Part 37 (1/2)
”All right,” I said to Penny after I hung up. ”Let's go back to the room, and --”
The manager cleared his diroat again. ”That'll be fifteen dollars.”
”Fifteen -- . . . for what?”
”Three long-distance calls,” the manager said. ”I figure five bucks per.”
”The first call was only thirty seconds long,” I pointed out. ”And the second was a busy signal.”
The manager shrugged. ”I didn't hear any busy signal.”
”You. . .” I gave up; I didn't have the energy to argue.
”Sorry,” Penny apologized as we walked back to the room. ”I guess Duncan picked the wrong motel.”
”He had more important things to worry about -- you both did. Anyway, the money doesn't concern me so much as not being able to talk to Mrs. Winslow.”
Back in the room, I thought about taking a quick shower, but reluctantly decided against it. First things first. I explained to Penny what I was going to do.
”So you'll be unconscious again?” she said.
I nodded. ”It'll look like I'm sleeping,” I said. ”And you can shake me awake, if there's an emergency, but it may take me a few seconds to wake up.”
”What if somebody else wakes up instead?” Penny asked. ”What if he wakes up?”
”That shouldn't happen.”
She just looked at me.
”Right,” I said. ”Right. . .” I searched the room for something pointy and sharp, but not too sharp; in the drawer of the nightstand, alongside a Bible and a Book of Mormon, I found a letter opener.
”Here,” I said, offering it to her. ”If Gideon does show up, just wave this at him. . .”
Penny blinked. ”Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?” Maledicta said. ”You want me to f.u.c.king stab you?”
”Not stab, ” I said. ”You wouldn't actually have to use it, just show it to him. Threaten to, to poke him with it. . .”
”Poke him with it,” said Maledicta. ”Tell you what, why don't I bust out the f.u.c.king window and threaten to poke him with a piece of that?”
”Oh- kay,” I said, ”maybe this isn't such a good idea. . .”
She blinked again. ”No,” Penny said, ”no, I'm sorry, it's all right. I'll do it.”
I wasn't sure I wanted her to, now. ”You don't have to, Penny. If you're not comfortable staying in here while I --”
”It's all right. Give me the letter opener.”
I gave it to her, not without a trace of reluctance. ”Just. . . be careful,” I said. ”Maybe, if Gideon does show up, maybe the best thing would be to step back and let him go.”
Penny didn't say anything to that, just sat in the chair, holding the letter opener awkwardly in her fist.
I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes.
Going inside was much harder than it usually is. When I went to step out of the body, I encountered resistance; it was like trying to back through a tunnel that had been packed with cotton. But I concentrated, and pushed, until finally something gave; and then I was down, in a landscape so changed that I thought I'd stumbled into the wrong geography.
The mist which ordinarily shrouded Coventry had thickened into fog and boiled over, obliterating the lake and much of the lakebank; a thinner but still substantial haze extended as far as the encircling forest, turning the trees into shadowy silhouettes. Standing on the hill where the column of light touches down, I couldn't see the house.
”Father?” I called, the haze swallowing my words. ”Adam?. . . Anybody?”
There was no answer, but I heard a sound like m.u.f.fled hammering in the distance. I moved towards it, and found myself at the house.
It was in shambles. It was still standing, but it looked like it had been picked up and dropped from a height: the grounds around were littered with sprung boards, broken gla.s.s, and cracked s.h.i.+ngles.
The pulpit, as I'd expected, was totally gone, torn away; the door that had connected it to the second-floor gallery was boarded over with heavy planks.
My father stood on the front lawn, surveying the damage. When he noticed me standing beside him, his reaction was surprisingly subdued. ”Andrew,” he said. ”So you're awake, finally.”
”Yes,” I said, thrown by his demeanor. ”Since just a little while ago. I. . . I'm back in control of the body, too.”
”And where is the body?” he asked, in a tone of voice that suggested he wasn't all that interested.
”A long way from Autumn Creek, I'm guessing.”
”Yes,” I said. ”We're in South Dakota. It's Thursday.” I waited for him to react; when he didn't, I blurted out: ”I'm really sorry about getting drunk.”
”Yes, you should be.” His brow contracted, and I thought he was going to let me have it; but then his anger just dissipated. ”Well, I suppose it's my failure too.”
”Aren't you. . . don't you want to yell at me?”
He shook his head, smiling his disappointment. ”There's not much point. You know it was wrong; you knew it was wrong before you did it; and it's not the first time it's happened. But you did it anyway.”
”Well I didn't think this would happen, or --”
Still smiling: ”Why did you imagine I forbade it, Andrew? Did you think I was just trying to keep you from having a good time?”
”I don't know what I thought. I guess I didn't think, at all.” I hung my head, but after a moment, when he still didn't yell at me, I looked back up at the house. ”What happened here?”
”It was a lot like an earthquake,” my father said, ”only the sky shook, too. And then the mist on the lake. . . well, you can see what happened with the mist.”
”Is everyone else OK? Where are they?”
”The Witnesses are inside, in the nursery. The others. . . are around. I've been trying to get them together for a meeting, but they keep scattering, wandering off into the fog.” He was silent for a few seconds. Then he said: ”South Dakota?”
”Yes. Near Rapid City.”
”And Penny Driver is with you?”
”Yes. How did you know? Have you been --”
”Watching? No. Since the pulpit blew away, I haven't been able to get more than vague impressions from outside; I knew we were traveling, but not much more. I haven't been able to get out, either, except once, and even then only partway. The body was in the back seat of Penny's car, and we were driving on a highway at night.”