by Lisa Amowitz
“Yeah,” he whispered, though it hurt to speak.
“You passed out. Have you been ill lately?”
He didn’t dare sit up. His surroundings lurched and spun in the red darkness. “No. But I fell and hit my head yesterday.”
“He may have a concussion,” the nurse said. “You need an X-ray.”
“No!” Bobby protested. “Just let me lie here a while. I’ll be fine.”
In the end, after letting Bobby rest for fifteen minutes, Mr. Cooper helped him to his car. In the back seat of Mr. Cooper’s Jeep, Bobby stretched out, his body still leaden, his vision pocked with red.
“I would have taken you to the hospital, Bobby,” Mr. Cooper said.
“It’s probably just something I ate.”
“You said you hit your head.”
“I lied. I just—I’ve been having these weird headaches and dizzy spells, Mr. Cooper. But I can’t go to the hospital. I have work tonight.”
“This doesn’t sound good, Bobby. It could be stress. Or maybe—”
“Please, just take me home. I’ll figure it out. I can get checked up at the VA.”
“You promise you will?”
“Promise.”
Finally, after an eternity, Bobby felt the lurch of the Jeep as it climbed the steep driveway to his house. He sat up slowly and risked opening his eyes, relieved to find that his vision was mostly cleared. The headache had begun to recede.
Still wobbly, Bobby was out of the car before Mr. Cooper could undo his shoulder strap. But the teacher came around to his side and studied him, his face furrowed with concern.
“Let me help you inside.”
“No, Mr. Cooper, I’m fine. And thanks for getting me home, but it’s better I face my dad alone.”
CHAPTER
6
Bobby waited until Mr. Cooper drove off before climbing the stairs. His body felt creaky, every movement jarring his tender skull.
Dad sat in the wheelchair, waiting. “What the fuck is going on with you?”
Bobby hurried past him to his room and flopped facedown on his bed, but Dad wheeled in after him. “You sick? Or are you faking?”
Ignoring him, Bobby mashed his face against his pillow, blocking out everything. He just wanted to melt into the bed and cease to be.
Dad wouldn’t let up. “Kid,” he said, his voice halting, “sorry for being such a prick.”
Listening to the whir of the old wheelchair’s tires on the worn carpet as Dad turned around and rolled out of the room, Bobby waited a beat before following him into the living room. He glanced at the clock. Noon. He had until four when the school bus brought Aaron back home. And until six-thirty when he had to be at work. The thought of facing Gabe wasn’t helping his fragile state. Plus, he still hadn’t gone back to retrieve the boat. “Dad, I’m sorry about last night. I lost my head.”
Dad stared up at him, his expression shifting like fast-moving clouds.
“Passing out at school ain’t normal. And yesterday you didn’t catch any fish. You always catch fish.”
Bobby paused. “Nothing’s wrong. Just tired, I guess.” “If you say so. You know, if there’s something you’re not telling me, I’ll find out eventually.”
“There’s nothing, Dad.”
Dad nodded. “Yup. Whatever’s going on will come to light if I bide my time.”
Bobby shrugged and headed back to his bed. He still felt strange and lightheaded.
“Bobby,” Dad said, “you wanna jam? It’s not often you’re home with time to kill.”
He felt like crap, but the slight quaver in Dad’s voice made him pause. Before Dad came home disabled, they’d always played together. They still did, on the rare occasions Dad was up to it, but mostly he claimed that playing aggravated the constant pain in his upper back.
“Sure, Dad. Okay.”
He fetched Dad’s battered guitar and his own, and sat opposite him on the couch. Dad remained in his wheelchair. It took a while to get the old thing in tune, but soon they were strumming away on “Saint James Infirmary,” a feverish light in Dad’s eyes. They switched it up to Bruce Springsteen and “Born to Run,” then to the Rolling Stones’ “Paint it Black.”
The rich, raw tones of Dad’s voice wove around him, then climbed crazily higher. Bleak as his life was, Dad’s soul still lived in his music. It was, Bobby realized, the only way they could ever really speak to each other.
After three songs, Sam Pendell had had enough. “Wish I had the strength to go on longer, kiddo.”
“It’s okay, Dad.”
