The Waiting Room
~ Chapter Ninety-Six
In Depp's Dream
Abberline’s
dreams came.
But there were no dragons. No fire-breathing
monsters. No demons. There was but a woman who walked slowly towards
him. A woman of dreams…of Depp’s dreams.
She smiled at
Fred holding out her hand to him.
“Come with me Inspector.
I will show you his world.”
Abberline raised his hand to
her, trying to reach her, but it was as if he were in slow motion; as
if each inch he closed between them were like a snap shot, frames of
a moving picture, frame by frame.
“Your dreams hold you,
Inspector,” her voice came to him in his fog. “You must allow
yourself your freedom. Do not be chained by haunted memories or
shadows of the past. You are safe. Nothing can harm you here. There
is nothing to fear. Now, come…take my hand.”
As if he
broke through glass, the heaviness of the moment lifted and suddenly
he burst forward, grabbing her hand, feeling light, almost floating.
And then there was a flash. Bright and fast, like the crime
scene photographer’s bulbs, snapping and bursting from their own
heat, a thousand shattering slivers flew around him, prisms of color
enveloped him and then black.
He could see nothing. Here
nothing.
“Where are we?” he asked her, unable to see her
face, yet he could feel her hand curled into his.
“The
threshold, “ She answered.
“The threshold?” he repeated
in a question. “Threshold to where? I see nothing. Should there not
be a door for there to be a threshold?”
“You but only
have to take one step forward,” her voice assured him.
Fred
took in a deep breath. He lifted his right foot slowly, calculating,
unsure what lay ahead. Then he moved his leg forward and stepped down
on the solidness beneath him.
Another breath, closing his
eyes as he leaned into the step and let his left foot follow.
A
gust flew past, as if someone had opened a door, a window, somewhere,
letting in a cool, fragrant wind.
Fred breathed in the scents
that assaulted his senses.
“Fresh, clean air.” he
identified the first of the scents.
“Kentucky.” came the
feminine answer. “His childhood home.”
Abberline nodded,
knowing she could not see him.
“Another step please.”
Abberline obeyed.
Another gust of wind, another
scent.
“Oranges,” he recognized.
“His next home
state of Florida.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I should have
known.” And without her prompting took another step. He expected
another single scent.
Abberline’s body crumpled at the
familiarity of what came at him. He had prayed there would be no
demons. But he should have known better.
“You remember
these yourselves, do you not?” she asked.
“It is the
smell of the Devil himself,” Abberline answered. “Alcohol.
Drugs.”
“Yes,” her wisp of a voice caressing him as she
never lowered or raised the tone.
“His hard years in the
beginning. California. Hollywood. Much happened. Many days of excess
and sorrow. He thought he could find himself by losing himself. He
challenged the Devil each day. Each day, he won…the Devil lost.”
“Another step, Inspector.”
Together they moved
forward.
“Lavender,” Abberline identified. But it was
tinged with a secondary smell. He breathed deeper, then let go a
laugh.
“If I did not know better, I would swear it was baby
powder.”
“And you would be correct, Inspector. This was
his discovery of France and the beginning of his family. His
children.”
“Ah…” Abberline sighed his understanding.
“He battled his demons and strove to be a better man.”
“Yes.”
“Shall we?” he asked in the darkness, swinging his hand
forward, their steps following.
The next shocked him. It was
pungent, like that of one of the street laborers of London. Sweat he
thought. Hard working sweat. Abberline brought his free hand up to
his nose in an effort to stop the offending odor.
“The
smell of success,” she told him.
“Success? But is not the
saying “The sweet smell of success.”
“Yes,” she
answered. “But success smells sweet only to those who wish to rest
on their laurels. They feel they have arrived and no longer need to
work as hard or barely work at all.”
“I don’t
understand.” Abberline told her, confused at this new smell that
filtered the air.
“He chooses not to do this. He continues
to work just as hard. As if every day is a new day. Every project he
chooses will add something to him other than just a paycheck at the
end. Johnny chooses to work harder than the next man, to perfect his
craft and improve his life. To be better than he was yesterday and
stay focused that tomorrow is not guaranteed.”
“But he
has come so far. How can he fail?” Abberline inquired.
“No
one can answer that. But he understands that if it comes crashing
down…this life he now leads…he will just as quickly leave it
behind and begin again, knowing he did his best and lived the life he
wanted to live. His only consolation will be his family. Whatever he
does, wherever he goes…his family is first.”
“But are
we not as much a part of him as his family. We created him. We are
what makes him. From the young boy Glenn to the last man that came
into The Room, Lord Wilmot. Without us, there is no ‘him’.”
Abberline announced smugly.
“That my dear Inspector is
where you and all your companions are wrong.”
Their next
step brought them into light and Fred involuntarily closed his eyes
against it, his left hand shielding his sight against the brilliance.
“Look, Inspector.”
Slowly Abberline brought down
his hand, blinking, trying to focus on what she wanted him to see.