"They still ask about you at church."
He realized he'd been staring at the Jesus picture, and focused again on his mother.
"You remember Jim Bentley? You used to play with him all the time. He still asks about you."
Ian had been friends with Jim Bentley when they were six years old.
"Mom..."
"I know, I know." She raised her hands in mock surrender. "It's just so hard to see you like this, Ian. It's like you're adrift at sea. You need a rudder."
Regurgitated bullshit. He drew a deep breath. Let it out. Not a sigh; a calm step away from a precipice.
"I've been praying for you every day since -"
He'd needed that one moment of space, that instant to center and calm down. Her invasion of it kicked him off balance. He snapped. "Mom, I really don't want to do this. It's not why I came over here."
"Anyone can see you're in pain, Ian. I just want -"
"Of course I'm in pain, mom! My son is dead and my wife left me! Is Jesus gonna bring Alex back to life? Because if not, I'm really not interested!"
"He can help you with Alina. And He can help you with the pain."
Ian put a trembling hand to his forehead. He felt like an idiot. What had he expected? If he wanted good company and quiet reflection, he should've called Derek.
"Mom, I don't want to do this," he repeated, fighting to stay calm. "Please. I don't want to fight about this. I'm thirty-four, for -" He'd been about to say, For Christ's sake. "I've made up my mind. All right? And we can't spend the rest of our lives with you hounding me all the time. You need to figure out how to respect the fact that I'm an atheist."
The word stabbed into the air like a knife. Growing up, it might as well have been satanist, or serial killer. He had never admitted it so baldly to her.
"I don't harass you constantly about being a Christian," he went on, trying to rush past the sudden pain in her eyes. "I can respect your beliefs, even if I don't share them, and I understand that it was hard for you after my dad left, and the church was there for you. See? I don't believe it, any more, but I can respect it. I just... can you do the same? Can we talk, without..."
Without all this bullshit?
"Oh, Ian," she mourned. "How did you get so lost?"
He felt a tight knot of rage clench in the back of his throat. He clamped his lips closed around it.
"Lost"? How the fuck did you get so stupid? You're a smart woman, why do you just devour every ounce of bullshit they send your way?
How did I get "lost"? How about when Alex was kidnapped less than three blocks away, and raped, and shot in the face? How about when Alex had to kill the kidnapper himself, since no one was there to fucking help him?
He wouldn't say that, he wouldn't, because it would turn him into the classic Wounded Sinner, and she would see hope for him. She would think she just needed to explain that we can't understand, that God always has reasons, that it doesn't mean God doesn't love us.
He wanted to break things; his hands twitched with the need to do it. He wanted to rail and scream.
He refused. He was done with that. He was done.
Instead, he said, "Well, let me put it in terms you can understand.
"God told Abraham to kill his own son. He threatened him, to make him do it. Abraham took his boy to the top of the mountain and he would've done it. He would've killed his own son, but God finally said, 'Just kidding' and let him off the hook."
She was shaking her head. "That's not how -"
He kept his voice level, but he raised it to be heard over her. "I will not serve that God, I will not pray to that God, and I will not acknowledge that God. I would rather burn in hell."
Silence. Finally.
"Thank you for dinner," he said, and grabbed his coat.
111
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He didn't blame her; he blamed himself. But he was still furious.
His speed inched upwards: sixty, then sixty-five, then seventy. The limit was forty-five. Suddenly he remembered his accident, and practically slammed on the brakes until he was at a legal speed.
The drive home took about forty minutes. By the time he walked in the front door, he'd realized that despite storming out on his mother, he'd held his temper pretty well. No tantrum, no screaming, no smashing anything.
He snorted as he flipped on the light. Almost like a grown man.
Of course, he hadn't left on good terms, but what the hell. Just because he was trying to be more level-headed didn't mean he had to sit there and listen to her bullshit. He could respect her beliefs; she had to respect his. It was that simple. He loved his mom, but he wasn't going back to her church.
