by David Beers
Dr. Hanson, he thought, but then immediately pushed the idea away. The doctor worked for the bureau and regardless what loyalties he might feel toward Christian or Waverly, they wouldn’t eclipse his dedication to the law.
It’s you and him. No one else is coming to save him. You have to decide how you’re going to help, and then you have to do it.
“What do you want me to do, Christian? We don’t have a lot of options.” He looked over to the passenger side. Christian’s head was slumped against the window as he stared out at the passing road.
“I don’t know … I guess you have to turn me in. Lucy is in the back now. Do you think the prison will let them come too?”
Christian was slipping further into insanity by the moment. Waverly didn’t have any answers for Christian, because the questions were nonsensical. They were the ravings of some homeless man, standing on the street corner and talking about people that didn’t exist.
Waverly’s phone started vibrating in his pocket. His eyes immediately flashed to the clock on the car’s dashboard. It was two in the morning; no one should be calling right now. He suddenly felt a cold bag of ice sitting on his neck and sending its chill down his spine.
No one should be calling this late. Waverly had no wife. No close immediate family. The bureau would have waited for the morning.
A name whispered through his mind like a graveyard’s breath.
Luke.
With his right hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled the phone out. The number was private—but what did you expect?
He glanced at Christian; he sat staring out the window as if he didn’t hear the buzzing phone.
Waverly hit answer and put it to his ear.
“Are you with him?”
The ice on Waverly’s neck froze the length of his spine. His nipples grew hard and his testicles tightened. His left calf started to twitch.
“Alan, are you with him?” Luke asked again.
“Where are you?”
“That’s not important for you to know at the moment. Let me speak to him.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Waverly said.
He heard Luke sigh on the other side of the phone. “There’s no need to put up this facade. You don’t have to act like a tough guy around me, Alan. We both know that what I want to happen, will happen. So put him on the phone.”
“No,” Waverly said, finding some of his strength again, the frozen ice on his vertebrae melting a bit.
“It’s him?” Christian asked.
Waverly didn’t look over.
“I hear him,” Luke said. “It’s important that I speak to him. I’m sure you can tell that something is happening. And now he has that senator chasing after him. He’s not going to look good in court, Alan, if he’s talking to people that don’t exist.”
“Give me the phone,” Christian said.
“Be quiet,” Waverly said, talking to both at the same time.
“He’s asking for me. Give him the phone. How much damage can I do with only my voice?”
“Waverly, hand me the goddamn phone,” Christian said. Waverly looked over at him, the harshness in Christian’s voice surprising him.
“No,” he said. “The fact that I’m talking to him right now could land me in trouble. If you talk to him? What do you think that’ll do for you, Christian?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Christian was sitting up straight, practically leaning over onto Waverly. The first energy he’d shown since exiting the hotel room. “Let me talk to him. Now.”
Waverly saw a man possessed. By what?
You missed all of this. You missed the whole thing. What Luke did, you’re looking at the final effects. You didn’t see it happening, but this is a man in the throes of addiction. This is a man who needs his fix and that fix is holding a phone to his face miles away from where you’re at. Luke put poison in him and has made himself the only antidote.
Christian’s hand darted forward. Waverly probably could have moved it, but what was the point? Christian was facing insanity and jail, or death. Was Waverly going to choose for him?
Or maybe you’re just weak and want this all to be over. If these two want each other, then why not let them?
Maybe.
Waverly didn’t know. Riding down the dark interstate, he listened to one side of a conversation that took place between two madmen.
Chapter 23
“Christian, can you hear me?”
Christian looked over his shoulder, wanting to check the backseat for Lucy and Tommy. It was empty; no one was there, just as Waverly had said.
“Yes,” he whispered. The frustration he’d felt moments before was now gone. He didn’t even think of Waverly. Christian felt relief unlike any he’d ever known.
It means they’re not real. None of the things you’re seeing.
No, they’re real. All of them. Luke is just able to hide them for a few minutes.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” the smooth voice asked through the phone.
“Yes.”
“Are they all there? Everyone that died?”
“I think so.” Despite the relief, tears were in Christian’s eyes as he thought about all the things he’d lived with the past few days. All the dead people. All staring at him. Consuming his mind.
“Are you ready to do what it takes to clear them forever?”
Had he known that would be the question? Is that why he demanded the phone from Waverly? Because he understood what Luke would say—that everything they’d come through would finally end. And was Christian finally ready for it? Had the dead people shoved him over this edge?
He closed his eyes.
Drink my blood.
Take my covenant.
“Yes,” he said, filling their silence.
“Good. It’s been long enough. Can I tell you what you need to do?”
Yes,” Christian said, nodding, tears wetting his face.
“Bring them all to me, Christian. Everyone that’s been involved with you and me. Veronica, Waverly, your mother, and yourself. Bring them to me and we’ll set you free.”
“My mother?” Christian said. His mouth remained open, not truly able to understand what he’d heard.
“Yes. She must come too.”
