The Queen of Diamonds

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 2013 by Tracey Landau

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  DEDICATION

  For My Little Sister

  THE QUEEN OF DIAMONDS

  “What happens next?”

  “There’s…a fire.”

  “Tell me about the fire.”

  FLASHES. Explosions. The sounds of thunder, a high-pitched squeal. The air pops. Everything’s moving so fast—then it all stops, pauses, and I can clearly see myself. The gun is in my hand. Jimmy is looking at me, but my eyes are glued to the building now engulfed in flames. A frozen image. Had someone seen only that single image—which they had—they’d think I must have done something wrong. That assumption is what got me here.

  Jimmy wasn’t with me now…figures. Jimmy’s always been able to squeeze out of tight situations, using his age as an excuse. Ridiculous. Jimmy’s seen more than I will in a lifetime. Sixteen isn’t young when you’ve grown up under the conditions he has. But I’m straying from the story. This isn’t about Jimmy—it’s about me, as the police continuously remind me. I don’t blame them for suspecting me—who seems more threatening? A sixteen-year-old boy that likes to wear his hat backwards, or the twenty-five-year-old guy standing next to him with a gun in one hand and a playing card in the other?

  Exactly.

  “Tell me about the fire,” she repeats herself. The voice is light and unthreatening. It belongs to a psychologist working with my lawyer, working on my case. They’re saying I should plead insanity, but that comes later in the story. Or, actually, earlier.

  ZOOM.

  Things rewind in my mind. I’m outside, now I’m inside. It goes back and forth, first person to third. I’m watching myself. I am myself. SLOW DOWN. The events come to a halt. Another still image. What I see I describe out loud.

  “I’m in a bedroom…her bedroom.…”

  “Go on.”

  “She’s not there.”

  “Who is ‘she’?”

  “The non-existing woman.”

  I call her non-existing because until only recently that’s all she’s ever been to me. Then again, before I found out she was non-existing, I was very sure she was real, just had no name. I’m not so sure what I believe now.

  “She told me to go there.”

  “A non-existing woman told you to go to a house that, you say, exploded by itself.…”

  Well, it sounds crazy when she says it like that. I’m about to respond but the movie in my head starts up again. Flip, flip, flip, flash, flash, flash. I hear the reel of film whirl to life. I move farther back in the story, but this time I don’t travel so far when someone presses “play”.

  I’m walking into her bedroom. I see what she wanted me to see—the pictures, a huge slew of photos, scattered all over the floor and the bed. The bed…it’s neatly made. A pink bedcover with black kittens on it. The fan on the desk is on—the culprit for the mess; the papers and photos fly all over the room like they’re alive. Jimmy turns the fan off. We’re silent as we look around the room. Was the gun in my hand or his? I can’t remember—it flashes back and forth between us like a ghost in our hands. I walk around looking for something, but I’m not sure what. Maybe an explanation. Maybe I’m waiting for a whole bunch of people to just jump out and say “Surprise!” as if it was all one big practical joke, so it could all be over. Like hell it would.

  “There are pictures everywhere,” I hear myself telling the psychologist.

  “What’s in the pictures?”

  There’s a moment.

  “Me,” I say.

  ZOOM! I’m off again. Jimmy hears something and goes running into the hall with the gun. I’m looking all over the place, checking under the bed, which upsets the cat which scratches my face…shit…that cat must’ve died in the explosion.

  Okay, stop thinking about the cat.

  “Poor cat,” I hear myself say. The delayed transfer of thoughts into words annoys me, but then that doesn’t matter when I see her…or it, rather. The playing card. The Queen of Diamonds.

  Things slow to a steady pace, live time. I pick up the card. I hear Jimmy scream.

  “Get out of here, let’s get out of here! She isn’t here, it’s a trap. Come on, let’s go!”

  Jimmy grabs my arm and pulls me from the room. Now I’m back outside again, the house ablaze before me.

  “You told me earlier you found something in the house. What did you find?”

