She lifted her head and glared at him. “The damage I’m causing? What about the damage you’ve caused already?”
He knew she was referring to his decision to give her a failing grade for the semester. It was school policy for anyone caught cheating, written in stone, had been for nearly two centuries. Daniel Boone was no cheater and it would not be tolerated in his namesake school. “You cheated, Erin. You know you did. And you know the policy. You sign off on it at the beginning of every year. This is bigger than just you. Take responsibility for your actions. Think of someone beside yourself.”
“I want you out of my room or I’ll call the police myself.”
More students had gathered in the hallway. Their murmuring and whispering grew louder as if they anticipated a WWE event to spontaneously break out. Dan had to get out of there soon. He knew nothing of piledrivers and tomahawk chops.
He pointed at the bruises on Erin’s face. “Who did this to you?”
She raised her voice. “Like you don’t know.”
“You know I didn’t do it. You know it, Erin.”
Dan looked around the room, found a framed photo of Erin with Justin Rodgers, a linebacker on the school’s football team. Dan had never had him in any classes but had seen him around campus. Big guy, heavy on muscle, scarce on personality. A bulldozer with a brain. He motioned toward the picture. “Did he do it? Did Rodgers hit you?”
Dan had always been gifted in reading people, in noticing the slightest changes in their expressions, the shadows in their eyes, the tonal adjustments in their voice. He didn’t miss the subtle shift of Erin’s eyes.
“Get out of my room.” Her face reddened and tears built in her eyes. She reached for her cell phone on the dresser and held it up as if it were a hand grenade. “Get out!”
Dan was about to leave when he heard a commotion in the hallway. Someone said Justin’s name. The small gathering of students shifted and parted as if allowing the world champion wrestler to make his way to the ring. Dan was in no mood for taunting and trash-talking.
Justin appeared in the doorway, his shoulders almost touching each jamb. He stood well over six feet tall and was as thick and muscled as a side of beef. Looking from Erin to Dan and back to Erin, he furrowed his brow, stuck out his chest, and said, “What’s goin’ on?”
Erin didn’t run to him, nor did she cry out for help.
Despite his aversion to confrontation and against his better judgment, Dan pointed at Erin’s face and said to Justin, “Did you do this to her? Did you hit her?”
Justin glanced at Erin, then stared double daggers at Dan. In his eyes were malice and a wild lust for violence. He was a bull eyeing the matador, snorting and chuffing and pawing at the ground. “What is this?” He took two steps forward and grabbed a handful of Dan’s shirt, yanked him close.
Dan had never been in a fight before, had never even come close to that kind of physical confrontation. He was as nonviolent as a nonpacifist could be. But when Justin snatched at his shirt and Dan saw the flames of cruelty in the brute’s eyes, something broke loose. Adrenaline flooded into his bloodstream.
Before Justin could act on the clear threat he’d issued, Dan decided to get in a punch of his own, a blow that hit Justin square in the abdomen. The big guy exhaled loudly, a gust of wind that wafted over Dan’s face, and loosened his grip. Dan pulled away and yielded to the primal urges that put his previous inhibitions on hold. He charged Justin headfirst and shoved him out into the hallway. Bodies scattered; a girl screamed. Someone shouted, “That’s Dr. Blakely!”
Justin slammed into the wall and grunted. Dan tried to pull away, but the beast had ahold of his shirt and yanked him forward, driving a knee into his chest. Air was forced from Dan’s lungs like a bellows. Stumbling back, he tried to steady his footing, but the floor seemed to undulate under him, churning and rolling like an angry sea.
Justin was quick for his size, and before Dan was able to orient himself, he came under an explosion of fists, pummeling his head, back, ribs. He was shoved against the wall and pinned there. Another blow landed in his abdomen, robbing him of breath and doubling him over. He dropped to his knees. Students hollered, screamed; some laughed. Watching a professor get the stuffing knocked out of him was unexpected entertainment before their first classes of the day.
