Ray.
Ray, can you hear me?
He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t move his mouth, couldn’t move anything. A man’s face hung over his, blurry and indistinct, like he was underwater looking up through the surface.
It’s working, the man said to someone else. His face moved back into view, growing larger. His breath smelled awful, but Ray couldn’t turn his head.
Ray, listen to me. I need you to go into your special place. Your secret place. Can you go there for me?
Yes, he tried to say, but it came out ssssssss.
Good, the man said. I’m going to count to three, and when I get to three, you’ll be there, safe and happy. One … two …
He was flying, like being sucked up into a giant vacuum cleaner. He hated that feeling. It was like being thrown off a spinning carnival ride.
Three …
And everything changed. He was outside his grandma’s house, near the pond where he liked to catch tadpoles. It was warm and shady beneath the gnarled willow, and he was on his back in the grass looking up into the sky. No clouds, just empty, vast blue as far as he could see. No stars. No stars.
Ray.
That voice again. God, he hated that voice. It buzzed in his ears like an annoying mosquito.
Ray, we’re going to try again.
He felt his fingers curl into fists. All he wanted to do was lie here in the cool grass, and they wanted him to play their stupid games. The games made his head hurt, and made him feel sick to his stomach.
You’re going to reach out again. You’re going to ask them to come to you.
“I don’t want to.” His voice sounded like it was coming from far away.
Reach out to them. Call out. The way we showed you. You can do it.
And then the sky wasn’t blue anymore. It was black. And full of stars. Burning brighter than any he’d ever seen.
You’re doing it, Ray. You’re doing it.
But he didn’t want to be doing it. It was night and he wanted to be back at Grandma’s, instead of this horrible place with these nasty old men playing games that he didn’t understand, and which scared him so much he’d go to the bathroom in his pants.
Yes, yes, that’s it. Here they come. Here they—
The cat sat on his chest. It licked his face, the raspy tongue slipping into the corner of his mouth.
Ray sat up, and the cat leapt onto the floor. His head was scrambled. What was it doing in the house? It must have slipped in when Denny had dropped him off. He’d been out of it, buzzed and headachy from what Lily had done to him and the long walk, so it made sense that the sneaky little thing could have taken the opportunity and bolted through his legs without him noticing.
After showering, he sat at the computer as the cat watched him from its perch on the leather couch, acting as if it belonged there.
There was another message from Kevin. He was terribly sorry he wasn’t back yet, but was lining up a flight. Ray frowned and moved on to the next email. Denny had sent it at 9:48 A.M.
Ray,
I hope I didn’t say anything stupid or offend you last night. I’d had a couple of drinks before I picked you up and sometimes that makes me say things I shouldn’t. But here’s something that might interest you—my friend from the park system emailed me this morning. One of the old-timers there remembered that during the seventies some of the state park land near Crawford’s property was declared off-limits. For a few weeks. He can’t remember why, but he figured it was some government thing, probably NSA, since they were doing work at the Green Bank radio observatory at the time, and everything was hush-hush. He’s going to get back to me if he can find out anything else. But that seems to fit what you told me, right?
Again, my sincerest apologies. And I won’t go digging around in your business anymore unless you ask me to. I look forward to seeing you tonight, but I might stick to club soda this time.
All the best,
Denny
NSA—the National Security Agency. But what could the NSA have wanted with a bunch of preadolescent kids?
And then it hit him: his uncle Bill, who had persuaded Ray’s mother to let him go on the camping trip, had worked for “the government.” And that’s all he ever said—that he worked for the government. Never any details. And the NSA was headquartered in Fort Meade, not too far from Baltimore.
It was too bad Uncle Bill had long ago rotted away and died in a run-down nursing home. No answers there.
The cat meowed, a thin and plaintive whine. It sat in front of the kitchen closet, looking at him with its pathetic eyes.
“All right,” Ray said. He opened the door. Stacks of canned tuna lined the bottom shelf.
“I see. Hungry, are we?”
The cat looked into his eyes and cried.
Ray reached in and grabbed a can. The cat weaved against his legs as he opened the tuna, rubbing the side of its head against his ankles, pirouetting and crying. It attacked the food as soon as he put it down, gobbling the shreds of fish in seconds. Ray filled a bowl of water and set it next to the food. It lapped up the water—slap slap slap—until nothing was left but a thin puddle.
He called Ellen at the diner. She had worked an early morning shift and was getting off after lunch, and she wanted to take him to see the Hand.