Shattered Remnants of a Dream

Chapter 2: Antiques

"Get in the car," he commanded. "NOW! Feel like my goddamn head's gonna split open..."

Petrified with fear, she remained frozen against the wall.

"I said NOW!"

Abruptly, the man seemed to lose what little patience he had and fired at her. She jerked sideways, and a glowing bullet ripped through the fabric of her T-shirt, tearing away cloth like teeth through meat. It skimmed her side, burning the flesh and causing her to let out a cry of pain.

"It took us so long to find you...now come-"

Suddenly, she saw the man's body spasm. He let out a pained cry and put a hand to his temple. She stirred - it was a chance to escape. Then, the man barreled forward, lunging for her. A shot

*************

rang out through Vance's ears. He looked to his right and saw headlights coming around the corner.

Again?!

Vance glanced around frantically for any possible shelter. Yet again, his eyes were drawn to the dull green glow of the owl lamp. It was calling to him, louder than the screech of any tires. The doors to the antique shop beckoned.

Without a second thought, Vance shoved his left foot through one of the windows in the wooden double-doors. Shimmering glass flew away from him, spewing into the store like the entrails of a slain beast. Vance kicked the remaining splinters out with his cheap sneakers and slid his body through the opening. At six feet tall, he was a tight fit.

It wasn't until he was hidden deep within the darkness of the store that he noticed how much dried blood his left arm was caked in. Some of it felt wet and fresh, especially around his fingers. As he held them up to his lips, Vance grimaced at the thin, metallic taste of blood - a taste that he would soon grow much more accustomed to.

After a few minutes of taking it in, he cautiously removed his injured fingers. They still bled. Frustrated, Vance rolled his fingers up against the bottom of his jacket, squeezing as hard as he could to suspend the circulation and hopefully retain some of his precious blood.

Vance squinted and scanned the dark insides of the antiques store. The bottom floor of the place was all one room as far as he could tell. At the opposite side, the checkout counter was partially hidden by a jungle of cobwebbed shelves and displays.

He crept up to the window and peered outside. The streets were quiet again. Vance softly moved his hand to the owl lamp, as if trying to preserve a piece of his past. It was cold to the touch.

Vance withdrew, resigning himself to the depths behind the shelves. Groping in the abyss, his hand smacked off the side of a small wooden clock and sent a cloud of dust bursting up into the air.

He nearly tripped himself falling back in shock as a loud chime emitted from the clock, followed by a click. A panel above the clock's face slid up, and something rattled out from within.

It was a rickety, crystalline cuckoo, each angle shining in the moonlight with a different color of the rainbow. Azure gems for eyes, with a dash of emerald for the tuft of hair at its top. It was breathtaking. But before Vance could reach out to touch this artifact, the cuckoo zoomed back into the clock.

The ticks of the clock echoed through the chamber. Why hadn't he noticed that deafening sound before? Vance fumbled around some more on the walls until he finally found a light switch. In the dim glow, and with the cuckoo panel shut, the clock looked shockingly normal. There was only one thing off - the clock's face went up to the number XIII.

Pushing the strange clock out of his mind, Vance looked beyond it to spy a sleek black bar that spread out across the rear wall of the shop. It came to a stop at the far end, leaving behind the dusty antiques in exchange for a shelf of old whiskey bottles. In a corner of the bar, barely visible in the musty light, sat an old brown journal. While the outside was void of any sort of identification, scrawled within the jacket in shaky, messy, print was one name: Edgar J. Caskett.

Stunned, Vance dropped the diary, then hurriedly picked it back up. The book was thick, overflowing with hastily-written entries. In disbelief, Vance opened to a random page and started to read.

Feb 12

Sometimes I feel they're right around the corner, waiting for me. But it's impossible. I covered my tracks perfectly, and I had V to help me every step of the way. She's right. This is the best possible hiding place. It conceals everything that would otherwise set us apart.

I miss my wife. I miss my daughter. I miss V. I miss everything we used to have...but I have a mission that's much greater than myself.

It looks just like any old clock to them...if only they knew. Within that timeless wood...it hides the key to God.

I won't let them have it. My life's research, all the sacrifices that were made to bring us this far, all the dimensions we traversed...my entire point of purpose rides upon this mystical object. This was your last gift to me, V. Your dream survives, wherever you are. It lives on in what you left behind.

A chill ran up Vance's spine, breaking his concentration. What is all this? I thought the Casketts moved away...why is this here? Mom...this is connected to you, isn't it?

But the questions were hollow apparitions. Deep down, Vance had always known. Months after her disappearance, his father filed a petition to declare Victoria Darcouver legally dead. He'd told his son to move on, but Vance never listened.

I know you're still alive, mom...you just haven't been able to come back to us, for whatever reason...

Vance slipped Caskett's diary into his pocket and turned to face the clock once more. He felt it beckoning him to come closer, boring deep into his soul with some unknown power. Knowing that it was yet another connection to his mother, he slid his hands down its wooden sides.

I'm going to find you.

.

Vance put the clock under his arm - it seemed to fit perfectly - and stepped back out into the night.