Valley of the Shadow (6 page)

    Jim pushed the door, left his keys and wallet inside a basket at the desk, and followed another guard to an elevator. They rode this up to the third floor and walked another hall to a cramped room divided in two by a counter with a thick glass window. Gray walls, beige tiles, smelling of a nauseating mixture of body odor, bleach, and floor wax.

    “Wait here.” The guard motioned for Jim to take a seat at the counter. Chrome, gooseneck microphones and plastic speakers were mounted on each side of the glass. The guard took the paperwork and left the room.

    Jim was alone and felt a sudden wave of emotion wash over him. The walls seemed to draw close around him, like a trash compactor. The place felt cramped, stuffy, and dismal. A sterile, white clock clicked softly on the wall behind him. Several minutes went by. Jim kept an eye on the metal door on the other side of the room. His claustrophobic sense grew stronger and he found himself almost short of breath.

    Another minute creaked by. Still no one came through the door. Jim could hear muffled sounds coming from beyond the walls. Coarse laughter mixed with angry, high-pitched rants and deep, barked orders. All probably quite normal for this place, but still it gave Jim a growing sense of despair. What would it be like to live in this place? Even for a few days?

    Three more minutes passed, and at last the gray door across the room opened. A lanky youth stood in the doorway with a brawny figure looming behind him. The guard gave the kid a slight shove into the room, then pulled the door shut again, leaving the kid alone.

    Jim vaguely recognized the boy’s face. He’d gotten his name from the newspaper and had made initial contact with the probation officer.

    Devon Marshall. Sixteen years old. Mother was an alcoholic. Father deceased. Devon had been arrested twice, once for possession of a controlled substance and the second time for selling it.

    Devon stared straight ahead, not making eye contact and looking dazed or maybe drugged or something. He stood by the door for several seconds, then shuffled over and slouched into the chair across from Jim.

    Was this one-way glass? The kid was acting like he couldn’t even see him. Jim leaned toward the microphone. “Uh . . . can you . . . can you hear me?”

    Devon stared at the glass. Not through it at Jim, just at the glass itself. Maybe at his own reflection. Jim frowned. What had they done to him?

    “Are you okay?”

    Devon didn’t say a word.

    “My name is Jim. Uh . . . Jim Malone. You don’t know me, but I . . .” Jim suddenly found himself at a loss for words. It was an awkward enough situation, but now even more so with Devon’s bizarre behavior. “I found you. Two months ago, when you were shot. I happened to be walking by and I saw you. You and your friend inside the car. I called 911. And I . . .”

    Devon’s face was a mask of indifference.

    Jim went on. “You weren’t breathing, and I performed CPR on you until the cops came.”

    Still no response.

    Jim sat back a moment. This wasn’t right. Maybe he’d had some kind of brain damage. This wasn’t normal behavior. “Look, I don’t want anything from you. I just . . . I just wanted to talk to you. Just once.”

    He paused again and swallowed. His mouth was dry. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry about your friend. I was all alone. I couldn’t save both of you. I got you out of the car and tried to help you. I called for help, but nobody else was around.…”

    Devon’s gaze flickered slightly. Up into the glass, as if searching for something.

    Jim saw the reaction and leaned closer. “I’m sorry about your friend. I really am. I could only help one of you. By the time the cops came, he was already . . . It . . . it was too late.”

    Devon’s gaze drifted across the glass, finally locking onto Jim’s face. He peered through the glass into Jim’s eyes.

    Jim felt a chill crawl down his spine. It wasn’t a friendly look. He tried again. “I had to choose. I don’t know why I went over to your side of the car, to pull you out.”

    Devon’s lips parted. A soft voice whispered, “You let him die.”

    Jim blinked and stared for a moment. “I—I couldn’t help you both. I’m sorry. I really am. I could only help one of you.”

    The sight of the other kid’s body lying beneath the blue sheet had haunted Jim’s dreams nearly every night. The whole scene played itself out in his sleep. Over and over.

    Devon stood up and leaned forward, pressing his hand to the window. The glass creaked and turned white as crystals of frost appeared at his fingertips. “You let him die.” Another patch of frost appeared where his breath wafted onto the glass. It spread outward from his hands, creeping up to the ceiling and down to the countertop.

