Involuntarily, Brad tensed. He was convinced she was going to ask about Maria. Convinced she was going to say: I miss my puppy, Dad. Do you think my puppy could visit me? Do you? If I promised to be good, do you think my puppy could visit? Pretty please? If you brought her in quietly, the nurses wouldn’t even have to know she was here.
“What, sweetheart?” he said anxiously.
“My tooth is out.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. See?” She uncurled her fist, revealing the celebrated incisor.
“The nurse actually gave it the final push,” Thomasine explained. “Last night, right after you left.”
“Super!” Brad exclaimed. “You know what that means, don’t you, Apple Guy?”
Abbie nodded.
“It means the tooth fairy is going to come,” Brad said.
Abbie managed a smile. But she very soon lost interest. Within minutes she had slipped back into semiconsciousness. Brad watched her go, the knot in his stomach tightening as she drifted farther and farther from him.
“Come on.” Thomasine whispered, motioning toward the door. Brad took a final look at his daughter, making sure she didn’t stir, and got up. They left Abbie’s room and went down the hall past the stairway to the conference room. It was empty. Thomasine hit the light switch and led Brad inside, closing the door behind them.
“Sit down,” she said, her voice thin and unsure. Brad had never heard her this tentative. “Reluctant” and “shy” were not words he would use to describe her, but now they seemed to fit.
“OK, I’m sitting,” he said.
“I want you to listen to everything I have to say before you respond.”
Already Brad didn’t like the direction this was taking.
“And I don’t want you to get angry. Promise?”
Brad hesitated.
“Promise,” she repeated.
“I promise.”
Thomasine paused, as if she’d rehearsed what she was about to say but still wasn’t sure where it was best to begin—or if it was best to begin at all. “Remember the legend of Thunder Rise?” she finally asked.
“About children’s souls being stolen?”
“Yes.” He was getting it now.
“And the children as a result . . . getting very sick.”
“You’ve been talking to that Moonshine character, haven’t you?” he said disgustedly.
“Moonlight.”
“Moonlight. You’ve been talking to him.”
“Yes,” Thomasine admitted. “He was here last night. After you left.”
“Here? Here in the hospital?”
“In Abbie’s room.”
Brad was incredulous. “Are you making that up? You must be making that up!”
Thomasine shook her head. “Bostwick brought him.”
“Bostwick?”
“They wanted to talk with me. They did, for over an hour.”
“So that’s why you wanted me home. So you could—could . . . talk about me behind my back.” His anger was fizzling, replaced by a childish sense of hurt.
“Come on, Brad. Don’t you know me better than that?” And the truth was, he did know her better than that. The truth was, Thomasine was one of the least devious people he had ever met. “It was coincidental that you were gone,” she continued. “If you’d been here, it wouldn’t have been any different. They would have said what they said.”
“And what was that?” he asked wearily.
“They said things are out of control.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“They said unless something changes, a lot more kids are going to die.”
“And?”
“They’re desperate, Brad. Bostwick probably more than Charlie, believe it or not.”
“Let me guess where this is leading,” Brad cut in. “Bostwick believes the Indian now, doesn’t he?”
“He doesn’t know what he believes anymore.”
“But he’s at least willing to listen to that crap about Hobbamock.”
“Yes.”
“And you are now, too.”
“I—I don’t know what to think, Brad. Honest, I don’t.”
Brad looked at his hands. “I guess I’m not surprised. It was only a matter of time before that Indian caused more trouble. He—he ought to be locked up. The man’s dangerous.”
“At least he has a theory, Brad. As farfetched as it is, at least he has one.”
“And it’s bullshit. Bullshit. I can’t believe I’m hearing you say this. How’s this for a theory—a credible one? We’re dealing with a new microbe. Yes, it’s a mystery. Yes, it’s deadly. But it’s still a microbe. Some kind of bacterium or virus. Any idiot can see that.”
“Is that what you really believe?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “That’s what the CDC is saying, isn’t it? Bacterium or virus, with more evidence for bacterium? It’s been in all the stories lately. That’s what Gosselin told me personally. It wouldn’t surprise me if he announces this week that they’ve isolated it and come up with a name for it.”
“And a treatment?”
“Only a matter of time.”
“Can’t you see, Brad? You don’t have that kind of time. What if it’s like AIDS? What if five years from now there’s still no cure? I—I don’t want to sound cruel, but you’re being blind. You don’t want to admit what’s happening, and I don’t blame you for that, but Abbie’s dying, Brad. Dying. Like the others have died.”
“No, she’s not. She’s going to pull through. You’ll see.”
“I hope to God you’re right.”
“Another couple of weeks she’ll be well enough to go home.”
“Bostwick doesn’t think she’ll last a week,” Thomasine said softly, breaking eye contact.
Her words were like lasers. “Did he say that?”
“In so many words, yes. I’m sorry, Brad.”
“But he hasn’t told me that,” Brad protested weakly.
“Because he can’t take any more of this,” Thomasine said. “Can’t you see? He’s losing his mind, Brad. It seems everyone is, me included.”
There was silence, long and uncomfortable.
“What do they want?”
