A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty

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TP's fragile state of mind took another hit. When had he lost the button? He'd only noticed it missing today, and assumed it had come off in the wash.

But a search of the washer and dryer and his bedroom floor including every inch of the closet yielded no button. It was entirely possible the button found at the crime scene was his. But surely one button couldn't prove guilt, could it? Surely there were other shirts with identical buttons in the city. And how would anyone know about the missing button unless Marge tattled? Would she? Relax, he told himself, breathing deeply. No one could link the button to him, unless...oh, God, would there be fingerprints? Marge was already suspicious. How much did she know? 

Of course if his mission failed, the button would be a moot point. But he didn't want to be remembered as Dr. Demento, or have his name tarnished with suspicion. Or worse, cause Madeline to have to lie. He'd take the shirt with him into Minglemist and leave it there, and hopefully nothing more would come of it.

He took off the shirt and stuffed it into the bottom of his backpack. Might as well pack the rest of the gear he would need while he was at it. Lord, he was so tired. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a week.

When Madeline came home TP was dozing in his rocker with Hayden's Cello Concerto No. 1 playing on the stereo. 

"Do you need help with anything?" she asked when he noticed her presence.

"Ah, I don't think so." He frowned, trying to collect his muddied thoughts. He'd considered leaving for Minglemist this afternoon, but was simply too tired to work out all the details. Better to go first thing in the morning. He would dose himself up with sedative and try to get some sleep tonight.

"Did you have a nice time with Todd?"

"Yes. He sends his greetings."

He wanted to apologize to her again, but knew it would just upset her more. So they sat watching the patterns of sunlight and leaves on the wall, listening to the soothing sounds of cello.

Later Madeline fixed a simple supper and they ate on the patio. TP didn't tell her about the button. No sense in adding to her worries. Just as they were finishing, it rained a little, making the air thick and sticky.

In the kitchen, Madeline washed dishes and scrubbed the sink with a vengeance. "I really should go with you tomorrow, TP. I can wait for you at Doc's and - "

"No." TP shook his head emphatically. "You need to be here. If anyone asks, just say I told you I was taking the bus to Marshy Point. Nothing more. If I'm not back by the day after tomorrow - Tuesday - then you can go to Doc's and find out what happened."

He'd been over this with her before. If he survived the mistangle but the vegetable stone didn't work, he was checking himself into the sanitorium in Minglemist, where he would end his days. He wasn't coming home unless he was healed.

"Try not to worry, Madeline. This is out of our hands now. Let the wheels turn and accept the outcome, whatever it may be."

"But what if I can't accept it," she said in a hoarse voice. "If you don't come back it will all have been for nothing!" She wrung the dish rag out until her knuckles were white.

"There's no such thing as nothing," TP told her. "Nothing is a necessary transition point between two somethings. It's just as much a something as anything else. It's all a matter of perspective."

She stared at him with those fierce blue eyes, and he continued. "It's like the empty space between two musical notes. If you isolate the off-beat, you hear nothing. But when put with the notes, it merges into the melody, which wouldn't be a melody without it."

He was warming up to the topic, getting into his teaching mode. "Think of a chrysalis. If you open it up, you find a little glob of goo. No caterpillar, no butterfly. Nothing but soup. Yet it holds the future, connecting it with the past. Death is only death because our perspective is so limited. We simply can't see what lies beyond."

"But I don't want you turning into a glob of goo," she said forlornly.

"Ah, but if I do, think of the beautiful butterfly I may become. No more knobby knees and big ears."

That got a little smile out of her. They finished in the kitchen and she helped him get ready for the next day. He needed some precise calculations made based on the information Doc had given him concerning the mistangle. Madeline did the math, writing everything out on a card for him to carry in his pack. It was humiliating. He'd always prided himself on his mental acuity, but now even simple math eluded him.

"This will be the last night you have to lock me in," he said when it was bedtime. "Dr. Demento will be a thing of the past." He wished he could tell that woman - what was her name? Marsha something - that she needn't worry anymore. He wished he could get her watch back, wherever it was.

A double injection of sedative at bedtime allowed him to get some sleep, but deep in the night he found himself in a strange state, neither awake nor asleep, unable to rouse himself or move his limbs. Too much sedative, he thought. But something was...different. He wasn't alone. He felt presences nearby, and sensed that they were restraining the dragon temporarily. He struggled to speak, to ask important questions, but couldn't form the words. None-the-less, ideas and thoughts were conveyed to him. He was one drop in a vast stream of beings, both human and divine, engaged in the age-old battle of progression versus repression. His mission was being closely watched, and much was riding on the outcome, not just for himself but for the entire stream. The gravity of this had barely registered when the beast came roaring back, and he awoke with a jolt to see its dark form at the foot of the bed, writhing in a mass of angry spikes.

"You'll fail, scientist," it said with contempt, "just like you failed before. Align yourself with me and my kin and your power will know no bounds."

"Never," TP whispered.

The creature's red eyes flashed. "Then you'll die, and even in death I'll haunt you. You're mine forever." 

"Never," TP repeated. He lay back in bed and rolled on his side, shuddering as the cold fog crawled over him, sinking deeper and deeper into him until his heart felt heavy as stone.