The Babel Walker

By Ben Larken

Sarah Bridges awakens on the roof of an endless skyscraper, kicking off a perilous journey to return to the life she once knew, but otherworldly forces, both inside the tower and on Earth, conspire to stop her at any cost.

In Chicago, Eddie Conroy, already reeling from the loss of his wife, plunges into a nightmare as trauma strikes again—this time in the form of a man in a ski mask who abducts Eddie’s son.

And in Texas, small-town firefighter Doug Underwood stumbles onto the strangest arson case of his life when he discovers local celebrity and romance author Sarah Bridges floating unconscious in her pool amid the fiery debris that used to be her home.

So begins The Babel Walker, a Christian-themed novel brimming with suspense, action, and heart. The tower in question is the same Babel described in Genesis, which now houses the souls of the living. When people die on Earth, they sleepwalk to Babel’s roof, where a tornado of light whisks their souls into Eternity. But Sarah’s not quite dead, giving her an unprecedented chance to find her attacker and save his next victims. But can she stop a madman before her soul slips away from her Earthly body for good?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Jun 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781619502642

Ben Larken

Ben Larken resides near Fort Worth, the city in which he was born and currently works as a police dispatcher. He is the winner of three Epic eBook Awards for Best Horror.

Book preview

The Babel Walker

by

Ben Larken

All rights reserved

Copyright © June 1, 2015, Ben Larken

Cover Art Copyright © 2015, Ben Larken

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-264-2

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition as The Tower of Sarah by Ben Patrick Eden: October 1, 2013

First eBook Edition under new title: June 20, 2015

Also by Ben Larken

Pit-Stop (The Hollows Series Prequel)

The Hollows (The Hollows Series Book 1)

The Man in the Wall (The Hollows Series Book 2)

Pillar’s Fall (Pillar Saga Book 1)

Exit Us (Pillar Saga Book 2)

Dedication

For Andrea

Praise for The Babel Walker

Ben Larken transcends the thriller genre, and his stories continue to entertain and enlighten. The Babel Walker is one of those stories. I couldn’t put the book down.

—Peter A. Balaskas

Author of In Our House

I love stories with twists, and Larken certainly threw a fair share into this book. I guarantee you won't see the twist truck coming. It’ll hit you full force and carry you down the highway a good couple miles.

—Cyrus Keith

Author of Becoming Nadia

PART I

A Tower,

Whose Top

May Reach Unto Heaven

"I am in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear;

I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul.

God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!"

—Bram Stoker, Dracula

Chapter One

No Man’s Land

Sarah Bridges never felt this well-rested in her life. Coming out of the darkness was a gradual thing. Her eyelids cracked to let the light in by degrees. Pink glimmers became a hazy glow, and her hand rose to wipe the crust from her eyes. She sat up slowly, her bones warm and snug inside the blanket of her body. A yawn sent a pleasant ripple down her spine. She blinked and took in the gorgeous pink sky and amber-streaked clouds.

She realized she had no idea where she was.

Her breath caught in her throat. Thoughts piled atop each other, an onslaught of, Where in the world… This has got to be a joke… Tyler, if this is your doing, God help you and any body parts you consider vital. Her pupils dilated as she jerked her head back and forth, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Terror didn’t so much hit her as began its descent for a landing. Her pulse quickened, but she held the panic at bay. In her experience, answers usually came if you gave them a moment to rise to the surface.

But what a surface. Flat white stone stretched out in every direction. It was all one seemingly endless plane, the entire view nothing but white ground and pink sky. The whole scene was beyond believable—beyond real. It didn’t come close to looking like anyplace she recognized. The serene sky and barren flatland would feel more at home as wallpaper on her laptop, except she’d never pick something that bland.

Hello? Her voice came out pitifully small. The sound of it drove home how alone she was, and her spine went rigid. A breeze tugged at her clothes and she looked down, noticing what she was wearing—sweatshirt, blue jeans, white sneakers. The sweatshirt she recognized at once. It was her maroon study sweatshirt, the comfy one she wore during all-nighters spent cramming for tests in college. She hadn’t seen it since she gave it away at a clothing drive five years ago. The memory made her eyes bulge. Terror had screeched onto the runway.

Okay, come on! She pushed herself up on rubbery legs. She was scared out of her gourd, but whoever had done this wouldn’t know that. Good job! Brilliant! You got me! Can we all go home now?

She spun around, looking for any break in the flatness. There had to be a trench to hide in. She’d even take a pipe or a vent wide enough to hide a video camera inside. If this was Tyler’s idea of a joke, he’d need a way to witness her shock, to play it back for friends later at parties. It would be his knee-slapper, his icebreaker about the time he got the last word on that uppity novelist ex-girlfriend.

Except… Her stomach clenched. Except Tyler’s not smart enough to pull off something like this. He couldn’t sneak up on me at home without breathing like a winded mule. And if it’s not Tyler—

Hello? She screamed it, dropping any pretense of toughness. Then she walked, moving at a fast clip. She had no idea which direction she was going because the sun was strangely missing. The sky was a uniform pink from one end to the other, which put the time of day somewhere around dusk or dawn—she hoped the latter. But if she continued in one direction long enough, she had to see a break in the monotony. Had to.

Her stomach lurched, proclaiming its doubt.

Stop it, she told herself. In her mind, her voice was louder and more commanding than when she spoke. Don’t focus on the scenery. Focus on what you know. What’s the last thing you remember before going to sleep?