  “A playing card. The Queen of Diamonds.” I don’t even hesitate.

  “So let me understand something.… Were you there to rob the house?” I hear her ask. I feel myself shake my head. The film in my head hasn’t stopped. I watch as Jimmy and I head down the street, only to meet a half dozen cop cars. Fast forward. I’m walking into the police station. Jimmy’s sister is already waiting there to pick him up. Then I think of my sister.

  My sister is the youngest of my parents’ offspring. I’m the oldest. Two brothers divide us. The reason I think about my sister is because she’s the reason this whole, crazy journey began.

  “My sister…,” I mumble.

  “Is that who you were looking for?”

  “Yes.…” No.…

  “No.…” Yes…?

  “Maybe.…” I don’t have time to answer that question, things are moving again. Now it’s going backwards…far, far back, back to the very beginning. All the images of what happened between then and now move so quickly my head starts to pound. I’m groaning, grabbing at my head, pulling my hair.

  “Stop…,” I whisper to the darting images, but they’re out of my control.

  “Stop!” I yell louder. Nothing’s changing. I feel like my head’s going to explode when I hear the woman’s voice again.

  “I’m going to count backwards from ten. When I reach one and snap my fingers, you will wake up feeling refreshed. 10…9…8…7.…”

  I want her to hurry up. I feel myself sliding away from the memories, but my head’s still throbbing and I’m starting to scream.

  “…5…4…3…2…1!”

  SNAP.

  I’m awake. I look into the woman’s face and realize I’ve completely forgotten what I told her or what I was just thinking about. I hope it didn’t sound crazy. By the looks of it, however, I don’t seem so fortunate.

  The psychologist is hurried out of the room by my lawyer and I’m alone—other than a policeman who stands in the corner, staring at me, but not in the mood to talk. I stare at my reflection in the two-way. “Blue,” I think. I know there’s someone on the other side of that glass.… Positive of it. I only hope I’m staring whoever it is right in the face, wishing to convey through my stare my innocence. Like hell it would. I don’t even know if I’m innocent—though I deeply hope that I am.

  The person staring back at me in the mirror is twenty-five. His name is Leslie Gregory Adams, and he’s a soon-to-be-medicated schizophrenic. Perhaps I should explain.…

  I have wacky parents, hence the embarrassing name. I go by Les. I’m a professional dancer working in NYC—and no, I’m not gay. I have a girlfriend. Her name is Jenny. She’s funny, artsy,and scares me with her neverending supply of energy. I have a dog. His name is Bongo. He too scares me with his never-ending supply of energy, but he’s a puppy. Hopefully, his heart is strong enough to take it.

  But I suppose none of that matters after the “I’m a schizophrenic” thing. The psychologist who evaluated me when I was younger believed that my condition existed because I don’t act on my emotions, but instead keep them bottled up. I must agree. I never get mad. I never get upset, sad, or worried. I’m almost always happy. Apparently that’s a bad thing.

  Other than h
aving a very, very realistic imaginary friend when I was younger, my condition was so mild my parents feared that medication would only worsen my illness. Until now I’ve been able to handle things just fine by maintaining a healthy diet and, most importantly, exercising regularly.

  Several weeks ago I came back to Jersey to visit my family and heal from a sprained ankle. What was meant to be a weekend visit ended up being a month-long stay. This entire time I haven’t been able to properly exercise, and now I’m here. I’ve undoubtedly been seeing things, but something else, something bigger than that has been unfolding these past few weeks.Something Jimmy and I, and now the police, are trying to figure out.

  When the lawyer and psychologist come back into the room, they bring with them someone I wasn’t expecting.

  “Danny?” My gay brother.

  “Les!” He runs over to me and sits in the chair facing mine. The reflection of myself is blocked, along with my connection with whoever was on the other side of that mirror.

  “Danny, where is everyone? Where’s Mom and Dad?”

  “They went out to eat, they don’t know—listen, I got your message, what the hell—”

  “What about Mark? Where’s Mark?” My other brother.

