Waking Lazarus

by T. L. Hines

  And he would then have to face that unpleasant killing part.

  But this particular Quarry was something special. The Quarry still struggled, still screamed, still stayed active after four days—even in the cramped and confined space. Maybe this one would be the magical, transformative event he had dreamed of for years. Maybe this one would stay special forever and wouldn’t have to die.

  The Hunter smiled. That was the Normal thinking. The Normal didn’t like the hunting or killing. Or so the Normal would say if he were asked. The Hunter knew better, knew that at the very moment he was about to pull a Quarry into the car, the Normal was right there alongside, panting with excitement and anticipation.

  He had been concerned, of late, that he was a split personality. He’d seen a science program on his television and thought maybe that would explain how he became. He did some web surfing, read up on the subject, then quickly discarded the notion. Split personalities, the research said, usually weren’t aware of each other. Stress triggered their changes. And, well, split personalities were pathetic. All of them. Some of them whiney, some of them puffed up and full of themselves, some of them even small children. Certainly the Normal loved young children, had a certain affection for them, but he, the Hunter, saw them for what they truly were: Quarry to be stalked.

  No, he most certainly was not a split personality. Whereas most people were only one, he was simply two. He had become, like a beautiful butterfly. Each of his sides had a role, a purpose. Christians talked of the Holy Trinity, three persons in one being. He was the Holy Duality.

  Even so, he knew the Normal wasn’t that normal at all. The Normal just liked to pretend—wanted to have all the fun, without sullying his hands in any of the dirty work.

  But the Normal’s shameful secret was: he was beginning to like sullying his hands. That had caused an unpleasant little bit of trouble earlier in the week, when the Normal wanted to cross the line ahead of the Hunter.

  He had taken care of that. He pressed a finger to his temple, felt the small scab, smiled to himself again.

  Then, he opened the door to the basement where the Quarry was confined, still screaming.

  Still special.

  20

  THUMPING

  An odd new sensation began to trouble Jude as he drove back to Red Lodge: he was scared to go home and be by himself. Right now it seemed too confined, too constricting.

  He was alone. Truly alone. He once had a mother who loved him, a father of sorts, but he was still alone, a cosmic orphan.

  As Jude guided his car down Broadway Avenue, the bright neon tipi of the Red Lodge Cafe blinked, reflecting on the windshield. He pulled to the curb and parked, then looked at his watch. Just after six in the evening and he hadn’t eaten since . . . he couldn’t remember. He opened his door, stepped onto the sidewalk, and headed for the cafe.

  The cafe door tinkled open with the sound of the familiar cowbell, and comforting smells of gravy, bread, frying hamburger, and other scents greeted him. He was hungry. Starving.

  But that wasn’t the only reason he was here. He wandered to a booth and sat down, his eyes darting through the place for a familiar face. Then, she came out of the kitchen, carrying a single plate. She slid a plate in front of a man sitting at the counter as she scanned the restaurant for new faces. Her eyes settled on Jude.

  She picked up a menu and walked to his booth.

  ‘‘How ya doin’, Ginny?’’ Jude asked.

  She smiled, really smiled, and he had to do the same. ‘‘I’m fine, just fine, Ron.’’

  He stopped. ‘‘How’d you know my name?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘What, you think you can come into my apartment and pull a stunt like that and I won’t check up on you?’’

  Jude didn’t like where this was heading. First Kristina, then Ginny, digging into the life and times of Ron Gress. Kristina had been the first to make the connection, but she probably wouldn’t be the last.

  Ginny caught the look in his eye. ‘‘Sheesh, I didn’t run an FBI check on you or anything. Just asked around. Be surprised what a waitress with a smile can find out in a small town.’’

  He relaxed; she was harmless, of course. ‘‘Nothing surprises me anymore,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Famous last words.’’ She put a menu in front of him. As she did, she leaned over and put her hand on his. ‘‘I called my parents. I’m going home in a few weeks.’’

  ‘‘And the baby?’’

  She patted her stomach. ‘‘Just fine. I feel like it will be kind of a miracle baby after . . . you know.’’

