6:02

6:02

A Novel by

Mark A. Clements

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 1988 by Mark A. Clements

Ebook cover art by Mark A. Clements

Originally published in hardcover by Donald I. Fine, Inc.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Discover other titles by Mark A. Clements at Smashwords.com:

Children of the End

Lorelei

The Land of Nod

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To Peggy and Wayne Smith for your unwavering support.

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Foreword

Welcome to the time machine.

When I resolved to release an ebook edition of this, my first published novel, I pondered editing and/or updating it. Although editing one’s early work is certainly tempting—I think it’s fair to say I’ve learned a lot about writing since then—doing so seemed unfair. This book was published in 1988, and this is how I wrote in 1988. So be it.

As for updating: impossible. 6:02 is largely about the fear of change, but at the time I had no idea how soon or how much change itself was about to change. For example, I wrote the first draft on an electric typewriter, and the last draft a year later on a Computerland PC with a 40 MB hard drive. Amazing—but cell phones were still over the horizon, as were HD TVs, iPods, GPS, Wikipedia—and for that matter, ebooks. The Internet existed as only an esoteric utility for military masterminds and academic researchers. And I might add that the very last typewriter manufactured on earth left a factory in India the day before I wrote this.

The point is, 6:02 is so deeply rooted in the technology of its day, I’d have to change it utterly if I wanted to update it for a modern audience.

But I don’t want to, or need to. Because, you see, the technology of 1988 is not the point of this book, any more than harnessing the power of electricity is the point of Frankenstein. Technological change might be accelerating, but the human heart beats to a separate, slower rhythm. Deeper, more entrenched, evolved over millions of years.

The test pattern on a TV screen, telephones anchored to wall cords—those things might seem quaint now. But the way your heart accelerates when the lights go out…that is never quaint.

Listen to your heart.

It goes:

Tick tick tick.

Mark A. Clements

May 2011

Prologue

November

He had felt restless all day. Now he sat in the kitchen, a cup of hot tea before him, looking down beyond the expensive houses clinging to the hill to the mottled expanse of the Pacific Ocean. The sun had just gone down behind low gray clouds, and the restlessness grew.

All day long, he had had the feeling that she was very near.

A girl clad only in a strip of transparent panty appeared in the doorway behind him. Looked at him with dull resentment. You’ve been a real winner all day, she said. I’m taking a Valium and going to bed. I’ll be watching TV if you’re interested.

He said nothing, did not so much as nod. The girl disappeared.

Sitting there with his cup of tea, he waited for another girl to step through that door. A younger girl, with pretty red hair. He knew it was impossible, of course; still, why take a chance? All day long, he had expected to walk from one room to the next and find her standing there.

Waiting.

Shadows thickened around him, but he didn’t turn on any lights. Soon he couldn’t even see the dozens of framed portraits covering every surface in the room. It didn’t matter; perhaps the darkness would help. His anticipation was like a second heart, throbbing louder every second. It was almost six o’clock. Of course, that was only Pacific Standard Time. In other zones, it was another time entirely. Still, he felt himself tensing, because deep in his heart there was only one time zone, and in that zone it was always the same hour and the same minute. It was always 6:02 P.M.

Just below him, the swimming pool light came on automatically, flinging sinuous ripples across the ceiling of the room. He stared into the luminous water, mesmerized. For a moment he thought he saw a small white body floating beneath the surface, red hair spread out in a fan. When he blinked and stood up it was gone, but he knew, suddenly, that it had been a sign.

Breathing hard, he looked at the clock. Now it read exactly 6:02. And he realized that there must be places in the universe where there were no time zones at all, and the hour never changed.

6:02.

The phone jangled beside him, or seemed to. He stared at it, trembling, and then he put the receiver to his ear. He listened. I knew it was you, he whispered. I knew it.

And she told him what to do.

Chapter One

1

It was that sound again, coming softly through the darkness.

plink...plink...plink...Faint, metallic, as insistent as a clock ticking.

