Part 15 (1/2)

Still, there's something here. Something going on, something happening. For the first time in years, the dismal still life of his world is churned up, like a shaken snow globe.

And Keisha might yet be near, yes she might.

But where to turn? Not to the sheriff. He's tried the police for years and all they seem good for is putting paper into files, drinking coffee, nodding, and looking at their watches. But where then? Maybe the FBI should step in. After all, they're the big dogs, the Saint Bernards of law enforcement. And maybe they could crack the whip on these lamebrained, limp-d.i.c.k, small-town, Barney Fife pigs.

He takes a deep breath to calm himself. No use getting his p.i.s.s boiling again. That wouldn't lead to anything but indigestion.

No, the FBI isn't the answer. He's tried them. He's written letters to the DA, to the governor (that worthless jacka.s.s), he's seen the FBI agents-Marley and Grovner were their names-take down his statements and stash them away in a nice, neat manila folder, never to be seen again. Never a call returned. Never a letter acknowledged.

p.i.s.s in the wind, Dirty Dan would've said.

Still, there's something going on here, all around him; he can feel it in the air, in the ground. Like getting near a big machine- even with the earplugs in, you feel the vibration. (Ron Bent knows about machines. He ran a printing press for almost three months in Dothan. Wasn't much good at that, though.) The truth is all around him, and it's big, big as the miracle of life, big as G.o.d, and just as hard to see, praise him.

And that kid. If somebody took his friend, then at least there's an ally. Somebody on the same road, somebody else who maybe knows a piece of the truth.

Ron shovels a handful of fries into his mouth, and for the first time in years, maybe in his life, he wallows in the possibility that he's lonely. Really, desperately lonely. Because right now, the thought of a brother-in-arms is as tempting as a beer is to a drunk. And Ron Bent knows something about that. He was always a pretty good drunk.

There's only one problem, and that's the fact that the kid didn't seem too eager for a friend or too interested in the handicapped old b.a.s.t.a.r.d who had given him a ride to the doctor's. The kid had hardly uttered a word. And why should he? Why would somebody want to take up with a bitter, crotchety old screwup like Ron anyway?

Lord,

Grant me the humility to face myself

And the strength to walk my road alone,

Because that's the path you've laid out for me,

Hard as it may be,

And-

Ron freezes in the midst of his sip of iced tea.

He almost laughs-it's that strange a sight he sees through his winds.h.i.+eld.

The pretty young nurse and a small, timid-looking doctor appear at the back door of the office, looking over their shoulders like a couple of spies in a pulp magazine, hauling a limp, heavy object to the waiting door of a silver Lincoln Town Car. And that object is a body. And that body-Ron knows without knowing, since it's too far to see for sure-is the kid he dropped off half an hour ago.

Ron is very still, staring. He breathes in slow, and as he does his mouthful of sweetened tea jets down the wrong pipe. By the time he stops choking, the town car is already pulling onto the street. But no amount of coughing or blurred, teary-eyed vision will stop Ron Bent, not now, and he slaps his car into gear and lurches forward, spilling some tea on his lap, not caring. As he pulls onto the road with a bottom-thunking ”whack” and punches the throttle, he can almost hear little Keisha laughing, and sweet d.a.m.n does it sound good.

Praise G.o.d.

He bubbles up into consciousness, like oil rising to the surface of water. Later, he'll remember that his name is Caleb, that he lettered in track for the last three years, and that his best friend was stolen by sleepwalking apparitions. Right now, though, all he knows is that his head is vibrating with poisonous agony. When he opens his eyes-it isn't for a few minutes-the world is blurred, like a sidewalk chalk drawing after a storm. This would be very frightening if he could formulate the thought of panic, but it seems his brain has shattered and the piece holding fear, along with the piece that focuses his eyes, is missing. Instead, the guy who'll soon realize he's Caleb lies still, listening. There's the rattle and hum of an electric fan. A bird sings far away, and a heavy door closes. Footsteps echo in a hollow place.

The guy who is Caleb tries to get up, but his legs are liquid, and a sizzling brand of pain slashes through his arm and he falls back. The clacking stops, and there's a voice, smooth and even and deep.

The guy who is Caleb remembers a wood-shop teacher he used to have, a really odd, skinny guy with buggy eyes, thick gla.s.ses, and a million bizarre quips. His main focus in life, it seemed, was getting pieces of wood very smooth. That was all that seemed to get the fella off. He'd rub the project, whatever it was, a cedar box, a pine cutting board in the shape of a pig, or a small stool, and shake his head, ”Needs more sanding, needs more waxing.” But when he was finally pleased, there was only one phrase he used without fail: ”Slicker'n snot on a doork.n.o.b,” he'd say.

And that is the only way to describe the voice that fills the guy's (Caleb's) head now.

Slicker'n snot on a doork.n.o.b.

”Relax, don't try to get up,” the slick voice says. ”You'll just injure yourself further. The doctor says you only have a mild fracture, but we wouldn't want to make it any worse.”

He (Caleb) tries to see the face of the person talking to him, but all there is is a grotesque white blur that looks nothing like a person.

The voice must've read the look of concern on his face, because it says: ”The medication causes some blurring of vision. It's normal, don't worry. You might close your eyes for a while; sometimes the distortion can cause nausea.”

(Caleb) does as the voice bids him. It continues: ”It will dull your pain, though, even render you unconscious in large doses, as I'm sure you observed. In some military circles, it's also used as a truth serum. Interesting, how as complex a thing as a human being is ruled by simple chemicals. And most of us fancy ourselves to be unsolvable riddles. But let's try an experiment, shall we? Just to see. Just to know if it works. Are you ready? Let's see, let's just start with your name. What is your name, although I already know? This is what, in science, is called a 'control question.'”

”Caleb,” he says. He had forgotten he was Caleb, so it was strange to hear the word coming out of his mouth. It sounded a little foreign, a little distant, as if somebody else were saying it across a bad phone connection.

”And where are you from?”

”Hudsonville, Florida.”

There's approval in the voice: ”You see, that's interesting, because you could have just as easily said 'Malibu, California.' But you aligned yourself with your birthplace. How interesting. Let's make things even more interesting. What is your father's profession?”

”Attorney.”

”Do you consider yourself an attractive person?”

”Yes.”

”Do you have s.e.xual fantasies about men or women?”

”Women.”

”Do you believe in evil spirits?”

”No.”

There's a smile in the voice. ”Interesting. Where is the friend who came to town with you?”

”I don't know.”