  “He’s fine! He’s going to check up on Jimmy, figure out what’s going on; now what the hell happened?”

  “I went to her house, Danny. She had pictures of me all over the place—I’m guessing she stole them from Molly’s house, or our parents. Listen, she knew I was coming; I was looking around when Jimmy grabbed me and got us out of there right before the place exploded—”

  “Les…this woman isn’t real!”

  I pull the card out of my jacket pocket. Until now I was able to keep it from the police, but holding onto it didn’t matter anymore. As long as someone other than me, someone I could trust, saw the card, it will have fulfilled its purpose. I throw the card onto the table. It lands with a slap, the little rectangle laying there perfectly centered on the table. I could see the expression change on Danny’s face.

  “Is that real?” I ask him. He nods silently, then his eyes light up and I could tell he’s running all sorts of thoughts and explanations through his mind. At least he believes me now.

  “Les, how the hell am I supposed to get you out of here? Out of this whole thing? It’s not like I can just bail you out or something, you’re under investigation! They think you’re crazy, what am I supposed to do—what do you want me to do?!”

  I can’t answer that. I have to admit, it’s an excellent question.

  “Okay, okay,” Danny is out of his seat now. I could tell he’s going to do a better job at figuring things out than I could. I should be listening to him, but something else in the room catches my attention. There’s someone looking at me in the mirror that hadn’t been there a second ago. I turn around, expecting to see the redheaded kid in the hoodie behind me. There are a few people there; my lawyer, the psychologist, the cop, but no redhead. I look back at the mirror. The kid is mouthing something to me; I just can’t make out what it is.

  “Danny…,” I whisper. Danny isn’t listening to me. He’s busy being a lawyer about the situation, going over my rights and yelling at the policeman, saying it isn’t legal to keep me here without any substantial evidence, blah blah.…

  I could hear him. I could hear the boy whispering something to me; I have to make out the words. I realize this is a figment; a non-existing person created by my panicked, nervous little mind, so I close my eyes and concentrate. What am I trying to tell myself?

  * * * *

  It was a sunny afternoon when I left for my sister’s house. She lived only a town over from our parents. I never understood that about my family; everyone but me has lived in the same area all their lives.

  Molly, my sister, was not at the station. She said she would be. It wasn’t too much of a problem. When I called her phone and she didn’t pick up, I figured she was at work or something. Like I mentioned earlier, I don’t often get worried. I called my parents. They picked me up and brought me to their house, promising to keep me just for lunch.…

  * * * *

  RED. I open my eyes but the figment’s gone. He was a redhead, wearing red, whispering red…what the hell did “red” mean? Was I trying to remind myself of something? It would’ve helped if the message was a little more descriptive than “red.”

  “What do you mean he was armed with an ‘unregistered weapon’?” I hear my brother shout. I cringe. I should’ve mentioned that to him.

  The simple way of explaining the gun is to say that it’s Jimmy’s. Jimmy is sixteen and should not have a gun, so obviously he doesn’t have it registered. How he got the gun is another ordeal that isn’t important right now. None of that is too important anymore because the policeman has just grabbed my brother and is now pulling him from the room. The last thing I need is for Danny to get arrested too and have my parents find out what’s going on. That would ruin everything. Then they’d tell the police and we’d never find Molly.…

  Okay, so Molly is missing. She has been missing for quite some time, but how long exactly is unclear, as is everything else in this mess. My brothers Danny and Mark know about this. My parents do not. The reason we have decided not to tell our parents about her disappearance is because the situation is all very delicate. We still aren’t sure whether or not Molly disappeared intentionally. If it was intentional, then it’s much more important not to find her. I’ll get back to that whole thing later.

  “Danny, it’s okay, I’ll talk to you later. Just go meet up with Mark, find out if there’s any new information. Can you do that for me?”

  Danny is unsatisfied by my response, protesting, “Yeah, then what about you?”

  “He’s being transferred to a holding cell at the Manchasen Hospital for the Criminally Insane,” the cop growls.