Isabelle sat up in bed and looked hesitantly across the room to the door. It was open a crack. All around it swarmed the shadows of pine tree boughs, frantic, strangely silent. There was only one sound:

plink...plink...plink...

Slowly, she pulled the sheets aside and swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. The sound meant something. Something urgent. What was it? She couldn’t remember, and that frightened her. It was important. It had to do with...

Annette? she cried. The word died in the shadows.

plink...plink...plink...

She slid slowly onto her bare feet. She had to do something about the sound. The sound was her fault.

As she walked across the room, legs quivering, the tree-limb shadows played over her back and shoulders like delicate fingers.

She opened the door. Beyond was a hallway, a glimmer of light creeping up from the stairwell at the far end. Along the hall were three doors, two closed and one open. The sound came from the open doorway. Louder now.

Plink...Plink...Plink...

She moved slowly into the hallway. She noticed that she wasn’t wearing her nightgown. There was a towel wrapped around her torso, and her hair hung in sodden strings. The carpet was damp under her bare feet. Ahead of her the sound grew louder and harsher with every step. Like her own heartbeat.

Plink...Plink...Plink...

At the open doorway she stopped. The room beyond was lightless. Smells rode out to her on a pulse of warm, wet air: soap, shampoo, toilet bowl freshener. And under that, something else. Something putrid that brought saliva rushing into her mouth.

Annette? she whispered. The darkness swallowed her voice.

To her surprise, her feet took two short steps into the room and stopped. She stood there, shivering. She was forty-two years old; too old to be afraid of the dark. And yet she was afraid. Because the dark contained the smell, and the PLINK...PLINK...PLINK...and because Annette would not answer her.

Suddenly she realized that she could see the bathtub before her. It was full of dark water; steam rose from it, giving the air shape and texture. Out of the water curled an electrical cable, which went on to sprawl around the floor in serpentine coils and loops before ending at an electrical outlet on the wall.

From the faucet, droplets fell like dim meteorites: PLINK...PLINK...PLINK…spreading ripples across the surface of the water.

Staring into the tub, she whispered, I warned you, Annette. I warned you not to.

PLINK...PLINK...PLINK...

She took a step toward the tub, her foot squishing into the nap of a soaking-wet rug. I warned you not to. Didn’t I? Didn’t I warn you?

Another step and suddenly a loop of cable turned under her foot. She slipped, falling clumsily against the edge of the tub.

She and her reflection, a black cutout, nearly met before she pushed herself back onto her knees. The sickly stench of the water made her stomach churn. In front of her, the ripples spread like visible heartbeats: PLINK! PLINK! PLINK! in her ear.

Suddenly she plunged her arms into the hot, fetid water, felt around desperately. I warned you! she cried. Didn’t I? I warned...

But there was nothing there, just water, and it felt deep, deep. There was no bottom. She staggered to her feet again, the towel she was wearing soaked through, and stood trembling.

Then she turned around.

Happy Birthday! cried a shrill, gleeful voice, and the small shape reared up from nowhere, red hair flinging water, small hands reaching out and grabbing, pushing. The tub against the backs of Isabelle’s legs, then over and falling and suddenly the water, deep dark water choking off her scream, sliding into her throat and lungs, pulling her down...

And from somewhere, a giggle...

2

Isabelle sat up with a jerk, gasping frantically for air. The bedroom was dark. The pine tree outside, silhouetted by a streetlight, made a sinister shadow-show on the walls. Rain pattered against the roof and windowsills.

Dream. It had been the dream.

She collapsed back onto the pillow, breathing harshly, her heart fluttering like a bird in a cage.

The rain had triggered it, of course. The sound of dripping water. Nothing to worry about.

She hadn’t had the dream in almost a year.

But she’d had it tonight, hadn’t she? What if she was relapsing? Regressing, that’s probably what Brenda would call it. Regressing.

