Boone already knew, and Robert confirmed as he read the various articles about the face, that though the state of New Hampshire had spent a great deal of money over the years in attempts to preserve their beloved state symbol, it finally fell victim to Mother Nature and the countless of cycles of harsh, freezing New England winters and spring thaws she had inflicted on it since she’d given birth to it. After thousands of years of such punishment, the old man’s rugged visage simply dropped from the side of the mountain and tumbled to the earth below in May 2003, leaving behind an ordinary cliff face.
Boone thought about the Old Man of the Mountain. The face had famously fallen off years ago. The old man’s face gone, like the faces of the old men in Boone’s photographs. The pictures of those faceless old men, stacked on the floor on top of pictures of mountains. Finally, Boone thought about the H and the N. He had heard his computer reciting the letters, repeating one after the other without any pause between them. Instead of HN, as he’d originally thought, they could just have easily been NH, the abbreviation for New Hampshire.
Could this be it? Was this the message? Did something want Boone to go to New Hampshire for some reason? That seemed crazy, but so did this whole situation. But where in New Hampshire even? Was he supposed to go to the place where the face used to be? Or was he being directed to one of the lookouts from which the now fallen series of rocky ledges used to look like a face? Or perhaps to some other random location associated with the ruined landmark. Maybe he was simply supposed to make his way to New Hampshire and await further instructions.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Though Boone’s instincts were telling him that he was well along the way to decrypting the secret message he was being sent, it just didn’t matter. Because Boone couldn’t go to New Hampshire. Because to do so, he’d first have to cross the street, and he couldn’t do that.
Boone left his bedroom, feeling pleased with having seemingly fitted together so many pieces of the puzzle, but frustrated that he wouldn’t be able to do whatever it was that he was apparently being asked to do. If it was something within his capabilities, he’d have done it, to bring himself—and maybe whatever was haunting him—some peace. But travel outside of his city block was simply impossible for him.
“Sorry, Old Man,” he said aloud. “I’m not going to New Hampshire.”
When he reached his living room, he could hear the preacher’s voice from the radio in the kitchen.
“…hellfire, I tell you, and it burns long and it burns hot. How long, you ask? How about forever? How hot? Well, a lot hotter than you can stand. Hot enough to boil your blood in a single heartbeat. Hot as hell, I tell you! And hear me now, my friends, if you don’t turn your face from the Devil and look into God’s shining visage, you will—”
Boone didn’t bother to listen to what would happen. With what little remained of his vision, he had no hope of seeing the faces of God or the Devil. He’d try to stay away from hellfire, though. It sounded nasty.
Boone got another Beck’s from the fridge and walked back to the bedroom. He grabbed the empty beer bottle he’d left at his computer and took it to the recycling bin in the kitchen.
“…and I don’t know about you, but that is not something I plan to let happen. I will not let Satan through that door. I will keep it locked, push a chair under the knob, and pound nails into the trim around the door. But there is no way Satan will get through that door…”
Back in the living room, Boone dropped onto the couch, took a sip, then got up and walked toward—
He stopped. He realized what he was doing. He was merely pacing his apartment, waiting for something to happen. What it was, he didn’t know, but he was waiting for something. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but he was certainly expecting it.
“…and so you say, ‘No, Satan! I don’t think so, Demon! Not today, you horned devil!’…”
Boone returned to the couch. He should have turned off the preacher in the kitchen, but the volume wasn’t high enough to bother Boone in here, especially if he turned on whatever audiobook he’d been trying to get through for the past two weeks. He grabbed the DVD player’s remote but before he could hit the play button, a burst of static from the kitchen drew his attention.
“Hisssssss…Devil will…hisssssss…get you…hisssssss…to hell…”
Suddenly, for the first time Boone could remember, the radio in the kitchen was getting shoddy reception. The preacher’s voice kept dropping out, replaced by static.
“…the Devil…will hurt you…like crazy…kill you…send you…to hell…hurt you…like hell…”
Boone realized that he no longer had to sit and wait for something to happen.
“…the Devil…will kill you…Boone…hurt you…kill you…hurt you…Boone…like crazy…send you to hell…”
Because it had already started.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MIGUEL WASN’T SURE how much longer he could hold it. He’d had to pee for almost an hour and his belly was starting to hurt. But he didn’t want to slow them down. Also, he worried about annoying Larry. The guy had treated Miguel okay, but the last time Miguel had asked to stop to pee Larry had seemed annoyed. So Miguel was trying to wait as long as he could before asking to stop again.
“You gotta piss again?” Larry asked.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then why are you squirming around like that?”
Miguel shrugged. “I might have to pee a little.”
“Well, if we’re gonna stop, you might as well pee a lot. I’ll pull over at the next rest stop.”
Miguel sighed with relief. He still felt an uncomfortable pressure in his bladder but at least there seemed to be an end in sight. He looked over at Larry. The man was looking at him.
“What?” Miguel asked.
“Nothing. Just looking at you.”
“Why?”
