by Liam Jackson
Reaching into a saddlebag, he pulled out and unfolded a new road map that he purchased days earlier. Paul looked again at the route that would take him into the eastern edge of Tennessee, to a remote little town called Abbotsville. He had no idea why he needed to go there, except that when his eyes had skimmed across the page, they locked onto the tiny hamlet, population 566. It just felt right.
He straddled the motorcycle and inserted the key into the ignition. He cranked the bike and slowly guided it out of the garage and onto the street, unaware of the tear-filled eyes that watched from the second-story window.
CHAPTER 7
Little Rock, Arkansas
Can I see some I.D.?" Sam reached in his back pocket and produced a canvas wallet. Flipping it open, he held it out to the frumpy-looking woman behind the counter of the Shell Supercenter. He thought she bore more than a passing resemblance to his old sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Cotner. Mean old bat, thought Sam.
The clerk looked closely at the date of birth on the Arizona driver's license, and tried to puzzle out Sam's age.
"Eighteen years, seven months, two weeks... and three days," he supplied.
Scowling, the woman pushed the bottle of V8 juice and a pack of Marlboro Reds across the counter to him and scooped up the handful of quarters.
"Thank you," said Sam.
The woman rang up the sale, and without so much as a "you're welcome," resumed reading the latest edition of the National Telegram, another in a long line of indistinguishable weekly tabloids. Sam stood at the counter while he opened the pack of cigarettes and deposited the cellophane in a nearby trash can. He tamped the Marlboros against the side of the counter to pack the tobacco, then pulled out a cigarette.
The clerk gave him a quick, disapproving look and Sam gave her his best, two-dollar smile. She dismissed Sam and his smile with a loud sniff and buried her head in the paper once more. Glancing at the front page, Sam saw all the old standards in large, bold type. kathy lee has Clinton's
love child and giant bullfrogs ate my baby.
Chuckling, he started to turn for the front door when a smaller caption in the upper-right corner of the front page caught his eye.
roving band of vampires prowl america's heartland. proof positive! complete story, page 12
Sam felt a chill run along the nape of his neck. Just more tabloid bullshit, he knew, but still.... Shouldering his duffel bag, he stepped outside into the late-afternoon air.
Sam lit the cigarette and sat down on the curb in front of the Shell. He had made good time, hitching more than 1,800 miles in less than three days. Hitching was also the only proven method of putting distance between him and the damned Lincoln. The sporadic hops always bought Sam a short reprieve from the relentless pursuit. Sam gave silent thanks for his special talent, the golden thumb. Every time he had pointed his golden thumb to the east, some trucker or traveling salesman promptly appeared to give him a ride.
Lucky Sam. His dad was fond of saying, "That boy could fall into a room neck-deep in horseshit and find a Shetland pony." His dad didn't know the half of it.
Sam opened his duffel bag and rummaged around until he found the road atlas. Another mystery. He looked at the cover for a moment, thinking back to the night, six months earlier, when he had discovered the atlas lying on his bed. He had started down the stairs to ask his dad about the book, when the Voice fairly shouted at him to stop.
Puzzled by the Voice's reaction, Sam walked back to his room and sat down on the bed. Intrigued, he flipped through the state maps. The pages were unremarkable... until he came to the great state of Tennessee. On that page, someone had used a red marker to draw a circle around a tiny community just north of Knoxville. As Sam studied the map, the Voice responded with a stunning display of color and sound, and the message was clear. Abbotsville. Eye of God. Go! Sam would hear that message replayed day and night over the course of several weeks, until finally, he succumbed to the compulsion. And now, here he sat; alone, cold, and afraid, yet driven to reach his destination.
With his finger, Sam traced the route he had chosen before leaving Arizona. He had made excellent progress thus far, and if his luck held out, he would be in Tennessee by the weekend. Two more days on the road, three at most. Then what?
The Voice remained silent, though Sam hadn't expected an answer. He trusted that he would learn all he needed to know once he reached Abbotsville. He clung desperately to that belief. Sam glanced at his watch: 7:20 p.m. Thanks to the damned Lincoln, he had missed making his call to Kat and that was bad news. If for any reason he failed to call her tomorrow, he knew his sister would go to his parents. She'll bust me out bigger V shit and I won't get within a hundred miles of Abbotsville. Sam closed his eyes, and drew his sister's image to his mind, the echoes of their last conversation still ringing in his head.
