“Wake?”
Wake took the gun out of his jacket. “I’m coming.”
“No! Get away!”
“What are you talking…?” Wake’s voice was drowned out by the roaring that raced through the night, whipping the trees back and forth.
“Please… please,” said the kidnapper.
Wake flicked on the flashlight, started up the path toward the sound of his voice, the wind pushing him forward so hard he couldn’t have resisted if he tried.
“I’m sorry,” begged the kidnapper. “Please, lady! The boss didn’t know who he was messing with! I didn’t know! I swear, I didn’t know!”
Wake rounded a bend in the trail, saw the kidnapper from an observation platform overlooking the lake, the man cringing in front of the woman in the black veil. The kidnapper wore a dirty hunting jacket and jeans, his greasy hair poking out from under the blue cap.
“It was a mistake,” blubbered the kidnapper, tears streaming down his face. “We didn’t mean anything by it! It was a mistake!”
“Hey!” shouted Wake. Neither the kidnapper nor the woman in the black veil reacted. It was as if he wasn’t there. “Hey!”
A dark wind rose off the lake, swirling around all three of them. The kidnapper’s cap was torn off his head, tumbled end over end in the air.
“We don’t have his wife, if that’s what you’re worried about!” the kidnapper said to the woman in black. “We don’t know where she is! We just told Wake we had her so he’d agree to write for us.” He fell to his knees, sobbing, clutching at the hem of her dress. “It’s over! We won’t have anything more to do with Wake! You can have him!”
Wake reached the edge of the platform, his jacket flapping as the dark wind buffeted him. He felt himself lifted off the deck, grabbed out for the railing and lost his grip on the flashlight. The light rolled slowly across the platform and dropped off the edge, turning as it fell. Wake cried out as though a part of himself had splashed into those black depths. He dug his fingers into the railing, trying to hang on as the wind grew stronger. Out in the lake he could see the tiny red light getting closer; it had left where Diver’s Isle had been, and was now making its way toward him across the water.
“Please!” screamed the kidnapper.
The woman in black’s laugh cut through the storm, as clear as though she and Wake were in the same quiet room.
The boat was closer now. A small boat with a man at the wheel. The boat had covered the distance across the lake in an impossibly short period of time, heading right toward him, its red light blinking.
Maybe it was the Diver. The man who had saved him in his dreams, the first time on the ferry, then again in Rose’s trailer. The Diver had come to help, to offer him a way out.
Wake put the gun away, reached into his pocket for the last flare. Light was the best weapon against the darkness. Besides, he needed to signal to the man in the boat.
The woman in black looked over at Wake, her eyes glittering in a way that made Wake think of things that slithered in the dark, waiting for a chance to strike. The wind surged around her, blotting out the moon and stars. Her dress snapped around her in the storm as Wake watched in horror, her black veil elongating, growing longer and longer as it wrapped around her, mummy wrappings for the dead. The kidnapper screamed as he was jerked off the platform, spinning round and round until he was enveloped by the shadows, his cries trailing into silence. The storm roared, reveling in its power, and Wake was thrown back hard against the railing; he tried to hold on, but his fingers were torn free as he was carried aloft into the night. He managed to twist the flare, igniting it as he was hurled into Cauldron Lake.
He fell for an eternity through the black night, as though the darkness was taunting him, toying with him, and when he finally crashed into the water he didn’t even hear the splash. The icy water entered his mouth, and he felt himself reunited with the darkness he had escaped. The flare drifted away, still burning brightly as they both sank into the depths. He heard the sputtering of an engine, but the darkness was all around him, closing in.
There… down below, at the very limit of the light from the flare… it was Alice, reaching up to him, but the woman in black was there beside her, pulling her deeper, ever deeper. Alice fought back, tearing the woman in black’s veil off. Her face was a leering skull, stark white in the dimness.
Wake tried to reach Alice, to help her, but the flare had died. There was only darkness now. Alone in the dark, he slipped down farther and farther into the cold, watery night.
Wake had no idea how long he fell through total blackness, but suddenly there was a light, an unearthly light that drove back the darkness. Wake turned his head, looked up, and saw a man, glowing with light, his hand outstretched.
