Blink & Caution (24 page)

“My family wasn’t all that religious,” she says. “I sort of know what purgatory is, but . . .”

“It’s like this big chill-out,” says Blink. “God is so pure, he can’t look on any evil — not even the tiniest of sins. That’s what my mother used to say. So even if you’ve been this totally good person all your life, you’re probably not good enough for heaven. So you have to hang out in purgatory for whatever — a million years or two — to clean up your act.”

A weak smile lights up his brown eyes. “Just because I didn’t pay attention in geography,” he says, “doesn’t mean I don’t know where purgatory is.”

“Yeah?”

“Grew up there. I mean, my mother was living in it already. And I guess the idea rubbed off on me.”

Kitty doesn’t speak. There was more to say . . . or was there? What good was talking, anyway? Then she feels his eyes on her again and realizes that she likes it. Likes him checking on her, like a patient in a hospital who wakes up from time to time and there’s someone sitting beside her bed.

“Is that sort of the place you feel you’re in?”

“Maybe,” she says. “Walking around, waiting for someone to tell me,
Oh, by the way, you’re dead.
”

She glances quickly at him, her eyes uneasy, as if maybe he’s the messenger with the news. But instead of saying anything, he reaches out and touches her again, softly on the arm. And this time she places her hand on his, squeezes it but not too tight.

There is kindness in his face: all that hope brimming in his eyes! But then the person who would finally tell her she was dead probably would be an angel, she thinks.

“Are you the one?” she says.

“What?”

“You know. Like I said.”

He screws up his face. “The one who’s going to tell you you’re dead?”

She frowns. “I guess not,” she says.

“Well, don’t sound too disappointed.”

She smiles and lets go of his hand.

“I’m sort of in the same boat,” he says. “I mean, I feel like I’m not anywhere.”

He tells her how he felt up there on the sixteenth floor of the Plaza Regent, as if none of what he was seeing was really happening — none of it real.

“I had this dream the other night that instead of throwing me the room key, the guy named Tank actually noticed me standing in the ice room and shot me.”

“Exactly!” says Kitty. “That’s what I meant.”

“And everything after that was just trying to, you know, come to grips with being dead.”

“I know. Which would explain why we’d come across a road with your name on it,” she says. “If it were true, I mean. Like we’re actually driving to somewhere that doesn’t exist on a mission that can’t be completed. That’s purgatory maybe.”

Then Kitty slaps the steering wheel. “Welcome to my world,” she says. They bump fists.

“So we keep going, right?” he says.

“Why?” she says.

“Until we find a road with your name on it.”

A road with her name on it. Right. Keep your eyes peeled, she tells herself. But instead of Pettigrew Road, there don’t seem to be any more roads at all, other than the one they’re on.

Then the voice of the dashboard lady startles them both.

“Bear left, five kilometers.”

H
ighlands. The word comes to you, like a word you know but never had the chance to use before because there aren’t any highlands in the city. And so even though the sun is halfway down the western sky, you feel that as long as you keep climbing, it will never get dark. You can see so far. And there’s another word that you never had much use for in the city. Far.

But the dashboard lady is finished now. She’s given her last directive. There are no maps of this place in the GPS unit.Probably no cell service, either. You’re on your own. And even though Alyson warned you this would happen, it feels spooky, after the discussion you’ve been having with Kitty.

The forest seems to close in, and those highland glimpses of a far horizon are soon enough lost.

“About twenty minutes after we pass through Snow Road, we’re supposed to come to this broken-down log cabin on a rocky rise high up on the right.”

“There are tons of broken-down log cabins,” says Kitty.

“Yeah, but this one has a tree growing right through the middle of it.”

Kitty starts to slow down. “Whoa, what did you say?”

“Alyson told me there’s a tree growing through —”

“I heard that. But she hasn’t been here since she was — what’d you say? Eleven?”

“I know. That’s what I said —‘You remembered this from when you were eleven?’”

“And she said . . .”

“She got all kind of shifty looking, then told me she had been here again. This summer. On a little adventure — that’s what she said — with some guy.”

“Ah, poor Blink,” says Kitty. “You’re taking it pretty well.”

“Cut it out,” you say. “She’s so not my type.”

You both laugh.

“A total Ice Queen,” you say, and are about to go on when Kitty interrupts you.

“There,” she says. And up on a rise is the landmark in question: a cabin pierced by the thick trunk and heavy branches of a giant oak.

“Okay,” you say, excited now. “It’s about five hundred meters on the left.” You sit forward, your hands on the dash. “And we’re supposed to take it really slow when we turn off, because the entrance dips down real steep.”

“Got it,” says Kitty, “and there’ll be this small army waiting for us.”

You peer to the left and right. “They must be hiding real good.”

She slows down but doesn’t stop — drives right by the turnoff.

“Hey!” you shout.

“Shh!” she says.

“But you missed —”

“I didn’t miss anything,” she snaps. She’s crawling now, her eyes flitting to the rearview mirror, although there hasn’t been any traffic for ages.

“What are you doing?” you say to her, looking back as you round a long, slow bend. Your turnoff disappears behind you.

“I thought you said you were going to play this your way,” she says. “So that’s what I’m doing. We’ll find our own place to park, okay?”

You nod. Alyson had told you exactly what to look for, exactly where to go. And you’d trusted her because she had cried. You’re still sure she wasn’t lying to you, but Kitty is right. You know that, as well.

There is another turnoff on the left not so far along. She pauses at the lip of the hill, surveying the scene before her. You want her to hurry up, but you know she’s right. Be patient, boy.

She groans. “Well, here goes nothing,” she says. Then she eases the Jeep down the steep and rutted entranceway.

There is a sign nailed to a tree:
TUMBLE ROAD
.