"You can't tell Mom and Dad any of this, not a word! I have to go to Tennessee, Kat. Do you understand?"
Kat had surprised him by not pressing for more details. Instead, she nodded, and then said, "No, I don't understand, at least, not everything. I don't think you do, either. But I won't say anything to Mom or Dad... as long as I know you're okay. And you'll call me every evening, between, uh, let's say, five and seven o'clock. No, wait. Let's make it every other day, just in case, you know, something comes up." Sam knew damn well by "something," she meant the white Lincoln. The Enemy.
Kat wasn't finished. "You can call collect and ask for yourself. At least, I'll know you're okay. If Mom or Dad answers, just hang up. I'll still know it's you. But two days is the max, Sam. I mean it. Miss one call, I'm telling Mom everything."
Sam started to object. The Voice had warned him that to tell his parents about the nightmares or the Enemy would only place them all in extreme danger. He tried to explain this to Kat, but she would have none of it. The brat. Kat, being Kat, added a final, "And I mean I'll tell Mom everything." Sam wasn't sure how much his sister really knew, and he supposed it was possible that she was bluffing. Still, he couldn't take the chance. The jut of Kat's jaw told him that further negotiation was pointless. Reluctantly, he had agreed to her terms, and now he was stuck with them. If only I could contact her by reaching. Sam was sure such a thing was possible. He was no novice to the peculiar gift, having first discovered it as a young child.
It was Christmas morning, and an excited five-year-old Sam sat on the living-room floor, surrounded by relatives, and a mountain of torn wrapping paper and new toys. His uncle James had called all the toys "Christmas loot," and boy, was there a lot of it.
Sam couldn't wait to show off his new toys to his best friend, the ghost in his head. However, when Sam sent his mental message, the Voice didn't answer. Sam called out a second time, and again, nothing. The Voice was still out there... somewhere, Sam knew. He could feel it. Yet, there was an unsettling sense of great distance between them.
After several unsuccessful attempts to call his companion, Sam sat dejectedly on his bed, surrounded by Samurai Terrapin action figures, Emergency Rescue Squad toy vehicles (with real flashing lights and sirens), and his Galaxy Battle space helmet. What good is all this Christmas loot if you can't share it with your best friend? he thought.
This was a troubling first for Sam. He had never before spoken to the Voice and failed to receive an almost immediate answer. From his earliest memories, he had only to think of his friend, and it was there, chattering away in his head, communicating with the tinkling of musical wind chimes, colors, and an occasional broken sentence. Not today. Not on Christmas morning.
Maybe it's sleeping, he thought, or visiting relatives, or doing whatever it was that Voices did on Christmas. Did the Voice get presents? Maybe not, he thought, and the notion saddened him. In that moment, he resolved to give the Voice half of his new loot. Well, maybe not half... but a lot.
Then it came to him, with all the simplicity of a five-year
old's logic. Calling out to his distant friend was probably no different than talking to his dad. When his dad stood
very near, Sam could whisper and be heard. But if Dad was down the street at Mr. Claxton's house, Sam had to yell in order to be heard. The Voice was down the street, though probably not at Mr. Claxton's house, and it was time to yell.
Sam closed his eyes and focused. With no other image to draw on, he mentally replayed the kaleidoscope of color and the soft music of bells and chimes. Once he had the picture firmly in his mind, he took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then screamed at the top of his mental lungs. The result had been instantaneous and unexpected. A very surprised and seemingly shaken Voice appeared so quickly in his mind, it almost toppled Sam from the bed. It had taken Sam a good five minutes to convince his friend there was no real emergency. A relieved Voice made it very clear that calling in that manner, or reaching, should be reserved for very special occasions. The Voice was stern, though Sam sensed it was also pleased. Several years would pass before he began to understand his invisible friend's concerns.