“No,” Christian said. “Please. Please not her, Luke.” The tears were hot on his face, and more were flooding from his eyes. This wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be serious. “Please. Not her.”
“She’s integral, and I didn’t understand that in the beginning. I thought you could reach your pinnacle without involving her. You can’t. Even now, the things that you’re seeing all around you, they aren’t enough. Bring everyone I said.”
“I can’t,” he said. “Not her. I won’t.”
“Christian, think about everything that’s happened. Remember when we sat in your hotel room and you told me how fucked I was? Do you remember the rage you felt toward me then? And what about in Mexico just a few months ago? None of that rage exists anymore. It’s all dead, just like those that you see. You’re not speaking to Waverly right now. You and I are beyond what can and cannot be done. Bring her to me and let’s finish this.”
The line went dead. Christian stared out the window at the dark road, tears blurring the lines on the street and the lights lining it. He slowly let the phone fall to his lap.
“What did he say?” Waverly asked.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.”
“It does matter. What did he say, Christian? I didn’t just fly across the country to be kept in the dark.”
Christian kept looking in front of him, unsure what to say. There’d been no time to consider what was just asked of him, and now Waverly was demanding to know.
That’s not what’s keeping you from telling him, though. You’re not telling him, because if you do, you’ll never be able to accomplish what Luke just commanded.
“Now you understand,” Ted Hinson said from the backseat. “Now you understand the
love I felt for my wives. You’ll do anything for him, including break laws. Including murder.”
Christian did his best to not turn around. Waverly was staring at him from the driver’s side, waiting on an answer, and to look back at a man with a bullet in his skull wouldn’t help the situation.
Drink my blood.
Take my covenant.
Bring everyone I said.
“He told me that if I wanted the voices to disappear, I needed to hurt my mother. It doesn’t matter, like I said. It’s insane.”
Hinson still sat in the back, but he was quiet, staring out the front window just like Christian.
Christian and the dead man behind him looked out into the blackness. What the dead man thought, couldn’t be known, but Christian understood he was looking into his future. He’d told Luke no, but how many times had he done that, and how many times had he been wrong? What Luke wanted was simple: bring all of those involved to him.
And what did he promise?
Blood.
A covenant.
Freedom.
The hotel room was chilly and Christian lay deep underneath the blankets. It was a much nicer place than where he last stayed, though he took no notice of it. The talk had been brief after Christian dismissed Luke’s idea as insane. Waverly had believed him because he understood what Christian’s mother meant. They both agreed to stop at a hotel to sleep, and tomorrow they would discuss what came next.
Waverly hadn’t even asked whether there would be two rooms, simply got one with double beds. He lay in his, asleep for the past hour if Christian could trust his breathing pattern. The dead were here, though quiet. They were giving Christian space to think. He didn’t know what they all wanted, that would have been like trying to figure out the desires of a thousand different people. Yet, they grew silent as he considered what came next.
It was in that moment, lying with the dead standing around his bed and staring down at him, that Christian lost himself.
It had been happening slowly for years, Luke taking his soul piece by piece. And then, in the end, the pieces that held him together simply collapsed.
Christian let the dead consume him.
Waverly woke up but didn’t move.
He was lying on his side, facing the middle of the room. Someone stood just at the end of the bed.
“Christian?” Waverly asked.
Whoever was there said nothing.
Waverly remained still, not wanting to agitate the person. If it was Christian—most likely the case—he wasn’t mentally stable. Sudden movements could make him do things he otherwise wouldn’t—
A gun’s hammer cocked back, filling the silent room with its metallic sound of death.
“Christian?” Waverly asked again. “What are you doing?” He tried to look down without moving too drastically. He could see a single outline standing, but he couldn’t see the weapon pointed at him. It was Waverly’s pistol, without a doubt; he hadn’t been careless with it. He’d carefully hidden it between his mattress and box spring, at arm’s length if needed. Christian had been in the restroom when he did it.
And yet, Christian held the gun, hammer cocked and ready to fire.
“What are you doing, Christian?” he said again. He had to start a dialogue. Whatever was happening now had begun inside Christian’s head, and he needed to pull him from it.
The dark figure took three steps forward.
Waverly felt cool steel touch his temple. The pistol was at his head.
“Chris—,” Waverly tried to say, but couldn’t finish the word.
The room’s darkness turned out to not be that dark after all. Alan Waverly quickly found blacker places to visit.
“How many feet are you looking for?” Trae Owens asked the man in front of him. It was eight in the morning and he’d just opened up shop. The man had been here waiting on him, and Trae didn’t know how he felt about that.
Or rather, he didn’t like it.
This man wasn’t the first person Trae ever found waiting for him to open, but he was the first to have a scar on his face.
It doesn’t matter, Trae thought. He’s gonna pay with money, ain’t he? That’s all you need to concern yourself with.
And that was the truth. It’s not like this U-Haul franchise was hitting it out of the park, but bills didn’t stop coming just because a man wanted to go out on his own. No, the bills kept coming no matter what, and so if this scarred man wanted a truck, then Trae would give it to him.
