by T. L. Hines
Odum’s eyes rolled to white for a brief second, then focused. They rolled again, focused. He let the gun drop to his side. ‘‘Well,’’ he said simply. And then, in a low whisper, he said something else Jude could barely hear: ‘‘Switch.’’
Jude felt his nerves kick up another notch. Careful, he had to be careful. In the backseat, Kristina stayed as eerily quiet as she had been for the whole ride.
‘‘I . . . I know about your childhood,’’ Jude said in a hushed tone.
‘‘Pull over here,’’ Odum growled.
Jude pulled to the side of the road but tried to keep the conversation going. ‘‘Your mom committed suicide when you were young, a horrible thing for you to go through. You blamed yourself for it, and maybe even your father blamed you for it.’’
Odum said nothing. Jude wasn’t sure if he should continue or not, but he felt like Odum was out on a ledge; he needed to talk Odum into backing off of it.
‘‘It’s not fair, I know,’’ Jude continued. ‘‘It kinda made your father a bit crazy, didn’t it? And he took it out on you. A horrible thing to live through, Chief Odum. But you did it. And believe it or not, I know what that’s like. I think you can get help. We can just turn around and go back now.’’
Odum smiled, a demented, twisted smile. ‘‘A fine lecture, Mr. Gress. You should really think about becoming a psychologist sometime.’’ Odum raised the barrel of the gun toward Jude again, and Jude swallowed hard.
‘‘However,’’ Odum said, ‘‘I think I’ll just stick with Plan A right now.’’ He reached over and twisted the key to shut off the car. ‘‘Howzabout you grab that shovel in back, Mr. Gress?’’
Odum opened his door, then slid out; Jude followed suit, cupping the hidden chloroform and cloth behind him. Jude opened the back door to the car to reach for the shovel. He exchanged a look with Kristina, then slowly shook his head. Jude glanced up at Odum, whose eyes were now wide and wild.
‘‘How about just you and me on this one?’’ Jude asked.
Odum smiled. ‘‘Of course just you and me, Mr. Gress. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Don’t even have to bring the shovel, if you’d rather dig with your hands.’’
Jude glared at Kristina as he grabbed the shovel; she reached out to touch his arm, but he pulled away.
‘‘Something wrong, Mr. Gress?’’ Odum boomed.
‘‘Nothing, nothing.’’
‘‘After you, then,’’ Odum said, giving a comical bow. They set out into the woods, stepping over low brush and downed timber as they moved. The air was cold, crisp, dark. The loamy ground beneath them crackled with leaves and larch needles.
‘‘You’ve heard of Extreme Measures, haven’t you, Mr. Gress?’’ Odum seemed almost jovial now, as if his whole world weren’t falling down around him. Jude certainly hadn’t expected this latest twist.
‘‘Extreme measures? Sure, yeah. I guess so.’’
‘‘Well, maybe you’ve heard of it, but I doubt you’ve ever experienced it before. This,’’ Odum said as he waved the gun at the forest around him, ‘‘is even a bit more than that. Let’s call it Beyond Extreme Measures, eh?’’
Odum was babbling now, but Jude wasn’t about to argue with him. No sense kicking a dog when it’s cornered.
‘‘Let’s just keep that shovel down at your side, in case you’re thinking of taking a swing,’’ Odum said. ‘‘It doesn’t matter how fast you can move, Mr. Gress. A .38 slug moves much faster.’’
Jude nodded and kept walking. He wasn’t really thinking of swinging the shovel. He had something else in mind.
‘‘I’d still like to know how you did it, Mr. Gress. How you figured it all out.’’
‘‘I’m not real sure of that myself.’’ That was the truth.
‘‘I mean, knowing about my childhood and—’’
Abruptly, Jude tripped and went facedown on the ground. He rolled onto his back, then clutched at his lower leg.
‘‘What?’’ Odum asked.
Jude spoke through clenched teeth. ‘‘Twisted my ankle on a big root, I think. I . . . I think I might have hurt it pretty bad.’’
Odum pointed the gun at Jude’s midsection. ‘‘Get up.’’
‘‘I’m not sure if I can.’’
Odum cocked his gun. ‘‘You can if you don’t want your guts ventilated,’’ he said.