Though they had never discussed the gift in detail, Sam was certain he could reach Kat. He was convinced his kid sister had some measure of the odd talent. And Sam knew he wasn't the only one that recognized something special about his sister. Kat's teachers often commented on her unusual sense of responsibility, and high level of maturity for one so young. Though Sam noticed those same teachers always complimented Kat while wearing confused or puzzled expressions. And Kat was smart. Too smart, sometimes.
Kat had a way of seeing situations with a clarity that belied her age, and sometimes, her insights gave Sam the willies. His grandmother, Nanna, had called Kat an "old soul." Of course, Nanna had said the same thing of him. The Voice remained oddly silent on the subject.
While reaching for Kat might have been a possibility, it was a moot point as he was forbidden to make the attempt. The Voice warned him repeatedly against using the gift to contact Kat, saying that it would only alert the Enemy to her presence, and further endanger his family.
He still had no idea of how the book came to be in his room. He originally thought that it was Kat's doing. His sister had been acting kinda weird for days, but he thought little of it until the atlas appeared. Sam figured that "weird" and "twelve-year-old kid sister" naturally belonged in the same sentence. That was before he later learned the Enemy was stalking her, as well.
When he casually pitched the atlas onto his bed, it fell open to the great state of Tennessee. Sam remembered the moment he spied his name, printed in bold red letters across the top of the page. An odd chill had run the length of his spine, and the frizzy hair on his arms immediately stood on end. Someone had drawn an x over the name of a small community, situated to the east of Knoxville. Perhaps calling the community "small" was being generous. Sam checked the map's index. Abbotsville: Population—566.
The migraines and nightmares started that very night. The Enemy appeared not long after. Six months worth of twenty-four-seven misery. Then came the cryptic message from the Voice. Eye of God. Abbotsville. Close the Veil.
Even now, the words conjured the vivid mental image of a doorway, over which hung some sort of flowing, multihued curtain. He was still no closer to understanding the imagery.
Sam took a sip of the juice and another drag on the cigarette. If only I could talk to Nanna. His grandmother had passed three years earlier, and Sam often regretted not having told her about the ghost in his head. He was sure, now, she would have understood. Nanna had a knack for all that "metaphysical voodoo." Sam smiled as he thought of his grandmother. Half Scot, half Sioux Native American; a hell of a combination, but it made for some interesting insights. Nanna had a knack for understanding lots of things, things like his companion, the Voice.
He drank a little more of the juice, tightly recapped the bottle, then finished his cigarette. It was getting late and with overcast skies, the night promised to be cold and black as pitch; exactly the kind of night he loathed. Man, if the guys in Shop class could see me now. Oh, well, time to move on.
Walking out to the edge of the access road, Sam unshouldered the duffel bag and set it down. He extended his thumb and settled in for what he expected to be a short wait. The interstate traffic was heavy with commuters heading east out of Little Rock, making their way back to nearby bedroom communities and Sam's golden thumb seldom failed.
The first car to come his way braked as if preparing to stop, and then abruptly sped away. A scant moment later, the Voice whispered, Danger! Stunned, Sam watched as a long, white four-door came down off the exit ramp and rolled into the Shell parking lot. Oh, hell no. Can't be the same Lincoln ... can it? Damn! It is! Sam resisted the urge to run, deciding that he was safer in plain view of the store.
Even without the Voice's warning, there was no mistaking the Lincoln. Sam thought the car looked like it belonged in South Phoenix with some thug behind the wheel. It was impossible to miss that pug-ugly, plastic swan on the hood, or the bullet-nosed TV aerial that hung precariously from the trunk. Unable to see the interior, he pictured a dash lined in purple fur, leopard spot seat covers, and a large pair of fuzzy dice swinging from the rearview mirror. Sam instantly dismissed the notion. He knew there was nothing comical about the driver, or his intent.
The car sat idle at the gas pump for a moment, then slowly pulled away and moved across the lot until it was directly behind Sam. Sam turned his attention back to the task of thumbing a ride, but kept a close watch on the Lincoln from the corner of his eye. Sam caught a whiff of the familiar, putrid odor that always seemed to announce the car's presence.
