A World Within Worlds

A World Within Worlds

by Dennis Powers

Copyright 2011 by Dennis Powers

www.dennispowersbooks.com

Also written by Dennis Powers at Smashwords.com: The Gold Bugs and The Deadly Seas.

Smashwords Edition

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All characters, places, and incidents in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover design by Donna Casey

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Author

Prologue

Sheets of rain splattered against the windshield, the wipers overwhelmed by the torrents of water. The occasional freeway light was just a dull spot in the black darkness, and traffic was light due to the late night and weather conditions.

The driver slowed down, eyes riveted ahead, not paying attention to the headlights behind which loomed larger in his rearview mirror. He and his companion were silent in the early spring storm, not used to experiencing such heavy rains, both straining to find the turnoff leading from the San Diego Freeway to Santa Monica and the ocean side of Los Angeles.

They became aware of the glaring headlights when the high beams streamed in from the back window, silhouetting their outlines in the eerie, now shadowy interior. The drumbeats of rain exploded against glass and metal with the sounds magnified inside.

What the hell? the driver muttered apprehensively, lifting his foot to press down on the gas pedal. The lights illuminating the interior suddenly flared up, followed by the sharp crack of metal against metal which pierced the silence, as their bodies snapped back and then forward from the impact, the errant car plowing up the rear trunk as if it was an icebreaker crushing through thin ice.

Ugly, skidding sounds engulfed their world, as the driver fought to retain a fleeting control of the car. The vehicle spun on the driver’s side and then snapped to the other, hurtling crazily at a concrete barrier where an off-ramp curved away. Feeling the tires spinning out of control on the slippery pavement, the driver released his grip on the steering wheel.

The car straightened out, only to fishtail again over the gravel embankment. The vehicle hydroplaned and completely left the pavement, careening over in the air, seemingly suspended in slow motion inside space, the screams of the female passenger cutting through the confusion of sounds. The screams stopped when the car landed savagely on the passenger’s side, sliding with a sickening squeal into a guardrail, and then slammed back to spin around crazily on the wet freeway.

Slowing drastically down after its collision, a two-ton, white Cadillac DeVille came to a sliding stop by the vehicle, the driver lurching out while clutching a near-empty whiskey bottle. Wiping the rain from his face, he peered at the nearby wreck while leaning against his car.

The light of an overhead freeway lamp illuminated the shattered vehicle, now resting on its crumpled side. The collision was over as fast as it had happened, and only the sound of the striking rain could be heard. The man shook his head and exhaled softly. So that’s what those funny lights were, he slurred. I got to get outta here. The drunk staggered back into his car and drove quickly away in the darkness.

The next car came by seconds later, nearly hitting the overturned vehicle, but slid around it to come to a safe stop. The California Highway Patrol, or CHP, and paramedics were soon on the scene; an ambulance arrived and left in fifteen minutes, sirens wailing and colored lights flashing.

The rains had slackened later and two accident investigators were walking past the twisted guardrail, their flashlights sweeping over the debris shown by the beams of light. The larger man kicked at a twisted piece of metal lying among the shards and shattering of glass. A soggy magazine was exposed, blood splattered over the cover amidst the water stains. It was a Saturday Evening Post.

This is the election issue, the kicker said to his companion as he picked it up. He fanned the pages between his fingers and said, The article on how Hillary Clinton was re-elected President was interesting. Now if it could only talk and tell us what happened here. He let it fall back onto the pavement.

Another bad one, said his companion. Happens more and more...the woman was DOA when I arrived. The driver will live but couldn’t say much. In shock and pain from his injuries. It was tough to understand him, but it sounded like he’d been hit from behind without warning. The way the car was smashed on the rear and skid marks support that.

Had he been drinking?

No, but he might as well have been, given what happened.

Because he’s alive?

Yeah...the other driver got clean away. I’ve found nothing to identify that one. The first motorists who stopped only saw the hazy taillights of some car driving away. The glass crunched under their feet, as they walked back to their cars under the gleaming light standard and put away their notebooks.