    Jim slid his chair away, staring at Devon, now half-hidden behind a thin veil of ice. A blast of cold air hit Jim’s face, as though the AC had suddenly kicked on full throttle. Or more like he’d just stepped into a walk-in refrigerator. He could see the steamy tendrils of his own breath curling up in front of him now.

    He caught one last glimpse of Devon’s face. Eyes completely white, lips peeled back. Saliva foamed between his clenched teeth and dripped down his chin. His head began to jitter. Then his entire body shook.

    Then he fell backward onto the floor.

    “Help!” Jim found his voice again. He jumped up and pounded against the glass. “Somebody help him!”

MITCH STARED OUT THE WINDOW,
watching the empty fields roll past. Mile after mile of gray, lifeless countryside stretched out, it seemed, forever. Howard was whistling again. They were taking a different route back to the farm so they could stop at the gas station for oil and whatever food they could scrounge up.

    But Mitch’s thoughts were wrapped around the stranger he had seen in the bookstore. And the bizarre scene he’d witnessed through the hole in the wall.

    He hadn’t mentioned anything to Howard. Nathan had said Howard was not to be trusted, but Mitch wasn’t completely convinced Nathan could be either. The guy seemed to know quite a bit about what was happening. But it could have all been a trick. Mitch had seen that kind of tactic before numerous times. For all he knew, this Nathan guy was just another of the aliens’ attempts to get him to leave the farm.

    Still…

    “So, uh . . . so I was thinking,” he said as nonchalantly as he could. “It’d be nice to get away for a day or two. Maybe take a little vacation or something.”

    Howard choked off his tune. His weedy gray eyebrows scrunched together as he threw Mitch a sideways glance. “Vacation? Are you tryin’ to be funny?”

    Mitch shrugged. “What’s so funny about that? Nothing real long. Just a day or so. Just to get away for a bit. Y’know, go for a ride.”

    Howard laughed and shook his head. “This ain’t no pleasure cruise you’re on, Hoss. Those aliens mean business. They’re everywhere. Whutch you gonna do at night? Fend ’em off with a flashlight?”

    Mitch turned back to the window. “Don’t know. I’ll think of something. I’m just getting cabin fever, y’know?”

    “Plus we ain’t exactly in no position to go wasting gas willy-nilly like that. Just drivin’ around for the fun of it.”

    “It’d be a good way to scout around. Who knows. Maybe there are other people out there like us. Holed up in compounds, thinking they’re the only ones left.”

    Howard was still shaking his head. “That’s awful risky, goin’ off on your own like that. If you want a change of scenery, what say we load up the milk truck, bring along a couple generators and some lights. At least be smart about it.”

    “Yeah . . .” Mitch felt his jaw tensing. “See, I was thinking it’d be nice to get away on my own.”

    “On your own? It’s not like we’re fightin’ off crowds here, son. It’s just the two of us.”

    “Yeah, well . . .” Mitch’s voiced softened. “Sometimes it’s nice to just get away by yourself. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

    “Mmmm . . . not really, no. I’ve had enough bein’ alone.” Howard’s fingers drummed the steering wheel lightly. “You . . . uh, you ain’t mad at me or anything, are you? Did I do something to offend you?”

    “No, I’m not mad.” Mitch sighed, thinking he’d better drop the subject for now. “I guess I just saw those Harleys back there and . . . y’know, got the itch to ride again. Forget I brought it up.”

    “’Cuz if I did anything to get you mad . . .”

    “Dude, I’m not mad.”

    “I know I can be a little obnoxious sometimes. Least that’s what my wife used to say.”

    “Look, just forget I brought it up.”

    They turned into the quick mart, and Mitch took the flashlight and made his way inside. They had already picked the shelves pretty clean of food over the last year or so, but there were still plenty of auto supplies left: antifreeze, windshield cleaner, and several cases of Valvoline far back in the stockroom. Mitch slid the cases off the shelf and spotted another box shoved into the corner. An unopened box of ranch-flavored corn nuts. Twenty bags.

    “Corn nuts.” He grinned. “Jackpot.”

    He was reaching for the box when a deep moan rattled through the store as if a gust of wind had blown past the building. The stockroom door slammed shut, cutting off all the daylight from the store. Darkness fell around Mitch like a blanket, but he could sense someone . . . something else in the room with him. A soft rustling like a flutter of movement.