With one quick motion, Dan found strength buried deep within the sinews of his aching muscles and took a powerful, compact swing at Justin’s groin. His fist landed squarely and hit its mark. Justin moaned and stumbled back, taking short, choppy steps. He bent at the waist and grabbed at his crotch with both hands.
Dizzy from the barrage of punches he’d suffered, Dan climbed to his feet and charged the wounded monster. With both legs, he launched himself at Justin. One hand landed on the big man’s chest, the other on his face. Following Justin’s backward momentum, Dan drove him into the far wall, bringing his head up and back and slamming it into the cinder block. The back of Justin’s skull impacted the wall with a sickening thud. His eyes rolled back and his thick legs buckled like broken sticks. He went to his knees and shook his head, grimacing.
Dan cocked his arm and landed a punch to the side of Justin’s face. The tough guy went down hard, crumpling to the floor like he was made of paper.
The hallway fell quiet. Dan, heaving, pulling air into his lungs in rapid bursts, stood erect and looked around. At least twenty students were there, ogling him, mouths agape, eyes wide. Some of them were his students. He lifted his hand and wiped it across his eyebrow. It came away red. He was bleeding. He glanced at his watch—5:37. He’d wasted too much time in there.
Justin lay on his side on the floor, motionless, a small pool of blood soaking into the carpet behind his head. Erin stood in the doorway of her room, both hands to her mouth, tears wetting her cheeks. She looked at Dan, then at Justin, then back at Dan. There was fear in her eyes but also relief.
Nausea bit into Dan’s stomach and twisted it like a dishrag.
He pointed at Justin on the floor. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore, Erin. Please, do what’s right. For me and my family. For you.”
Craving space and fresh air, Dan pushed through the crowd. Behind him, he thought he heard a familiar voice say, “Time’s ticking.” But when he turned, he found no black-suited visitor dangling a silver pocket watch, only a gaggle of students looking dumbly at him with wide eyes and open mouths.
Outside, the sky promised snow. Pain joined the nausea in his ribs, his back, his head. He had to get out of there before the police came. He’d done nothing wrong; it was self-defense. There were plenty of witnesses to confirm that. But he didn’t have time for questions and reports. He didn’t have time for anything.
He ran for the car and got in, started the engine, and gripped the wheel with clammy palms. The knuckles of his right hand were red and swollen. He shifted into drive and stepped on the accelerator. The vehicle lurched forward.
Tears came then, flooding Dan’s eyes and blurring the campus roads. The confrontation, first with Erin, then with Justin, had been too much for him. He needed to settle himself, regroup, clean up. But he couldn’t go home. That would be the first place anyone looking for him would go. He had to head for New York and would stop at a gas station along the way, well out of town and somewhere off the highway.
10
Twenty miles down the road, Dan pulled into a Shop ’n’ Gas, up to a pump, and shut off the car’s engine. A light snow fell, swirling on the cracked asphalt and dotting the windshield with pinpoints of water.
He sat behind the wheel like a kid who’d just completed his first roller coaster and hated every second of it, swearing he’d never get on one again. But somehow he knew this ride wasn’t over yet. He could feel it—something was creeping up on him, stalking him, something relentless and unyielding. And it was gaining ground quickly.
His hands still trembled and the gash above his eye had taken to aching. His head throbbed like it had a heartbeat of its own. As he stepp
ed out of the car, a gust of arctic air swept the breath from his lungs. The temperature had dropped dramatically in the past half hour. A storm was brewing, inching closer with each beat of his heart.
Dan pushed his card into the reader and punched the right numbers. He half expected the digital display to taunt him by revealing his remaining time but it did nothing. Shivering against the cold, he turned and searched the grimy window of the convenience store for the cashier. The inside switch needed to be flipped to reset the numbers. A young man came into view, hurried behind the counter, and gave him a thumbs-up. The display showed a line of zeroes.
Dan unscrewed the fuel cap and placed the nozzle into the receptacle. Small flakes of snow descended from their birthplace above and whipped around him, stinging his face and hands.
