Something Bad (36 page)

“What?” Wanna shifted away from Wes. “Where’d he go that’ll take three days? What the hell’s going on, Wes?”

Wes scanned the horizon in the direction of the receded fog. “He went back up to Chicago to see Father Costello again. He explained a little of it to me, but I don’t know all the details. Said it had something to do with Thibideaux. He needed to see the priest so he could stop Thibideaux. He didn’t explain what it was he was going to stop, though.” Wes looked at the horizon. “He told me one other thing to tell you that didn’t make any sense until now. He said if there’s a fog around the house, don’t talk about where he is or what he’s there for. If you mention Chicago or Gabe’s trip, make sure you check out the windows first. He said Thibideaux snoops on everyone in the fogs. I didn’t believe him until now. You saw it. It disappeared in an instant when you all recognized me. If Gabe’s right, something really strange is going on around here.”

For the first time since she met Wes, Wanna thought she saw an expression of fear in him. He was the one everyone counted on to be steady in any emergency. If he was scared, something must be wrong. She needed some reassurance.

“Wes, is Gabe all right?”

Wes took a deep breath and looked directly into Wanna’s eyes. Then into Deena Lee’s. “He’s fine.” He patted Deena Lee’s knee. “Fact is, he’s probably better than me right now.” He looked down at his hands and fumbled with the letter, then handed it to Deena Lee. “Here. Don’t read it if there’s a fog out, and remember to burn it up when you’re finished.”

Deena Lee lifted the flap.

“Don’t open it now,” Wes said. “I’m not supposed to see it either.” He took another deep breath. “I’ll be off back to my place. Sorry to startle you all.”

Deena Lee stopped Wes before he could get in the truck. “If you’re driving the truck, how’s Gabe getting to Chicago?”

Wes did a three-sixty spin, scanning the horizon. Worry creased his face. “Deena Lee, you got to be careful. Look around before you talk about Gabe’s trip. Look for the fog.” He looked around again. “He’s driving my truck. It’s got an automatic transmission so he can drive it without hurting his knee. I’ll keep his truck until he gets back. You have something to get around?”

“We got my car,” Deena Lee said, pointing to her Volkswagen parked around the side of the house. “And Wanna has another in the shed. We’ll be okay, but I’m scared. You sure Gabe’s not in any trouble?”

“I don’t know what you call what he’s doing. You have any problems, you give me a call and I’ll be here as fast as this heap of junk can get me here. Gabe told me to tell you to keep a close eye on Cory Dean. Where is he, anyway?”

“Just put him down for a nap,” Deena Lee said. “I’d better check on him.”

Wes got in the truck and turned it down the gravel road. There wasn’t a vapor of fog around during the entire trip home.

G
ABE PULLED ONTO
the interstate and headed north, astonished at how large Wes’ truck was in comparison to his old pickup. It seemed to be as powerful as an eighteen-wheeler. He had seen the new four-door trucks, but he had never been in one. With all the room, both inside and in the truck bed, he decided right then it was time he bought a new truck for the farm, and for the family. Cory Dean would be safe strapped in his infant chair in the back seat of a truck like this, and the vehicle could still be put to work like the old pickup.

The ride was so smooth, it seemed like the truck slipped through the air free of drag. “Holy sh …,” he said. “No way I’m going over ninety.” Backing off the accelerator, the truck’s speed dipped, then settled, nine miles over the posted limit. Keep the excess in single figures and the state troopers won’t bother, he thought.

Gabe’s mind went as frictionless as the truck. He debated what to say to Father Costello when they met again. A glance at the speedometer. He was getting used to the truck’s speed, but he had to squint a little to see the numbers. The light of day was decreasing. But it was too early.

His head jerked upward, his eyes squinting at the rear-view mirror. His heart galloped so hard it hurt his ribs. A bank of fog billowed directly behind the truck, about two hundred yards back, and the distance seemed to be closing. Fast. The wall of mist moved as if by intent, rather than being pushed by prevailing breezes. In a single minute that seemed like an hour, the vapor halved the distance between its leading edge and the truck.

The daylight faded as if it were being sucked into the cloud. Gabe tensed in the seat, bringing his back up away from the upholstery. He stomped on the accelerator so hard it slapped the floorboard, and the truck responded with a downshift and lurch forward that pushed Gabe back into the seat. His heart pumped so hard and fast it seemed to be in his throat—he could hear each beat in his ears. Even though his breathing was fast and shallow, the pain he normally felt with each breath was subdued by the adrenaline coursing through his body. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead even though it was cold enough to require a light jacket.

His heart gave an extra beat, then another, and then the long pause. A wave of dizziness spread over his head in slow motion—he tracked its leading edge.

The speedometer crept over the century mark but the fog continued to gain on the truck, although not as fast as before. Another extra beat. “Not now,” Gabe shouted.

He needed a point of focus, so he let his mind run to his plan. It included an assumption that Thibideaux’s ability to project himself out in the fog had a limited range. Since Thibideaux didn’t know Gabe’s destination, Gabe expected him to scan the entire perimeter of his snooping area rather than act on a hunch and concentrate on a specific vector. Now, it was obvious Gabe had misjudged Thibideaux’s abilities.