    A chill rushed down his spine. A sensation he hadn’t felt in a while. A long while. It was the feeling he’d had during his hallucinations—the creepy visions he’d had when this whole nightmare had first begun nearly five years ago. But they had occurred with less frequency after Helen and Conner disappeared. And eventually, as he had settled into his dismal routine on the farm, they had ceased altogether.

    Mitch dropped the cases of oil and reached for his flashlight. This couldn’t be happening again. Not again.

    He snapped the light on and aimed it toward the doorway. And gasped.

    The light fell onto the pale, gaunt face of a graying man. Mitch knew this face.

    His mouth went dry. His throat felt like sandpaper as he tried to speak.

    “Dad?”

IT WAS NINE THIRTY
when Conner arrived at his office. His calendar displayed a relatively light schedule for the day, as it had for the last few weeks. Nancy had made a concerted effort to ease him into a full workload since he’d been back. Furthermore, her sarcasm and lawyer jokes had completely ceased. And she had gone out of her way to make sure he always had everything he needed, even before he knew he needed it. Files, faxes, phone numbers—it was uncanny and a little unnerving. But he wasn’t ready to complain just yet. He rather liked this new Nancy.

    Conner poured a cup of coffee from the espresso machine in the lounge, then stopped by Gus Brady’s office to say good morning. Gus was one of those guys whose clothes never fit quite right and who always looked just a little too tall for ordinary furniture. He sat hunched at his desk, typing furiously.

    He glanced up from his laptop and flashed a quick smile when Conner knocked on the door. “Hey, Connie.”

    They had been friends since law school. In fact, it was Gus’s influence that had gotten Conner his chance to join the firm twelve years earlier.

    Conner leaned against the doorjamb. “You’ll never guess who I saw this morning.”

    Gus stared at him for a moment, his eyes shifting across the room. He shook his head.

    “Jim Malone,” Conner said. “Remember the Malones?”

    Gus’s forehead puckered, then released. “Oh yeah, the malpractice.” Then it puckered again. “They prayed themselves out of a fortune, as I recall. Us too.”

    Conner chuckled. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”

    “Well . . .” Gus snorted and went back to his computer. “That’s how I look at it.”

    Conner hesitated a moment, pondering whether or not to press a little further. “You know, there was a time I might have looked at it that way too. But these days, I’m tending to be a little more open-minded.”

    Gus raised an eyebrow but didn’t look up. “Open-minded?”

    “You know . . . about them praying about their decision. I guess I’m putting a little more stock in that sort of stuff these days.”

    Gus didn’t answer and still wasn’t looking up. Conner could see a flush of red rising up his neck and across his cheeks. He ventured a little further. “I mean . . . you gotta admire that kind of faith, right?”

    “Oh, man!” Gus glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. “Y’know . . . I forgot I have to jump on a conference call.” He reached for his phone. “Sorry, Connie, I totally forgot about it.”

    “No problem.”

    Conner nodded and backed out of Gus’s doorway, pulling the door shut. That seemed to be the way every conversation with Gus had gone since Conner had returned to work. Whenever Conner tried to steer their conversation toward his heart attack, or any religious topic for that matter, Gus would always manage to cut him off with some suddenly remembered meeting or call. It had gotten to the point where he wasn’t even trying to be creative anymore.

    Though it wasn’t just Gus. Nearly everyone at the firm seemed to treat him differently since he’d been back. Conversations would fade the moment he turned a corner or walked into a room. People would gain a sudden interest in whatever folder or notepad they happened to be holding at the moment. Most would make furtive but hasty exits.

    At first Conner thought he was just being paranoid, but lately he could sense genuine discomfort around him, as if no one knew quite how to treat him anymore. No one seemed to want to talk about the fact that he had nearly died. Maybe he’d been a little too forward about the whole thing. Or maybe he was just an unwelcome reminder of their mortality.

    Conner had managed to share his story with nearly everyone at the firm over the last three weeks, though he hadn’t given them all the details. Only what he had already shared with Marta. And while he didn’t want to come across as macabre, it seemed to be the perfect opportunity to share his newfound faith as well. After all, wasn’t that what he was supposed to be doing? At least he assumed that was one of the reasons he’d been spared.