Strangewood (12 page)

Which put him here, after a quick detour in the Volvo. Thomas
stared out at the Hudson River, the surface ripples belying the profound power
lurking there. He'd paid four dollars to park in the lot of a tree-lined picnic
area in Philipse Manor, a slightly snooty suburb just north of Sleepy Hollow. He
only had a few minutes — didn't want Emily to feel as though he was
taking advantage of her — but it was worth four bucks just for the
tranquility. Other than a few oldsters, there weren't many people home to spend
time in the park on a late Tuesday morning. And the older people weren't going
to be walking out on a rocky outcropping with the river flowing by only inches
away.

He was alone.

"God, Nathan, I'm sorry," he whispered to the
river.

Never in his life had Thomas felt so frail. He needed
desperately to do something, anything, to help Nathan. Find the right doctor,
track down a missing clue, find the stalker and beat the crap out of him. The
two things were apparently unrelated, but Thomas couldn't help but feel that
they were: that there was some connection nobody was seeing. And violence would
have felt so good to him then.

With a sigh, he realized he ought to get moving. Thomas
wiped the back of his hand across his face, smearing the tears but not erasing
them completely. He planted one hand on the edge of a large stone, and had just
begun to rise when he heard a distant splash out on the river.

Thomas grunted to himself and turned, propped in a
ridiculous position for that moment, to see something wide and black disappear
beneath the river's surface, cutting down into the water like a whale's tail.

"What the hell?" he muttered as he stood and
brushed mostly imaginary dirt from his butt.

Curious, he narrowed his eyes and watched the surface of the
water, waiting for whatever it was to crest once more. To show itself. In his
mind's eye, he tried to picture what it had looked like, but couldn’t. Just his
imagination, now, trying to layer a subconscious idea on top of the reality. Seemed
that had been happening a lot lately.

Nearly a minute passed as he stood there. Thomas reached
into his left hand front pocket, where he always kept his keys, and pulled them
out by the plastic case of his alarm remote control. Reluctantly, he turned to
go, still wondering what kind of freshwater fish got to be as big as the thing
he'd seen, though he'd only seen it for a moment.

With a shrug meant only for himself, Thomas glanced around
to see that he was, indeed, alone, save for two old gents playing chess at a
table under an enormous oak, which seemed to be holding up the sky itself. Nobody
else would have seen it, he thought, and began to carefully pick his way along
the jetty toward the green grass of the park. At the end of the rocky
outcropping, just before he stepped onto the grass, Thomas turned to look
again.

Paused a moment.

The water erupted as something broke the surface. Wide and
flat and black, easily four feet across, the thing was slick as wet rubber, and
with the same consistency. A long, thin tail trailed behind it, as the thing
seemed to float along the surface of the water like a flying squirrel soaring
from tree to tree. Then it dove again, slicing the river and disappearing into
the deep current.

Thomas only stared for a moment at the ripples on the
surface where it had gone down. Then he brought his arms up, one hand splayed
across his face while with the other, he hugged himself. His fingers covered
one eye, as if he couldn't stand to see what he'd just seen, and his heart
pumped too hard, too fast in his chest.

His mind gave the thing its name. It was a flying manta, of
course. What else could it be? But, then, it couldn't really be a flying manta
because there was no such thing.

Not outside of Strangewood. Jesus, he was losing it.

In his right hip pocket, Thomas's tiny cellular phone trilled.
Startled, he stepped forward, his foot slipped, and he nearly went over into
the shallow water at the river's edge. Instead, he slammed his right knee down
on the edge of a rock hard enough to puncture the skin, even through denim. Thomas
howled with pain. In the park, the eternal chess players glanced up, saw that
he was all right, and went back to their game.

The phone trilled again.

With a loud curse that would have made even his late father,
the career military man, blush, Thomas yanked the phone from his pocket, nearly
bobbled that into the water, and finally succeeded in flipping it open.

"Yes!" he snapped.

"Have I called at a bad time?"

Thomas took a deep breath; hung his head.