Jude rolled over again and made a show of getting up slowly. At the same time he filled his left hand with dirt from the forest floor; he kept the chloroform cloth clutched in his right hand. After he got to his feet, he turned toward Odum.
He acted before he had a chance to think about the danger of the situation. He knew he’d only have one chance, and he took it. Shifting into high gear, he threw the dirt at Odum’s eyes and rushed him at the same time. The dirt worked: subconsciously Odum reached for his face, pulling the gun away from Jude.
Jude hit him hard and fast. Odum was larger, and at least twenty pounds heavier, but Jude had surprised him. He drove his shoulder into Odum’s stomach as hard as he could, and he heard Odum’s lungs reverse direction as his breath came out in one long whoosh. As they fell to the ground, Jude clamped the chloroform-soaked cloth over Odum’s mouth.
Odum struggled for a few moments, trying to buck off Jude’s body. But Jude held tight. Odum was strong, incredibly strong; Jude was glad he hadn’t tried anything with the shovel. Odum would have eaten him for lunch.
Before long, Odum’s body went limp, yet Jude kept the cloth over his face. He didn’t want to fall for a fake flop, then let up his guard and have Odum overpower him. So, after about thirty seconds, when he was certain Odum was out, Jude relaxed. He looked around for the dropped gun, found it, then grabbed Odum by the shoulders and started dragging him.
It took about twenty minutes for Jude to get Odum’s limp body back to the car. Odum had to be at least two hundred thirty pounds, and Jude wasn’t used to dragging around that kind of dead weight. A few times he thought of leaving Odum, but he was too scared. He didn’t want to let Odum out of his sight now. If he took his eyes off the monster, the monster might escape. And if the monster escaped, he might show up somewhere else.
Just before he reached the car, Jude set down Odum’s body and pulled out the gun. While he knew there was no way he could use it on Kristina, he hoped she wouldn’t know that.
He stalked toward the car and was surprised to see her still sitting in the back. He knocked on her door window with the barrel of the gun; she turned without seeming surprised, as if she had always expected him to be there. Quickly he opened the front door and stared at her through the metal partition.
‘‘Can’t really believe you’re still here,’’ he said.
She turned to look at him. ‘‘I’m not going anywhere,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s not my time yet.’’
Whatever that meant. No matter; now he remembered the cruiser’s doors and windows were only operable by the driver so she wouldn’t have escaped if she even wanted to. This made things easier: with the locked doors and partition, he didn’t have to worry about Kristina doing anything in the backseat while he drove. The big question was, what should he do with Odum? He could maybe put Odum in the back with Kristina, but he didn’t like that idea. This was Odum’s car, and he was sure the chief knew how to retract the screen or unlock the doors. Plus, he was sure he didn’t want both of them sitting together—behind him, no less—as he drove back to town.
Then an idea hit him: the handcuffs. He could handcuff Odum, put him in the front seat, and keep the gun on him.
Jude went back to retrieve Odum’s unconscious body. He cuffed Odum, then dragged him to the car and struggled to push him into the front seat. Odum stirred in Jude’s arms, waking from his chloroform-induced slumber.
Jude realized he’d left the cloth and the bottle out in the forest somewhere; there wasn’t any way he was going to put Odum back to sleep, and there was even less chance of him winning a physical struggle. He patted down the officer, wanting to m
ake sure he didn’t have any other weapons.
Odum was clean.
Jude checked the cuffs one last time to make sure Odum was secure. He closed the door and went to the other side. As he slid in, Odum opened his eyes for the first time. He stared blearily as Jude started the vehicle and turned it around. Jude held the gun so Odum could see it; Odum stared at it but said nothing.
They drove in silence for a few minutes before Odum spoke. ‘‘Well, doesn’t this just beat all?’’ he said.
Jude stayed silent. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Kristina; she returned his gaze, said nothing. Now wasn’t the time to talk. They would have plenty of time to talk when they got back to Red Lodge.
Odum moved slowly, slurred a bit as he talked; the chloroform hadn’t worn off all the way yet.
‘‘Mr. Gress, I’d like to congratulate you on your psychic vision thing. Well done. Maybe you should go into business with Dionne Warwick.’’ He chuckled. Jude said nothing; he was too tired, too drained to talk. And he was still afraid. Very afraid.