Dad’s eyes were slipping closed. Bobby glanced at the clock in the kitchen. It was only one fifteen, and he was feeling much better. A plan dropped into his mind, as clear and pure as a moonbeam. And there was plenty of time to do it before Aaron got home at four.
The sky frowned over Graxton, the gray clouds low and brooding. A light drizzle had already begun to mist the grass. Bobby pulled on his fishing boots, cap, and flannel shirt. He grabbed one of Dad’s old work bandanas, left a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on a plate for him, motioned for Pete to follow, then left.
First, he stopped by Scratch Lake. After discovering that his boat had wedged itself into a little inlet that he’d need another boat to get to, Bobby put that concern aside. He had more pressing things to worry about. Like his eyes. And his mind.
Driving in the truck, he reviewed the times the spells had seized hold of him, how an indefinable tug had pulled at him before the red headaches hit.
Maybe if he could replicate the attack, just like it had happened in the woods the day before, he could understand what was happening to him. The strange visions, the sense of something pulling at him, the red blindness, the brutal headaches—somehow, they were all connected. The problem, real or imagined, was getting worse.
He had to get to the bottom of it. Fast.
Just as he steered the truck into the parking lot at the ball field, the rain came down in sheets.
“Stay in the car, Pete,” he said, patting the dog’s head. “No use both of us getting soaked.”
Bobby stuffed the bandana in his jeans pocket. From the back of the truck he rooted out Dad’s old steel toolbox and trudged through the wet field, up the incline to the woods. By the time he got there, his flannel shirt was plastered to his skin, but it was a warm rain. Annoying, but bearable.
On entering the woods, Bobby paused, wondering if the sense that had drawn him to the scrap of fabric would work in the rain, to see if it was real—or the first signs of mental illness.
He tied the bandana over his eyes, the muddied ground squishing beneath his boots. The patter of the rain streamed between the leaves and hit the growth underfoot. He plodded forward, one slippery step at a time.
Blindfolded, Bobby quickly lost his bearings. Then, there it was—that feeling—slicing through the dark like a cool ripple, dragging him toward it. He didn’t need to see to know the way. It hit him full-blast, like a shot in the chest—the aching, screaming anguish burning through the steady rhythm of the rainfall.
In hideous flashes he saw her. Felt her. Clearer now. A barefoot girl, her clothes filthy and torn, feet swollen and bleeding. Eyes wild, she raced through the woods like a hunted deer, her insides hollow with hunger. But that was nothing compared to the white heat of her terror.
Starving. Moldy bread, sour milk. I can’t die this way. I’d rather die running. Running from him.
The horror roared through Bobby. If he didn’t remove the blindfold, maybe the headache wouldn’t come. Maybe the blindness wouldn’t, either.
He splashed his way haltingly forward through the deluge, arms extended, until he collided with wet bark. This was it. This was the tree. His fingers searched the rough surface, the electric shock of the fabric signaling its presence, each thread burning into his fingertips like a hot wire.
Bobby cursed silently and yanked his hand away. Images bombarded him, rushing past too blurred and rapid to decipher. Despite the blindfold, the s
ickness welled in the pit of his gut, shaking him to his core. He didn’t dare take it off.
Fumbling in the toolbox, Bobby finally located a pair of needle-nosed pliers and, guided only by his weird, visionless sense of the thing, plucked the patch of fabric from the notch in the tree bark. After shoving it into the bottom of the toolbox, he slammed the lid shut. Like wisps of smoke, the images dissolved.
Breathing heavily, Bobby waited for the pain to find him, for the instant when he would be overwhelmed and helpless, flailing in the mud. Instead, there was only a dull throbbing at the base of his head. Gray light leaked under his blindfold.
Carefully, he lifted the bandana and peered out. The soggy woods dripped around him, no tinge of red.
The images had faded as abruptly as if a valve had been cut off. The rain had slowed down, and Bobby, cold, wet, and soaked to the bone, sloshed his way out of the woods.
Lost in thought, he’d been walking a while before he realized that he’d gotten completely turned around. The waterlogged woods stretched in all directions, emerald green on black, no sunlight to direct him back to the clearing.