Gradually, her breathing slowed. She watched the pine tree shadows weaving across the ceiling. Outside, the rain dripped through the tree’s thick November boughs, making a sound. It wasn’t much like water falling into a bathtub, though. Not really.

Regressing. That was a word to mull over in a dark, solitary bedroom at night. Regressing. Going backward. She clutched at the sheets. She didn’t want to go back.

Suddenly the telephone rang. Startled, she blinked to clear her eyes, then looked at the clock. The bright red digital numbers read 3:01 A.M. Who would call her at this hour? She fumbled over objects on the nightstand, found the telephone, brought the receiver to her ear. Hello?

There was no answer. Static. Then a voice—no, several voices, far away and speaking so faintly that she couldn’t understand them over the beating of the rain.

Hello? she repeated. No answer. The voices went on, oblivious. She didn’t think they could hear her. She listened for a moment longer, then hung up.

Wind and rain brushed the house. The shadows rushed back and forth in bewildering patterns, until it seemed that the walls themselves were squirming. She closed her eyes, but did not try to fall asleep. What if she had the dream again? Just like in the old days. The same dream, over and over, sometimes six or seven times a night.

She felt tears crawling down her cheeks. Please, not that. Please don’t let it start all over again.

3

When she awoke, the rain was falling harder and the room was lighter. The pine tree no longer cast its shadow on the walls. She looked at the clock. Almost nine o’clock. She hadn’t had the dream again. A relief.

She lay in bed awhile, listening to the rain. Today was Saturday. No work, no need to get up, no need to do anything except watch TV or read a book. She felt good, and then her spirits fell. That was too much like her lifestyle of a year and more ago. She threw back the sheets.

The telephone rang. Suddenly she remembered the strange, open-ended call she had gotten last night. Or had that been a dream, too?

She cleared her throat and lifted the receiver. Hello?

Hi, neighbor, cried a familiar voice. Hope I didn’t wake you.

Oh, hi, Brenda, Isabelle said, pleased. No, I was up.

Good. I was just sitting here having coffee and looking out the window. I’ll be glad when this crap turns into snow, won’t you?

Isabelle looked out at the dripping pine tree. It doesn’t usually snow until after… she began, then thought of the dream again. ...until after...Christmas.

Iz? Brenda’s voice was not distant at all. You okay?

Isabelle shook her head, then swung out of bed and pushed her feet into her slippers. Awkwardly, shifting the phone back and forth, she pulled on her quilted robe. The room was cold. I’m fine, she said.

You sure? Brenda’s voice turned sharp. Isabelle, you haven’t heard from him, have you? He hasn’t sent you any more of those horrible cards, has he?

No, Isabelle said tightly, not yet. Like snowfall, it was still too early, but they would start coming soon enough. Not Christmas cards-birthday cards. They were Richard’s sick holiday custom, which he had begun the winter he left her, five years ago. Traditionally, they arrived at the rate of one per week from mid-November until December twenty-first, and they were addressed to Annette Collins. Inside, the handwritten messages said things like: Happy Birthday to my darling Annette—wherever you are. Or, Happy Birthday, Sweetheart—wish you were here. Or, I’m sorry there will be no happy returns, Angel.

The horrible truth was that up until last year, Isabelle had not only opened the cards when they arrived, she had kept them to read again and again. Her tears of shame had stained them. But then, last November, the first card of the season had arrived—and it was addressed to Isabelle herself. And inside the card, in Richard’s handwriting, was the message: Dear Mother, Thank you for the present you gave me on my last birthday. No one but you would have given me that. Sorry I can’t return the favor. He had signed it, Annette.

Isabelle had sat for a while, trembling, the card on the table in front of her. Suddenly she had leaped to her feet, run upstairs to the bedroom, and pulled the bundle of cards from prior years out of the dresser. Then she’d rushed around the house, gathering up every photograph of Richard that was still there. She’d collected all the old receipts and warranties, everything that had his name on it. Finally she’d gone outside, thrown the entire pile into a metal garbage can, and tossed in a match. The flames had stabbed at the November sky, and she had stood there smiling blankly, with tears running down her face.