‘‘But I bet there’s one thing you didn’t see coming tonight,’’ Odum continued. ‘‘One very big thing.’’
Odum stopped. Obviously he was waiting for Jude to answer. Okay, Jude could humor the man. ‘‘What is that, Chief Odum?’’
‘‘This.’’
It happened so fast, Jude barely saw it. Odum’s cuffed hands snapped out and grabbed the steering wheel, wresting control from Jude. Jude, in his surprise, dropped the pistol, putting both hands on the steering wheel. Odum was stronger, so much stronger, and the car was already off the road before Jude could react and get his foot to the brake.
A canyon, it’s a canyon, Jude thought as the car sailed through the crisp autumn air. And yes, of course they were in a canyon. In a heartbeat Jude thought of Nathan and Rachel and mouthed the words, ‘‘Please, please, please . . .’’ He saw the rocky bottom approaching, and Jude had the sensation not so much that they were falling, but that the earth was rushing up to meet them.
42
WAKING
Rachel was stunned when she walked into the hospital room. It couldn’t be possible, couldn’t be possible at all. Too much damage. The rational side of her brain told her this, let her know all the things it had categorized as possible and impossible.
And then the voice inside—in harmony with her son’s voice— assured her of what was real.
The octopus Nicole was gone. The smiling, vibrant Nicole was back, sitting up in her bed. After a few days in intensive care, she had been transferred to a private room, and this was the first time Rachel had seen her since . . . since.
‘‘Thanks for taking Bradley for a few days,’’ Nicole said. Amazing. A little slurred speech, but no paralysis of any kind. Nicole Whittaker had taken a bullet to the brain, and now, just a few days later, she was sitting up and talking. Miracles still happen, the voice inside her said. Rachel smiled. Yes, miracles did indeed still happen.
‘‘Bradley is welcome at our house any time. In an odd sort of way, since they went through the whole—’’ Rachel paused and searched for a word to describe what the boys and Nicole had endured, yet no such word existed—‘‘the whole thing together, I think they’ve been kind of healing together, too.’’ She smiled at Nicole. ‘‘Sounds crazy, I know.’’
‘‘No, it doesn’t,’’ Nicole said. ‘‘It sounds perfectly sane to me.’’
‘‘He’s just down the hallway, in the play area with the nurse,’’ Rachel said. ‘‘You wanna see him?’’
A tear slid from Nicole’s eye as she nodded. Rachel backed out into the hall again and waved at the nurses’ station.
‘‘They told me I should have been a vegetable,’’ Nicole said. ‘‘And without Bradley, without him, I think I would have been.’’
Rachel nodded, sensing Nicole needed to get out something important.
‘‘I don’t really remember much. But I had the strangest dream,’’ Nicole continued, wiping at her eyes. Rachel grabbed the box of tissues from the nightstand and handed it to her. ‘‘You ever have that dream where you’re trying to run, but you can’t seem to get out of slow motion? Like you’re in molasses or something?’’
Rachel smiled, nodded.
‘‘Well, that’s what was happening, and then I heard you.’’
Rachel stiffened. ‘‘Me?’’ she said.
Nicole dabbed at her eyes with the tissue. ‘‘Yeah. I remember exactly what you said: ‘Nicole, he’s okay. And we’ll bring him back. Just hang on to that.’ When I heard that, I could run. Somehow I knew I was going to be fine. Nutso, huh?’’
Rachel took Nicole’s hand between her own hands, cradling Nicole’s palm as she had done just a few days before. ‘‘No,’’ Rachel answered softly. ‘‘It sounds perfectly sane to me.’’ They smiled at each other.
‘‘So how’s Boo Rad—er, Ron—doing?’’ Nicole asked.
‘‘Well, for starters, his name isn’t Ron. I have a long story when you get out of here,’’ Rachel said. ‘‘But the short story is: he’s fine. With you and him in the same hospital at the same time, I think we have a lot of doctors scratching their heads right now.’’
‘‘Mommy?’’
Rachel turned and saw Bradley standing at the doorway, accompanied by the nurse. His eyes were bright, joyous. He ran across the room to Nicole’s bed, and Rachel helped him crawl up into bed next to his mother. Nicole hugged her son, long and hard, and Rachel knew what she was thinking at this very moment: I’m not going to ever let him go . Jude opened his eyes, stared at the wall of the hospital room. He was in a bed. He was smiling.