Shivering, Bobby trudged over wet leaves and fallen branches, trying to retrace his steps. What an idiot. Why the hell had he left Pete in the car?
He glanced at his watch. Three PM. He needed to be back by four to meet Aaron at the bus stop. Aaron would be worried enough when Bobby wasn’t on the bus ride home. He didn’t need to alarm him any further.
In answer to his prayers, a flicker of sunlight danced across the leaves. Now it would be easy to find his way back to the field. He was about to reverse course when a whooshing sensation pulled against him with the vacuum force of a reverse hurricane gale. With it came a storm of new images and sounds. Hellish screams and moans, accompanied by fractured, multiple views of a dilapidated mansion nestled in the woods, echoed in his ears and flashed before his eyes.
The sickness engulfed him, hurtling into his awareness like a predator bringing down its kill. Red bands of darkness carved bloody paths across the greenery. His legs giving way, Bobby fell, crashing onto all fours. Fumbling inside his pocket, he drew out the bandana, somehow managing to tie it around his eyes. The wave of dark gravity released its hold on him. Its source had vanished.
Bobby scrambled to his feet, stumbling crazily through the woods in the direction he hoped was the clearing. He couldn’t risk removing the blindfold.
When he’d finally gone enough distance, he removed it. Sun-bright chunks of lime-green grass peeked through breaks in the thick growth. Bobby crashed over rocks and fallen trees toward the clearing, not daring to look behind him, barely aware of the weight of the toolbox in his hand.
Once he’d made it out of the woods, he paused, finally able to catch his breath. It was true, then. The violent attacks were brought on by a connection to the objects he’d encountered.
Which made him wonder--if he wasn’t sick or crazy, what kind of freak was he?
CHAPTER
7
He made it to the bus stop just in time to meet Aaron, who peppered him with questions. Dad was still asleep in his chair, but woke when they came in. He was in a pleasant mood for a change—for him, at least. Which meant he was just a little less argumentative and bossy. Bobby vowed to make time to jam with him more often.
After helping Aaron with his homework and chipping away at his own hopeless backlog, Bobby showered, slicked back his dark hair in the fake sophisticated style his boss insisted on for his staff, and got dressed—black pants, white button-down shirt, black vest. Bobby felt like a huge poser in the getup, but was in no position to point out to Max Friend that you could dress up the Graxton Grill all you wanted—it was still just the Graxton Grill.
His truck screeched into the Grill’s parking lot with three minutes to spare. Max Friend was not fond of lateness, no matter the excuse. Bobby hurried in through the back-alley entrance and punched the time clock. Max glanced at his watch and nodded his approval. “So far it’s slow tonight, Bobby. Good time to restock the condiments and clean out the candles.”
Bobby sighed and set to work, doing what he’d been told, refilling the ketchup and mustard bottles and salt and pepper shakers that sat on every table. To Bobby, the beaded votive candles that he was expected to scoop out each night looked a little out of place. He supposed they went with the dark green walls and hunting prints Max had installed to give the place a more upscale appeal. But what did he know?
He was about to head back to the supply room to stock the remaining tables when the reedy cook, Eddie Zimm, blocked his way. Zimm, his long dark hair pulled into a hairnet and an intricate network of tattoos peeking through the black hair on his arms, was not Max Friend’s top choice for chef, but he was the best cook in the county, so Mr. Friend kept him on begrudgingly. It was an uneasy truce.
Arms folded, Zimm shook his head. “Wouldn’t go near the kitchen if I was you, unless you want to get hit by an airborne cooking utensil, Pendell.”
“What? Why?”
From behind Zimm came the shouts, punctuated by the low rumbles of Max Friend. “Daughter wars. Ever since the kid got here, they’ve been going at it. Be forewarned—Friend is in a foul mood tonight.”
Bobby caught snatches of the argument. “…you think you know me, but you don’t! I’m nothing like her!” It was Gabe, all right, shouting at the top of her lungs. Bobby felt his cheeks go hot, then walked backward toward the dining room and reminded himself to steer clear of Gabe Friend as if his life depended on it.