  A miracle. Jude smiled. ‘‘Thanks.’’

  She took out her pen. ‘‘What do we feel like tonight?’’

  ‘‘Why don’t you get me the special?’’

  ‘‘Chicken fried steak?’’

  ‘‘Sounds great.’’

  She took the menu away and retreated into the kitchen. Jude felt drained and tired, his muscles aching from adrenaline overload. Maybe he’d ask Ginny for some coffee when she came back. For now, he’d settle for a few splashes of cold water on his face.

  Jude slid out of the booth and walked to the rest room at the back of the cafe. As he stood in one of the stalls, a now-familiar taste came to his mouth.

  Copper.

  Copper, coating the inside of his mouth with its metallic tang.

  Copper, hot and molten, sliding down his throat and settling in his stomach. Copper, tasting of death.

  He spat in the urinal as he heard the bathroom door open behind him. Jude turned his head to glance at the man who entered, and he saw his face clearly: a snow-white head of hair atop a pudgy, yet chiseled, face.

  The pickup driver. The guy who had hit the pedestrian.

  Jude walked to the sink, turned on the water, and started washing his hands. He glanced at the reflection of the man’s back in the mirror. The metal taste in his mouth began to fade a bit, but Jude cupped his hands, bent over, and drank some of the water to help dilute the bitterness.

  Okay. Copper meant death. Until recently, it had always meant his own death—had been the bitter, unwelcome taste on his lips each time he returned from the Other Side—but maybe this new version of it wasn’t a signal of his own death.

  Maybe he was tasting the deaths of others. And hadn’t his father said as much, telling him about the Elvis prediction?

  It made sense. He’d tasted copper outside the Red Lodge Cafe, and the pedestrian had died. He’d tasted copper around Ginny, and she’d been considering suicide. And he’d stopped her, so that meant he could help people avoid their deaths. Was this man considering suicide too, perhaps distraught after killing the pedestrian?

  Jude continued to wash his hands, taking his time. He watched in the mirror as White Hair finished, then stepped up to the other sink and nodded a greeting.

  The man’s expression was that hundred-yard stare again. He obviously didn’t recognize Jude. Good. If he was right, he needed to touch the guy to complete the vision, the sign, whatever it was.

  Jude saw White Hair turn off the water and turn toward the towel dispenser. Now was the time. He turned off his own sink’s water and moved toward the dispenser, purposely bumping the man when he reached for towels.

  Bright bursts of sepia orange, black, and yellow filled Jude’s eyes before dissolving into a clear picture: a kitchen. A bare kitchen much like his own. White Hair sat at a table eating stir-fry, watching Jeopardy on a small television. (Kenneth Sohler, White Hair’s name is actually Kenneth Sohler.)

  Thump.

  Sohler took another bite of his vegetables, shouted an answer at the television as he chewed. ‘‘What is green algae, Alex?’’ The contestant on the television provided the same answer, and Alex told him to select another category.

  Another thump, coming from somewhere in the house.

  Still, Sohler ignored the thumping sound as he watched the television.

  Thump. Thump.

  It seemed maybe the pace was increasing now—
<
br />   Thump. Thump.

  On the television, Alex told everyone he’d be right back after this—

  Thump.

  As a toothpaste commercial flashed on the screen, Sohler took his plate to the sink, dished some stir-fry onto a small plate, and then turned to—

  Thump.

  —walk toward a door at the far side of the kitchen, where he reached for a knob and opened the door to the basement.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Jude opened his eyes; the world focused again. Kenneth Sohler dried his hands with a paper towel while staring at him. ‘‘You okay, buddy?’’ Sohler asked.

  Jude swallowed, nodded his head quickly. ‘‘Just a bit lightheaded,’’ he blurted.

  ‘‘Looked like, I don’t know, a seizure or something.’’

  A seizure. Rachel had mentioned seizures. Epilepsy. He pushed the thought from his mind: couldn’t think about that right now. ‘‘Happens when I don’t take my medication.’’

