The Hollow City (23 page)

Only one thing left to do. I walk back down the hall; my father is outside, doing something with the car. Taking his stuff out, I guess. I find the phone book and flip it open: Fillmore, Finch, Fischer. There’s a Kelly Fischer on Holiday Street. I write down the address and put the phone book away.

My father comes in the back door, the shotgun replaced by a single key held tightly in his fingers. He holds it out. “You never come back.”

I nod. “I never come back.”

“You never call, you never write, I never hear
from
you or
about
you ever again.”

“I’ll even change my name.”

He drops the key in my hand. “Take Highway 34. It’s your quickest shot out of the city, and from there you’re on your own.”

I stare at him, not knowing what to say. The words are out before I can stop them. “Why are you doing this for me?”

“I’m not doing it for you.”

I nod. For my mother. Always my mother.

“Now leave, before I call the police.”

I pause, saying nothing, then turn and push open the door. He doesn’t follow me out. I throw my bag and the old clothes into the car and climb in after them, staring at the dashboard like a sleeping enemy. When I turn it on I’ll feel it—it doesn’t send a signal, the way a phone does, but it does create an electric field. I’ll feel it vibrating through me like a seizure. But it’s the quickest way to Kelly, and to the answers she’s got to have.

I put the key in the ignition. If I leave the radio off I should be fine—a little pain, maybe, but nothing terrible. I hope.

I turn the key, and the engine roars to life, and I feel my feet prickle like a wave of static electricity. It stings, but it doesn’t cripple me. I shift into drive, whispering a silent thanks that my father only drives automatics; I haven’t driven a car in almost three years, and I don’t think I could get a stick shift out of the driveway. I pull onto the street, glancing back one last time at the house. My father is watching from the window.

He closes the curtains. I drive away.

I drive slowly, scanning the streets for cops. I don’t know how many of the ones I saw before are even real, if any were real at all, but—

There’s one. I turn my head, trying to look inconspicuous, and he drives past.

Holiday is on the far side of town. I turn at the next intersection, weaving through narrow residential streets, then turn again. It’s not until I get to the first big cross street that I realize how terrified I am to drive in real traffic. I wait for a gap in the cars and pull onto the big street, keeping in the right lane and driving slowly. Speeding trucks honk and pull around me, rocking my car with bursts of wind as they speed past. The noise and the lights are too much, and I pull back off on the next street. It feels safer on the smaller roads, but I can’t just hide like this—I need to keep moving. I wander through the back streets for a while, psyching myself up, and stop at the corner of another big street. This one’s calmer than the other, with fewer cars and slower traffic. I take a deep breath, and duck my head as another cop drives past. My head is down, nearly on the seat.

There’s a red blink in the passenger’s foot well.

I lean down further and see a small, rectangular outline—a little plastic brick. The light blinks again, and I recognize it as a cell phone. I recoil in terror, like I’d just seen a snake; my foot comes off the brake and the car rolls forward, then lurches to a stop when I get my foot back down. A cell phone! Is someone tracking me? Did my father forget it? If I hadn’t been looking in just the right place, at just the right time, I wouldn’t have even seen it—if my father had dropped it during the day, when the red light wasn’t as visible, he might never have seen it either.

I can’t just leave it there. I put the car in park and lean over slowly, reaching out gingerly. What if it chirps or buzzes? What if it shocks me or attacks me? I feel like I’m reaching for a bomb. I have to pick it up—it’s better to do it now, when I’m thinking about it, than have it go off while I’m driving. I pause, my hand hovering over it. It blinks again. I growl and pick it up, yanking it back to my seat and flipping it open as fast as I can. The screen blinds me as it lights up, and I squint against pain as I search for an off switch. I don’t see one; I’ve never used a cell phone, I don’t even know how they work. I jam the buttons, careful not to push anything that might start a call, all the while terrified that a call will come in at any second. Nothing’s working—why isn’t there an off switch? I flip the phone over and look at the back: the batteries. I pop open the door and yank out what looks like a little black battery pack. The screen goes blank and the red light stops blinking.