It was about quarter after seven. He paused in the dining room, remembering how he'd been planning earlier to do a little more checking up on Kelly. But Alex had said, "It's all wrong." So he went back to the living room instead, and tried to find something to watch.
Alex came in around eight, in worn jeans and a backwards t-shirt. "Daddy," he said, "I think I'm getting so tired."
He'd only ever said that once. Ian remembered it immediately, because he and Alina had looked at each other as if their son had just announced he'd acquired his driver's license.
"Tired?" Ian asked. "Do you feel okay?"
"Yeah. I feel okay. But I'm only getting so tired. Is it time for bed yet?"
They'd checked his head then, and found him burning up. He'd gotten Tylenol, several kisses, and an early bedtime. But Ian couldn't check his head now.
Despite that, he felt certain he knew what Alex was trying to say.
He wetted his lips, trying to imagine a response that might allow Alex to clarify. "You can go to bed whenever you need to, pal."
"I need to go to bed soon. Okay, Dad?"
Whatever Alex wanted Ian to do, time was running out.
112
When Alex left, Ian went downstairs, and stayed up re-reviewing his notes until he started nodding off at the keyboard.
In bed that night, his thoughts swirled as he waited for sleep: Donnie went off the road, I don't like that black hat, Where is Mr. Tuskers?
When he fell asleep, his brain assembled dreams to try and fit the pieces together. Alex asked about Mr. Tuskers over and over, each request growing more urgent, and Ian realized that the toy was critical, though he couldn't imagine why. Why should he brush off the only concrete request his son had made, the only one Ian could actually comprehend how to fulfill? There was no harm in finding Tuskers, certainly, and it might be more important than he could understand. His dreaming self resolved to find the stuffed toy as soon as he woke, if he could.
Later, Alex screamed in the car. "What's that noise?" The sharpness of his shriek made Ian want to scream back, but he realized he had no point of reference for that event. He could place everything else Alex had ever said, could remember the exact moment the boy had spoken while he was alive, but not that. What was that noise? It tickled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't grasp it.
Alex had to go to bed. He would be leaving soon. He'd come to his father, asking him for help, and would have to leave without getting what he'd come for. His father had failed him in life; now, he would fail him in death.
He woke feeling unsettled and tired, the revelations from his dreams fading quickly. He started toward the bathroom, intending to take a shower, but the sight of the twisted curtain drew him up short. He decided to skip it.
As he brushed his teeth, some deep part of him began to wonder how Eston would try to kill him today.
113
He got to work alive. He saw Kelly Dennon as she headed toward her training room, and thought to give her a smile to make up for yesterday. See? I'm not so crazy after all. But he couldn't.
Sheila left him alone for once, and with no one to look up on the internet, the morning dragged past. At lunch he left the building, just to get out. The sandwich shop was only about three blocks away, but the traffic lights wouldn't cooperate. He was stuck at the third one, st
aring at a power line across the street, when he noticed the tornado siren mounted on top of it.
"What's that noise?"
It had been a tornado siren. A scheduled drill had gone off while they were driving, and Alex had hated it.
"Just cover your ears," Ian had urged him. "It'll be over pretty soon." They'd been right below the siren when it went off, just like Ian was now.
He itched to write this revelation down in his journal. When he got back to the office, he sent an email to himself at home: "What's that noise" - tornado siren.
114
"Ian!" Shauna exclaimed. "It's great to see you."
"Yeah." Ian glanced around at the metal chairs. The seat Alina had been taking for the last three weeks was empty.
"She... called me," Shauna said, as if he'd asked where his wife was. "She won't be able to attend any more sessions."
"I know," he said. "I talked to her."
"I'm really glad you decided to come back."
Ian managed a brittle smile that he didn't feel. "Well, thanks. I've been thinking, though... this is a couples' session... "
"Oh, no!" She threw her arm out in an exaggerated dismissal. "It's fine! You're more than welcome to stay!"
