The Traveler

CAPTIVE IN HIS dream, he fell through darkness, fell through clouds and snow and rain. He hit the roof of a house and passed through the cedar shingles, the tar paper, and the wooden frame. Now he was a child again, standing in the hallway on the second floor of the farmhouse in South Dakota. And the house was burning, his parents’ bed, the dresser, and the rocking chair in their room smoking and smoldering and bursting into flame. Get out, he told himself. Find Michael. Hide. But his child self, the small figure walking down the hallway, didn’t seem to hear his adult warning.

Something exploded behind a wall, and there was a dull thumping sound. Then the fire roared up the stairway, flowing around the banisters and railing. Terrified, Gabriel stood in the hallway as fire rushed toward him in a wave of heat and pain.

* * *

THE CELL PHONE lying near the futon mattress started ringing. Gabriel pulled his head away from the pillow. It was six o’clock in the morning and sunlight pushed through a crack in the curtains. No fire, he told himself. Another day.

He answered the phone and heard his brother’s voice. Michael sounded worried, but that was normal. Since childhood, Michael had played the role of the responsible older brother. Whenever he heard about a motorcycle accident on the radio, Michael called Gabriel on the cell phone just to make sure he was all right.

“Where are you?” Michael asked.

“Home. In bed.”

“I called you five times yesterday. Why didn’t you call me back?”

“It was Sunday. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I left the cell phones here and rode down to Hemet for a jump.”

“Do whatever you want, Gabe, but tell me where you’re going. I start to worry when I don’t know where you are.”

“Okay. I’ll try to remember.” Gabriel rolled onto his side and saw his steel-toed boots and riding leathers scattered across the floor. “How was your weekend?”

“The usual. I paid some bills and played golf with two real estate developers. Did you see Mom?”

“Yeah. I dropped by the hospice on Saturday.”

“Is everything okay at this new place?”

“She’s comfortable.”

“It’s got to be more than comfortable.”

Two years ago, their mother had gone into the hospital for routine bladder surgery and the doctors had discovered a malignant tumor on her abdominal wall. Although she had gone through chemotherapy, the cancer had metastasized and spread throughout her body. Now she was living at a hospice in Tarzana, a suburb in the southwest San Fernando Valley.

The Corrigan brothers had divided up the responsibilities for their mother’s care. Gabriel saw her every other day and talked to the hospice workers. His older brother dropped by once a week and paid for everything. Michael was always suspicious of doctors and nurses. Whenever he perceived a lack of diligence, he had their mother transferred to a new facility.

“She doesn’t want to leave this place, Michael.”

“No one is talking about leaving. I just want the doctors to do their job.”

“The doctors aren’t important now that she’s stopped chemotherapy. It’s the nurses and the aides who take care of her.”

“If there’s the slightest problem, you let me know immediately. And take care of yourself. Are you working today?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“That fire in Malibu is getting worse and now there’s a new fire in the east, near Lake Arrowhead. All the arsonists are out with their matches. Must be the weather.”

“I dreamed about fire,” Gabriel said. “We were back at our old house in South Dakota. It was burning down and I couldn’t get out.”

“You’ve got to stop thinking about that, Gabe. It’s a waste of time.”

“Don’t you want to know who attacked us?”

“Mom has given us a dozen explanations. Pick one of them and get on with your life.” A second phone rang in Michael’s apartment. “Leave your cell on,” he said. “We’ll talk this afternoon.”

***

GABRIEL TOOK A shower, pulled on running shorts and a T-shirt, and went into the kitchen. He mixed some milk, yogurt, and two bananas in a blender. Sipping the drink, he watered all the hanging plants, then returned to the bedroom and began to get dressed. When Gabriel was naked, you could see the scars from his last motorcycle accident: pale white lines on his left leg and arm. His curly brown hair and smooth skin gave him a boyish appearance, but that changed as he pulled on jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and heavy motorcycle boots. The boots were scuffed and scratched from the aggressive way he leaned into turns. His leather jacket was also scratched and machine oil darkened the cuffs and sleeves. Gabriel’s two cell phones were attached to a headset with a built-in microphone. Work calls went into his left ear. Personal calls went to the right. While riding he could activate either phone by pressing his hand against an outside pocket.