The abrupt cessation of motion yanked Adam from a doze and his head from its resting position. He’d pulled his shirt collar up to shield his face, but his upper cheek was cold and damp from the window.
“Sorry about that,” Harlan said. “The clutch on Jim’s truck could use a little work. Or I could use a little sleep, one or the other.”
Adam could hear traffic in the distance, but it was irregular, waves rather than a constant roar. “Where are we?”
“Far enough away to feel safe to stop. I’ll get us a room.”
The pickup sat in the poorly lit parking lot of a crappy, one-story motel, its details thankfully lost in the dark. Harlan hadn’t parked by the office, but rather in front of a section of rooms that appeared unoccupied. There were no cars parked nearby, and no lights shone through the curtained windows.
Adam wiped his cold cheek and massaged the numb right arm he’d been leaning against back to life. His arm was just beginning to tingle when Harlan returned. The man opened the driver’s door and locked it, then said, “Come on.”
They’d been driving long enough for Adam’s legs to turn to clay and for his arms and chest to tighten up from the afternoon’s exertions and the previous night’s vomiting. He groaned as he awkwardly pulled his duffel bag from the back. “Do we have a plan?”
“Son, I don’t even have a spare pair of underwear,” Harlan said. Adam’s face fell, and Harlan said, “Don’t worry—I won’t try to borrow yours. I’ll just go commando.”
Adam shook his head, grinning, and followed Harlan to a door almost directly in front of the truck. Harlan fumbled with an old-fashioned key on a plastic ring. Finally pushing open the door, he said, “We do have a plan of sorts. There’s enough distance between us and them to crash for a few hours.”
A single large bed took up most of the room, and a single chair faced an empty space that should have held a television. Adam threw his bag on the chair, reluctant to set it down on carpet the color of dirt. “And what then?”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” Harlan said. “Get some sleep. I saw one of those twenty-four-hour drugstores just down the road, and I want to see if I can pick up a couple of things.” He jiggled the key on its ring. “I’ll be back in a bit, but like I said, don’t wait up.”
So Adam didn’t.
He reached for the screaming child.
“Shush,” he said. “It’ll be okay.” Except it wouldn’t, and the child knew it. Had he heard the whispering voices, too? Or was it just that he, like his father, knew his mother was dying in the front seat?
The man fought with the child seat’s straps and buckles at the best of times, and these were not those. He worked by feel, his back brushing against the roof of the car in the dark. His upper body twisted and hung too far forward for his own upright seat to support him. The boy wriggled, then wailed when his father fell, elbow mashing his little leg.
“Just settle down,” he growled, blood running into his eye. He brushed it away, wiping his hand on the boy’s overalls. They already felt sticky.
No, Virgil.
His wife’s voice was faint. He was afraid to look at her, afraid of what he’d see, and afraid of what she’d see in him.
“I have to do this,” he said. “I have to.”
No, you don’t!
This time, the voice boomed in his skull. He jerked his head toward her, certain he could feel her eyes boring through him, but her head still faced straight ahead. So he went back to work. The swinging arm of the child seat finally came free, and he lifted it over his screaming boy’s head.
“He won’t be harmed,” Virgil said.
But he knew it was a lie, even as he spoke the words. Of course, his wife knew as well. She didn’t respond—not directly—but he began to hear a different whispering, to feel a tingling across his skin.
He grabbed the boy awkwardly beneath the armpits and lifted, but the child’s arms were still tangled somehow. He tilted him, this way and that, trying to pull him free. One hand remained caught in the strap that had secured his legs.
It has to happen now, his father’s voice whispered.
“I know—I’m trying!” he screamed in desperation. Finally, he yanked the child toward him and heard a sickening pop, followed by the boy shrieking a shrill octave higher.
And then another hand appeared…
The hand tugged on Adam, and a strong, reassuring voice broke through the pained shrieking.
“Adam, come back to me. You’re safe if you come back to me,” the voice said. But another hand was clamped over his mouth, and Adam struggled against it. “Adam, don’t panic. Just relax. I’m letting you go now.”
Adam opened his eyes and sucked air like a landed fish. He was lying on a bed in a cheap motel room. A small lamp on the nightstand next to him had been knocked over. Its lampshade was askew, and it still gave off light at odd angles. Harlan stood by the bed, face shadowed, but silver-white hair shining. Adam surveyed the rest of the area, noting his duffel and a plastic shopping bag in the chair, but no other belongings. The door to the bathroom was ajar, and the light was switched on, illuminating a dingy white space. An empty white space.
There’s no one else in here, no one but Harlan and me.
Adam gazed at his hand, at the wonky thumb that perpetually stuck out at odd angles. It rarely ached, but it did now, throbbing with the beat of his heart. He rubbed it with the other hand (there’s no one else here) and slowly sat up. Then he set the lamp upright and got his first good look at Harlan. The man was pale, lips barely visible beneath his mustache.
“When did you start having visions again?” Harlan asked.
Adam’s voice was grit in his throat. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a pretty simple goddamn question,” Harlan said. When Adam didn’t answer, he continued. “You told me you were burned out, that you weren’t seeing anything.”
“No!” Adam countered. “That’s what you said, back in the hospital.”
“Well obviously I was fucking wrong.” Harlan took a deep breath and sat next to him, placing his hands palm down on the bed. They were shaking, though not quite as much as Adam’s own. “What you saw tonight, is that something you’ve seen before?”
Adam nodded and felt a chill on the back of his neck. He rubbed his hand against it, and his fingers came away slick with cold sweat. “I’ve had that nightmare off and on for as long as I can remember. But it seems different now, like I’m seeing it from a different place. It’s the night my mom died.”
“Well, I know that, son. I was there. But that wasn’t any kind of dream or nightmare; that was a vision.” He ran his hands over his face and let out a roaring groan. “How long have you been having this ‘different’ nightmare?”
Adam’s wonky thumb had stopped throbbing, but it still seemed especially cold. He fidgeted with it rather than looking at Harlan. “Since I was released from the hospital.”
“Shit.”
Adam noticed that, although they sat close to each other, Harlan had avoided touching him. Seconds ticked by as he waited for Harlan to say something else. Anything else. Finally, “But you haven’t seen anything about the boy?”
“No, sir,” Adam said. “I didn’t know a thing about it until they started knocking on my door.”
Harlan ran his hands over his head and dug his fingers into his scalp so enthusiastically Adam could hear his nails scratch the skin. Then he stood and said abruptly, “We’re leaving.”
“Now?”
“Go take a quick, cold shower—I don’t want you falling asleep on me again—and we’ll hit the road.”
“Where are we headed?” Adam asked.
“The only person who can help us find Aaron Schofield also happens to be the only person who can help us figure out what the hell is going on in there,” Harlan said, pointing at Adam’s skull. “And how to stop it. But first we’ve got to find him. And fast.”