Valley of the Shadow (14 page)

    Conner swallowed. “No, he’s . . . he’s back. He flew in a few days ago.”

    “Well, talk to him. Tell him you’re ready. He’ll give you something.”

    “Yeah . . . I will. I’ll mention something to him.”

    “You are ready, aren’t you?”

    “Sure. Yeah.”

    Conner knew he had to change the subject, and quick. He couldn’t talk about work. Not now. He’d never be able to hide his frustration over what had happened. Or his discomfort. Marta would sniff that out in a heart—

    “What’s wrong?” Marta’s eyes narrowed.

    “What?” Conner looked up, tried his best to seem nonchalant. He cleared his throat. “Nothing’s wrong.”

    Marta wasn’t buying. “Connie, what happened?”

    Conner caught Rachel’s eyes darting back and forth like she was watching a tennis match. He forced a laugh. “What makes you think—?”

    “Connie…”

    “Nothing’s wrong.” Conner put down his fork and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He could feel Marta’s gaze but did his best to avert it . . . without looking like he was trying to avert it.

    After several tortuous moments of silence, Conner took a breath. “Well, I did talk to Henry today.…”

    “So what happened? Wait . . .” Marta leaned forward. “You didn’t tell him what you told me this morning, did you?”

    Rachel glanced at Marta. “Tell him what?”

    “Actually,” Conner said, “he called me into his office.”

    “And you told him?” Marta gaped. “Everything?”

    “Told him what?”

    Conner hated when Marta wore him down like this. It was like she was the lawyer and he was the hapless defendant. “I didn’t intend to at first. But he said people were complaining that I was acting like a zealot, and—”

    “A zealot? They said you were acting like a zealot? You’ve only been back a couple weeks!”

    “—so I had to defend myself. I had to tell him.”

    Rachel slapped her palm on the table. “Tell him what?”

    Conner rubbed his eyes. He was tired and on edge at the same time. Part of him badly wanted to sleep, but another part felt like jumping up from the table and doing something. Anything.

    He looked at Rachel. “There was more to my . . . my heart attack than I told you about.”

    “More?” Rachel blinked. “What do you mean?”

    “I mean there was more to my experience . . . y’know, when I was dying. More that I saw and did.” Conner bit his lip. “A lot more.”

    Rachel looked at Marta. “Did you know about this?”

    Marta shrugged. “I just found out this morning.”

    Rachel’s head swiveled back to Conner. “Well, what happened? Why didn’t you tell us before?”

    “Sweetie, it’s all very bizarre and creepy. And frankly I was afraid I was going crazy.”

    “So is that why you went to see Pastor Lewis this afternoon?”

    Marta straightened up. “What?”

    “Wh-what?” Conner stammered. “Where’d you hear that?”

    “Well . . . ,” Rachel began with some hesitation. “When I got home from school, Mrs. Lewis called—must’ve been while you were on your way home. She said you had left your Bible there. I guess I forgot to tell you.”

    “Nice,” Conner grunted.

    Marta leaned forward. “You went to see Pastor Lewis without me?”

    Conner found himself searching for words. Was this God keeping him honest? Or was it just His idea of a joke? “Look, I was a little frustrated with everything that happened, so I decided maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just visit for a bit.”

    “Without me?”

    Conner stood. He could feel his defensiveness giving way to anger. “Yes.” His voice grew sharp and he leaned over the table. “Yes, I went without you. I wanted to talk to him. Man-to-man. Okay? And you know what? I told him everything too. I figured, why not let the whole world know I’m going crazy? Why not let them all think I’m nuts?”

    He left the dining room, snatched his keys from the kitchen counter, and headed for the front door.

    “Where are you going?” Marta called after him. “Don’t get mad.”

    “I’m not mad,” Conner huffed. “I just need to go out for a bit.”

    “Where are you going?”

    “Out.”

    His anxiety was growing, like a pot coming to a boil. He found he couldn’t sit still any longer. He felt as if he’d just taken an IV of pure caffeine. The sense of frustration that had been gnawing at him earlier was now overwhelming, and he couldn’t keep it bottled up anymore. He was tired of just sitting around. Waiting for answers. Waiting for God. He had to get out of the house. He had to do something.

