Warp (18 page)

“Whatever,” said Hollis. “It's probably just as well.”

He was looking out the window. Every minute or so the plain white reflector of a mile marker lit up in the headlights.

“I remember her,” he said. “Ashley. Quite the fiery little zippie she was. She must wear colored contacts—nobody's eyes are really that shade of green.”

Eyes are nice.

“You're more her type than I am anyway,” said Peters.

“I wasn't really on that night.”

“Come on, you were a hit. You were a cheeky little R2-D2 to my obsequious, servile C-3PO.”

Hollis could feel the cold through the car window against his right hand. He secretly slipped it up under his shirt and pressed it against his ribs with his other arm to warm it up.

There'll be no escape for the Princess this time.

As time went by the numbers on the exit signs decreased, and Hollis started to feel more alert. Peters turned the radio on and off. They experimented with the moon roof, but it was too cold outside to keep it open. Factories appeared off to one side with their brand names lit up by spotlights: Polaroid, Raytheon, Microsoft, BayBank, IBM. When they got to the Dover exit they swung smoothly off the highway and plunged into the darkness of the woods. The noise of the traffic and the red and white streams of headlights and taillights dwindled behind them through the trees.

They pulled up to the light at the crossroads. Everything was quiet. Even the throb of the engine was barely audible.

“It's red, Jim,” said Peters soberly.

Another car came up behind them, lighting up the interior of the Lexus with its headlights.

“Once,” Peters said, “when I was in high school, I got a pimple on the back of my neck. It was huge—literally, it was the size of an egg. Wherever I went, whatever I was doing, I was conscious of it. I could feel it, just riding around back there. It was so big I started to think I could pop it just by leaning my head back and looking up at the ceiling. I spent a whole day sort of tossing my head back, over and over again, trying to pop this God damn pimple on the back of my neck. But I never could. After a while my neck started to hurt, and I went to the nurse. She said I had whiplash.”

Hollis watched the traffic light, waiting for it to change.

I am now the last human being left alive on earth.

The light changed. The rear wheels sprayed gravel.

This time there were a few stores open in the quiet little suburban strip in the center of town. From the car Hollis could see two teenage girls in white T-shirts cleaning up behind the counter at a Steve's Ice Cream, looking very busy and efficient in the warm, yellow electric light. Past the main commercial area it got quiet again. The pale fans of sprinklers waved silently back and forth in the dark, on the front lawns of old Unitarian churches with box steeples.

The roads were narrow and winding, but Peters knew them by heart, and he took them at full speed. Hedges, stone walls, and tree branches flew by, ridiculously close to Hollis's window, and he flinched back a couple of times. For a while Hollis tried to keep track of where they were, but soon he gave up.

At first when they pulled over he didn't recognize it as the same spot where they'd parked that morning. Peters switched off the headlights.

There was a second of silence.

“Suddenly,” he said, “I knew fear.”

He took out the key, and they climbed out. The doors chunked shut behind them in perfect unison.

“It's better if we park around the corner,” he said. “The neighbors might notice the car.”

The stars were surprisingly bright. Crickets chirruped wildly in the trees, and they walked away from the car without saying anything. When they turned the corner there were a few lights on in the Victorian farmhouse across the street, but it was quiet.

I am now the last human being left alive.

There were lights on in the Donnellys' house, too. The globe on the lamppost was lit, and the light reflected off the dew on the grass.

“They're probably on a timer,” Peters said. “Got the keys? Just kidding.”

He dug them out of his pocket, saying:

“My precious, my precious.”

They set out across the lawn and circled around to the back of the house, looking over their shoulders a little nervously at the house across the street. Hollis held the screen door while Peters tried the knob on the inner door. It was locked.

“Welcome to the jungle, baby,” Peters said softly, as he slid the key in. “You're gonna die.”

The door opened. It was pitch-black in the little storeroom. Hollis waited while Peters stumbled around in the clutter on the floor.

“How the hell can you see anything?” he said.

Peters didn't answer.

“Motherfucker,” he said after a while, and Hollis heard him rattling the doorknob.

“This one's locked too.”

“Wasn't it before?”

“No.”

Peters sighed and fumbled around with the doorknob some more.

“Is it the same key?” said Hollis.

He smelled dust in the air, and a moment later he sneezed. As his eyes got used to the darkness he could make out the indistinct shape of Peters's broad back, hunched over the lock.

His ability to see through the comfortable illusions of everyday life set him apart from his fellow man.

He heard Peters scratching around with the key trying to find the keyhole, then a grunt of satisfaction. The door opened onto the darkened kitchen. Peters barged in, with his hands together out in front of him like a pistol.

“Freeze, motherfuckers!”

He held still for a few seconds, listening. Nothing happened. He relaxed and waved Hollis inside.

The Donnellys had cleaned up before they left, and everything was even neater and tidier than it had been before. The drainer was empty. The coffee machine was unplugged.

“You know, I wish that girl had showed up,” said Hollis, blinking at the light, as he stepped in over the threshold. “The one we met before. What the hell was her name again? Ellen? Evelyn?”

Peters spun around, arms still out, and covered Hollis with the pistol. He sighted down it at him.

“Eleanor,” he said.

“Not that I'm bitter or anything.”

“The Baroness has a visitor,” said Werner. “Your Grace had asked to be informed.”

“Very good.”

My voice remained steady, despite the emotion his words roused in me.

“You may go.”

As soon as I was alone, I stood up and opened the curtains.

There, in that courtyard, I saw them preparing to depart. She was cloaked and muffled as for a long journey, and as I watched he handed her up into a closed carriage. The dogs were silent. He himself mounted up to the driver's seat, taking control of the horses with enviable skill, and at a word from him they lit out for the front gates at a gallop.

