Mine (22 page)

She read what he’d written, and while she had never heard of the name, she wasn’t surprised by the kind of place it was.

GENESEE MENTAL CARE FACILITY

“How long?” Leah asked.

Lips trembling, Mrs. Hurst said, “Our boy has been there for nine and a half years.”

F
IFTY-TWO

T
HE GENESEE MENTAL
Care Facility was located outside Flagstaff in northern Arizona. If Leah were to leave right then, she could be there by midnight. But with what little sleep she’d gotten the night before, she’d likely doze off behind the wheel. So she opted to pick up some food and take a room at the Holiday Inn.

By three p.m., she’d fallen asleep on the bed, a half-eaten burger in her hand and the TV on. Spurred by the Hurst’s pictures, she dreamed of the day she and the other kids had headed to Camp Red Hawk. She found herself searching for Joel, though in reality she hadn’t met him yet. Each time she caught a glimpse of him, other kids would move in her way, and when she looked again, he’d be gone.

“I’m here,” she heard him call, his soft voice floating over the cacophony of shouts and laughs and screams of excitement.

She again saw him for a second and again he disappeared.

“I’m here,” he said.

She whirled around and headed the other way, spotting him by bus number three.

“I’m here,” he said after he vanished again.

“I’m here.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m here.”

As she drifted toward consciousness, the dream faded but her frustration at not reaching him stayed with her.

Light from the TV flickered through the room while outside it was dark. Feeling something wet and sticky on her arm, she raised it and saw it was streaked with mustard and ketchup from the burger.

She groaned in disgust, balled up the remains of her meal in the wrapper, and swung her legs off the bed.

That’s when she saw Joel sitting in a chair by the wall.

F
IFTY-THREE

Joel

2 days before

L
EAH’S WORDS ECHOED
in Joel’s head as he ran through
the desert.

“Help me find out why we are the way we are.”

The idea was crazy. Whatever caused them to turn into the freaks they’d become was in their past and long gone. Even if it wasn’t, what would it matter if they could find the source? It wasn’t like they’d change back to who they’d been and get to live the lives they were supposed to have lived.

“Mike needs our help.”

Shut up.

“You can’t turn your back on him.”

Shut up.

“Help me find out why. Help me find out why. Help me find out why.”

Shut up!

He increased his pace, running faster than he’d ever run, the dirt flying beneath his feet. He must have gone two or three miles before he stopped. Hands on his thighs, he sucked in the cool air.

Why couldn’t Leah have left him alone? He’d created a path for his life that was working just fine without her interference.

Okay, maybe not fine, but it
was
working. He wasn’t dead or rotting in jail. He’d call that a win.

He took another breath and straightened up. Ahead, car lights lit the night here and there, a connect-the-dots map of a nearby highway. He started moving toward them.

No, it’s not a win
, a voice in his head chided.
What you’re doing is barely surviving.

Though the voice was right, he wasn’t sure he knew anymore how to live another way.

When he reached the road, he stuck out a thumb. It took nearly twenty minutes, but finally a three-axle moving van swung onto the shoulder. Joel jogged over and jumped onto the running board outside the passenger door.

“
Gracias
,” he said through the partially open window.

Two men were inside, one maybe in his twenties, and the driver closer to forty.

“Where are you going, my friend?” the driver asked.

“Nearest big city.”

“We’re heading to Monterrey. Big enough for you?”

North was not the direction Joel preferred, but he wasn’t going to be choosy. “Plenty big enough.”

“Climb in.”

The young guy scooted into the middle and Joel hopped inside.

“I’m Arturo,” the driver said as he pulled the truck back onto the highway, and then nodded at his companion. “This is Jorge.”

“Joel. I really appreciate the ride.”

“You Mexican?” Jorge asked, eyeing him as if he already knew the answer.

“No.”

“Your Spanish is really good,” Arturo said. “Where you from?”

“California.” It was true enough.

“I thought maybe Texas,” the driver said. “But a lot of Mexicans in California, too, I know.”

“Yeah.”

“I have a cousin in Los Angeles,” Jorge said. “You from Los Angeles?”

“Closer to San Francisco.”

“Oh, San Francisco.” The young guy smiled and then said in strained English, “Golden Gate Bridge.”

“That’s right,” Joel told him.

They had a few more question about the States, but none asking the obvious—what was Joel doing out on the highway at that time of night alone? But Joel was tired and mentally drained, so he was just glad it didn’t come up. Eventually, the conversation stalled, and the ensuing silence was filled by the rhythm of the tires humming against the road.

Joel leaned against the door and stared out into the darkness. It was a quiet night, no one within a couple of miles of them on their side of the highway and few cars passing them on the other, so it wasn’t surprising that he was lulled to sleep.

It was the missing bounce of road and rumble of engine that woke him.

After opening his eyes, he had a split second to notice he was alone in the cab before painful stings screamed at him from the knuckles of his right hand. Glancing down, he saw each was scraped and bleeding. As he raised his hand to get a closer look, the wounds disappeared.

His head drooped. “Great,” he muttered.

He checked his body for any other injuries, but found none. That was confusing. These days it wasn’t often that he’d have such a mild premonition.

Outside the night was as dark as it had been when he’d climbed into the truck. He looked out the side window, thinking maybe they’d stopped for food or fuel or to take a leak, but there was just the endless dark.

He reached down to grab his bag, intending to climb out and stretch his legs, but his bag was gone. He felt around to see if it had moved under the seat, but the space wasn’t big enough. Angry now, he almost threw his door open, but caution took hold before he could, and he released the latch silently.