He glanced at the speedometer again—over one hundred-ten. Up to the rearview mirror again. The fog was within about fifty yards. Over to the driver’s side mirror. Tendrils of mist swirled in the truck’s trailing vortex. He pushed harder on the accelerator as if pushing the pedal against the floor with more pressure would send a meaningful signal to the carburetor. His heart gave a series of large beats and the cab nearly went dark.

Gabe shook his head and pounded his chest with his right fist. “Come on, damn it.” He looked in the rearview mirror again and leaned forward, closer to the mirror. The leading edge of the fog cut a diagonal across the freeway and sped off toward the west. Gabe squinted at the sudden increase in light intensity. The gas pedal remained on the floor until he could see he was putting distance between himself and the cloud, which was thinning into wisps in the distance. With a release of the accelerator, the speed dropped to just below one hundred. Best to get out of Thibideaux’s range for good.

He took a deep breath and leaned up farther. Once again, his pulse was evident in his neck and ears—fast, but regular. Either the effects of the adrenaline were receding or his mind was branching out from its single-minded focus, because the pain in his chest returned with each breath.

He reflected on his good fortune in having Wes’ powerful truck, more for its speed than for its comfort. As his heart rate eased downward, he slumped back into the seat and refocused on the drive. He’d be in Chicago sometime after midnight.

Although Gabe didn’t have to use his left leg to operate a clutch, the pain in his knee grew with each mile of the trip. His unchanging posture contributed, but mostly it was because he couldn’t take his pain pills. They made him too drowsy to drive. There was a positive benefit, however. He would be able to drive straight through to Chicago without worrying about falling asleep. The pain made sure of that.

Nearing Chicago, Gabe contracted a case of the yawns. He let his mind free wheel again. In accordance with his new driving strategy, he hadn’t received a single middle finger salute, even though more than a few drivers exceeded his speed enough to allow them to pass and disappear into the distance relatively quickly. What he found interesting was his reaction when he came upon a slower driver in thick traffic. If he happened to get boxed in, so he couldn’t pass right away, he felt the distinct sensation of impatience gnaw at him until he could get around the dawdler. He wasn’t moved to raise his middle finger, but he understood how some individuals of a different temperament would do so if they were in a hurry, like him, and the traffic wasn’t cooperative.

The closer he got to Chicago, the more the countryside reminded him it was running, full bore, into winter. At the start of the trip, only a few kinds of trees had bare branches or leaves in full fall hue. Now, all deciduous trees were totally devoid of leaves. In the Chicago area, the remnants of an early snow were piled low on the roadsides, partly melted into curved mounds of ice that had lost their virgin whiteness to the dinge of road dirt. And there was a change in air temperature—Gabe had to rely on the truck’s heating system for comfort. It was a good thing he brought his mummy-style sleeping bag. He planned to sleep away what remained of the night in the hospital parking lot again.

He pulled into the parking lot at ten minutes before two in the morning and found the same space he had used to sleep off his previous trip. This time, he had the luxury of climbing into the back seat, so he could stretch out without competing for space with the steering wheel. Ignoring the pain in his ribs, he kicked off his shoes and wrapped himself in the sleeping bag.

It zipped up so the only exposed part of his body was his face.

Earlier, when he had broken the outskirts of Chicago, he had turned up the heater so the cab of the truck was toasty-hot. A weather report on a local radio station had said the projected low for the area would be in the high thirties to low forties.

In the parking lot, the wind was moderate, and coming in from a direction that was blocked by the hospital building. Since daylight was only a few hours away, it wouldn’t be necessary to restart the vehicle to keep warm.

Gabe drifted off to sleep in a matter of minutes, but on the way, he once again had the distinct impression someone was staring at him from an upper floor window of the hospital. Dream or real, he saw the silhouette of a human figure in a third floor window.

The light of day came way too early, and the combination of the restricted room in the truck and the cold made Gabe extremely stiff. Bringing himself to a sitting position brought back the pain in his chest to a level he hadn’t experienced in the last two days. He fumbled for his watch, which he had placed in a storage compartment in one of the rear doors. Seven thirty. The more northern latitude brought daylight a little later, and sent it packing a little earlier in the day.

Anxious to see Father Costello, he started the truck, turned the heater to full hot, and drove back to the familiar McDonald’s where he freshened up and ate a little breakfast.

Back in the parking lot at nine, he was now comfortable in terms of his basic necessities, although the pain in his chest decreased only slightly, from incendiary to scorching.

Gabe made his way to the front doors of the hospital, the envelope with Father Costello’s notes tucked into his waistband. Even with all of his attention devoted to control of the crutches, he was still very awkward in their use. Fortunately, the snow remnants were restricted to the spaces between parking rows—the blacktop was devoid of ice.

Upon entering the foyer, the same overweight receptionist nodded to him with a friendly smile. Gabe had phoned ahead and set up the meeting this time, so he wouldn’t have to rely on a surprise phone call to gain admittance.

As he came closer, the smile on the receptionist’s face faded. “My Lord. What happened to you? You look terrible. Were you in some kind of accident?”

“It’s a long story. Can I go up and see the Father yet?” He didn’t slow his forward momentum.

The smile returned to the receptionist’s face. “Father Costello is in the same place as when you were here before. In fact, for some reason, he spent the entire night there last night.” Her tone turned to a friendly tease. “Do you think you can get through to him this time? If you do, I hope you bought a Lotto ticket. You get him to talk and I’ll want your numbers.” She chuckled a little too hard for Gabe to appreciate it as a joke.