Totem Phase

Reyner hit the door. A mountain of mail shoved up against it. He let it lie. Nothing in there worth a damn.

The shutters clamped the light out. The place bled red from the bare bulbs overhead. A submarine on high alert. He kicked off his trainers. Bare feet on dirt. No carpet. Just peat and earth. A preserved world. A time capsule of rot and damp. Heat stayed even. Air thick. A forest in amber. He breathed it in.

Bean bags huddled like seals. Big leaves threw wicked shadows. His little jungle. A man-made babble snaked the room—plastic sheets for water, a hidden pump pushing the cycle. Tiny minnows. Rocks. Greenery. The illusion held. The stereo filled the void—crickets, jays, woodpeckers. The call of the wild. He spent months in the redwoods getting it right. Almost perfect. Just needed one sound. A bobcat scream. Or a woman's. He tried before. The girl ran too far. The knife did its job. The mic didn't. Next time, he'd get it right.

Quail scratched at the dirt. The scene was set. His own holodeck. His kingdom.

He moved to the tank. Colors' domain. Rocks, caves, a fizzing pool, a dead log. Somewhere in there, Colors waited. Reyner knew how to summon him.

From a black-lidded tank, he plucked a cricket. It twitched in his fingers. Wings spasmed. He grinned.

"Nothing can save you now, Mr. Angel."

He dropped it. It landed by a rock. Stilled. Reyner got low. Eye level. The cricket twitched. He grinned. A flicker in the dark. A tongue snapped out. Snagged the insect. Reeled it in. Colors' jaws crunched. Reyner's fists clenched.

"Yes. Yes. You brilliant bastard."

He watched. Absorbed it. Then slumped onto the bean bags. The letters spilled. Junk. Visa statement. Reader's Digest scam. Trash. A white envelope. Frisco Marathon entry. Jonny was running. Last year, he raised three grand for UC Med's neurology fund. Reyner snorted. Like a kid with a dirty joke.

A blue airmail letter. Addressed to Mr. J. Rideout. Angel's real name. Neat, careful script. A stamp of Parliament. He unfolded it. Read:

Dear Dad,

I hope this letter finds you well. I miss you. I'm looking forward to coming home. I sat my final lecture. Next week, I get my diploma. My flight's booked—Pan-Am 1324. SF arrival: 14:10. No need to pick me up. I'll cab it. Looking forward to some real sun. England's summers are a joke.

London's been a dream—Buckingham, Harrods, Selfridges. Quaint and old. P.S. Don't freak about my hair. It's short, but neat.

JJ.

Reyner's gut flipped. Excitement kicked in. He laughed. Couldn't help it. A rollercoaster ride was beginning.

A call. It had to be clean. Untraceable. He had to go out. He had to see Jonny.

He had to be ready.

He ripped open the Visa statement. Julie's Supper Club. Two visits. Books bought. Gas guzzled. He pocketed the statement. Pocketed JJ's letter. Swallowed a pill. Cupped water from the stream. Washed it down. Neck muscles clenched. He massaged them. Steeled himself.

He wouldn't be small anymore.

The world would know him.

The Rainbow Warrior was coming.