“Hey,” you say. “It’s the same name she told me. Weird.”

“Yeah, so that other turnoff and this one are the same road, which is good. Because we’re like a good country mile from where they’re expecting us.”

“No one is expecting us.”

“Fine. But I’m a lot happier here, if that’s okay with you.”

She isn’t really asking, so you keep your mouth shut.

She drives slowly now, looking for someplace to pull off. Light glints through the trees in an eerie way — too bright — like there’s a
Close Encounters
mother ship over there, just landed in the forest. It’s not sunset yet, but the two of you are wrapped in shadows. Then you come to a rough cleared place, and she veers right into the brush, so that it rubs against the sides of the car. You instinctively pull your arms in tight against your sides. It’s like panhandlers all around the vehicle bending down to look inside.

She maneuvers the car until it is facing out onto Tumble Road but pretty well hidden. Then she stops and turns off the ignition. You catch the time on the dashboard just as the lights go out.

“It’s not even five,” you say. “We’ve got lots of time.”

“I hope so, because there’s not going to be any moon.”

“Really?”

She shakes her head. “Trust me. And you’re not going to want to be stuck in bush this dense after dark.”

You stare straight ahead at an impenetrable wall of green. “So we’d better get a move on, right?”

She nods, her face all business. But neither of you move. And the quietness rushes into the Jeep.

“No army,” you say, but you whisper it.

“Not so far,” she says.

You climb out, close the doors quietly. She pockets the key.

“No one should be able to see the car,” you whisper.

“I guess,” she says. “But I wish the damn thing were green.”

You’re still a ways from the turnoff, and then it’s another kilometer to the lodge, according to Alyson’s directions. You walk in the eerie silence along Tumble Road. Then you stop and without saying a word point ahead. Kitty nods; she’s seen it, too, about a hundred meters ahead: another turnoff. And beyond it is a clearing where an old tractor sits. The tractor is ancient, with metal wheels and spokes — an overgrown antique sitting in a clearing. That’s where you were supposed to park. She pulls you into the bush. You watch and wait. You make a move to go, and she stops you, her finger on her lips. You do as she says. You are in her territory now.

Finally, she gives the go-ahead. You make your way to the new road that goes off to the right.

Private Road says the sign nailed to a tree trunk. No Exit. It has no other name. The road is downhill, a long, slow decline. There are many turns, a winding path, sandy, with soft-looking grass growing between the tracks and everything covered with pine needles. There are alien fluorescent orange toad stools.

Kitty suddenly stops.

“What?” you whisper. But she doesn’t answer, just stares into the bush and up into the canopy. You follow her gaze. See nothing.

You remember what she said about wolves and bears up where she was from. You’re not sure how far that is from here, but these woods look like they’re jam-packed with carnivores. Who knows what’s in there, you think: cougars, wildcats, a madman with a hockey mask and machete.

You want to get this job done, climb back into the safety of that yellow Jeep, open up a bag of SunChips, and beat it back down to Kingston — mission accomplished. Instead, you pick up the pace. You have no idea how long this road is, but before you know it you’re running.

Suddenly you’re aware of being alone.

You stop and turn around. Kitty has fallen behind. She’s leaning against a tree, not casually but as if the tree is holding her up. You head back. She’s breathing hard.

“Are you okay?” you whisper right up close to her ear.

She shakes her head. “We could lie,” she says. “We could just turn around and head back. Tell the Ice Queen the place was empty. Take the money and run.”

You think about it. Now that you’re here, the whole thing is a lot scarier. But you shake your head. “Yeah, but then there’s no way we can make any
big
money. We only get three hundred measly bucks.”

“Don’t be so greedy,” she says. She’s looking scared, and that scares you because she doesn’t seem the type.

“What is it?” you say. Something is eating her.

She looks around. She rubs her hands up and down her thighs.

“This place,” she says. “I don’t know . . .”

“If we see anything, we split,” you say.

“It’s not that,” she says. “Listen.”

So you listen. “I don’t hear anything,” you say.

“Exactly,” she says. “No birds. No animals. Nothing.”

You touch her arm, and she shrinks from you. “Kitty,” you say, pleading a bit. “Don’t cack out on me now. We’ve got to find out for sure.” And right then — right that very instant — you think you hear laughter. You listen hard. You’re sure you heard something.

Was it your imagination? Or was it the Captain, having a good laugh? Funny how you haven’t thought about him in . . . well, pretty much since you met Kitty. But now that she’s gone all psycho on you, he’s back, just like that.

“It’s not natural. The quiet,” she says. Then she seems to snap out of it. She stares hard at you, and then she smiles. The fear is still there, but she’s smiling through it. “I won’t let you down,” she says. And for some reason, that only makes it worse. But you nod.

“I’ll hang back,” she says. “But I won’t desert you.”

You feel weak. You hadn’t realized how much you were depending on her. Breathe, Blink. Get on with it, boy.

You wipe the hair out of your eyes and head down the road. When you’ve gone another fifty strides or so, you look back and she’s following at a distance. Covering your back.

You round a bend, and there it is. You see it, kind of blurred, through the trees, just the jutting angle of the roof at first, a glint of last sunlight off a window. Then the road rounds one last bend, and there’s this big clearing and the lodge about sixty meters down the hill over on your right. You pull back into the shadows. Hide behind a tree.

The lodge is massive, two stories high, built from dark logs with white caulking between them. The roof is steeply pitched, and there are three, four, five gables on this side and a tall stone chimney stack but no smoke coming out of it. Beyond the lodge there’s a bay with a thick fringe of bulrushes, the dark green of water. The bay opens up onto a wide lake, almost black but with long smears of orange-and-pink sunset, and beyond that, a long way off, the silhouette of the far shore.