Sam Sawyer Chapter Three

Oloran was
correct. The cameras captured her entire suicide. He was in the clear and set
for life. His inheritance was much larger than he expected.

He sold his
childhood home and Seth Sawyer’s investment firm, but not his modest isolated
two-bedroom brick house. The long gravel road that cut a, just barely, two -lane
path through the dense forest surrounding his home, had become his favorite
place, his sanctuary. He had walked its’ winding half mile of rock and dirt
more times than he could count. The first thing he did after Seth’s estate was
settled was buy the seven hundred acres of forest and fields that hid his home
from the rest of the world. Other people shared the area with him. Their homes and
farms were thinly scattered about the heavily wooded forest, which he offered
to buy at such an exorbitant price none of them balked at selling. He wanted
the woods to himself that badly.

Several
small creeks and roads crisscrossed the property as well. He could fish and
walk to his hearts’ content.

It’s cool
shadows, old oaks and towering pines were all the neighbors he wanted. Nestled
deep within its comforting embrace the world seemed light years away, as did
Oloran’s words and his Alien heritage.

Despite his
good looks and his family’s prominence in the neighborhood, Sam rarely
socialized. He never felt the need. Loneliness was one emotion he simply did
not possess. His faux parents’ forced love did not go unappreciated, but even
as a small child there was a disconnect, a cool distance he never bothered to
close. His Mothers’ question had done that.

Oloran had
always been a vague presence, a shadow in the gray recesses of his mind. Now he
was gone, and utterly unmissed. Loneliness was still someone else’s problem. 

He had spent
the last three months cutting all ties with his past. What did Oloran say, ‘you
will never be alone.’ Well that was a lie. Nothing or no one from this world or
any other had bothered him since Sarah’s death. He was alone, happily alone, so
there Mr. Alien monster.

It never
occurred to him his desire for solitude might be some aspect of his alien
origins, or Oloran’s words; ‘others like him’, might be more than an obscure
parting shot. If there were others out there like him surely they would have
reached out to him by now, wouldn’t they…

11 P. M.
June 4^th, 2019, another uneventful Tuesday night, just like last
Tuesday night. And just like so many other nights, Sam lay on his couch
watching the news. His small living room, like the rest of his house was
furnished with used but perfectly serviceable second- hand furniture. He wasn’t
cheap, he just didn’t like wasting money of things he cared little about.

His couch
was covered with dark brown leather with well- worn pillowed arms and perfectly
comfortable butt hollowed cushions sat beneath a large east facing picture
window. There were no drapes only blinds which were always closed at night, but
always opened at daybreak, his favorite time of the day. Somehow, he always
woke just before sunrise and only missed the first morning rays because of
overcast. Another bit of strangeness he never noticed. Funny he was never an
early riser before his mother died, nor did he make it a point to see the sun
rise every morning. Yes, when he was driving a forklift at Deans Trucking
Company, his first and last job, he got up early. But that was to keep a
paycheck coming in. He did not go to college after High School. Seth and Sarah
did not care. They even gave him enough money to buy his house, a gift that was
more for them than him. A gift that got him out of the house and on his own. That’s
all that mattered to them. Though they never told him that, they all knew it.
All he wanted was freedom. Freedom from what, was the question that was
answered long before it was asked.

For some
senseless reason, his mothers’ death granted him an unexpected sense of
freedom, to do as he pleased and for some strange reason it pleased him to
watch the sun come up...   

10

A two- tone
brown stoneware coffee mug sat just within easy reach on a heavy oak coffee
table. On it a paperback copy of Frank Herbert’s Dune lay spread eagle page
down beside it.  Just a few feet to the right,
a tall mahogany bookshelf covered most of the north wall. Its’ dark wooden shelves
stuffed tight with sci fi novels, comic books, graphic novels and fantasy. He
could read that stuff all day and night. It was more real more relatable to him
than anything this world had to offer. A combination end table lamp and magazine
rack filled the corner between the couch and bookshelf. Its’ off- white shade
cast a warm soothing glow that bounced lightly off the egg shell colored walls
and light brown carpet cradling him in a soothing ambiance.

An antique
ornate coat tree stood near the front door facing the book shelf like a warmly
dressed sentry. With its toboggan crown and black- slicker it looked completely
over -dressed for the balmy spring night gently caressing the little unassuming
house.