“The way you’re squirming. Looks funny.” Larry smiled. Miguel didn’t like it. Larry kept looking. Miguel wanted to distract Larry, make him stop looking at him.
“How much longer till we get to your house?”
Finally, Larry turned his eyes back to the road.
“Few more hours. We’re making good time.”
They rode in silence for a few miles.
“Your dad’s in some sort of home, right?”
“You really pay attention, don’t you?”
Miguel said nothing.
“Yeah, he’s in a home. Doesn’t want to live with me. Fine with me. We’d drive each other crazy.”
“You send him money?”
“Place he’s living is expensive.”
“It’s nice of you.”
“Like I said, David pays me well. More than I need. I might as well make sure my dad is comfortable, right?”
Miguel looked out the window, praying for a rest-stop sign to appear. His bladder was starting to hurt even more. He winced. As surreptitiously as he could, Miguel jammed his fists into his crotch. It didn’t stop the ache there but it seemed to help a little. He looked over to see if Larry had noticed. He had. He was looking down at Miguel’s hands in his lap.
“Rest stop in two miles,” Larry said.
Miguel nodded and looked away. Those were the longest two miles of Miguel’s life.
MIGUEL FOLLOWED LARRY into the rest-stop men’s room. He wanted to go into one of the stalls for privacy, but they were all occupied. He hurried over to a urinal, yanked down his zipper, and starting urinating hard enough that it splashed back on his hands. He redirected his stream to avoid the backsplash and closed his eyes. It took several seconds before the ache eased. And still he peed. He vowed, from now on, to tell Larry right away if he had to pee. He’d rather annoy the man than risk his bladder exploding.
“Wow, you really did have to go.”
Miguel opened his eyes. Larry was peeing at the urinal next to Miguel’s, and he was looking down at Miguel’s…at his private parts.
; “That’s a heck of a lot of piss, Miguel. You shouldn’t hold it so long. You could hurt yourself.” He smiled without taking his eyes off Miguel’s urine stream. “Damn, I think you’re going for a record.”
Miguel badly wanted to finish peeing, but the urine kept coming. He considered stopping his stream and pretending he was finished, but he’d only have to stop again soon. And before that, he’d suffer just like he’d suffered for the last half hour. So he kept peeing. He could feel that the end was coming soon. As his urine slowed to a trickle, Miguel’s eyes wandered down into Larry’s urinal. Larry wasn’t peeing. His zipper wasn’t even open. The front of his pants might have been bulging a bit—might have been; Miguel wasn’t sure. But why was he standing there if he didn’t have to pee? Miguel strained to force out the last of his pee, zipped quickly, and started for the door.
“Wash your hands, Miguel,” Larry called.
Miguel went over to a sink, gave his hands a quick rinse with water, and hurried out of the restroom, drying his hands on his jeans.
Outside, Miguel looked around. There were people everywhere. He could get away right now. Larry was still inside—only a few steps behind, but he was still inside and Miguel could take off running and Larry would never catch him. The sun was close to setting so it was starting to get dark out now, people were all around, and if Miguel ran straight to the woods on the far side of the parking lot, Larry would never even see him.
This didn’t feel right. Larry wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have been standing at a urinal watching Miguel pee if he didn’t have to pee, too. And he was starting to look at Miguel funny.
This didn’t feel right at all. Larry would be out here soon. His chance to run away would be gone.
But his twenty thousand dollars was in Larry’s car. He couldn’t run away without that. No way.
A hand fell on his shoulder.
“Ready to roll?” Larry asked.
With a last look over his shoulder at the brightly lit rest stop, Miguel nodded and walked with Larry to the car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ALICE STARED AT the crudely finger-painted NH on the large canvas on her easel. She looked at the paintings and drawings she’d done that contained the boy, which were still spread out around her studio. An idea began to take shape.
She took the artwork she’d done in the park and laid it on the floor, then knelt, closed her eyes, and thought about the layout of Central Park. She opened her eyes and turned her pieces this way and that, orienting the landmarks in the art as they would appear on a map. Then she stood and surveyed her work. In every piece, the boy was pointing the same direction. She looked at the sketch she’d made in the living room, in which the boy could be seen in the mirror, watching her sleep. He was pointing out the window behind her. She turned the sketch to align it with the layout of the apartment. The boy was pointing the same direction in each. It appeared to be north…no, northeast. And what was to the northeast with the initials NH?
“So, kiddo, you want me to go to New Hampshire, is that it? I don’t suppose you could spell out exactly where, could you? Maybe zero in a bit for me?”
She waited. Nothing.
Another idea came to her. She sat at her drawing table, picked up her sketching pencil, and flipped open a sketchpad. Then she waited for inspiration. She closed her eyes. And waited some more.
“Come on, inspiration,” she said.
She opened her eyes. Closed them again. Opened them again.
“Let’s go, little boy.”
Nothing.
“Okay, so I’ll just start drawing then, see what happens.”