Thomasine outlined Charlie’s proposal. It would mean Abbie, as sick as she was, would have to leave the hospital. Bostwick had already agreed to go along. Thomasine, too. And Charlie. Brad would have to, too, if only for Abbie’s sake. The whole trip might take three hours. It could be longer. It could be shorter. Yes, there was a risk. A grave one probably. But what was the alternative?
“What do you think?” she said when she was done.
“I think it’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard,” Brad answered, but there was no edge to his voice, no anger, no hostile emotion of any kind that Thomasine could detect. He felt tired. He felt betrayed. Most frightening was how alone he suddenly felt.
“Will you at least think about it?” Thomasine asked.
He nodded yes—not because he intended to but because it was easier that way. He didn’t want to fight anymore. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to Abbie,” he said, leaving.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Monday, December 22
Afternoon
“Good afternoon, Abbie,” the rhamphorhynchus said from its hiding spot under her bed. “And how are we feeling today?”
Abbie stirred. In her semisleep, the place where you walked through endless shadows—cool, friendly shadows, like under the big maple on their front lawn—she’d become aware of something different.
A presence . . . the presence of . . .
. . . she didn’t know what, exactly.
“The doctors are concerned, did you know that? I’ve been listening to some of their conversations, and they’re very concerned. They think you’re going to . . . why, they think you’re going to Pass Away. My goodness!”
Abbie’s eyes flew open. She looked wildly about the room, lit by the dying
embers of a cold winter sun. The room was gloomy, like the place of shadows, but there was still sufficient light to make out the closet, the chairs, the empty bed next to hers. There was no one there, not even Daddy.
But she’d heard it. Yes.
The rhamphorhynchus.
It hadn’t come since she’d been in the hospital, but now she was hearing it. She was sure she was hearing it. It was talking about Passing Away, just like the last time she’d seen it, at home. Passing Away seemed to be a part of everything now. On everyone’s lips or just behind them.
“Do you think you’re going to Pass Away, Abbie? You can be honest with me. I won’t tell anyone. I especially won’t tell one of those mean nurses. They might—they might give you another needle, is what they might do. Nurses just love to give needles, haven’t you noticed?”
Abbie figured out where it was.
Not in her mind, which is where Daddy said it lived.
Not next to her, where it usually was. It was under the bed. Afraid it would be seen, so it had gone under the bed.
Abbie began to tremble, the way she had two years ago when she’d fallen off her tricycle, an accident that had sent her whole body into mild shock.
“Daaad,” she cried hoarsely.
“Shhhh,” the monster whispered. “You know how nosy nurses are. And we wouldn’t want to have one of them walk in on us, would we? I have something very important to tell you. Very important.”
“Daaaad,” Abbie cried again.
“He’s not here,” the rhamphorhynchus said. “He had to go to the paper for a little while. Thomasine’s gone, too. I thought they never would! You’re a very popular girl. What with these nosy, mean nurses and doctors and all, it’s been very hard to get a free moment with you. But soon there will be lots of time. You and I and Maureen and Jimmy and all of our little friends will soon have all the time in the world. Aren’t you excited, Abbie? You’re not going to Pass Away! You’re coming with me on an exciting journey!”
Abbie whimpered. She tried lifting an arm, a leg, a finger . . . and knew even before the attempt that it was impossible. Her body didn’t work anymore. Since coming into the hospital, she’d done nothing but lie in bed and be very, very sick. The ability to walk, reach, skip, even eat—they had all gone away. Nothing was right anymore.
That was the most terrifying thought of all, knowing there was no way she could escape.
“There’s only one thing that could come in the way of all that fun,” the creature continued from under the bed, “and that’s the Indian. Do you remember the Indian?”
Abbie did. She hadn’t seen him since that night he’d guessed her nickname, but she remembered him very well. Jimmy always talked about him. A very, very nice man. A man who knew magic.
“That Indian is a very, very bad man. He’s probably the most bad man there is in the whole world. Do you know what he wants to do, Abbie? To you? He wants to steal you. Kidnap you, just like those poor children your daddy and your teacher tell you about. Remember those children? You’ve seen their pictures on milk cartons. The poor things. Kidnapped, and then killed. Yes! That’s what happens when you’re kidnapped, you know. They kill you, which is much worse than Passing Away. Passing Away . . . well, it usually just happens, and you don’t feel anything. But being killed—it’s too horrible to describe. Sometimes they make you bleed. Cut you with knives or beat you with baseball bats. Sometimes they do worse things, nasty grown-up things, and then you’re dead. That’s what the Indian wants to do to you, kidnap and kill you.”
No, Abbie protested. Not Mr. Moonlight. He’s too nice.
“Oh, no, he’s not.” The rhamphorhynchus disagreed. “He’s waiting until you’re asleep, and then he’s going to sneak in here and take you away. And when he’s got you far, far away, he’s going to kill you!”
Abbie’s sobs were audible in the hall now, but there was no one there to hear them.
“And that’s not even the worst thing. The worst thing is that Indian is using his evil powers to make Dr. Bostwick go along with him. Thomasine, too. And even your dad. Isn’t that awful, Abbie? Everyone ganging up like that on you so that the Indian can kill you. Don’t you think you should do something about that? Wouldn’t you like to be safe, not killed?