Afraid that he might be sick from the stench, Sam decided to take a chance and walk ahead. He made his way across the access road and started up the incline of the onramp, always with one eye on his pursuer.
Sam walked perhaps twenty yards when the Lincoln pulled away from the pump and onto the street leading to the on-ramp. Moving very slowly, it was clear that the car was pacing him. When the car closed to within a dozen steps it rolled to a stop, the engine racing.
Don't stop. You stop, you die. There were times when Sam didn't necessarily agree with the Voice, or heed the advice. He decided this wouldn't be one of those times.
"Don't worry. Not a chance of that happening," he muttered, quickening his pace.
Mentally, he ran through his list of options. It only took a moment as the list wasn't very long. First, he could backtrack along the on-ramp, and head back to the Shell station. The on-ramp was a narrow one-way and the Lincoln would have trouble turning around to follow. The downside to this plan was that he would pass very close to the car as he retraced his steps. If the driver wanted to do him harm, and Sam was certain that was the case, the driver would have only to open the door and reach out. Sam knew he'd be a sitting duck while on that ramp.
Sitting duck, the Voice agreed.
"Go back to sleep," Sam muttered.
He knew his only other option was to pick up the pace and make for the interstate. Once up on the shoulder of the six-lane highway, he would have no trouble thumbing a ride. Perhaps, he thought, the joker in the Lincoln wouldn't try anything in the middle of evening traffic. Who am I kidding? He'll try, all right.
He adjusted the strap on the duffel bag and walked in the direction of the interstate. With roughly twenty yards to go, he glanced over his shoulder. The Lincoln was still there, but traffic had backed up behind the slow-moving sedan, and several drivers were laying on the horn, urging the Lincoln to move along. Sam slowed his pace, forcing the Lincoln to a near stop, betting the driver wouldn't risk making a move in plain view of so many angry motorists. The gambit paid off. Suddenly, the car lurched forward and sped past. Within seconds, the Lincoln was in the highway merge lane.
As the car disappeared from sight, Sam realized he had been holding his breath. Sam exhaled and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Once more, he had given the Lincoln the slip. "Adios, sayonara, and so long, asshole." Even as he spoke, Sam knew the words were little more than false bravado. The Lincoln would come for him again, at a time and place of its choosing.
Next time... soon, predicted the Voice.
A half hour later, and still watchful for the Lincoln, Sam left the Little Rock city limits. After a short distance, a long pillared bridge rose up out of the swirling ground fog and a green-and-white highway sign announced that he was approaching the Arkansas River. In the evening dusk, the headlights of passing cars and trucks cast eerie reflections off of the massive blue-gray iron girders. Sam felt the familiar presence of another old childhood acquaintance, an intense fear of the dark.
In another couple of minutes, Sam was walking along a narrow causeway, one hundred and thirty feet above the Arkansas River. Guardrails lined the outer framework of the bridge but to his left, along the inside edge of the sidewalk, the only thing that separated him from the speeding traffic was a handful of air. He deliberately slowed his pace as he walked, reading the colorful graffiti that covered the causeway and the grimy girders that hung high overhead.
As Sam reached the halfway point, he sent out a mental feeler, but the Lincoln was hidden from him again. Nervously, he paused to rest a moment. He set down his duffel bag and leaned out over the safety railing. Fog obscured all but a tiny glimpse of the river. So distant and forbidding, he instantly decided that he needed to find a better place to rest. Anywhere at ground level would do. He paused long enough to light another Marlboro, then took up his duffel bag.
He covered maybe fifteen feet when he noticed a lone figure standing on the causeway ahead. In the swirling fog and at this distance, it was difficult to tell, but the person seemed to be wearing a long trench coat. The person seemed rooted to the causeway. He... or she, simply stood there, both hands shoved into deep pockets, the face hidden behind high, upturned collars. Waiting.
The Voice whispered, Turn back. Sam hesitated, then moved forward. He didn't care at all for the idea of turning around. Now that he was nearly halfway across the bridge, the compulsion to reach the other side was far stronger than his fear of the dark or weird people in trench coats. Besides, he reasoned, this was probably an overreaction caused by his last encounter with the Lincoln.