She let her mind wander through Central Park. It floated among trees she knew, along paths she’d walked, past benches she’d sat on and ponds she’d dipped her toes in, before finally settling on her favorite sculpture in the park. Cast in bronze, it depicted Alice, from Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, sitting on a giant mushroom, surrounded by characters from Carroll’s masterpiece, including the Mad Hatter, the White Rabbit, the March Hare, the Cheshire Cat, and the Dormouse. Despite the subject of the sculpture being her namesake, she loved the fact that the philanthropist who commissioned it did so to honor his late wife as well as to allow children to visit and experience the magic of Carroll’s classic. So while people are typically asked not to touch most works of art, they are invited to touch the Alice in Wonderland statue, which is therefore often covered with children climbing and hanging on it.
Alice—the real one, not the bronze one—began to sketch the sculpture from memory. The sun had begun to set and she considered turning on the overhead light, but she didn’t want to lose her concentration so she trudged on, filling in the details she could recall. As she often did, she became lost in her work. The walls of her studio disappeared. She was in the park, staring at the sculpture she was sketching. Her pencil scratched and looped and shaded and when she felt she’d finished with the sculpture, she set to work on other elements of the sketch—the trees, the birds, the benches, a crumpled hot-dog wrapper, a discarded sneaker. Finally, the scene felt complete. As soon as she realized that, she was back inside her studio. She took a breath. She enjoyed moments like that, when her art simply took her away.
She looked down at the sketch and was instantly disappointed. The sketch wasn’t bad, but there was no boy to be seen.
“Now you decide to play hard to get?”
The sun was just about gone; twilight was creeping into the studio. She looked out the window at the sky darkening over the tops of the distant buildings.
Then she saw it.
Instead of being scared, she smiled and walked over to the window. She looked at the arrow that a tiny finger had drawn on the glass in red paint. She looked down to the street five stories below. The little blond boy was standing on the corner beside a man in a suit. The man had his arm raised, hailing a cab. When it stopped, the man climbed in. The boy was suddenly gone. But as the taxi pulled away, she saw his little face in the window, looking back at her as the taxi disappeared north.
“Okay, kiddo,” Alice said. “Guess we’re taking a road trip.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BOONE STOOD IN the middle of his living room. His unfinished bottle of Beck’s lay on its side at his feet, pouring beer onto his carpet and shoes, right where he’d dropped it. In the kitchen, the preacher droned on, his words alternating with bursts of hissing static.
“…to hell…Boone…hurt you…kill you…Satan wants you…will kill you…Satan…will walk in that door…and kill you…Boone…”
Boone clapped his hands over his ears but couldn’t block out the preacher’s voice, which was growing in volume.
“…the Devil…will come for you…Boone…you can’t see him coming…not you…Boone…can’t see…never see him coming…coming for you…Boone…”
He was about to walk into the kitchen to turn off the radio when another voice registered in his hearing.
“Get out…Boone…hurt you…like crazy…go to hell…go to N, H, N, H, N, H…get out…”
Down the hall in Boone’s bedroom, Robert was chipping in with his two cents, the volume rising and rising until it reached its maximum level. Robert was screaming now in his robotic monotone.
“…hell…Boone…get out…will kill…you…hurt…you…go to N, H, N, H, N, H…kill…you…Boone…hurt…you…”
The volume of the radio in the kitchen had maxed out as well. Then the pounding in the wall started. Mr. Goditis again. Above, the big guy with the neck tattoo stomped on the floor. Someone, probably Mrs. Lang, was kicking his front door. This time, Boone knew immediately that the pounding was not supernatural in origin, but it nonetheless added to his torment.
Suddenly, Boone’s DVD player turned on by itself, its volume as loud as it could go, and the Morgan Freeman sound-alike’s voice joined the cacophony. There were gaps in his words, and strange inflections, as if whatever entity was behind this aural chaos was apparently skimming through t
he audiobook, choosing certain words, cutting them from various places in the DVD, from random sentences, and stitching them together to a disturbing effect.
“…terrible, pain, God, can’t help, you, the danger, horribly, real, you are in, awful, hideous, place, you, must run, run away, go someplace, to safety, you, are in unimaginable, danger, the, peril is, all too real…”
Boone wanted to turn off the DVD player and the radio in the kitchen and mute his computer, but he was rooted where he stood.
“…hideous, grotesque, things, waiting, for you, at the door, waiting to, get in, will cause, terrible pain, you must, get the hell out, or else, you will, be dead, but still, always, forever, in, monstrous, pain, pain, unending, agony, pain…”
“…the Devil is waiting for you…knocking on your door…will hurt you…burn you with hellfire…”
“…will kill…you…Boone…go to…N, H, N, H, N, H…hurt you…kill you…hurt you…like crazy…”
Boone’s neighbors were pounding and stomping and kicking and screaming at him through the walls. The preacher screamed a message from the devil. Robert offered pain and death if Boone didn’t go to New Hampshire. The guy who sounded like Morgan Freeman threatened him with death followed by unending agony.
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