  Sohler shrugged his shoulders, wadded his paper towel, and threw it in the garbage, then grabbed for the door. Jude closed his eyes, listened to the door squeak shut, and forced himself to breathe.

  Ken Sohler had a young child locked in his basement. Jude paused a moment. Or that was just a major league epileptic delusion.

  Jude moved slowly, feeling as if he were underwater. He left the rest room and stumbled back to his booth. Sohler wasn’t far away, and Jude had an unobstructed view of him. He studied Sohler’s face, looking for clues about his inner character. It seemed he should have some sort of nervous tic or permanent scowl or . . . something.

  Jude remembered seeing a photo of Charles Manson, the same photo that was on the cover of Life or Time or some magazine, and knowing—knowing —he was staring into the face of evil. Manson’s eyes were dark, deep-set pools of insanity. From that day forward, Jude had thought all evil people must have a similar kind of look. You’d be able to look in their eyes and see that a dark fire burned within. But Sohler didn’t look anything like Manson; he looked more like a tire salesman. In other words: normal.

  Ginny brought a plate and set it before Jude. She caught his look and glanced across the restaurant.

  ‘‘Don’t know his name,’’ she said. ‘‘See him in here quite a bit, though.’’

  ‘‘Ever bring anyone with him?’’

  She thought for a moment. ‘‘Hmmm. Not that I can think of.’’

  ‘‘Does he seem . . . I don’t know . . . okay?’’

  ‘‘In what way?’’

  ‘‘You ever see him explode or get really mad about something?’’

  ‘‘Nope. He pretty much mixes in with everyone else. Doesn’t say much, but he tips pretty good.’’

  Jude shook his head, then looked up at her. ‘‘Thanks, Ginny. I just . . . had a weird feeling about him. That’s all.’’

  She leaned down and whispered to him. ‘‘I’ll keep an eye on him. If you have a weird feeling . . .’’ She let the sentence trail off without finishing it, then turned and walked toward the kitchen.

  Jude ate his food while barely looking at his plate. He watched Sohler instead. This had to be the man who was taking kids. Maybe? No one knew what happened to any of them, because none had yet been found, and there had been several disappearances—half a dozen, at least—in the previous year.

  Now that man sat in the same restaurant as Jude, eating the same meal as Jude. And what was he going to do about it? He really wanted to talk to someone. Kristina, more than anyone else, or maybe Rachel. Jude knew inside he should follow the man home and . . . and what? Jump him in the alley?

  He really, really needed to talk to Kristina. She would know. That was when his eyes settled on the pay phone near the bathroom. He still had the number for the Stumble Inn in his wallet. She was in Room 305. He remembered it clearly.

  Jude stood and walked to the phone. Using his peripheral vision, he tried to see if Sohler noticed. Sohler didn’t seem the least bit interested; he had finished his dinner and was now reading the newspaper.

  Jude looked up the number, dialed, and asked for Kristina’s room. She answered immediately.

  ‘‘Hey, it’s Ju . . . Ron,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I kind of thought it might be.’’

  ‘‘I have quite a bit to tell you, when you get a chance.’’ He shuffled his feet and stared at his scuffed shoes.

  ‘‘Really? About what?’’

  ‘‘Plenty of things. But I’m kind of calling for something important right now.’’

  ‘‘Okay.’’

  ‘‘Let’s just say there’s something to your whole signs thing.’’

  ‘‘Like ‘Welcome to the New Jersey Turnpike’?’’

  He winced. ‘‘Sorry about that.’’

  ‘‘It’s okay. It was actually pretty funny.’’

  ‘‘What do I do about them? The signs, I mean.’’

  ‘‘That’ll be pretty obvious, I think.’’

  The Kodachrome visions and the copper taste. Yeah, those were pretty obvious. But his next steps weren’t. ‘‘What I mean is,’’ he continued, ‘‘how do I know what to do?’’

  ‘‘What to do?’’

  ‘‘Like how to solve the problem.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know.’’

  He stopped, held his breath for a minute.

  ‘‘You don’t know?’’ He turned to steal another look at Sohler. Still there, still reading the paper. ‘‘That’s not much help.’’