Chapter 1

One year later, Paul Hastings idly looked around his sparkling, modernistic kitchen on a Tuesday morning. It was a day that would change his life and time forever.

Paul sighed and stretched and then stood to pour himself a second cup of coffee. His life didn’t seem to make sense right now. His computer and printer was on the glass table, the sheets of printed paper with pen marks still scattered about, surrounded by gleaming, metal-trimmed black leather chairs.

The kitchen had been repainted into a more stylish black and white a few months ago, owing to the constant urgings of his girlfriend, Melissa Fielding. The blender, coffee maker, grinder, stereo receiver, and other spoils, the first two being gifts from Melissa, were scattered over the gray-tiled kitchen counter and white-oak butcher block set in the middle. Two green fern combinations were in large red pottery containers and placed in corners.

He walked into the living room with his coffee, the rich aroma and hot feeling in his mouth momentarily distracting his thoughts. The living room continued the kitchen’s decor with the same contemporary metal and glass furniture, offset by shiny green philodendron and bright chartreuse green Dracaena in more large red pots. The dark brown carpeting contrasted against the white plastic end tables, gleaming metal lamps, and spotless white walls with hanging prints of two Picassos, two-feet high with gleaming bronze frames, one being the classic Don Quixote and the other a blocked, modernistic rendition of a violin and a guitar.

Design by Melissa, he mused. She was excited to introduce him, as she had said, to the world of upward mobility. Nothing wrong with that, except Paul wondered if this was really meant for him. It was very nice and looked elegant and received favorable comments when office acquaintances or friends of Melissa stopped by. Then, again, he wasn’t sure as to how all of this related to the beaten tiny apartment that he had dreamed about twice before, including earlier this morning before awaking.

Paul found this to be a melancholy setting and feeling, offset by a nostalgic déjà vu, and an even stranger happening, all being so seemingly real. An involuntary shiver coursed through him, as he thought back again to that dark and aged living room. A dim overhead light silhouetted a small television set with rabbit ears on a flimsy metal stand. A torn green couch lay flush against a bare wall. A small table with metal folding chairs stood alone to one side with a scratched wooden desk to the other.

The glare from outside street lights shimmered through an open window onto the desk, illuminating a scarred black typewriter and scattered papers. The sharp beats from a weathered grandfather clock on an old end table echoed inside the room—and within his mind. He walked to the window and stared at the street lights and small stores below. The glares of passing car headlights pierced the shadows of the empty street to disappear with glowing red taillights trailing behind. Feeling himself drawn from the window, Paul turned towards the desk and stared at the papers. He felt as if he was in limbo.

A low series of knocks echoed from the hall door, attracting him like a magnet to walk fluidly towards the sounds. He stood quietly in front and then slowly opened the door. The door’s outline passed by him to reveal an attractive woman who was standing outside. He felt he had seen her before, but Paul wasn’t sure where or when or how that could have ever been.

She had long dark hair and luminous eyes with an enigmatic smile as if holding back from him some secret that he could never discover. It was that mysterious smile and her eyes that he still remembered. They looked at each other in the silence.

May I help you? he said distantly.

When she didn’t respond, Paul heard his voice ask gently, What can I do for you?

She shifted her weight and tugged slowly at the rope belt between her jeans and white blouse. The woman walked gracefully past him into the room to the couch, as Paul closed the door. Turning around to watch her in what seemed to be part of an orchestrated dance, he believed he saw a blurred motion to one side. But he only recognized the stark furniture in the sparsely-furnished room that seemed to be bigger than before. And she had vanished.

Paul quickly opened the front door and walked outside into the dark hallway, feeling the sharp edge of its loneliness. He heard his name being called, faintly at first, then more loudly. Drawn to the voice, he thought it was his own but couldn’t be sure. Once again, he felt the rhythm of the clock’s tinny pitch rise within. The hallway began to blaze with light, and it was this realization that jerked Paul back to the reality of his kitchen table and own place, just as it did before when in bed.