"No, Francesca," he told his agent. "There
isn't a good time, these days, so how could this be a bad time? I just think
I'm losing my mind is all."

"I don't blame you," she told him.

Thomas knew Francesca thought he was talking about Nathan
and what was happening. He let her go on thinking that. He ought to be back at
the hospital anyway, he thought. Then, idly, he wondered if he should confer
with someone in their psych unit. Or at least get a referral on a shrink.

"I'm headed back over to the hospital now," he
said. "What can I do for you?"

She paused a moment on the other end. When she spoke, the
question of his sanity was not merely in Thomas's own thoughts, but in his
agent's voice as well.

"I'm headed over for that Fox meeting in a bit,"
she said. "Just a bit of whatever they call breakfast here in the City of
Angels. Then it's off to make you a lot of money. I really don't know if I can
pull this off without you."

"You'll get more money on the deal if I'm not there,
and you know it," he told her dismissively.

"Maybe," she replied. "Listen, I don't want
to seem cold about this, Thomas, but is there any way you could get in on a
conference call in a little while? And I need to know what to tell them if they
ask when you can come out for a follow-up meeting. Even if they agree to do the
deal, they may want to meet with you in person anyway."

At first, Thomas didn't respond. Then, when he opened his
mouth and the first syllable began to emerge, Francesca cut him off
immediately.

"Look, I know that Nathan comes first," she said
quickly. "For me, too. Really. But the doctors have already told you he's
going to be all right . . ."

"They don't think he'll die, Frankie," Thomas
said, eyes narrowed as he massaged his temples, watching the old men play
chess. "That doesn't mean he's getting better. It doesn't mean he won't
spend the rest of his fucking life like this. What the hell is wrong with
you?"

Frankie harrumphed. Thomas could hear it, even over the
phone.

"I’m out here working for you, Thomas. Maybe you should
think about working for Nathan sometimes too. Look, do you want me to cancel
the whole thing? Believe me, I have friends in San Diego who would love to
spend the week with me, and I could use a vacation."

"No," Thomas said instantly. "I'm sorry,
Francesca. You just have to understand . . ."

"I do understand. Much as you think I don't. But life
has got to go on, Thomas. The world doesn't stop turning when you want it to. In
all seriousness, Nathan may need you now more than ever. I understand. I really
do. But Fox wants this right now. In a day or a week they may not be interested.
That's the way this business works. You know that. There's value here,
insurance. And if you're going to stop working for a little while, I don't need
to remind you that subrights on Strangewood are all you've got for a
livelihood."

They were all good points. Thomas recognized that. Francesca
wasn't the kind of bloodsucking agent who was going to crack the whip just to
make her commission. She was his friend. And horrible as it was, she was right.

To a point.

"Look, I can't do anything for the next few hours. I've
got to relieve Emily so she can wash up, change clothes. This afternoon, if
they want to talk to me, we'll arrange it. But right now, no. And I'm not
coming out there."

"Thomas . . ."

"I'm sorry, Frankie, but no. They want to see me, they
can come to Manhattan," Thomas said sternly. "I've screwed up my
kid's life and mind enough as it is, with this divorce. If they don't get that
my son needs me now, then fuck 'em. I plan to be there when Nathan wakes
up."

After a brief pause, Francesca said only, "Call me if
there's any change. I'll let you know how the meeting goes."

Then there was a click, and she was gone. Thomas folded up
the little phone, slipped it into his jeans, and clambered toward shore again,
wincing at the pain in his knee. A small dark spot of blood, no bigger than a
dime, had soaked through the denim. But he'd be all right. With all that was
going on in his life, Thomas really didn't give the injury another thought.

With a glance at the chess players — the older of the
two men, a dapper looking Latino, was handily whupping the other — Thomas
half-limped across the grass beneath the trees until he came to the dirt path
that led back out to the parking lot. Though he'd seen only the chess players
in the past twenty minutes or so, there were five cars other than his own in
the lot. Two spaces over was a hunter green Jeep Cherokee Laredo, and Thomas
admired the vehicle. He'd wanted one for a while, and he knew that Nathan would
love it.