"I know. You mentioned that on your voicemail. But I don't think I'd be comfortable being here alone."
Shauna's face fell; her boisterous appeal died.
"You mentioned that you could maybe refer me someplace, though? I still want to... talk about this. I just think a more personal setting might work better for me."
To his relief, she nodded. "I could see that working better for you." She took out a card, circled one of the names on it. "I've worked with Dr. Bellweather for years. I'll let him know you'll be calling."
Ian nodded and took the card. As he turned to leave, he saw the Bensons coming in. "Hi," he said, and smiled. George gave him a nod.
Hey, I just wanted to apologize for freaking out like that last week. Ian wanted to say it, but he froze. He couldn't. They walked past. Ian took a step toward the door, then turned.
"Good luck," he said. "I hope they find Evan."
115
When he got home, he went downstairs and updated his document. Then he went online and tried to find the locations of the tornado sirens in Hopkins and Shakopee. He'd been hoping for a map or something, with all the sirens marked, but an hour of searching turned up nothing.
Another dead end. How could Alex have told him so much, but given him so little to work with?
But that wasn't fair. The boy was only five, after all. He had tried his best; so had Ian.
"Daddy," Alex said. "I think I'm getting so tired."
Ian turned toward him. He looked tired. "I know, bud."
"I think I'm getting so tired."
Alex deserved to rest. If his son stopped speaking to him tomorrow, Ian would be relieved and anguished at the same time. He didn't know what he wanted anymore. "Alex," he ventured, "what will happen if I can't figure out what you want? What if you have to go to bed before I finish?"
The shirt changed to stripes and a collar. He must've been in the middle of getting dressed; he was naked from the crotch down. "Daddy!" he protested. "You promised!"
Ian nodded, chastised. He had promised. But what was left to do? Other than driving down to Shakopee and talking to everyone Eston had ever worked for, he had no idea what to do next.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. But is there anything else you can tell me? Anything?"
Alex rolled his eyes and scampered upstairs, his bottom half still nude.
Ian sighed and turned back to his computer, but nothing new was occurring to him. He did have the list of Eston's old employers that he'd put together, but he couldn't just drive down and start talking to them. What would he say? "Do you remember Leroy Eston? Did you ever meet his girlfriend, someone named Kelly?"
He waited for the backlash against this idea. It didn't come. Instead, other ideas began to occur to him: questions he could ask, cover stories he could use. What if one of them had seen her? What if he could find out where she lived?
This last thought froze him solid. What if, indeed? What then? Go and talk to her? Go and kill her?
He went upstairs to use the bathroom, shaking his head. It was crazy, like all his other ideas. He didn't even know her last name, for God's sake.
But it didn't require telling anyone what he was seeing. And if he questioned everyone Eston had worked for, and found nothing, then he could at least say he'd tried. He'd done everything he could.
He flushed the toilet and washed his hands at the sink. As he turned to use the hand towel, he caught a glimpse of Leroy Eston in the mirror, staring.
Then his heart seized.
116
He staggered, clutching at his chest with one hand. His legs started folding. He tried to take a breath and couldn't make his lungs work. It felt like they had collapsed.
He shot out a hand, grabbed hold of the doorknob trying to keep his feet, but the door swung on its hinges and he toppled forward, face-first into the carpet.
I'm having a heart attack.
I can't be having a heart attack. I'm only thirty-four.
Sharp, silvery pain shot from his chest and into his shoulders, his neck. He dragged for breath, the carpet fibers tickling at his lips.
Where was the phone? Where the fuck was the phone?
Alex, he tried to say, but all he heard was a thin wheeze. Alex couldn't bring him the phone anyway. Alex was dead.
"I will kill your mom and dad."
"I will come to your house, and I will kill your mom and dad."
Eston.
"Daddy!" Alex screamed. He was in his room, visible in the darkness. "You have to find Mr. Tuskers! You have to find him right now!"
