid who, he first thought, was Daryl. He wore a black tank top and a bandana around his dark hair, which Daryl often did, but this boy was a few years younger, maybe fourteen, and more slender. He didn't react to being jostled. Then slowly, he looked up at Adam, his expression dreamy and distant. And smiled.

What is this kid on? Adam thought, disgusted. He tried to walk past, but the boy grabbed his arm with amazing strength. Instead of reacting the way he wanted to, which was to take a swing at him, he looked directly into his face. I know you. Your name is Cory. You're not even in high school yet.

No one around them seemed to notice what was going on, not even the security guard who walked past. He felt invisible in the mall, which pulsated with people. He tried to push past the stoned kid, but his grip was like steel.

". . . it's like, the sky opened up, and Gabriel tore loose with horns of brass. And Armageddon was here. And the black Eagle saw the ruined castle, and all the dead within waited for the night to take the palace." Cory hesitated, then said, "And you were there. And you did not die."

Adam stared at him. His pupils were enormous. And the whites, for a moment, glowed.

Where is that security guard? Adam thought frantically. Cory released him, and Adam staggered backward a few steps.

"Is the bus here yet?" Cory asked. "I was out to lunch."

You're still out to lunch, Adam thought. Cory's breath stank of cheap beer and something else. Then, this guy needs help. Why are all the addicts flocking around me today? He remembered Daryl. And last night.

"Have some of this," Cory said, handing him a small glass vial with a black stopper. Adam didn't know what it was until he examined it. Crack. Why the hell did he give me this?

Then something about the black stopper triggered his memory. Black stopper. Street name, Black Dream. Mom told me about this.

"No, I don't think . . ." Adam began, but Cory started walking away.

"Hey," he said to Cory's back. The kid kept walking, till he vanished down the stairs. Then, Hell, let him go. I don't want to give this back to him anyway.

But what to do with it? A security camera pivoted toward him, and he realized the entire exchange was probably on tape somewhere. Great. Now I gotta get rid of this. If he didn't get rid of the vial, security might bust him.

The trash can was out of the question. Doesn't really go anywhere. Nonchalantly, he started toward the rest rooms. Damn you, Cory.

The commode made a gratifying sploooosh as the contraband vanished into the Dallas sewer system. He flushed again to be certain. It occurred to him he might have hung on to it for his mother to examine, but if he were caught with it, he doubted she would be able to bail him out. Even if she could, it would be an awkward situation, one his mother didn't need. Being a cop was hard enough without having to fix charges against your son.

The hallway just outside the johns was vacant, and he concluded that no one was after him. They knew him here; he was clean, and he was, to the off duty cops who moonlighted there, family. Still. Better safe than sorry.

From the rest room, he should have turned right to return to the Yaz. That's where he needed to be. Instead, he hesitated and took note of his surroundings. The walls in the corridor were painted white, with blue on the lower half. The effect, he assumed, made the space look larger than it was.

Why am I going down here? he thought as he turned left. I need to get back to work.

The encounter with Cory left an acrid taste in his mouth. He felt tainted, as if whatever drug or drugs the boy was on had transferred to his bloodstream. Cory's breath had been foul, and he wondered if he had inhaled something evil, intoxicating; he felt a desperate need to take a shower, run laps, something, anything.

What's wrong with me? he thought. This is crazy. There's no way he could have infected me. But his feelings told him something different. He felt . . . poisoned. Cory, what did you do to me?

Got to get back to the Yaz. Biz is picking up. Spence doesn't even have the bank yet. Got to . . . 

But he couldn't. He proceeded down the hallway with the white and blue walls, toward another area of the Marketplace, a large space that hadn't been leased yet. He'd seen it before, a nice large room with lots of exposed ducts and hanging lights, the ubiquitous concrete columns. Six large rectangular windows, eight panes, about a foot square, in each. This would make an excellent nightclub, good dancing, even bet the acoustics are favorable. . . . The place reminded him of an old gymnasium, with the high ceiling, wooden floors. Only thing missing was the basketball hoops. Here, in this unoccupied space, he smelled the age of the building, something he missed in the other shops, which had new equipment and furnishings and goods, all made in the last ten years. Ancient and earthy; Adam sensed something reaching from below, several floors down, past the basement.

His mind glazed over with a mixture of exhaustion, confusion, and a lingering surge of hormones from his talk with Moira. If perhaps he had caught some secondhand something from Cory, he could imagine how messed up the kid was. A lightness seized him, as if he were suddenly a hundred pounds lighter, or if he were drifting away; but no, his sneakered feet still touched the wooden floor. Though his knees felt like wet sponges, they firmly supported him.

Thin trails of smoke poured from the vents, but he didn't assume this meant fire; he found the sight tranquilizing, not alarming, as it might have been under other circumstances.

But what's happening now? he thought, and a small part of him told him it was nothing, this was as natural and necessary as the sun rising in the morning.

The smoke was actually fog, heavy fog, which clung to the wooden floor and spread out from several points. Sunlight pouring in from outside flickered, dimmed, as if dark storm clouds masked the sun. The round hanging lights simply ceased to be on, though he didn't remember when they switched off.

At some point the voice within him that fought against the change gave in and allowed him to go with this new experience. He felt comforted and safe, despite the strangeness of what he was seeing. What it was he saw remained vague, and at the same time he knew that he was not capable of comprehending any further.

Just below the surface of the fog, which continued to spread in a layer, lights flickered. A circle of small fires formed in the center of the fog.

He tried to count the candles, but found he could not focus long enough to do so. While the atmosphere felt safe and protective, he found that his mind was muddled beyond use. On a deeper level, the inability to use his mind disturbed him, but the reassuring inner voice calmed him, explained to him that it wasn't necessary to think right now.

He heard the thought, I will understand when I need to, and allowed it to become his own.

Adam closed his eyes, because that was what his thoughts told him to do. He was no longer in control, and nothing in him suggested he do anything but surrender. He found sanctuary in this sudden loss of control, knowing that whatever this power was, it would not harm him. With his eyes closed against the fog and the candlelight, he felt time drift, like a light breeze brushing against his skin.

He did not know how much time had actually passed. Staring at the empty room, Adam wondered if he imagined the entire psychotic episode.

Time to get back to work, he thought. Weird doesn't even begin to describe what just happened.

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Framed