I watched them, transfixed—

“Hey,” said Peters. “Wait a second.” He dropped the gun pose and froze in place, staring off in the direction of the dining room.

Hollis stopped moving and listened.

“What? I don't hear anything.”

“No, no, Jesus,
that.
On the table.”

Peters pointed into the dining room: there was an open bag of corn chips lying out on the long dining table.

“What's the big deal?” said Hollis. “They could've just left it out.”

“What, and cleaned up the whole rest of the place except for that? It's like Martha Stewart's decontamination chamber in here. Jesus, I bet it's their kid—I bet their kid's home. Don.”

“Is that his name?” said Hollis. “They named their kid Don Donnelly?”

He took a couple of corn chips.

“Isn't he going on the trip with them?”

“I don't really know,” said Peters. “He could just be house-sitting.”

“Jesus, these things are terrible.” Hollis looked down at the bag, chewing. “That's what I thought, look: they're baked, not fried.”

“What do you expect? His dad's a doctor. And he's some kind of jock, too, I think—look, let's just listen for a minute, maybe we can pick up something.”

They stood still for a minute. The house creaked softly with a gust of wind. Peters went over to the window, stepping softly, and cautiously peered out between the curtains.

Patient wakes up after an operation. All the curtains in his room are closed.

Patient:
Hey Doc, how come all the curtains are closed?

Doctor:
Well, there's a fire in the building across the street, and I didn't want you to think the operation was a failure.

Peters turned around and cleared his throat.

“Well, there's a car in the driveway. But it was there before—it doesn't mean anything, necessarily.”

He clapped his hands and rubbed them together.

“Why don't we split up?” he said.

“That always works in the movies.”

“We'll do it like this: one of us goes back outside and walks around the house. Maybe we can see somebody in the window or something.” Peters took off his glasses and inspected the lenses, a little nervously. “The other one can just snoop around in here a little.”

“Sharp thinking,” said Hollis. “Which one of us does which?”

“We'll flip. Do you have a coin?”

Hollis checked his pockets and came up with a nickel.

“Heads,” said Peters.

“Jeez, man. Call it in the air.”

Hollis flipped. Peters called it again:

“Heads.”

When Hollis snapped his hand down to catch it, he missed and open-hand-slapped the nickel across the room and out the door instead. It flew out into the entrance hall and landed silently somewhere on the carpet.

Peters watched it go. He smiled at Hollis.

“I win, by reason of forfeit,” he said. “You're on indoor patrol.”

He clapped Hollis on the shoulder.

“Don't try to be a hero, kid.”

“Story of my life.”

Peters started buttoning up his coat.

“Don's room was on the second floor, back in the day, but who knows where he might be now. Anyway, it's probably nothing.”

“Sure.” Hollis took another corn chip and munched it with exaggerated casualness. “I'll meet you back down here in—I don't know, five minutes?”

“Roger that,” said Peters.

He headed off back through the kitchen and out the door. It closed behind him.

Hollis was alone.

Courage, mon vieux.

The chairs at the table were hard and straight-backed. Someone had already pulled one out, and Hollis sat down, slumping down as far as he could. He listened to the house for another minute, biting the insides of his cheeks.

Somebody tapped on the windowpane, and Hollis started up out of his chair, but it was only Peters. He waved apologetically and disappeared back into the darkness. Hollis sat down again.

A wooden clothespin was lying on the table, the old-fashioned one-piece kind without a wire spring, and he rolled up the bag of chips and clipped it shut. From where he was sitting he could see into the living room; there was a kind of plaster proscenium arch around the doorway, with Ionic columns, and medallions at the corners that were molded into elaborate
faux
Book of Kells knots. The grandfather clock whirred into life in the next room and chimed four notes: it was ten-fifteen. With the heels of his hands over his eyes, Hollis let his head sink backwards against the hard wooden chair: he was so tired it was almost comfortable, and his coat cushioned him a little. He started mentally trying to add up the number of hours he'd slept in the past few days, to see how far behind he was, but he kept getting confused.

He leaned forward and put his head down on the tablecloth.

The kitchen door opened. He sat up with a start: it was Peters.

“I hope you were exploring the house with your astral body,” he said.

“Something like that.” Hollis shook his head, trying to wake up. “Did you see anything?”

Peters pulled out a chair from the table, turned it around, and sat down on it backwards.

“I don't know,” he said. “We may have a bogey, on the third floor. There's a couple of lights on up there.”

“Did you see somebody?”

“It was kind of hard to tell. Maybe. These glasses aren't that good—I need to get a new prescription.”

“I thought you said the lights were on a timer.”

“Well, they still could be,” Peters said. He shrugged and put his chin down on the back of the chair. “It could be nothing. Did you hear anything in here?”

“No. Nothing.”

They were silent, looking at each other.

“All right,” Hollis said. “Whatever.” He planted his hands on the table and pushed himself up. “I'll be back down in a couple of minutes.”

“That's the spirit.” Peters pointed his finger at him.

“Eye of the tiger.”

Epatez les bourgeois.

The staircase's carpeting muffled his footsteps. He made his way up stooping over, patting the steps in front of him with his hands. When his head was even with the second floor, he scanned the gallery.

The lights were off. It was empty.

From the top of the stairs he could see most of the way down the two main hallways, which led off in opposite directions.

You are in a small, U-shaped gallery.

There are two corridors leading North and South.

There is a staircase leading down.

Through the window, he looked down onto the broad front lawn and the white circle of light around the lamppost. His breath frosted on the glass.

The first hallway was deserted so he jogged back to the landing the way he had come. As he walked past the head of the stairs he looked down to the first floor. He could see Peters serenely reading a magazine by the light of the small chandelier in the dining room, with his sneakers propped up on the table.