proof I was led to the attic of a certain fundamentalist church in the city of Lawndale, located somewhere below Los Angeles. I did not remember anything else before I awoke amidst the drifting vapors of disturbing dream, inside the office of my home, dozens of miles away.
I knew that this letter was authored by someone or something linked with my own research. This was, by my own personal instincts, no prank. I could not explain what had exactly happened to me, nor what was happening still. Perhaps the letter had been placed along with me at my wife’s desk, though the reasoning behind where I found it was no more clear than the reasoning behind where I found myself. But my acceptance of this typewritten conundrum as the gospel truth provided little remedy for my near-crippling distress. In a way, it fueled it. I still didn’t know what to expect.
I felt much the same as when one is awed by the impossible feats of a master magician. Everyone knows what to expect of a master magician, for experience dictates that we should expect the impossible from him. We anticipate unexplainable acts that further and further defy what we know to be real. We may even invest both time and money to watch him perform as we sit tottering within creaky, cushioned theatre seats, fully prepared for an onslaught of things we could never truly prepare for. But regardless of what he performs, we do not flee the theatre in deranged panic when he divides a young lady into thirds with a hacksaw.
Even when that young lady happens to be you.
I must take the letter seriously, for I have made this theatre seat my own, and I intend to sit through the show. At least, now that I have reason to believe what I am dealing with here are my own master magicians and now my wife’s involved.
I should add that it is no longer entirely true that man fears what he fails to understand. These days, man lines up to buy tickets for it.
Somewhere down this line I had stood to buy tickets, never expecting that my response to a show of hands would lead this volunteer to center stage, let alone never dreaming that the magician might choose to confide in me a few of his secrets.
The letter ended:
Anyhow, my persevering rival, I sympathize with your predicament as it came about through no intentions of mine. It was purely a matter of things meant to be. I only work here, as they say.
And you will, too.
Isn’t this what you always wanted?
Your wife says so. And she needs you here, too.
Come, visit us, and behold, we shall show you a great mystery. Perk up some coffee while we’re at it. Write a bestselling novel, even.
Take the Mustang to Carbon Canyon. Santa Monica freeway to Interstate five going south. East on ninety-one to seventy-one north, and left on Carbon Canyon Road. Keep going until you get hungry. Heaven knows it’s been months since you’ve eaten.
2.
Maxwell Gets A Grip
It was as though they had recalled my sanity and this letter was my receipt to run down and pick up a new one.
When I finished the letter, the very mention of my wife’s involvement rendered me nauseous. I could not allow my anxiety to invoke further morbid imaginings, and I fought to refuse any notion that Melony had fallen into mishap. If the matters expressed within the letter were truly as I perceived them, there could be no doubt she had been safe all along.
What tormented me was my not knowing for sure. All the letter revealed was that she needed me and I was to be on my way shortly. If I gave in to any further panic, it would surely slow my departure, if not paralyze it. If only I could grab hold of the reins of my rampant senses and conquer this madness, I could approach this situation with all the disciplined conduct I normally should have. I needed respect and reverence, as this promised to be the climax of twenty-six years of ambitious exploration, the ultimate discovery of our
Learning to Kill: Stories