Eleven feet
away, a large flat screen TV hung on the west wall facing the couch at perfect
eye level. It was the only new thing in the house, not counting a recently
purchased batch of Sci Fi books.  

A long wide
hallway afforded a direct path from the front door to a bit too cozy kitchen
dining room. A large white refrigerator facing the front of the house stood a
foot from the back door that opened to a small screened in back porch. Beyond
that, a spacious back yard spread out toward the forest like an invitation.

Two bedrooms
joined together by a common bathroom filled the space between the living room
and the kitchen. Despite the fact he had lived here several years, he finally
felt at home.  

It was only
after his mother died, did he realize he was content. Not that he was happy she
was gone, in fact it still hurt. The worst pain, his love for her, and his
father was real and came naturally, despite the fact, theirs did not. She even
killed herself right in front of him, what could be more unloving than that?
However, he could not deny the dull relief, the absence of pressure and
unacknowledged discomfort. No more forced smiles or tense politeness. His mind
was finally quiet.

No one was in
there but him. He could now get lost in someone else’s story and put it down
whenever he wanted.

And maybe
watching a new day streak through the trees toward him made him feel wanted,
made him feel at home in an alien world. Maybe it was something else…           

His face
turned toward the TV, sleep pulling him away he lay on his couch not watching
and barely listening to a newscaster. When a name rang in his ear like the
clanging bell of an alarm clock.

“Kathy Wyatt,
twenty-six-year-old middle school teacher, is missing.” Nick Harold, WWAY’s
news anchor boldly declared.

11

His eyelids
cracked open as he swung up and leaned forward. Kathy Wyatt’s happy green eyes smiled
at him from the screen, then burned into him from the darkness. Blackness and
the smell of burnt motor oil overcame him. He shivered and fell over. His body clenched,
bound by invisible cords that bit into his ankles and wrists. Concrete, cold
and unyielding, scraped and bit into his naked knees and elbows. Her tears ran
down his face. Her terror raced through his mind. He gasped, rolled back on the
couch. His arms and legs flopped apart, suddenly unfettered. His dull white
popcorn ceiling dropped straight down and passed right through him. But the
ceiling wasn’t falling. He was rising, out of his body, out of his house!

Stars
sparkled and winked back lighting a ragged black tree line. Beyond that tree
line to the northeast, hogtied in an abandoned gas station, Kathy Wyatt lay
waiting to die. Waiting for her abductor to return and destroy the evidence, her.

“The burn
barrel out back would do the trick. It always had. Why would this time be any
different?” Her abductors words slithered through Sam’s mind like a snake.

Sam’s mind
had just reached out and touched two people. One helpless and harmless, the
other a life -long predator out on parole yet again, who’s choices and actions
had momentarily connected the three of them.

The words, Wren’s
Wrecker and Auto Service popped into Sam’s mind, just before he fell out of the
sky and back into his body.

The image of
a rusty sign dangling by one corroded bolt over a remote secondary road flashed
before his mind’s eye. ‘Wrens’ written in faded red paint against a dirty white
background was the only legible word left on it.

Sam knew exactly
where to go. “Thirty minutes, thirty minutes,” he said as he jumped from the
couch, snatched his keys and wallet from the end table and wriggled into his
loafers.

She did not
have much time. He was barely dressed, oh well, ragged denim cut offs and a bare
chest would have to do. He slung open his front door and ran to his car, which
was parked a mere twenty short feet away. But apparently, not short enough.

Ten feet
from his car, the ground suddenly dropped away. He missed his car, flew right
over it, curved up into the northeastern sky and shrank out of sight. His
loafers tumbled to the ground. He’d find them later. Not that he needed them,
or any other protective garments.

“Is this
their end for me?” He wondered as he streaked through the sky. “Why they
birthed me into this world? Was it worth two innocent lives? No, of course not.
Besides they were not benevolent, just curious voyeurs. No, this is my choice, the
end I choose, the point of my being. Her need, her fear just made my path and
purpose clear as the sky.”

The world really
did belong to him. He could feel it curled around his synthetic humanized alien
body, like a soft blanket. Which is why it never occurred to him to call the
police. Kathy did not have time to wait for them. As it turned out, he didn’t
need them anyway. But she needed him, now!