“Fifteen feet,” the man said.
“Okay. Give me one second and let me make sure we have one available.”
Trae started typing at his computer, pulling up the models that weren’t already reserved. He knew there weren’t but two reservations; he just needed to make sure he had the correct footage. And, if he didn’t, he was going to convince this scarred up customer that what he really needed was a different sized truck. Scar or not, Trae was getting his apprehensions under control.
“Yes, sir. We have one available,” he said, feeling a surge of relief that came out as happiness in his voice. He hadn’t wanted to try and change this guy’s mind, and now he wouldn’t have to.
“Okay.”
Trae looked up, taking him in more clearly. The customer’s eyes were bloodshot and his hands shaking at his sides. Trae’s dad had been an alcoholic of the worst kind. He’d spent his days laid up in a recliner and his nights lying on the couch. He had a bedroom, but he never used it because they didn’t have cable back there. The guy standing in front of him looked like Trae’s old man had … or if not that bad, then certainly on the road to it. He’d been on a binge, that was clear, and the hands shaking were probably him coming off it.
Yet, Trae didn’t smell booze.
“Let me print out some paperwork, and we’ll get you set up,” Trae said. He clicked a few buttons on his computer. “I’m going to need ID, if you can go ahead and get that ready. Also, what’s your destination?”
Trae stopped typing. He didn’t turn away from his computer, didn’t even pull his hands away from the keyboard. Only his eyes moved to the scarred man, who now pointed a gun directly at Trae.
“Put your hands on the counter.”
Trae did as he was told, keeping his mouth shut. No thoughts passed through his mind, none except the realization that he really, really wanted to keep living, and that was looking less and less like a possibility.
His bladder was suddenly full. Trae had to piss worse than ever before in his life, but the man pointing the gun didn’t seem too keen on letting Trae head to the restroom.
“Stand up,” the man said.
Trae stood.
“Put your hand in your back pocket, get your wallet, then give me your license.”
Trae did as he was told, pulling his wallet out. He hated having to look down as he searched for his driver’s license. He didn’t want to take his eyes off the man in front of him, but he didn’t have a choice, at least for a few seconds.
He handed over the ID.
“Sit back down,” the man said.
Trae did.
“You’re going to check out the truck using this ID.” The man’s hand slipped into his own front pocket and pulled out a small plastic card. He placed it on the counter so that the name faced Trae. “I’m going to pay for it, and then I’m going to walk out of here with your ID. You’re not going to say a word to anyone about this, because I know where you live. You’re going to take my payment, and I’m going to drop the truck off at another location. No one will be any wiser, as long as you don’t make them so. If you do, I’m going to come to your house and shove this gun so far down your throat, that when I fire, your guts are going to light up like Independence Day. Do you understand?”
Trae nodded.
“Then start typing.”
Trae did as he was asked. He typed in the ID’s information. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and his fingers were shaking just about as badly as the man’s holding the gun … but he ke
pt typing all the same. It took him about ten minutes—longer than usual—but he finished.
“I’ve got to print the paperwork.”
“Fine,” the man said.
The printer started and Trae looked up, trying to avoid staring at the weapon. “The printer is below me. I have to reach down to get it.”
“Go ahead.”
The man’s left hand was still shaking, but the one holding the gun had grown firm. Not a good sign for Trae, but he still hadn’t broken down and started crying. He knew it was a possibility, felt his emotions teetering between calm and calamity. He needed to keep an even keel, because this man was as stable as a one legged ice skater.
Trae reached down and took the papers.
“You’ll need to sign,” he said as he put them on the counter.
“Give me a pen.”
Trae handed it over, and to his surprise, the man placed the pistol in the back of his pants. He leaned over the counter and signed the two sheets.
When the customer looked back up, any relief Trae had felt at the gun disappearing fled. The man’s bloodshot eyes stared back at him. They flicked over his shoulder as if they saw something behind Trae; he wanted to look himself, instinctively, but he kept staring straight ahead at the madman.
“You tell anyone, and you’ll die. It’s that simple. Do you understand?”
Trae nodded, just wanting this to be over.
“Where are the keys?”
“Beh-beneath me,” Trae said. “I’ve guh-got to reach for them.”
“Go on.”
Trae did, his hands rattling the twenty pairs of keys as he searched through them. It took a second, but he found the right one and unhooked it. He placed it on the counter.
“Where’s the truck?” the scarred man said.
Trae lifted a hand and pointed out the door to the parking lot. “Luh-last one on the right.”
“Remember,” the man said. “Mums the word.”
Trae nodded. He was going to piss his pants momentarily if this psycho didn’t either leave or kill him.
Finally, though, the man turned and walked out. Trae watched him go, the pistol bulging beneath his shirt. Trae held on as long as he could, waiting until the man got in the vehicle and pulled out onto the road before jetting to the restroom. He relieved himself first, then vomited all over the floor.
