Something Bad (41 page)

Gabe didn’t turn his head. “Don’t thank me. He was here for only a little bit. Now, he’s back where he wants to be. I doubt he’ll talk again until he passes.” He didn’t wait for a reaction. Even if there was one, he wouldn’t have heard it. He just ambled out toward the parking lot to head home.

Just outside the front doors, he met Doctors Ewing and Freedman, who were hurrying into the building, each carrying a heavy box full of something Gabe couldn’t see. Doctor Ewing nearly bumped into him on the way past as Doctor Freedman announced his approach, the arrogance thick.

“Get out of the way. We have to get these to Father Costello right away.”

Gabe swiveled the crutches toward Wes’ truck and let out a loud belly laugh. “A wild goose chase,” he said to the row of empty cars. “Good one, Father.”

He pulled himself behind the wheel of the truck and his mind turned to the matter at hand. The drive home would allow him time to think about a way to use the father’s information. There had to be a plan in there somewhere. If nothing else, the thinking would keep him alert and pass the time.

G
ABE DIRECTED
W
ES’
truck toward the freeway and headed south. Once clear of the crowded roadways of the Chicago area, he welcomed a newfound energy, driven by a mind that was ripe for commanding a solution to the Thibideaux problem. Over and over again, he ran through everything Father Costello had told him. He knew there was a weakness somewhere in Thibideaux’s plan. He just had to find it.

With his mind working in overdrive, Gabe had to occasionally redirect his attention to keep his driving speed down. Twice he looked down to see he was gong more than eighty-five miles per hour. Ordinarily, he would have lost his mental edge to fatigue around eight or nine in the evening, but his mind churned over the Father’s information at such a rapid rate, time flew by without a single downward head bob.

A road sign with mileage to several cities caught his attention. He wondered how he had managed to drive so far without it registering in his consciousness. Was there such a thing as sleep driving? Everyone drove through a green light and then wondered if it was really green, he thought. Same thing. If there were such a thing, the Guinness Book of World Records would have an entry. Maybe he had advanced the record.

Gabe’s mind found a crack and followed it. It led to a fracture, then a chasm—a potential idea for dealing with Thibideaux. He looked at his watch. It was two in the morning. He leaned up in the seat, energized. There would be no nodding off at the wheel for now.

He spent the next two hours in frontal lobe gymnastics, running through all of the various possible outcomes for his putative solution, like a chess player considering all potential scenarios radiating from a single move before advancing a game piece. When his abstract evaluation was complete, he nodded his head and patted the steering wheel. Got an outside chance of success. But I’ll need some help.

The elation over his discovery of a possible chink in Thibideaux’s armor, together with his repetitive imaginary rehearsal of the plan, held the advancing fatigue at bay until the sky changed from the deep purple of night to a royal blue that signaled the impending breech of the horizon by the sun. It was a little before six and Gabe estimated he was about two hours from home.

The last two hours of the trip were pure agony—a mental back-and-forth tennis match between consciousness and sleep. Unfortunately, the fatigue dulled the pain in Gabe’s chest and knee so even his violent head bobs didn’t trigger a twitch of pain to help him stay alert. He drove with all of the windows open wide and sang out loud to songs on the radio, whether he knew the words or not. With these tricks and a good bit of luck, he pulled up to the farmhouse a little past eight. He was welcomed by drapes that were opened by a family that was awake for the day, and the smell of bacon, eggs and coffee wafting from an open kitchen window. His fatigue had a worthy competitor in his hunger. A good meal would be a perfect springboard to sleep. He’d return Wes’ truck later.

Gabe’s welcome was a warm one, at least from the three residents of the farmhouse. In contrast, the welcome forwarded by the fog that enveloped the house carried a distinct chill. Gabe, Deena Lee and Wanna were conscious of the eavesdropping mist, so when Deena Lee inquired about the trip, there was no surprise by Gabe’s answer.

“The trip was fine, but I hate going to the Capitol. And having to deal with taxes made it downright painful. The only good thing was Wes letting me use his truck. It really helped my knee not having to work a clutch.”

The small talk was a prelude to Gabe’s full day of slumber. He didn’t know when the fog dissipated. He only knew that when he awoke, at four-thirty in the afternoon, it was gone.

During his sleep, Gabe was bothered by a nightmare that had visited his pillow before, but only in incomplete snippets. This time, however, he got the full tour.

He was surrounded by a billowing mist so vast he was dwarfed by its volume, and its density was so high only a dim light was available to gauge his surroundings, which seemed bare. But he didn’t feel fear. Instead, he had a churning sense of insignificance that made him feel smaller and smaller as the fog billowed around him. That had been the extent of the dreams until today.

In the latest edition, the mist began to clear overhead. He looked up. A vague outline of a face stared down at him. The haze continued to clear, and he saw the outline of a head, although the facial features were still indistinct, shadowy. With time, the features came more into focus, but his brain was slow to recognize them. He expected to see the uniquely distorted features of Thibideaux staring down at him, but they were different, overtly normal. Since the identity of the apparition was unexpected, it took longer than it should have for Gabe to recognize it. It was … his own face.