    And he knew exactly what it was.

MITCH’S SHOULDERS SLUMPED
as he watched the milk truck roll to a squeaking halt at the intersection. Howard climbed out, tugged off his cap, and wiped his forehead with a bandanna from his pocket, a slight smirk on his face.

    What was the old man doing here? How did he know which direction Mitch had gone?

    “Mitch!” Howard called out, peering into the grocery store and then over at the garage.

    Mitch instinctively ducked back from the window.

    “I know you’re here. What . . . you get one of them Harleys? You got the itch to ride again?”

    Mitch inched forward so he could just glance through the window without being seen.

    Howard kept on. “I don’t think you’ve thought this through, Mitch. Whutch you gonna do come nightfall? Build a campfire? You think that’s gonna keep you safe?”

    Mitch remained still. Maybe the guy would get tired and go home. Maybe he just wanted to say his piece.

    Howard’s pleasant expression began to turn sour. His voice grew harsh. “I opened my home to you, boy. I saved you. Gave you shelter and food. And this is how you repay me? Where would you be without me, huh? Where would you be?”

    Mitch could see Howard glaring at the gas station, his forehead gnarled up in a frown. He waited a moment longer, then turned back to the truck. “I can’t be responsible for what happens to you now,” he said as he climbed into the cab. “You keep on this path and you’re on your own.” He slammed the door and leaned his head out the window. “You hear me? You are on your own!”

    The truck chugged to life. Gears ground as the vehicle lurched forward into the parking lot of the grocery store. Howard turned it around and pulled onto the road, back the way he had come.

    The truck growled off into the distance and within seconds, silence returned. Inside the garage, Mitch breathed a sigh.

    Obviously there was something wrong with Howard. Something Mitch hadn’t seen before—or refused to see. Maybe he was still angry that Mitch had ruined his pickup. Maybe he was mad that he’d have to siphon gas by himself from now on. Or maybe…

    Maybe he was just afraid to be alone.

    A gust of wind rattled the big bay door of the garage with a soft moan. Almost like a whisper.

    Someone was standing in the shadows of the garage. Mitch’s hands were sweating. His heart pounded. “What do you want?”

    A voice replied, “Do you have any idea what kind of embarrassment you are to me?”

    The figure stepped out of the shadows, but Mitch had known who it was as soon as he’d heard the voice.

    “Just leave me alone, Dad.”

    His father ignored him. “Why can’t you act like a normal kid? Why does everything have to revolve around you?” He held out a piece of paper. He had that wild-eyed look. Lips all puckered, nostrils flared.

    Mitch rolled his eyes. “What now?”

    “Smoking marijuana?” His father’s eyes were red but fierce. He rattled the paper in the air. “It’s bad enough that you can’t get along with anyone there, but now you’re smoking pot? Do you have any idea what the press will do with this?”

    Mitch frowned. He remembered this conversation. He was sixteen. His first year at St. Anthony’s. He’d been kicked out of every other private school his father had stuck him in. Fighting with students. Disrespect for faculty. Mitch had hated the uniforms, the rules, and the snobbery.

    So his old man had finally enrolled him in a Catholic school. And this was worse than all the others. Mitch hated the teachers, the nuns and priests. They creeped him out more than anything. Mitch didn’t trust any of them.

    And he couldn’t stand the other kids. His stomach churned at just the thought of going to school every day. The creepy building. The musty rooms. Mitch had to do something to calm himself down. So he’d sneak a few drinks from his father’s liquor cabinet in the morning. Scotch, bourbon, Grey Goose, and a variety of wines. He always made sure he never drank too much from any one bottle. And after a while he had actually become a bit of a connoisseur.

    Then he met Sonja Belotti in his sophomore year. Her parents were rich and divorced and tossed her between them like a hot potato. Neither one seemed to want her for very long. She was a bleach blonde with crystal blue eyes who wore tight jeans and black T-shirts. Mitch fell for her hard the moment he first saw her.

    And Sonja was every bit his match at getting in trouble. She was the one who had taken his virginity and his heart. Though really, Mitch had given both to her freely and eagerly. And she was the one who had first introduced him to pot.

    “You think this is funny?” His father’s voice broke into Mitch’s thoughts.