The sunlight suddenly flooding into his eyes, pouring in through the kitchen blinds, forced Paul to turn his head away. He still had that same feeling of yearning after that dream—or nightmare, or whatever it was—that left him with the same sensation of something unanswered, waiting for him, needing to happen.

He had experienced this some days ago, on a weekend morning. It was identical. Paul rationalized that he had been dreaming both times, but both had felt so real. Usually he could remember something at work or in his life that gave some reason or a plausible explanation for having a dream. However, this one was all on its own, as if it had its own life and was not to be denied.

After lying in bed with the thoughts of that dream world, the reality of where he was left him with a screw-it work attitude. Today would be a mental health day for him, as he had been working nonstop for three weeks, including the weekends, on a major presentation for the Husky Oil Company. The large oil company had abruptly postponed the presentation meeting yesterday for another week and the pressure was off—at least for the time. He didn’t feel motivated now and then called in sick.

This meant in turn he could head to the Los Angeles Dodgers baseball game in the afternoon. Although Paul knew that Melissa was lukewarm about baseball and its intricacies, he called her at work anyway. They compromised by agreeing that her friend, Anna, would join them.

Paul enjoyed the silence after the confusion and stress of the last weeks. He would have missed the game, or at best been very late, had he not glance up at the living room clock. Paul saw to his quick dismay that it was already noon. The game was scheduled to begin in two short hours, whether he was there or not. He had less than an hour to shower, shave, dress, and be in front of her office to be at the ballpark on time.

* * * * *

The last hour had been a blur as Paul accelerated his black BMW 550i through an amber light. Complementing himself for once being on time, he steered his car close to where she worked. Scanning the sidewalks and entrances, Paul finally spotted Melissa as she left the tall black-glass office building, the English script sign behind her marking the brokerage firm of Roberts, Morgan, and Seidler where she worked.

She waved at him with short choppy motions, her other hand holding a Victoria Beckham carrying bag, and walked with quick steps towards his car. Paul steered to the sidewalk curb and braked in front of her. He opened the car door and Melissa just as quickly jumped inside. When an impatient driver honked behind them, Paul accelerated back into the congested, mid-Wilshire Boulevard traffic.

I can’t believe it, she said with a light laugh. You were actually on time. She took out her cosmetic mirror and looked intently into it as she patted at her blonde hair, cut recently into a page boy, to smooth every hair back into place. How come...? she said, applying more lipstick.

Off to a good start with no cops around seems to work, Paul said smiling as he looked over at her. That and a little luck will do it every time.

I was going to buy an espresso, but you beat me this time.

Paul felt Melissa looked particularly attractive today. She was dressed in dark fashionable slacks with a brown tweed jacket over a yellow silk blouse. The outfit complemented the blue-eyed Scandinavian look that she tried to emulate, sometimes without total success. She did have the look of a model, he felt, given her angular face and slender body.

Her attire was in direct contrast to Paul’s white slacks, blue Hawaiian shirt and white shoes. He usually didn’t care about such things as formalized dress and appearances. Paul dressed to be comfortable and would have strolled into work with that very outfit if he could have gotten away with this.

As if answering his thoughts, Melissa wrestled off her tight-fitting tweed jacket. She replaced it with a sequined, blue-denim jacket, similarly well-tailored, that was taken from the sack. She carefully folded the tweed jacket, caressing away the creases, and placed it in a neat pile on the back seat.

Where did that come from? he questioned, glancing at her with a bemused look.

I have learned to keep a few casual things inside my car. Just in case you call me with one of your famous last-minute ideas.

You’ll enjoy today.

Thanks for letting Anna come along and she’ll meet us at the ticket window.

No problems...the more the merrier. As long as she doesn’t come over with you tonight for dinner. Melissa responded with a light laugh, the one Paul knew that she gave when unexpectedly amused.

Baseball games are one thing, dinner’s another. I’ll never pass that up, especially when it’s difficult for us to get together.