The station was on a mostly uninhabited stretch of local highway that saw little traffic during working hours. No homes stood nearby, no schools, no shopping centers. A salvage yard sat about two hundred yards away; a high, piecemeal fence lined its perimeter. Farther down the road, a half mile or so, a couple other deteriorating buildings lined the road: a machine shop and a warehouse outlet that sold freight damaged in transit.
The nozzle clicked off and he replaced it on the pump. He’d filled the tank out of habit, but if Constant was correct, Dan wouldn’t be driving the vehicle home again and would only need half as much gas as he’d purchased.
Inside, the store was filled with warm, humid air and smelled of mildew and cheap plastic.
The cashier, a twentysomething with shoulder-length hair and a spotty goatee, nodded at Dan. “Sorry ’bout that, man. I was stocking the shelves when you pulled up.”
Waving him off, Dan headed for the wall of refrigerators in the back of the store. He needed something to drink and some food. After getting a soda and two packets of snack cakes, he grabbed a bottle of aspirin and a box of bandages and headed to the front counter.
The cashier scanned the items, then eyed Dan suspiciously. “Dude, you okay?”
Dan nodded and reached for his wallet. “Yeah, I’m fine. How much?”
“How much?”
“For the stuff.”
“Oh, uh, $12.52.”
He handed his card to the cashier, who studied the front, turned it over, and checked the back.
“’Cause that cut over your eye, man, that don’t look too good.” He ran the card through the machine and flipped hair out of his face while he waited.
Dan didn’t respond. He wanted to leave as little an impression on the kid as possible, be forgettable, uninteresting. At the end of the day he wanted to be just another customer in a long line of them, a faceless man purchasing gas and a few items.
The cashier handed him his card and receipt. “You get in some kind of accident or something?”
“Some kind. Where’s the restroom?”
“Somebody else do that?” He glanced out the window and scanned the station’s lot. “’Cause I got a phone here if you need to call the cops or something. Got a gun too. The manager keeps it behind the counter. You know, just in case.”
Dan forced a polite smile. “I’m fine. Where’s the restroom?”
The kid paused. Clearly Dan’s behavior had aroused suspicion. So much for remaining forgettable. After sighing loudly as if disappointed that he would not be a part of any perilous chase or heroic rescue, the cashier reached for a key and handed it to Dan. “Around the side of the building. Just remember to bring it back. It’s the only one we got right now. The other got lost when . . .”
But Dan had already grabbed his bag from the counter and was heading for the bathroom. Outside, the snow had picked up some and blanketed the parking lot and road with a thin layer of white that moved in an almost-hypnotic fashion as it swirled to the rhythm of the wind.
The bathroom was nothing more than Dan expected: a tiny room with an unflushed toilet, a stained sink, faded mirror, and an old fluorescent bulb that cast a cold, dirty light. He pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, wet it, and wiped the dirt from the mirror. His face looked bad. Dark, dried blood crusted the cut above his eye. Some of it smeared across his forehead. A deep abrasion discolored his swollen cheekbone. His left ear was boxed and thick; his cheeks appeared hollowed, and his jawline more pronounced. This was not the same Dan Blakely who had looked back at him from the mirror in the bathroom off his bedroom just a short while ago. This was a man running from Death but apparently not running fast enough.
He had the strange feeling again that he was being followed, pursued. That some gruesome thing was hot on his tail and gaining quickly. Above the sink was a vent blowing warm air into the small room. An easy entrance point for any airborne instrument of Death. Dan tore several long sections from the roll of toilet paper and quickly stuffed them between the wide slats of the vent.
When he finished, he stood back and studied his work, then quickly removed all the paper and tossed it into the toilet. That was something a crazy person would do, and he wasn’t crazy. He began to shake and quiver and felt the urge to scream. Panic clutched at his chest and throat and made breathing a chore. Gripping the edge of the sink, Dan said aloud, “Pull yourself together.”