I slump back in my seat, breathing heavily. It’s dead now. I roll down the window and throw out the phone—but wait. What if they find it—what if they use it to trace my path? They might know that I left home, but they won’t know where I went; finding the cell phone would tell them my direction and help them follow me. I don’t know if I can dare throw anything away—the phone, my old clothes, not anything—until I can destroy them completely. I get out, collect the phone and the battery pack, and drop them into the cup holder. As long as I keep the battery out, they can’t use it to trace me. I put the car back into drive and stare at the busy street. Linda covered a lot of life skills in my therapy, but driving wasn’t one of them; the controls feel loose and alien, like it’s designed for a different body. I can’t do this.

I have to do this. The tingling in my feet and legs feels strange and painful, but it’s not debilitating, and I’m getting better at ignoring it. The traffic is faster than I’d like, but I can drive in it. I can even see a highway sign—it’s 88, not 34, but it will get me to Holiday Street. I merge over, trying to keep up with traffic, and pull up onto the highway. It’s easier on a highway—faster, but with no stops or turns or cross traffic. I grip the wheel with hard, white knuckles. Head- and taillights pass me like beams of solid color. I find the exit; I find the street; I find the building.

It’s an apartment, but not the kind with a gate or a doorman. I park and walk in, climbing stairs and looking for the number. 17A. There’s a light in the window.

Will she turn me in? Is she one of Them? I knock softly.

She opens the door, recognizes me, and screams. I grab her face in panic and shove her back inside.

TWENTY-TWO

SHE STRUGGLES, FIGHTING AND BACKING AWAY
. I keep a firm grip on her jaw with one hand, wrapping my other arm around her shoulders. I knock the door closed with my foot; she kicks and flails her fists.

“Don’t scream,” I say. “I’m not here to hurt you, I just don’t want you to scream.”

She bites my hand, and I try not to howl. My grip goes loose and she stumbles away from me, falling; she goes for her purse, leaping across the couch.

“They told me this would happen; they told me not to talk to crazy people.”

I dive after her, knocking the purse from her hand; a can of mace goes spinning across the floor. She kicks me again, a solid blow to the chest, knocking away my breath. I choke on the sudden void and she runs to a small counter separating her living room and kitchen. She’s unfolding a cell phone.

How does she know?

I gasp for air, sucking in a sudden burst, and run forward just in time to slam my hands down on hers. She shrieks and drops the phone, her fingers red from the impact. I snatch up the cell phone and bend it backward, moving it too far, snapping it in half. She cries and runs for the door but I grab her arm and yank her back. She falls, sobbing. I let go gingerly and block the door with my body.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I say again. She’s crying. “I didn’t come here to attack you, or hurt you, or anything, I just want to talk.”

“I think you broke my fingers, you bastard.”

“I’m sorry—you scared me, I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t let you shock me.”

“Shock you?”

“The phone,” I say, gesturing toward the fragments. “You were trying to attack me with your phone.”

“I was calling the police, you idiot.” Her face is a mask of hurt and fear.

I’ve ruined everything.

“They said you weren’t likely to come after me in person,” she says, rubbing tears from her eye with the palm of her hand. “I guess they can tell that to my raped and mutilated corpse, now, huh?”

“I already told you I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You attacked me!”

“You screamed!” I say. “I panicked! There’s a lot of people looking for me, and I can’t afford to attract any more attention.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“Because I need help.” I crouch down, still guarding the door but getting closer to her eye-line. “I can’t do this on my own. There’s something big going on, and I have some of the pieces and you have others, and together we might be able to learn enough to stop it.”

“You’re talking about the killings.”

“I’m talking about everything: the Red Line, the Faceless Men, the Children of the Earth—they’re all connected somehow, they’re all part of a bigger picture—”

“You
are
crazy.” She rubs her eyes. “What have I gotten myself into?”

“Look,” I say, pulling out the paper, “I can prove it to you. The janitor at Powell attacked me last night, all alone, when everyone else was asleep. He even knocked out the night nurse. He was carrying this.”

I hold out the paper. She looks at it cautiously, as if I were handing her a snake.

“What is it?”

“Look at it.”