After that, everything had begun to change. Brenda’s constant psychological banter, unprofessional but enthusiastic, had begun to make sense. Even the dreams had stopped.

Had...

If he sends any cards this year, Isabelle muttered thickly, I’ll report him to the police.

That’s my girl. Don’t take any more of his crap.

I won’t.

Brenda switched tones again, becoming light. Listen, Isabelle, why I called. This is usually Joe’s and my symphony night, you know? Our weekly escape from the rug rats. Well, tonight Joe made a promise to play poker or something instead, and so here I am with a spare ticket. How would you like to go with me?

Isabelle looked down at her slippers. God, the symphony.... Memories welled up at her, thick with emotion, things that had happened long before the dream. I’d love to go, she said.

That’s my girl. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet some new people, make new friends—

Brenda... Isabelle broke in, suddenly alerted. Brenda, you aren’t going to try to fix me up with someone, are you? You wouldn’t—

Izzy! I’m not the sort to interfere with a person’s life. Have I ever interfered with your life?

Isabelle sighed.

Okay, then. It’ll be just you and me. Tonight all my little monsters can stay home alone—it’ll give them a chance to smoke pot and blast the paint off the walls with their disgusting music. Brenda’s voice was full of affection. She had four children ranging through their teens, all successful biological experiments. as she cheerfully called them. Anyway, come on over at about seven. We can have a cup of coffee before we leave.

I’ll be there, Isabelle said, feeling a pleasant tremor of excitement mingled with a touch of nervousness.

Good girl. See you then.

Brenda hung up. Isabelle started to lower the receiver, then lifted it again and pressed it tight to her ear, wondering if she might be able to hear the chatter of other voices somewhere down the line. There was nothing.

For some reason, in that cold drumming silence, she felt lonely.

4

In the afternoon, she stood at the stove stirring a pan of cream of mushroom soup. From the living room came the low, sedate voice of a PBS commentator describing the sex lives of grunion. Isabelle realized that she seemed to keep the television switched on constantly when she was disturbed about something; its light and volume overwhelmed thoughts she didn’t want to face. Was that healthy? She remembered a time when she was much worse, when she’d worked all-night shifts so that she wouldn’t miss a single afternoon soap opera. Still, was a small crutch any better than a big one?

She glanced at the clock. Twelve-thirty. She always had lunch at twelve-thirty on her days off, she realized, and she always ate cream of mushroom soup. It was as predictable as her television-watching habits. God, she was glad she was going to the symphony with Brenda tonight.

Pouring her soup into a bowl, she started back to the living room. As she passed through the dining area, the BBC commentator’s voice cut off and was replaced by a steady whining tone. Puzzled, she walked into the living room and looked at the TV.

On the screen was a test pattern. Not one of the new spectrum affairs that had appeared with color television, but the old-fashioned, black-and-white kind, shaped like a target surrounded by cryptic symbols and letters. She hadn’t seen such a test pattern in years; not since the days when most television stations signed off at midnight.

That whine was maddening. Sitting down, she picked up the remote control and switched channels. The test pattern and tone disappeared. The other stations worked; they were all showing cartoons of one kind or another. When she got back to PBS, the test pattern was gone.

Fine. She began spooning up her soup, and learned all about grunion.

5

After she ate, she took her dishes into the kitchen and promptly washed them. Dirty dishes never cluttered her kitchen for more than ten minutes; her furniture was whisked clean almost before dust could settle, the carpets were all like well-tended lawns. She spent most of her time in this house. It absorbed the majority of her income and all of the proceeds from her parents’ insurance benefits, and she was determined to keep it nice. Brenda, of course, insisted that she only kept the place because it was safe and familiar.