The dining room was empty except for the few blue-haired couples who came for the early-bird special, regulars from the old days. Mr. Friend had kept the original cheeseburger and chili dog menu, but had added some exotic new dishes like ragout of cod with truffles and eggplant, courtesy of the stuck-up new assistant chef from the Culinary Institute Max had hired to work with Zimm.
The usual group of alkies clustered at the bar, swilling down beer and whiskey sours, watching the ballgame and making loud catcalls. Bobby tried to keep in motion, dreading and anticipating Gabe’s inevitable re-emergence. Knowing that she was trouble did little to quell the way the thought of her still caused his palms to sweat.
By seven, more customers had straggled in, thanks to the special two-for-one night Mr. Friend had advertised, so by seven thirty there were plenty of tables to clear. Each time the kitchen door swung open, Bobby couldn’t help but steal a glance, hoping, yet not daring to hope, that it was Gabe. She must have been hiding out in her father’s office—there’d been no sign of her in the kitchen.
Finally, she appeared in the dining room, waitress pad in hand, copper-gold hair piled messily into a loose bun at the top of her head, taking orders at a table. Black leggings tucked into spike-heeled black boots accentuated the long, clean lines of her endless legs.
Plates stacked on both arms, Bobby rushed back into the kitchen before she could spot him, winded and breathless. It was going to take luck and major ninja skills to avoid Gabe, he realized. And superhero strength he wasn’t sure he possessed. Seeing her now, the attraction he had felt initially was growing stronger by the minute.
But somehow, he kept it together. If not, with the boss’s patience stretched to its limits, his goose would probably be cooked crisper than Zimm’s special roast duck.
For the next half-hour, Bobby managed to be in the kitchen when Gabe was in the dining room, and vice versa. He hoped, with repeated exposure, he’d develop an immunity to her, but for now she was the human equivalent of crystal meth—he’d be addicted after one dose.
Mr. Friend, showing no signs of the tension between him and Gabe, pulled him aside and directed him to clean up a spill in the bar area. Relieved he had another ten entire minutes to keep out of the dining room, Bobby grabbed a mop and broom and headed for the bar. Busily sweeping the shards of broken glass in a pile, his scalp pulled tight when a familiar voice filtered through the chatter. Kenny Cooper sat at the bar, laughing and talking to a group of people.
Bobby kept his head down as he worked, making sure Mr. Cooper didn’t see him. There would be questions about his health. Concerns. Too many things he preferred not to think or talk about. Bobby had almost gotten the mess cleared up, when through the noise and clink of glasses, he heard someone call his name.
“Bobby! Bobby Pendell! Is that you? Come over here! There’s someone I want you to meet!”
Mr. Cooper was smiling at him, his glass raised, a beautiful brunette woman leaning into his ear. And standing beside him, empty tray propped on her palm, was Gabe.
Crap. There was no way out of it now. After he finished the cleanup job, swallowing hard, Bobby shuffled slowly over to Gabe and Mr. Cooper, hoping he’d get called upon to do something else.
“Didn’t expect to see you at work tonight, Bobby!” Mr. Cooper smiled broadly. His date shook out her hair with a jangle of her jewelry and smiled, too. Mr. Cooper’s cheeks were flushed and Bobby guessed he was well past his first glass of Chivas Regal on the rocks.
Gabe turned to look at him. Eyebrows lifted, her lips curled into a smile. “Hey, Bobby Robert! Why’s that?”
Bobby shrugged. “I, um, had a little problem at school today.”
Kenny Cooper’s smile remained fixed in place. “I’m the music teacher at Bobby’s school. The boy is super-talented. He sings and plays guitar. You should hear him sometime.”
Cheeks burning, Bobby felt Gabe’s eyes on him. Shit. This was a nightmare. He couldn’t breathe.
“Really?” Gabe said.
“Uh, yeah,” he croaked. “Just for fun. I, um, don’t perform in public much.”
“I’m not the public,” Gabe said, her eyes sparkling in the muted light. Bobby felt his mouth go dry; all the moisture in his body gathered under his arms and on his palms. He had to get away before Mr. Cooper spilled the specifics of what happened at school earlier that day.
“So, Bobby,” Mr. Cooper continued, “I called the house today, but no one answered. You sure you’re okay now?”