So what should we have tonight...does my lady have any suggestions? he said, deciding to let that one drop.

Entirely up to you. With her voice taking on a more serious tone, Melissa said, I hope this means that we’ll have more time to spend together. We haven’t done anything for so long.

The Husky presentation finally is completed. We’ll have more time from now on, he said optimistically.

I do hope so. She turned away and looked out the window, her hands held tightly on her lap, as Paul continued to drive patiently in the stop-and-go traffic. Lousy traffic, Melissa said with a frown while staring at the congestion and lines of cars ahead. A smoggy haze covered the freeway, filtering the sky into another typical light gray, sometimes flecked with a bluish tinge.

What’s the matter? You seem a little tight today, he observed as the traffic ground to a complete stop.

Nothing, she answered with an edge to her voice.

Come on, he encouraged. What’s up?

I should have stayed and read the stock-market reports on my desk. This is a waste of time, right now.

Sounds like there’s more to it than that, Paul observed after thinking about her comment. The market has been going sideways lately.

And trending downwards, depending on the technical reports I’ve read, she admitted. I’m a little worried about where the market’s really heading. This could be a big problem down the road and it’s tough finding new clients now, especially with this economy and wild market fluctuations.

What can you do about it? Paul said as the traffic slowly inched ahead.

Keep servicing the old ones; keep trying to find new ones; and I am getting tired of the constant turndowns when prospecting.

You mean you’re one of those who’s making cold calls on whoever answers the telephone?

It’s not as bad as that.... There are investment opportunities that people should know about.

Okay, do you really like what you’re doing?

Melissa at first didn’t answer. I like the excitement, she said as if talking to herself. Especially when things are going the way they should. And I like what I can do with the money, but I don’t like worrying about making the mortgage payments, even with the money.

Paul looked over at her quickly and then back to the traffic. Off to one side, two men were pushing a Toyota off the freeway, steam spewing from its hood. Once passing the men and the car, traffic began to move faster.

I don’t really like where I’m at, he said slowly. I’m into ball games, hot dogs, and real people and I don’t find that as often as I would like at work. But I do talk a good game. He lapsed into silence, then gave a wry look with his eyes straight ahead. The hours are lousy and they keep me from my writing. I really love it when I’m able to sit back by myself and start letting the words fly by.

You just need a vacation, Paul. I know the signs because I’m also a workaholic.

Well...I’m beginning to lose that need. My life just seems to be out of sync.

I thought you liked working for Cromwell Advertising. You were promoted to being an assistant A.E. in just three years, and soon you should be—will be—promoted to account executive.

That would be nice...but sometimes doesn’t seem to be as important to me as it should.

You wouldn’t feel that way if you lost your job. You might look at life a little differently, my friend.

Paul didn’t answer as he watched a large truck suddenly loom from behind in his rearview mirror, its exhaust pipes belching smoke with deep rumblings. He didn’t know where it had come from, but his attentions turned quickly to the huge truck which now filled the mirror. It hovered just feet from the back bumper, appearing at first to creep closer and closer, and then matched the speed of Paul’s car. He simply shook his head. Although he wasn’t worrying about the truck, he didn’t like the way the driver was pushing him along, and in typical L.A. freeway fashion. He increased his speed somewhat but still kept a safe distance from the car ahead and the truck fell behind commensurately.

Turning his attentions back to Melissa, he said, "That promotion, if that ever happens, would barely cover the mortgage on that house you wanted me to buy. Remember the one a month ago, and even with the low, low mortgage rates? She nodded her head. I’m not too crazy about stretching myself for higher payments with the additional insurance and real estate taxes and maintenance, especially given what I’m already paying monthly for this car and a vacation or two. Why mortgage what future you have?"

It was a smartly built house and in a really good area. You need to be more financially astute, Paul, and think about retirement.

Retirement? I can’t get beyond today, let alone thirty years from now. Paul looked back in the mirror, but the truck had disappeared. It had vanished as