It’s 1976. Madness reigns at the Anderson farm. Contrary to all logic, the headiest ingredient of their moonshine is unfiltered water from Cauldron Lake. The Andersons feel like gods. Odin can’t stop laughing. He contemplates cutting his eye out. Tor runs across the field, naked, shrieking, hammer in his hand, trying to catch lightning. Their songs have power; something ancient is stirring in the depths, coming back.
CHAPTER 16
TIME MOVED SLOWLY, like honey running uphill. Wake was losing ground, losing time, falling behind on some terribly important mission. If only… if only he could remember what it was.
Wake lay in bed, trying to force his eyes open, but his lids were too heavy, impossible to lift.
Don’t stop now, he told himself. You stop, anything can happen and usually something you don’t want. He twisted on the sheets, pried his eyes open with sheer willpower.
Alice stood next to the bed. She leaned over and smiled softly at him.
Wake said her name, but the word came out distorted and unrecognizable.
“Shhh, baby,” said Alice. “You were just having a nightmare.”
“Alice…” Wake said her name like a man in a desert saying the word water. “I… I’ve missed you so much.” Alice melted away as Wake reached for her, became Dr. Hartman, the psychiatrist expressionless.
Hartman looked dapper in cuffed slacks and an open-necked shirt, standing there plucking at the leather buttons on his cashmere cardigan. With his smooth, bland face, he could have been an Ivy League professor or a successful attorney on vacation, but the Band-Aid taped across his nose ruined the effect. He smiled at Wake, but there was no humor in it, merely a cool appraisal. “Feeling better now, are we?”
Wake was tightly tucked into a hospital bed, his hands folded on the covers. He looked around. A small room, very clean. An electric typewriter on a table, a stack of paper beside it. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminated a few random dust motes. It took an effort for Wake not to let the sparkling motes distract him. Another man stood just inside the doorway, a stolid brute built like a wrestler wearing crisp blue pants and a white jacket.
“Nurse Birch had to restrain you,” Hartman said, nodding at the man. “You were having another one of your episodes.” He idly touched the Band-Aid on his nose. “I was forced to give you a sedative.”
“W-what?” said Wake, still groggy.
“Just stay calm,” soothed Hartman. “I’m Dr. Hartman. You’re a patient at my clinic, Mr. Wake. You’ve been here a while now. The shock of your wife’s death triggered a total psychotic break.”
Wake shook his head. “You’re lying.”
“Alas, it’s true,” said Hartman. “You have my deepest sympathies.”
“Alas, I doubt that.” Wake was drifting again; he fought to stay awake.
“It’s okay, Alan. Just…” said Hartman.
“…let it go,” said Alice. “Rest.”
Wake stopped struggling and gave in to the darkness.
There was thunder in the darkness, thunder so loud that it woke Wake up. He was still in bed, but the room was darker now. He sat up, hanging on to consciousness until the dizziness passed. He was wearing his own clothes: black hooded sweatshirt under a sports coat, an
d black slacks. He carefully got out of bed, stood there, unable to feel his toes.
Whatever Hartman had pumped in him was making him numb. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. Wake staggered over to the typewriter. There were only empty sheets of paper, no manuscript pages.
He looked out the window. The room was on the third floor of the Cauldron Lake Lodge. Wake had seen photos in the tourist brochures around town, a big rough-hewn wood edifice on Cauldron Lake, with beamed ceilings and knotty pine walls. He walked over, tried the door. It was locked. Wake punched the door, rattling it.
The door opened and Wake stepped back. Hartman stood in the doorway. Birch was right behind him.
“Good evening, Alan,” chirped Hartman. “Are we feeling better now?”
“I don’t know about you, but I’m just fine,” said Wake. “You always make house calls with your pet gorilla?”
“How very droll,” said Hartman, rubbing his soft, manicured hands together. “Your hostility is quite understandable. In fact, I would be more concerned if you weren’t suspicious of me. I don’t blame you for it.”
Wake watched him and it was Hartman who finally blinked.