Tearing off another paper towel, he ran it under the cold water, then dabbed at his eye. The clot softened and wiped away. He then cleaned the dried blood from his forehead and the abrasion on his cheek. The water stung and made him wince. But his head hurt worst, as though someone had forced it into a vise and tightened until his skull cracked. Fishing two aspirin from the bottle, he popped them into his mouth, cupped his hands under the water, and washed the pills down. Lastly, he applied two bandages to the cut above his eye.
Dan stared at himself again in the mirror. His education had taught him the difference between possibility and probability. Just because something was possible didn’t mean it was probable. He concluded that it was entirely possible that all of this was a dream, that he was still pinned beneath the Volvo on the side of Bender’s Mountain, unconscious, his life slowly draining from him, almost gone now. That everything he’d experienced since then—Thomas Constant, the clocks, the confrontation with Erin and Justin, even the cashier and this bathroom—were all part of a coma-induced dream, the final synaptic firings of a brain about to shut down for good.
It was possible but not probable.
He’d been beaten and cut, felt the snow on his hands and face, the wind in his lungs. It was all too detailed, too vivid, to be a dream.
But none of that mattered anyway. What mattered was that he’d been given another chance to see Sue and the boys, to hug them and tell them he loved them, to say good-bye. He didn’t care if was a dream or not. He didn’t give a hoot about probability versus possibility.
After relieving himself and washing his hands, he left the bathroom.
The snow fell steadily now and blew sideways. Sticking close to the building for protection from the storm, Dan made his way back to the front door and inside the small store. He slid the keys across the counter to the cashier.
The kid caught them easily. “Hey, thanks, man,” he said. “Hey, listen, I didn’t mean to get all personal in your business before. I just couldn’t help but see—”
As the kid talked, Dan glanced outside at the Volvo and thought he saw someone crouched on the other side of it, near the front tire.
“—and thought maybe you needed—”
“Thanks,” Dan said as he left the counter.
Pushing through the door and into the cold, he saw a man move from the front tire to the rear of the vehicle. There was no mistaking the black suit.
“Hey!” He stepped off the curb and onto the parking lot, slipped on some loose snow, and almost went down. Regaining his balance, Dan hurried to the car and rounded the rear bumper. But no one was there. He checked both tires but found no sign of tampering.
“Everything okay?” It was the kid, standing at the door, wind whipping his hair across his face.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
After inspecting the tires one more time, he climbed into the car and started the engine. At once, the hair on the back of his neck bristled; he had the sudden feeling that something had followed him into the vehicle. He checked the rearview mirror, but there was no one, only the empty backseats and the snow-covered windows.
11
Dan had the Volvo back on the road and pointed northwest in a matter of seconds. Gusts of wind sliced across the roadway but did not find a chink in the vehicle’s exterior. The clock on the dash read 4:56. It, too, was counting down, like a time bomb clicking off the minutes until the final explosion, that fireworks display that would signal the end of Dan Blakely’s life.
If he wanted any kind of quality time with his family before the big finale, Dan needed to make good time getting to New York. And as if the forces of nature knew that and were determined to deter him, to slow his progress, to thwart his plans, the snow increased both in the size of the flakes and the intensity with which they fell. Visibility was cut in half. Drifts started to form. Fortunately the car was equipped with four-wheel drive and brand-new tires that found traction in spite of the deteriorating conditions.
A few miles up the road, though, visibility worsened further and Dan had to slow to thirty miles an hour.
He hit the steering wheel and grunted. At this speed it would take him three hours to get to New York. He cursed himself again for telling Constant to take him back to the morning. He’d been a fool and chosen the wrong time, and now he was bogged down in the middle of a snowstorm a hundred miles from Sue and the boys.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, whiting out the roadway and anything beyond the windshield. The world had been whitewashed and blown clean. Dan tuned the radio to the local AM channel. A meteorologist went on about the misplaced snowstorm. Apparently, it was supposed to track farther north into upstate New York, across into Vermont and New Hampshire, then on into Maine. Northern Pennsylvania was only to get a dusting from the fast-moving front. In two to three hours it would all be over.
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