    Mitch found he’d been smiling. It quickly turned into a scowl. “No. I think you’re pathetic.”

    Mitch’s father strode toward him, holding the paper in front of him, shaking it. “You think I’m paying for you to goof off and get high? I’ve got news for you, kid. You are going to straighten up or so help me, I’ll—”

    “Shut up!” Mitch punched his palms into the man’s chest, throwing him back across the garage. “You think I’m afraid of you anymore? I’m not afraid of you!”

    Mitch’s teeth were clenched so tightly his jaws ached. Rage boiled up inside him as he lunged after his father. But he stopped suddenly, staring into the shadows of the empty garage. His chest heaved.

    They were doing it to him again. Messing with his mind. Throwing these hallucinations at him and probably watching how he would react. Maybe they were off somewhere watching him on a monitor, laughing their heads off.

    Mitch shook his head. His anger and frustration were building, but now he had nowhere to direct it. He swore at the shadows of the garage.

    His tirade was cut short by a thunderous noise outside. The monstrous roaring he’d heard before. Part beast, part machine, and unlike anything Mitch had ever known. He spun around to see an enormous black shadow sweep past the bay door windows, around the side of the building, out of sight.

    Mitch scrambled to the window to get a glimpse outside. He had to get out of here. If that thing had found him, he’d be a sitting duck in the garage.

    The building shuddered as something pounded the roof. Mitch could hear the joists and rafters cracking. Dust and dirt poured down as a second blow shook the building. He slid open the bay door and ran back to his bike.

    Another explosive bellow blasted from outside.

    Mitch thumbed the starter and kicked the bike into gear as a huge black limb crashed down through the roof in a shower of metallic and wooden debris. He jerked the throttle and squealed out of the garage, onto the road. Mitch glanced in the mirror to see the black creature huddled over the gas station, one of its arms jammed through the roof.

    He turned forward in time to see a flash of light coming right at him. He ducked instinctively as something like a large flare streaked over his head, leaving a trail of smoke tracing behind it. Mitch swerved the bike, skidding to a halt. He glanced over his shoulder as the flash impacted with the creature. A moment later came a burst of light and a thunderous explosion as the creature disintegrated—along with the gas station—in a billowing plume of fire. Chunks of concrete and glowing metal shot up and outward.

    The shock wave knocked Mitch off his bike and sent him rolling onto the asphalt. He covered his head as flaming debris rained down across the entire town. His ears rang with a dull hum. He fought for breath, feeling like he’d been socked in the ribs with a bowling ball.

    Groggy and disoriented, Mitch struggled to his knees. But he felt the ground shifting beneath him. The ringing in his ears began to fade and he managed to suck in an agonizing lungful of air.

    In his haze, Mitch glimpsed someone walking toward him through the smoke, from the direction the flare had come.

CONNER PULLED UP
to the hospital in Winthrop Harbor. It was just after seven o’clock and he figured he should be able to get into the ICU to see Mitch without much difficulty. That is, if everything went smoothly.

    During the last two months, Conner had managed to sneak into Mitch’s room on two previous occasions, but only for brief visits. He had to plan his arrival within a ten-minute window during the change in nursing shifts. Security tended to wane a bit during those times, and Conner found that if he could make himself look like he belonged in the hospital—like someone in the health care profession—he could go just about anywhere he wanted without raising suspicion.

    He wasn’t exactly new at this stunt either. He had purchased a white lab coat and stethoscope when he’d first graduated law school. A clipboard with several sheets of miscellaneous legal forms completed the masquerade. It had served as a pretty reliable method for drumming up business in those early years. Making contact with injured potential clients was always a challenge. A task that called for creativity and innovation.

    Conner stopped in the men’s room to change, then made his way to ICU. He felt a twinge of guilt but quickly buried it in the rationale of his mission to help Mitch. He hoped the end justified his means.

    Conner loitered around the entrance to ICU until someone came out of the doors; then he walked through with a nonchalant but hurried gait, reading feverishly from his clipboard.

    He located Mitch’s room and passed by twice when he glimpsed someone else in the room. A nurse stood at Mitch’s bedside, checking the IV. After she left, Conner slipped inside.