Isabelle went into the living room and stood in the rainy quiet. Here, despite Brenda’s claims, some things had changed. Once this room had practically been a photographic gallery, every wall and horizontal surface covered with framed portraits. All of them showed the same little girl with long red hair, the darkest of eyes, a bright and intelligent smile.

When he left her five years ago, Richard took the entire gallery with him, down to the last wallet-sized snapshot. Other photographs were disdainfully left behind, and now two of these sat on the desk in the living room. One was Janet’s high-school senior picture, now five years out of date. Janet wasn’t smiling. Next to that was a portrait of Isabelle’s parents, taken in their home in New Jersey shortly before Isabelle had left for Indiana University. Isabelle looked wistfully from one photograph to the other. This was the closest Janet and her grandparents would ever get. Janet had been conceived out of wedlock, and that had been enough to make Mama and Papa turn their backs. We warned you about going to school so far from home, didn’t we, Isabelle? Well, you’ve made your bed, so lie in it!

Suddenly she felt close to tears, and shook her head angrily. Stalking to the coat closet, she pulled out the self-propelled Kirby and began to follow it around the room. It hadn’t been self-propelled when they first bought it, but like everything else they had, Richard had felt compelled to modify it, to make it better.

Upstairs, she vacuumed the master bedroom, then turned and looked down the length of the hallway. Suddenly she was reminded of her dream. There were the three doors; the one to the bathroom on the right, and on the left the two small bedrooms. The bedroom doors were both closed. She looked at the nearer one. Annette’s room, which Richard had insisted on calling the nursery even after Annette entered the first grade. It was one room Isabelle seldom cleaned or even entered.

Now, thinking of the dream, she stood in the hall staring at the door and toying nervously with the handle of the vacuum cleaner.

Then she leaned forward and pushed open the door. Cartoon characters danced cheerfully across the wallpaper: Scooby-Doo, Huckleberry Hound, Yogi Bear, Boo-Boo. Dust bunnies bustled over the barren floor where once had stood a toy box, a bed, a fine oak dresser, all of which Richard had built in his shop in the basement. The room streamed with raindrop shadows.

Isabelle stood in the doorway, clutching the Kirby like an anchor. She didn’t know what she had expected to see. A vague feeling of unease rolled through her, but that was all. She gradually relaxed her grip on the Kirby. Maybe the dream hadn’t been a sign of regression, after all.

She closed the door softly.

The last room along the hall used to Janet’s. Janet had moved out four years ago at the age of nineteen, but Isabelle still vacuumed here as carefully as if she expected Janet to move back in—not that she wanted her to.

I’m sorry, Janet, she sighed in her mind. It’s not your fault that you were born. I know that, and I tried not to resent you. Can’t you see I tried?

Still, it was no wonder that Janet preferred her father, even though she hadn’t seen him in five years, and even though he had all but ignored her during Annette’s years as reigning queen.

Isabelle shut off the vacuum cleaner and shook her head angrily. She was doing it again, filling the air with memories. If she kept this up, she’d be a wreck before she got to the symphony tonight.

Taking the vacuum cleaner back downstairs and stowing it in the closet, she went into the kitchen and began cleaning the oven. Thanksgiving was coming soon. Everything should be perfect, because Thanksgiving dinner was one of the few traditions she and Janet still shared.

It was almost five o’clock before she glanced at the clock again, and a tingle of energy shot through her. It was time to get ready for the symphony.

6

Wrapped in her robe, she walked barefoot into the bathroom. It was like entering an undersea grotto. The tiles were blue and green, the fixtures glinting chrome and porcelain. Over the twin sinks hung a large mirror, well lit with indirect fluorescent lights. She stood in front of it, then slowly lowered the robe.

She was forty-two years old. Did she look it? Brenda assured her she did not. Her face was smooth, with clear olive skin, a map from which all roads had faded. Her hair gave the impression of youth, too: long and black, shot with only one or two strands of silver. A