He snuck around the front of the truck and saw his bag wasn’t the only thing missing. The highway was gone, too, the road he was on now made of dirt.

The glow of a flashlight at the back of the truck caught his attention. He crept to the rear corner and took a peek.

Jorge stood a dozen feet away, his flashlight trained on a pile of stuff on the ground.

Joel’s stuff.

Joel took a step into the open. “What’s going on?”

“Where do you keep your money?” the young guy asked as if it were an everyday question.

“What?”

Behind him, Arturo said, “Your money, where is it?”

As Joel spun around, a fist slammed into his face.

He staggered against the truck. Before he could regain his balance, Jorge swung the business end of a shovel into his gut.

Down Joel went, his head bouncing off the ground, dazing him enough that he couldn’t react in time to block Jorge’s foot from slamming into his ribs.

Hands moved over his body, patting down his clothes.

No
, he thought as one neared the concealed pouch at the bottom of his pant leg where he kept his passport, bank cards, and money.

Yelling in fury, he lunged to his feet and tried to grab Arturo by the shirt, but the son of a bitch scrambled out of reach and ran around the back of the vehicle. Joel whirled the other way, ready to take on Jorge, but the guy was already running toward the truck’s cab. Apparently they didn’t mind a little fight if they were in control, but otherwise they weren’t interested.

He could have chased them down but he let them go, and was soon watching the truck’s taillights bouncing away. Eventually the lights flared, and the truck made a ninety-degree turn onto what Joel guessed was the highway. At least they’d done him the courtesy of showing him where to go.

It was well after midnight when he reached the paved road. His head had mostly cleared, but his ribs still ached, and the cheek that Arturo had cut his own knuckles on hurt when touched. Nothing felt broken, though.

At that late hour, he assumed it would be impossible to find a ride. So he walked along the shoulder and made only halfhearted attempts to flag down the few cars that drove by.

He’d been walking for nearly two hours when an old rattling sedan stopped. In the front was an elderly couple, shrunken by time so that the man, who was driving, could barely see over the wheel. In the back, a sleeping child took up half the seat.

“Our great-granddaughter,” the woman said with pride as Joel climbed in.

“We will pass through Monterrey so we can drop you wherever you want,” the man said.

“Thank you.”

They pulled back onto the road.

“You’re hurt,” the woman said. “Your face.”

“I fell. I’ll be fine.”

She fumbled around and then handed him a cloth and a bottle of water. “We don’t have any ice but this should help. Wet it and keep it on your cheek.”

“Thank you.”

When he’d been riding in the truck, he’d been thinking he would catch a bus back to Mexico City from Monterrey, and then fly south to Brazil or Argentina or perhaps Chile.

But who was he kidding?

Help me find out why we are the way we are.

His nomad life had only been a placeholder. All this time he’d been waiting for Leah and he hadn’t even known it.

The sun was starting to rise as they pulled to the curb at the airport.

“Thank you,” Joel said. He started to get out, but then stopped. “Could you do me another favor?”

“If we can,” the woman said.

Joel pulled the envelope he’d found at the mechanic’s office out of his bag, sealed it, and then handed it and a business card for the hotel in San Ernesto to the woman. “If you could mail this to the address on the card, I’d appreciate it.” He pulled out some money and gave it to her.

“This is too much,” she said.

“For your kindness,” he told her, and climbed out.

F
IFTY-FOUR

Leah

Now

L
EAH SAID, “HOW
did you find me?”

Joel said, “How did you find
me
?”

She moved to him as he moved to her, and they fell into each other’s arms.

THE THREE WHO RETURNED

F
IFTY-FIVE

The Translator/Mike

T
HE TRANSLATER WOKE,
dizzy and frightened.

Something was…different.

Worried that the Beast had somehow freed itself, the Translator turned in his bed but kept his eyelids closed enough to look like he was still asleep. His roommate, however, was strapped to its own bed like normal, mouth slack.

Cautiously, the Translator sat up and scanned the room. No one was there, and yet he felt another’s presence.

Maybe under the beds
.
Maybe. Maybe.

He leaned down and searched the netherworld beneath his mattress. Nothing. He twisted around and scanned under the Beast’s bed. Nothing there either.

He sat back up, confused. There was no clock in the room, but he always knew the precise hour and minute and second. He could feel the information packets processing in the back of his mind, each marked with a time notation to better serve the Reclaimer. Though the time designations were different from those he’d been taught growing up, he’d long before learned how to equate the two.

Why am I up? Why? Why?
Do I have to pee?

He pressed a hand over his bladder.

No. No pee. Not for several hours yet. Then what is it? What is it?

He climbed out of bed, shuffled to the door, and peered out the rectangular window. As always, half the hallway lights had been turned off for the night. He looked left and right, squishing his cheek against the glass so he could see as far as possible. Not a soul in sight.

Turning back to the room, his gaze landed on the window.
There
.
Yes, yes. There.

He crept over to it and peered down at the parking area behind the building.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Eight cars.

Some nights there were as few as six while others had as many as ten. Never more, never less. Eight was good. Eight was right. Eight was in the middle.

So not the cars, then. No, no, not the cars. The trees?

Behind the parking lot was a grove of pines, the closest trees partially illuminated by the lot’s security lamps. He looked around, not sure what he was searching for.

Something moved. Not in the trees but back in the parking area, in his peripheral vision. He had
excellent
peripheral vision. Whatever it had been, though, had stopped. Everything looked the same as before.

It was there. I know it. I know it. I’m not seeing things. It was there.

The longer he couldn’t spot the culprit, the more frustrated he became.

“Where?” he spat under his breath.