She doesn’t move. “Drop it, and back away.”

“Whatever you want.” I toss the paper gently toward her, then raise my hands and press back into the door. She picks up the paper.

I’m holding my breath. Some part of me is still terrified the paper isn’t real—that it’s blank, or a cleaning schedule, or something else that has nothing to do with me. She looks at it carefully, pursing her lips.

“What is this?”

“You tell me.”

She stares at it, eyes flicking back and forth. She’s reading it.

What is she reading?

“It’s your whole life,” she says, looking up at me. “It’s everywhere you’ve ever lived or worked or went to school.”

I collapse against the corner, clutching my face in relief, gasping and sobbing. “It’s real,” I say, “it’s real. This is actually happening.”

“You say the janitor had this?”

“It’s real,” I mumble again. I sink to the floor, leaning on the door in exhaustion. “I’m not crazy.”

“Did he have anything else? Anything on the other patients?”

I shake my head. “Nothing—just that and a ring of keys. And a Post-it note with the gate code.”

“And you’re sure it was the night janitor?” she asks. “You’re sure it wasn’t some other guy who’d snuck in?”

“I’m positive.”

She raises herself to her knees. “Could you recognize his face if I showed you some pictures?”

“He didn’t have a face.”

She stops, mouth open, then shakes her head. “Not this again.”

“It’s true,” I say, “or maybe he had a face, but I couldn’t see it—it was like there was a … field or something, like a blur around his head. His hair was there, but his face was just a … nothing.”

“You’re hallucinating.”

“No,” I say firmly. “I mean, sometimes yes, but this was real. I promise it was real. I was still on my drugs.”

“Are you still on them now?”

“Yes. Different ones, I mean, but they still work.”

She sighs. “Listen to yourself, Michael. How can you recognize the janitor if you couldn’t even see his face?”

“But I…” I stop, and I realize that I’ve never seen the janitor’s face—I’d never seen him at all before last night, but I’d heard him, and I’d … felt him. Somehow I’d always known who he was, and where he was, and I’d known it even through the wall and the closed door. “I just knew,” I say. “It’s like I had a … another sense, like sight or scent or something, but different, like a new one that was totally … natural.”

She rubs her eyes, pulling herself up to sit in a chair. “Do you hear how crazy you sound? Can you understand how
wrong
this all sounds? You’re living in a fantasy world, Michael—none of this is real.”

“I know it sounds crazy,” I say. “I know it sounds stupid and ridiculous and … and … listen, I’m not good at talking. I never do it, not with anyone real. So I don’t know how to make you believe me, but I know that you have to. Okay? The Faceless Men are real, and they have a plan, and we have to stop them.”

“Then what’s their plan?”

“I … don’t know yet.”

She closes her eyes and falls back in the chair. “I can’t believe this.”

“But it’s real,” I say, “I swear it’s real. It has something to do with ChemCom. You have to trust me.”

“But I can’t trust you,” she says. “You are sick; you are delusional. I don’t know how you can even trust yourself.”

I shake my head, trying to control my breathing.
Don’t get nervous. Don’t freak out
. “You saw the paper,” I say. I hold my forehead, sucking in a long, slow draught of air. “What about the paper?”

“I don’t know about the paper,” she says. “It could be anything.”

“What could it be that isn’t horribly suspicious?”

She stares at me, jaw clenched, then throws up her hands. “I don’t know! I’m not a psychiatrist, I’m not a … I don’t know why you came here in the first place.”

“Because you’ve studied them,” I say. “The Red Line Killer and the Children of the Earth; I came because you know what they’re doing, and who they are, and everything.”

“I don’t know anything,” she says, “nobody does. I’m not even on that story anymore.”

“You gave up?”

“My editor killed it.”

“And that doesn’t sound like a cover-up to you?”

“He pulled the story because there was nothing to it,” she says, “no leads, no witnesses, no evidence. If the police have more info about the killings they’re not sharing it, and the Children of the Earth are a black hole: they won’t talk to anyone, no one
ever
defects, and the last reporter to go into their commune never came out.” She stiffens, her eyes tearing up again. “She was a friend of mine.”