Part 24 (2/2)

Patty was licking Robert's dirty bare feet. The dog lapped at his toes, then looked up at him appreciatively.

”Tasty, eh?” Robert said.

”What's that?” called Louise. He heard hangers clattering around.

”Nothing!” he yelled back, his eyes still on the mutt, who was just finis.h.i.+ng up. The dog lapped a paw on top of his foot, then turned tail, and hopped up on the love seat against the wall. On the coffee table beside it, a photograph of an old but handsome man was propped up on a Bible.

”And that's Joseph,” said Louise, reappearing in the living room holding three hangers. ”These are his. I think they'll fit.”

”Joseph won't mind?” He stood with hands cupped over his genitals. Louise was pretending not to notice, but her mouth was twitching mischievously.

”I doubt it,” she said, in a way that told him all he needed to know about Joseph.

”Okay,” he said, nodded and took the hangers.

”I'll give you a minute,” she said, turning.

He was on his way in less than an hour. Louise hadn't a clue about what had happened in Ca.s.sadaga ”There was an article about the disappearances in the local rag, sure, but I think they all just left. A sign in the stars or something. It's been some while.” After this offering, Robert found he had little to say. He thanked her again for the clothes and hospitality, a.s.sured her that he didn't have far to go, and left.

He was nearing downtown Simola Straight by nightfall. He slowed, crossed the street toward the river, and stopped when he found the moon. It glistened on the water, wavered, its solidity breaking and coalescing. The wind rustled his hair. It was beautiful, all of it; he took it in slowly, staying for a while, listening to cars pa.s.s behind him and the river's life before him.

When he finally moved on, he trolled the waterfront until he found The House of Socrates. As usual, it was the only thing lit after dark. They roll the sidewalks up at night, he thought, glad he'd come here first. Dan would know how long he'd been gone, and what had destroyed Ca.s.sadaga.

He grabbed the door's handle, pulled it and strolled in. ”h.e.l.lo?” he called out, and a voice he recognized yelled back.

Dan stood up in the Books Written While Their Authors Were Either Drugged, High, or Highly Depressed aisle. He scratched his belly, chuckled, and cracked a grin. ”Wondering when you might get back.”

”Get back? Do you even know where I went?”

Dan strolled around his bookshelves, opened his arms and embraced him. ”I have an idea.” He let go and stepped back, his smile kind, his eyes caring. ”You have questions.”

Robert nodded.

Dan turned him around, pointed him in the direction of the door. ”It's a nice evening out,” he said, and they went outside. He waited approximately half a second before lighting up.

”Still got the habit, eh?”

”Hope you have better questions than that,” said Dan, dragging heavily on his Camel.

Robert sighed, looked at the sky, thought of the purple and orange clouds in that other world. ”Where was I?”

Smoke plumed from Dan's mouth and nostrils. ”I don't know,” he answered. ”None of us know where or when any of those places are. Alternate dimensions, mirror worlds, types of purgatory or in-between places. Doesn't matter what you call them. They certainly don't care. All I know is this: When a door is opened, things can get out as well as in, and I've come into contact with some of those things.” Dan looked over, and for the first time Robert could remember, he saw fear in the man's eyes. ”They hunt you.”

”I'll keep an eye out,” said Robert, wanting to move on, but then he remembered the rows and lines of man-things rising from the sea, and how he'd seen them here. He shook his head, hoped they hadn't followed, and continued. ”If Sarah was my mother, what does that make me?”

Dan looked over, smiling. ”One of us, Robert. One of us.”

”And what is that?” He stopped. ”Wait. What? You?”

Dan nodded, not without some pride. ”G.o.d's first clay. Methusulah was one of us. So was Noah. We're what He made before the Garden. We're just different. A little blessed, a little cursed. Your mother handled it the best she could.

”What about Greer?”

Dan leaned back, took a long, appreciative drag, then said, ”A good man, a good son.”

Robert stiffened. Had he heard Daniel right? A good son? Montague had appeared ancient, but Daniel did not. Just how old was he? He considered asking, but thought better of it. ”What happened to Ca.s.sadaga?”

Dan tossed his cigarette into the air, it spiraled and sparks trailed after it, flittering against the night sky, the orange bulge of the moon. Then, at the apogee of its course, it winked into nothingness without a sound. Robert gaped.

Dan rose. ”That you'll have to discover for yourself,” he said. He turned his back.

Robert stared, understanding the gesture to be symbolic. There would be no more talk. ”One more question.”

Daniel lifted his head, wearily antic.i.p.ating.

”How long have I been gone?”

Slowly, his friend turned. ”It's been-” he began, then took a deep breath before finis.h.i.+ng. ”It's been seven years.”

Seven years. Seven years?

His heart was beating wildly, he felt woozy and faint and terrified for his daughter. Seven years. Where was she?

You've got to calm down, he told himself, taking a deep breath. You've got to think this through.

He was nearly to the hotel when he realized he hadn't a dime on him. They weren't even his clothes. He rifled through the pockets, and stopped cold when he felt it. He pulled out the wad, thinking of Louise. She'd given him her dead husband's clothes, and in these garments she'd secreted a wad of bills. She'd known he wouldn't accept them. He turned his face to the heavens, nearly felt his grip on things loosen for good, but knew that somewhere out there, he hoped to G.o.d, a teenage girl missed her father. She would be angry, mad as h.e.l.l, but if mercy existed she would also be healthy.

He began counting the bills under a street light. When his count pa.s.sed one hundred, he stopped for a moment, sighed, then continued.

Louise had gifted him well over two hundred dollars.

He checked in, tried to sleep, but ended up pacing most of the night, running it all through his mind again and again, refocusing on certain things he'd seen, on people's behavior, searching for a clue as to his present situation, the missing time, his sudden health, the disappearance of his daughter. And Mary. He had left Jenn with Mary. G.o.d, what would she have thought? That the little girl's dad had just up and bolted? Right after the death of his wife? And what would she have done with his little girl? Jesus, what would I have done, in her shoes?

Around four in the morning Robert decided to visit her father, George, at the bank, hoping against all hopes that he still worked there, and with that settled he sat on the bed. His eyes began to get heavy. He leaned back, told himself he could think just as well here, and thought of nothing else for hours.

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