  ‘‘Are you really wondering what you should do? Or do you already know, and you’re just scared to actually do it?’’

  Jude couldn’t come up with an answer. After a few seconds of silence, she spoke again. ‘‘You there?’’

  Jude sighed. ‘‘Yeah, I’m here,’’ he said. ‘‘That’s the problem: I don’t want to be.’’

  ‘‘Look, if you want me to come over,’’ she said.

  ‘‘No, I’m not at home right now. And somehow, I think I’m not supposed to go home just yet.’’

  ‘‘Calling from a cell phone?’’

  ‘‘Do I strike you as the kind of guy who would have a cell phone?’’

  ‘‘Good point. Well, when you’re ready to spill your story . . .’’

  ‘‘I’ll call you,’’ he said. He noticed Sohler getting up from his table, and panic seeped from his pores. ‘‘I’m sorry, Kristina. I’m gonna have to run now. I hope I’m doing the right thing.’’

  ‘‘You will,’’ she said.

  He didn’t have time to respond, so he simply slammed down the receiver and hurried back to his booth. He threw some money down on the table, waved to Ginny, then rushed out the door behind Sohler.

  21

  SEARCHING

  At that exact moment Rachel opened the web browser on her iBook at home. Nathan was playing over at Bradley’s for a few hours—she thanked God for Nicole for the thousandth time—giving her a few hours to herself.

  Which tonight meant a few hours on the computer. Since Ron’s surprise visit that morning, she had spent the entire day spinning him around in her mind, looking for answers. And she hadn’t found any. Despite her best efforts, she once again felt herself succumbing to the puppy dog syndrome: feeling sorry for him, wanting to help him, comfort him. Maybe even God was directing those feelings.

  And yet.

  And yet that knot of jumbled emotions wouldn’t leave, and his morning visit had also done much to complicate those feelings of danger. He’d talked about tasting copper; right away that made her think of an epileptic biting his tongue—especially when coupled with his gobbledygook about visions.

  She typed seizures into her screen’s search box, hesitated a moment, then added hallucinations and quickly hit the Search button. There, she’d done it; she’d admitted to herself that Ron was having hallucinations. She scrolled through the list of results until she came to a link labeled ‘‘Joan of Arc and Temporal Lobe Epilepsy.’’ The resulting page was a scholarly article examining
the life of Joan of Arc, concluding that her visions had been the result of epileptic seizures.

  Rachel picked up her glass of water and took a long, deep drink. Did Ron suffer from epilepsy? (Or, as the article called it, TLE?) And if so, did that make him a danger to their son? Her maternal instincts were telling her yes.

  Okay, if he had a history of mental instability, mental illness, whatever, he may have been a patient at various institutions. Maybe he’d escaped right before coming to Montana.

  She backed up and typed Ron Gress in the search bar. Several thousand hits; no good. She tried Ron Gress and Red Lodge and came up with a few dozen results, most of them related to his employment with the local school district. Had he ever said where he’d lived before? Nebraska. He’d mentioned something about his dad living in Nebraska his whole life. She tried Ron Gress and Nebraska. The first half dozen or so were road race results. She smiled, doubting that Ron had run any marathons recently. The seventh result was an obituary. She winced when she read it: a young baby, only days old, had died in Bingham, Nebraska, thirty-two years ago. Bingham. Yes, she recognized it now; Ron had mentioned that town specifically—had talked about it when he mentioned his father. Creepy, kind of. But certainly no grand conspiracy at work; people, including babies, unfortunately died.

  She returned to the Red Lodge results and clicked on the public employment records for Ron again. She was about to close the window when she noticed Ron’s birth date: it was the same as the dead baby’s from Bingham. She was sure of it. Just to double check, she pulled the birth record out of the browser’s recent history.

  Yes, the Ron Gress who was the father of her child shared a birthday with a Ron Gress who had died when he was just three days old. And both of them were from the same small town in Nebraska.

  She felt a cold sliver of ice starting to wedge its way into her spine. This was beyond coincidence, and her mind raced immediately to one conclusion: Ron had stolen his name from a dead child.