He knew he’d been to the Other Side again, but this time had been entirely different. His heart still pounded with the joy of it, his lungs still held the crisp, living air. Most of all, his lips still tingled with the aftertaste of the Other Side: a taste like the sweetest, purest honey he had ever imagined.
A taste nothing like copper.
At the base of the bed, a doctor was intently studying charts on a clipboard. Jude cleared his throat, and the doctor looked up. Jude recognized the look in the doctor’s eyes. It was a look he knew well, a look that said my status has just left my quo. A look Jude had seen on a few doctors’ faces in his lifetime. Or should that be lifetimes?
‘‘I . . . uh . . .’’ the doctor stammered. ‘‘You’re alive. I mean, awake.’’
‘‘Old habits die hard,’’ Jude answered.
‘‘What’s that?’’
‘‘Nothing. Why’s my bed up like this?’’
The doctor seemed puzzled. Clearly this was not the first question he’d expected out of a resurrected patient. ‘‘I’m sorry, uh—’’
‘‘I mean, why is my bed up instead of down?’’
‘‘Oh. Well, your wife . . . she’s been coming in, and she said you’d be more comfortable that way. That you preferred to sleep sitting up. And since there wasn’t any clinical reason to keep you flat on your back . . .’’ Jude smiled. Your wife. Rachel wasn’t his wife, of course— although the sound of the doctor saying the words sounded oddly sweet. Still, he made no move to correct the doctor. In an odd sort of way, he enjoyed the thought himself.
‘‘You were in a serious accident,’’ the doctor began. Jude recognized the beginning of the sermon, usually entitled something like You’re Here and You Shouldn’t Be, and I’m Trying to Figure Out Why. ‘‘When they brought you in, you were clinically—’’
‘‘Dead?’’ Jude finished.
‘‘Yes. We couldn’t detect a respiration, or any brain activity—’’
A thought flashed into Jude’s mind. Kristina. Kristina had been in the car with him. ‘‘What about, um, the other passengers?’’
‘‘Michael Odum? Dead on arrival, I’m afraid.’’ The doctor looked at him uncomfortably, and Jude could tell the doctor desperately wanted to add but then, so were you. So Odum was dead. He somehow knew that would be the case.
‘‘Actually, I meant Kristina.’
’
The doctor’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘‘I’m sorry?’’
‘‘Kristina. She was in the backseat.’’
The doctor put on a new look, the old I don’t know what you’re talking about, but then, you did take a pretty good hit to the head look. ‘‘I’m sorry, you’re mistaken,’’ the doctor said, finally getting to use a bit of condescension in his voice. ‘‘There wasn’t anyone else in the car.’’
Jude blinked a couple of times. The familiar bloom of surfacing memories burst before his eyes in vivid color again, and he saw. He saw.
Rewind. Eight years old. The hospital morgue. The crisp, linen sheet rolls back, and the smiling face of a woman looks down at him.
Kristina.
Fast-forward. Kristina sits in his house. ‘‘Let’s just say I won’t be here very long,’’ Kristina says.
Rewind. Sixteen years old. His hospital room. The nurse tells him there’s something special about him, then serves him dinner.
Kristina.
Fast-forward. The Red Lodge Cafe. ‘‘I’m not here for me,’’ Kristina says. ‘‘I’m here for you.’’
Rewind. Twenty-four years old. The hospital lobby. The woman opens the emergency door and lets him escape.
Kristina.
Fast-forward. Odum’s car. ‘‘You’re a prophet, Jude,’’ Kristina says. ‘‘Like Moses. A messenger.’’
Play. Now. Thirty-two years old. Kristina’s cryptic notes, scribbled on sticky papers: Eight, sixteen, twenty-four . . . see a pattern here? Yes. Crazy eights, signifying a new beginning, a resurrection. And the next number in that pattern was thirty-two. Jude’s present age.
Jude looked back to the doctor.
‘‘Are you okay?’’ the doctor asked. ‘‘You seem a little flushed.
Experiencing any—’’ ‘‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’’ Jude said, although he wasn’t. A door had been opened inside his head. ‘‘Could you hand me the phone there?’’