  “WHAT?” My brother shouts.

  “WHAT?” I echo him.

  But the cop has disappeared through the door with my brother. Danny’s fingertips clawing at the doorframe is the last I see of him before the psychologist places herself in front of me.

  “Leslie,” she says softly. She tries to hold my hand but I won’t let her touch me. I should be going nuts right now, having just been told I’m going to be locked up, but I’m not. In fact, the only thing that worries me is that I’m not worried.

  “Les, we’ll be meeting with the judge tomorrow to discuss where you’ll be held until your court date, as well as when your court date is,” my lawyer says very matter-of-factly. She’s much rougher and edgier than the psychologist. Had the two of them been officers, she’d be the bad cop. It’s not a bad thing. There’s power in her voice; I’m sure that if I can convince her I’m innocent, she could easily convince a jury.

  The cop’s back in the room with a couple of detectives, guys that look like they just walked out of Law and Order. My public defender’s expression turns darkly serious when she sees them. I can’t help but notice the situation has turned into a battle of the sexes.

  “Could we have a moment?” one of the men was going to ask, but my lawyer jumps the question on “could”.

  “You’ve had your chance, and my client’s undoubtedly exhausted. Are you aware that it’s 3:20 a.m.?”

  How time flies.

  The cop pulls me from my chair rather roughly—by now I’ve come to the conclusion that for whatever reason, he just doesn’t like me. He cuffs my hands behind my back. I guess I’ll be taken to the institution in a police car. As I’m being escorted out of the room I stare the two men in the eyes, trying to read their minds. BLUE.… They were the ones behind the mirror.

  * * * *

  A little about me: I have a gift. I credit my mild schizophrenia for my gift. Ever since I was a boy I’ve been able to guess what people are thinking. It’s not nearly as interesting as it sounds. I can only read colors, cards, and numbers. Think of a number, 1-1,000: I’ll guess it. Think of a color, anything you want: I’ll name the color on the fi
rst try. Think of a card, I’ll read your mind. I’m hardly ever wrong. The cheap trick is good for picking up girls and winning bets, but little else. The most useful thing about the talent, however, is it helps me remember who people are. Miranda has seven hearts, eighty-five is Kelly’s lucky number, Charlie likes green. That sort of thing. These detectives, both of them…they were blue. Who was red?

  “So, have you banged your new girlfriend yet?” was the first thing my father said to me after my parents picked me up at the train station. I was instantly relieved that Jenny hadn’t joined me on this trip.

  “Marty, don’t be so nosey…! Of course he has,” my mother responded. She waited until my father got in the car to whisper “Always use protection,” into my ear.

  In the car they asked me how Jenny and Bongo were doing. I told them Bongo hadn’t had a heart attack yet. They were pleasantly shocked. I told them they should visit me in New York.

  My mother: “Oh, yes, certainly!”

  My father: “We’d never find a parking space.”

  “You could take the train,” I suggested.

  “I mean at the train station! Did you see how packed that lot was? Anywho, if we have to drive all the way to the train station, we might as well drive the whole way to New York! Ah, here we are; home sweet home!”

  We were already at the house. There was no use in pointing out the house is only a block away from the train station; my dad refuses to walk anywhere. And yet they still keep his treadmill in the basement. As we sat down to eat, my mom gave me the update on all my siblings.

  “Mark’s got a new dangerous hobby. He’s picked up drag racing—thinks we don’t know. I don’t get it, he doesn’t even like cars; he works at a pet store, for Pete’s sake! You have to talk him out of it, or else that boy’s going to get himself killed. Oh, by the way, you should ask him for some dog food while you’re here; he can get it for you at a discount, you know. Molly’s started medical school, looks like she’s going to stick with it—probably why she wasn’t there to pick you up. She’s got this lovely new roommate, a girl named Triste? Trish, is that it? Some sort of bizarre name—Oh!” She stopped and smiled at me. “Danny has a boyfriend!”