But something wasn’t right with it. Instead of the quiet confidence and kind countenance he usually saw in the mirror, the expression on the face above him was decidedly different. The look in its eyes was not one of truthfulness, but lies. The turns at the corners of its mouth didn’t speak of responsibility, but shouted deceit.

Gabe felt even more insignificant. The towering face of his recent self pressed his former self into a smaller and smaller corner of his universe. He realized that for the last several months, ever since Thibideaux moved into Boyston, he was seldom totally honest with anyone. He was either telling a half-truth, hiding something, or all-out lying to one or more people. Before Thibideaux’s arrival, he was always honest, sometimes brutally so, but now it seemed the lying Gabe was trying to elbow the truthful Gabe into the background.

The feeling of insignificance faded, replaced by a sense of losing control. Unfortunately, the dream was an open ended one. The face never fully cleared in his vision, and the feeling of shrinking in its presence continued unabated. There was no conclusion—no end to the shrinkage, and no way out. There was no death in the dream. It was worse. It was the curse of an eternal sensation of helplessness. Just like Father Costello.

Gabe awoke with a feeling of frustration. Not only did he remember the dream, he sensed the danger posed by the “other” Gabe and its desire to take over his personality. But he had no choice now. He had to continue the lies and deceit a little while longer. To try to defeat Thibideaux, even if the battle turned him to Thibideaux’s ways. The end would justify the means. Wouldn’t it?

Suppertime was subdued in the Petersen household. The farmhouse was once again shrouded in a thick fog, and little Cory Dean was preoccupied with the pain of colic. Because of his recent lack of sleep, both Deena Lee and Wanna were reduced to the quiet of fatigue, their normally sharp curiosity replaced by what seemed to be apprehension. Probably due to the prospect of yet another rough night.

After eating, Gabe excused himself and headed for the phone in the living room. He parted the drapes. The fog was there. He didn’t have the luxury of relaxation—the baptism was only three days away. His first call was to Wes Worthing. He’d return the truck tomorrow morning, around eleven. Wes was glad to hear his truck, and Gabe, had returned safely. Gabe then dialed the number of Reverend Sather. As the Reverend answered, Gabe moved the curtains aside to verify the fog was still surrounding the house.

“Reverend? It’s Gabe. I was wondering if I could talk with you about the baptism. I need to know if the ceremony can be changed a bit.”

The Reverend’s voice didn’t carry its usual cheery tone. “Of course. The ceremony is flexible. I can add some things or change some things around, but I can’t eliminate any of the basic components of the rite. What do you have in mind?”

Once again, Gabe glanced out the window. “It’s kind of complex. I’d like to talk about it in person. Can you meet me at the Herndon’s Edge for lunch tomorrow? Around eleven-thirty?”

The Reverend paused. “Eleven thirty will be fine. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?” He seemed to be fishing.

“No. Thank you.” Gabe hurried off the phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Gabe and family spent the early evening watching television sit-coms, but the underlying tension in the room, coming from all corners, reduced their responses to most of the jokes to muffled titters. Deena Lee was first to excuse herself—she had to put Cory Dean down and then head directly to bed. To keep their conversation quiet, Wanna came over and sat down on the couch next to Gabe.

“Gabe, you all right? You’re looking really tired. I don’t suppose you want to tell me what’s been going on?”

Gabe’s head snapped around to the window. The fog was still there.

“I’m okay. I just got a lot on my mind right now. Give me a week or so and I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll know more myself in a few days. Until then, I just need you to be understanding. Can you trust me on that?”

“Does it have anything to do with taxes? We all right with the farm?”

“Yeah. That’s part of it. But the farm’s fine.” He felt the growing insignificance of his dreams. “It should work itself out this weekend.”

After Wanna went to bed, Gabe mentally regurgitated every part of his plan, once again measuring all possible outcomes. He needed to be in motion so he paced a circular path around the floor while his mind kept pace, lap for lap. He didn’t go to bed until two-thirty—about the same time Cory Dean awoke crying for the third time. Which of the two men in the house was in the most pain was difficult to judge.

There was one other person in the Tri-counties who collected less sleep than Gabe, and that was Reverend Sather. With what Wes had told him, he was desperate to find out what was troubling Gabe.

G
ABE PULLED INTO
the Herndon’s Edge parking lot at eleven fifteen. He was glad to have his old, familiar truck back, despite the pain of operating the clutch. The swelling in his knee was coming down, and with it, the discomfort was subsiding. The brace limited his mobility, but stabilized the knee so he could walk with a cane instead of the demon crutches.

Gabe blinked at the bright sky. It was clear in all directions, all the way to the horizon. He pushed through the door of the Edge and scanned the bar and booths. Reverend Sather was seated in a booth by the front window, far from any regulars at the bar. Gabe called out a generic greeting and made his way to the booth and a smiling Reverend Sather.

“Good morning, Gabe. I’m glad to see you’re getting around better. I heard about your altercation. Those people will be dealt with sooner or later.” He motioned for Gabe to sit across from him.

“I’m glad about it myself,” Gabe said as he lowered himself into the booth. “The crutches were hurting my armpits so bad the knee pain was nothing. You hungry? I’m buying.”