Just for you, buddy,
he thought, a silent promise to
his son. When Nathan woke up, he'd buy the Jeep for both of them.

When he rounded the Jeep, Thomas saw his Volvo. It was
covered in bird shit. Not merely one or two drops of white and brown and green,
but dozens. It looked as though he'd parked under the trees for weeks, rather
than half an hour.

"Jesus!" Thomas snarled and then stared up at the
sky as if imploring the heavens for assistance. But the heavens were the
problem, he thought. And began to laugh. It didn't last long, but it felt good
to laugh. Even at his own stupid jokes.

With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, Thomas
pulled his keys from his jeans again. He went for the driver's door, and was
unlocking it when a huge crow landed on the roof of the car. The bird might
have been innocent, but Thomas believed wholeheartedly in guilt by association,
particularly as it pertained to beasts such as dogs, cats, birds, and small
children.

"Scat, you little shit!" Thomas said. "Get
away. Shoo! Get off the car!"

The crow only glared balefully at him, its black eyes
shining, reflecting Thomas's face like the most polished of precious stones.

Thomas raised his hands, trying to spook the bird. Nothing
worked. The thing would simply not move. Finally, at wit's end, Thomas reached
into his car for a road map he kept in the glove compartment and waved it at
the bird. The crow behaved as though it were Cleopatra, languishing in the
breeze of the wildly fanning map.

Thomas glared at the crow.

"Fine," he grunted. "Fuck you, then. We'll
see if you can stay up there doing fifty five."

Keys in his right hand, Thomas held his door open and was
about to drop into his seat when the crow spoke.

"He needs you, Our Boy," said the crow. "You're
the only one who can help him now."

For a moment, he was frozen. Then Thomas turned to stare at
the crow in horror. Its beak was closed. It couldn't possibly have spoken. Not
really. It had to all be in his head.

But the way it stared at him with those wide, black,
funhouse mirror eyes . . .

Feeling like an utter moron, Thomas tilted his head to
regard the bird.

"Dave?" he asked.

Caw!
it cried, and with the slap of broad ebon wings
on air, it lofted itself skyward. Thomas stared after it until the bird was out
of sight. Then he slid behind the wheel of the Volvo, slipped his key into the
ignition, and started the car. As the engine roared into life, Thomas glanced
out the window again.

"No," he told himself. "No fucking way."

On the way to the hospital, he turned the radio up as loud
as he could stand it, and still, he barely heard the music.

 * * * * *

There wasn't much of a view from Nathan's hospital window. In
the chair in which Thomas had slept the night before, Emily looked out on the
windows of other wings of the hospital and the roof of what must have been the
lobby, several floors down. The roof was covered with stones, almost like a
parking lot, a practice Emily had noticed many times and never understood. What
was the purpose of covering the top of a building with a blanket of small
rocks? It irked her.

It was also boring. A cardinal sin. Even the parking lot
itself would have made for more interesting viewing. At least she would have
been able to see people come and go.

With her cheeks suddenly flushed with guilt, Emily turned to
look at Nathan. Nothing had changed. He lay there, so sweet, almost as if he
were asleep. If only that had been the case. She thought of Nathan as a baby,
the wispy thin brown hair he had as an infant, and the way his animated,
forever-babbling face lapsed into a cherubic innocence when he drifted off. His
mouth slightly parted, so desperately exhausted just from the effort of being a
baby.

He still had dimples. When Nathan smiled, his dimples were
enough to make anyone grin right along with him. But he wasn't smiling now. Wasn't
asleep now. Instead, he was just frozen in some kind of weird in-between state,
here, but also somewhere else, somewhere far away.

There was nothing Emily could do except watch her son's
chest rise and fall with each breath, watch horrid daytime television on the
hospital set, or stare out the window at the gravel spread inexplicably over
the rooftop. And when Emily had stared too long out that window, worried too
long and too ineffectually about Nathan, and grown tired of her anxiety, she
wanted more than anything to leave.