“Why don’t you accompany me?” said Hartman, beckoning. “I’ll reacquaint you with my clinic. We’ll go over everything you might’ve forgotten. A little walk and some fresh air? Yes? It will do you good.”
Wake walked down the corridor with Hartman.
Nurse Birch followed behind.
“I encourage creativity as part of the recovery process here at Cauldron Lake Lodge. I specialize—”
“You specialize in treating artists,” finished Wake. “I remember.”
“Splendid, Alan. I honestly believe we can get your problems under control if we work together.” Hartman lightly plucked a bit of lint off Wake’s shoulder. “Are you willing to try?”
Wake didn’t answer, aware of Birch’s heavy footfalls behind them.
Hartman sighed. “From past experience, I know I need to quickly get to the heart of things after an episode, so I’m just going to say this: Alice is dead.” He stopped, held up his hands, as if to fend off any arguments Wake might have. “I know it’s painful, but you’re going to have to accept it if you have any hope of getting well.”
Wake stared out the window at Cauldron Lake. The late afternoon light illuminated the whitecaps. No boats out in this rough weather.
“Alan?”
Wake didn’t believe Hartman, not for an instant, but he could still feel the drugs he had been given, some cocktail of tranquillizers and antidepressants that left him passive and vulnerable to suggestion. He had to fight with all his will not to agree with everything the doctor said.
“Alice drowned,” said Hartman. “She drowned, and you couldn’t face that. You’re torn apart by guilt, suffering from hallucinations, paranoid delusions, an obsession about light and darkness.” His smile showed small, even teeth.
“Like any artist, you’re a bit of a narcissist. Everything revolves around Alan Wake, yes? Me, me, me. However, in your current state you have taken it to a grandiose level. You’ve constructed an elaborate fantasy in which your writings are actually affecting reality. You believe Alice has been kidnapped. That supernatural forces of darkness are trying to stop you. It’s understandable. Better that she be alive and kidnapped, than dead and drowned, yes?”
Wake nodded involuntarily, his legs rubbery.
“Better that you have the power to save her through your work,” said Hartman, “your wonderful work, than that you be helpless in the face of her death. It is a powerfully seductive scenario for a grieving man; you must not blame yourself for grasping at it, for wanting to believe it to be the truth. Unfortunately, Alan, you are not a god, just an extremely gifted writer. You will have to be content with that. It is what Alice would want for you.”
Wake leaned against the wall, rubbing his forehead while waiting for the dizzy spell to stop. The terrible thing, worse than the disorientation and nausea, was that there was a part of him that almost believed Hartman.
“This pain you are feeling—it is progress.” Hartman led Wake through a glass door, to a stone terrace that offered a breathtaking view of Cauldron Lake. A storm was brewing behind Mirror Peak, lightning leaping in dark clouds. They stopped beside a large bronze sundial. “You should understand that apart from the tragic accident with your wife, no one has been killed.”
He stared at the waves rising in the lake, his voice catching. “It… it seems there’s a storm coming.” The lake was reflected in his eyes, and Wake saw something else: fear. “Odd, I… I don’t recall there being a mention of that in the weather forecast. Well, no matter.”
Hartman’s concern, and his attempt to hide it, broke the spell, Wake’s momentary acceptance that Hartman might be telling the truth. That Alice really was dead. That everything else—the Taken, the woman in black, Bird Leg Cabin, all of it—was a product of his anguished imagination. He knew better now.
Hartman led Wake through another door into the main hall of the lodge, a huge room with high, raw-beam ceilings. The walls were covered with antlers and deer heads.
“You were impressed by my trophies when you first arrived here. Remember?” Hartman waited for a response, finally shrugged. “I do love to hunt.”
A scrawny man, quite clearly visible, evidently thinking he was hiding behind furniture in the main hall, darted from one armchair to another, muttering to himself. He jumped out behind a coffee table as Wake and Hartman passed.
“Yah!” He pointed a finger at them. “I got you! I got you both!”
“Emerson, please,” said Hartman.
“I got you good,” said Emerson.
“You sure did,” said Wake, humoring him.