Ian tried to get to his feet, but could only struggle to his hands and knees. At the sides of his vision, the walls were turning black.
"Daddy, he's here! In this box! This one!"
He clawed his way forward, dragging himself through the carpet as the strength bled from his arms. Every breath was a struggle. His heart was in a ratcheting vise.
Alex stood by one of the boxes in his room, pointing and shouting. Ian could no longer hear what he was saying. The words were like blasts of light. They rocketed from his mouth and streaked into space, leaving a shining trail.
He reached the box and somehow rose to his knees. The box wasn't taped, but the flaps were folded in. He fumbled at them like a child.
Alex helped. He was blazing now, too brilliant to be looked at directly. Sparks from his body leapt into the darkening air around Ian, gleaming like the jagged edge of a migraine.
Then the box was open. The stuffed elephant was at the top of the pile, its trunk somewhat flattened from months of being pressed against the cardboard, its glass eyes narrowed and hungry for violence.
"Mr. Tuskers is here to protect you, Alex. He and I have talked. I told him: 'I won't be in here, but it's very important that Alex be safe. So you need to guard him just like I would.' And he promised to do that. He can see in the dark, and he's going to stay awake all night, and beat up anything that tries to hurt you. So you're safe. Okay?"
Ian grabbed the toy, and the vise released his heart. He fell to his side, gulping air, his eyes squeezed shut against Alex's brilliance.
117
Luminance boiled in front of him, bright as sunlight. He threw his hands over his eyes, and could still see the shining red wall of his eyelids.
There was a roar, and thunder like a stampede. The floor shuddered beneath him. He heard trumpeting.
Eston shrieked, and the temperature in the room plummeted. Ian's arms crawled with the sudden cold.
Then a blast of heat rolled over him. Eston's cry ended in a gurgle.
The light faded.
When he opened his eyes, Ian found himself alone in Alex's dark room, holding Mr. Tuskers like a drowning victim clutching a life jacket.
118
Alina -
> He paused, staring at the blinking cursor. Mr. Tuskers sat on the floor to his right, glaring at the stairs.
I know this will sound crazy. Leroy Eston, the man who murdered our son, is trying to kill us. Alex tried to warn me, and I realized, nearly too late, what he was trying to say. Somehow Mr. Tuskers can keep us safe. I can't explain it. I'm begging you to believe me. Please just keep Mr. Tuskers close by. I don't know how it works, but
He stopped mid-sentence, reread the paragraph, and grimaced. Then he deleted it and started over.
Alina -
I've been having dreams about Leroy Eston. He keeps telling Alex that he is going to kill his parents. Then Alex tells me that only Mr. Tuskers can keep us safe. I know it sounds stupid, but I don't want you to be hurt. I unpacked Mr. Tuskers and would like you to keep him close.
His nostrils were flaring as he finished the sentence. Stupid. Pure fucking stupid. He deleted this paragraph too.
The old Crazy voice tried to tell him that there was no point in even doing this. He had had an anxiety attack, nothing more or less, and digging out his son's old animal had helped to calm him down. There had been more hallucinations too, of course. But there was no need to get the toy to Alina. There was no need to try to keep her safe, because all of this was in his head.
But Haunting said something else. Haunting said that Eston had promised to kill both Alex's parents - and if Alex's protection was keeping Ian safe, then it left Alina vulnerable.
He stared at the screen, paralyzed. The instants dripped past like sand grains in an hourglass. Alina could be getting attacked right now. Eston could be choking her, like he'd choked Ian. Maybe her father was calling 911, if he was even home, or maybe she was lying on the floor, face slowly draining -
Ian couldn't take that chance. But she wouldn't just accept the toy. She would think it was just another sign of his craziness.
"Dammit," he hissed. His fingertips quivered above the keyboard. The situation was impossible. If he hadn't been such an ass to her, if she still trusted him - or had a willingness to humor him - like she used to....
But she didn't. He had ruined it.
Alex Page 16