“Of course you would. Here’s what I want you to do.”
Between sobs, Abbie listened to the rhamphorhynchus’s plan.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Monday, December 22
Afternoon and Evening
He’d become a ghost editor, dropping by every day for only a couple of hours. He tried to time his appearance to coincide with the daily budget meetings, dominated now with planning for stories about the Mystery Disease.
Today Brad left at four-thirty. It was dark.
He did not go directly to the hospital. He wanted to shower. He wanted to get the mail, and have a bite to eat in his own kitchen (even if it was only a TV dinner), and make sure the burner was working, the lights on. He wanted to tend to the little details that gave the illusion that at least a few of life’s gears still turned.
He had another task. One that had been worming its way into his thoughts all day. One he couldn’t put off any longer.
Maria.
I’ve got to take care of Maria.
It was five-fifteen when he pulled into the drive. It had been dark an hour. The house was black, foreboding; Brad was actually a bit jittery opening the door and going in. He fumbled for the light switch, found it, flicked it. The living room was bathed in light. He checked the thermostat. Checked the answering machine; there were no messages. Opened the mail. It was all bills and flyers. He tossed them onto his study desk. The pile now was several inches thick.
He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want to shower yet. Not until . . .
. . . he took care of Maria.
You’ve been stalling long enough, he said with sudden determination. Let’s get it over with.
He went upstairs to his room and changed into his oldest jeans and a ratty flannel shirt. Like a murderer destroying incriminating evidence, he would dispose of them when he was done—maybe douse them with lighter fluid and burn them in the fireplace. He rummaged through his closet for an old pair of gloves and went downstairs.
He went out the door and walked toward the garage, his feet crunching on the frozen ground. He had not put the light over the garage door on, or the porch light on, or any outside light. They would be visible from the road. He had the crazy idea that light would draw attention to him, could somehow be a magnet for someone (who? the cops? the ASPCA? St. Francis of Assisi?) to discover what he’d done. That was the last thing he needed now.
As his hand contacted the knob to the side door, he had an even crazier thought.
Maria’s alive. Last night was all a dream, an ugly, terrible dream fed by too much booze and too much tiredness and too much worry that just goes on and on and on. Maria’s alive, and not just alive but well. Stupid bitch that she is, she going to come bounding toward me, slobbering all over my pants.
He opened the door and turned on the light.
The sight of the dead dog made him gag.
It wasn’t the shape of its head, noticeably flattened. It wasn’t the brown-yellow mix that ran in a thin drool from the dog’s rear. In her death throes, Maria’s sphincter and bladder had let go. The evidence could still be smelled.
No, it was the sheer volume of blood. It was going to take a heavy-duty cleaner to get rid of it. He wondered if bleach would do the trick. Maybe followed by motor oil, to disguise the stain.
Brad walked to the far wall. The blanket he used while changing the Mustang’s oil was draped over a nail. He lifted it off and placed it in the wheelbarrow. Negotiating his way through the blood puddles, he positioned the wheelbarrow a foot from the corpse. He laid the blanket down next to the dog. Using the same spade that had killed the animal, he pushed Maria onto it. Then he carefully wrapped the blanket around the corpse. With a grunt, he got the dog and bla
nket off the ground. The body was stiff, as if a taxidermist had been at work. Stiff and much heavier than he had expected. He dropped Maria into the wheelbarrow.
After checking the street for traffic, Brad opened the garage door and wheeled Maria out. He closed the door and pushed Maria around to the garden, his feet crunching through the final discolored inch of snow that remained from the last storm.
He started digging. The topsoil was iron-hard, and it rejected the spade.
I’ll never get through this, he thought.
But he did. Winter had not locked in long enough for more than a couple of inches of topsoil to freeze. Once he’d punctured that, it was easy digging, and he was able to make good time. In under ten minutes he’d gotten as far as he thought necessary to keep the skunks away next spring, a depth of about four feet.
He stood back from the grave, catching his breath, which escaped him like steam. He wanted a cigarette. Wanted one badly. He felt funny, his head light and ready to swim, his torso tingly, as if he had a bad case of pins and needles. And it wasn’t the intensity of exercise doing this to him. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew it wasn’t that. It wasn’t a good exhausted feeling. It wasn’t tiredness at all. It was as if . . .
. . . as if he were being watched.
Once the idea was in his head, he couldn’t shake it. For the first time tonight he was aware of Thunder Rise, black and brooding under a sky that couldn’t decide if it wanted to clear or storm. He’d seen the rise before, of course, while he was digging, but now . . . now he was aware of it. Aware of it not as a mountain, but as an entity, a malevolence . . . It was impossible for him to explain, although he suspected the Indian might have a word or two to say. He squinted, trying to see better. Every half minute the clouds would break momentarily, and the mountain would be radiant. It reminded him of the great seal on the back of the dollar bill: a pyramid topped with a human eyeball, a symbol he had always considered incredibly bizarre.
He looked back at the upturned earth, at the wheelbarrow, at the blanket, creased and folded in the unmistakable shape of a large dog.
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