Emerson looked pleased for a moment, then snarled at Wake. “I’m a bad dream, mister. You should be afraid of me. Don’t want to run into me at night, that’s for sure.”
“Please, Emerson,” chided Hartman, “Mr. Wake is upset enough as it is.”
“Okay! Okay, sorry, sorry, sorry.” Emerson looked at Wake. “Boo!” He dashed away, hid behind a table lamp.
“We’re actually making some progress with Emerson,” said Hartman as he and Wake continued their stroll across the hall.
“I could tell,” said Wake.
“He works on… video games,” said Hartman, mouth tightening. “It’s trash, of course, but it does involve some small creative effort, which makes him receptive to my therapeutic methods.” He pointed at a pair of closed double doors. “That’s the entrance to the office wing. Staff only, I’m afraid.” He nodded to a bulky female nurse on the other side of the room. “You might have noticed the typewriter in your room, Alan. You’ve been writing as a part of the therapy. As soon as you feel up to it, you should continue.”
“I’d like that,” said Wake. “Can I see what I wrote before?”
“Of course,” said Hartman, not missing a beat. “Once you are writing again and show signs of progress, we can discuss that.”
Hartman opened another set of doors and took Wake into the dining hall. A sign on the wall read: WELCOME TO THE CAULDRON LAKE LODGE! PLEASE ASK FRIENDS AND FAMILY TO SCHEDULE VISITS BEFOREHAND TO ENSURE THEY DON’T INTERFERE WITH YOUR THERAPY AND/OR PERIODS OF CREATIVITY.
A nearby poster advertised Hartman’s book: “The Creator’s Dilemma: The engaging new book by Dr. Emil Hartman, the author of the best-selling Creative Flow. His groundbreaking techniques, Engagement Therapy™ and The Flow™ explained in his own words! Now available in bookstores across the country.”
At a small table sat the two white-haired old men Wake had met at the diner his first day in Bright Falls. They were playing a homemade Night Springs board game. The board was a map of a small town. Two white game pieces sat in the middle, surrounded by many black pieces.
“And these two are the Anderson brothers, Odin and Tor,” said Hartman. “They had a heavy metal band in the seventies and eighties, called Old Gods of Asgard. They even a
dopted new first names to complete the image of Viking gods. After the band broke up, they moved to a farm nearby.”
Wake waved to the brothers. “Nice to see you two again.”
“My rheumatism’s killing me,” said Odin, oddly dapper with his eye patch, his bright blue eye glaring at Wake. “There’s a storm coming. A big-ass storm.”
“I remember you,” Tor said to Wake, plucking at his white beard. He beat on the table with a toy plastic hammer, the thing squeaking every time it hit the surface. “You played the coconut song for us.”
“The brothers are in advanced stages of dementia,” said Hartman. “They are well cared for, but there’s nothing more that can be done. I’m afraid that the rock-and-roll lifestyle has left its mark.”
Thunder rumbled the windows, the storm dark and threatening, closer now.
“Toldja!” Odin called to them. “A big-ass storm!”
Tor beat on the table with the plastic hammer. “I bring the thunder!”
The lights went out for a moment and then flickered back on.
Hartman looked around, worried.
Lightning crashed.
“What’s wrong?” Wake said.
Hartman acted as though he hadn’t heard him. “I’m… I’m so sorry to cut this short, Alan, but the power has been acting up. I’d better go check on it. Meanwhile, when you feel up to it, return to your room and try to write. It really is for the best.”
Wake watched Hartman scurry off. Noticed that Birch had stayed behind, blocking the doorway.
“I’d like to bash nursie’s head in with a hammer,” said Tor, pounding the table, squeak, squeak, squeak. He looked at Wake. “He’d love to fish out our secrets, but he has no clue. He’s not crazy enough, not crazy like us, sonny.” He jumped up, did a jerky little dance. He was well over six feet tall.
“Being crazy’s a requirement, sonny,” said Odin, peering at Wake. “Who else could understand the world when it’s like this? It takes crazy to know crazy.”
Wake nodded. “That’s the sanest thing I’ve heard in a while.”
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