Her mind reeled, ping-ponging around without landing on anything. She remembered the break-up, of course, over two weeks ago now, before July became August. That came through in vivid detail. The year-long romance of Tyler Montgomery hadn’t ended with a bang so much as a whimper. She remembered the way his bottom lip trembled when he realized she wasn’t kidding this time. His shoulders inched higher, stuck in mid-shrug. His closing remark had been a doozy. You’re not nearly as interesting as the characters you write about! To which she replied, No, I’m a real human, something no one would ever accuse you of being.

He stormed out after that, unable to think of anything wittier to say.

The next week was a blur of independent womanhood. Photos had been burned. Phone numbers deleted. Belongings were boxed up and dropped on the porch, along with a note telling him not to bother with the door. The locks had been changed. She threw herself into writing. The sixth book in The Vampire at the End of the World series needed some good antagonists. She imagined brain-dead zombies—in honor of Tyler, of course.

The second week had been a drag. Once the novelty of freedom wore off, the loneliness set in. Writing gave way to long spells of staring at the wall, at first concocting plot developments for the novel, but then dissecting her personal life, trying to figure out the point things went wrong. She canceled a couple public readings, not wanting the pressure of performing a love scene for audiences made up of old ladies even lonelier than her. She wasted time listening to George Strait break-up songs, catching up on trash TV and calling her mother, who listened patiently despite being on vacation in the Bahamas.

You never needed him, Ladonna Bridges assured her in a snarky tone Sarah knew came from too many Mai-Tais. We Bridges girls aren’t made to be homebodies. We’re strong and independent. They can’t tie us down.

I know, Mom. She didn’t tell her that being tied down had nothing to do with it. She didn’t like talking about what it did have to do with. I guess I needed to hear you say that.

Come on, Sarah May. You don’t need me to tell you that. You’ve always done well at staying a step ahead of the men in your life. That’s what you need to focus on—staying a step ahead.

She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she agreed and let her mother go back to tanning. As she hung up, an odd thought had hit her. Part of her longed for Tyler to call and get her blood boiling again. He was a dense and petty man, but he had a flair for arguing in circles that she found amusing—at least when she had the option of hanging up on him.

Had she talked to Mom last night, or even Tyler? Sarah strained to remember. She couldn’t pinpoint anything specific about last night, which frightened her as much as her current whereabouts. Had she gone anywhere? She couldn’t remember leaving the house, but that didn’t mean a lick. She couldn’t remember what she had for dinner or watched on TV or what time she went to bed, either. In fact, she couldn’t remember a single prominent detail from the last 24 hours. The whole day had fallen into a murky pit in her mind, and no amount of mental rope could haul it back into the light.

But something must’ve happened. A girl didn’t wake up in No Man’s Land for no reason.

She picked up her pace another notch and squinted, looking for any breaks in the flatness. A buckling sensation started in her temples and worked its way down to her jaw—panic nibbling away at her. The terror plane had arrived at the terminal, and with it came a realization. If things didn’t start making sense in the next couple minutes she was seriously going to lose it.

A snapshot of childhood flashed in front of her eyes. She had been seven years old when a couple fifth graders pushed her into a janitor’s closet and slammed the door, holding it shut. She had gone crazy beating on the door, screaming and crying as her face burned with shock. This would be like that, only without the epilogue of her breaking one of her captor’s noses with a well-aimed baseball pitch. She didn’t have anyone to channel her fury toward. There wasn’t a single soul as far as the eye could see, and she suspected no bully hid on the other side of the door this time. She had truly gone to sleep at home in Springtown, Texas, and woken up somewhere west of the Twilight Zone. She couldn’t begin to comprehend wh—

She stopped, eyes widening. She saw something—not a break in the white but an end to it. In the distance was a straight line horizon leading to a corner. The lack of anything in the foreground made distance impossible to judge, but a hopeful spark made her chest swell. It didn’t look far away.

She took off running.

Hey! Can anyone hear me? Is anyone out here?

The edge grew closer, and Sarah’s pace dwindled from a run to a jog. Her energy didn’t flag. Her confidence did. Because she should’ve seen something beyond the edge by now—a treetop, a telephone pole, an endless ocean. Something. But all she saw was more pink sky. She slowed to a walk as the angle became more obvious. She wasn’t just looking across. Now she was looking down, past the lip, into an unnervingly solid sky. The ground should’ve started. She couldn’t be that high up. Texas didn’t get that high.

Her feet slowed again. Her temples tapped out another Morse code alarm as she inched closer to an edge only ten feet away. Then five feet away. Then two.

She fell to her knees as a wave of vertigo ripped through her.

Oh please oh please oh please oh please…

The drop-off was a straight 90 degree angle. She peered past the edge as a scream lodged in her windpipe and refused to move. Below her a white stone wall speckled with large open windows stretched into oblivion. Sky and semi-transparent tufts of cloud surrounded it—and that was all. She couldn’t describe the ground because there was no ground to describe. The building—the skyscraper—unraveled into an abyss. She stared at rows of windows that went from huge gaping holes to tiny pinpricks hundreds of feet below. She watched tiny specks—birds—circle the building lazily. Then her vision misted with tears and she pulled away from the edge, unable to look anymore.

Please, God. Where am I? What happened to me? Please please please please God please…

Sarah crumpled into a ball, letting the sobs come. She hated letting them out—she hated crying, period—but an exception had to be made. Whatever this place was, it was bigger than anything she had ever known. It was bigger than all her life’s experiences combined. She couldn’t make heads or tails of this, and the thought that she was trapped here twisted her stomach into knots. She fought to control her breathing, to still her shaking hands. She straightened her spine and wiped the wetness from her cheeks with her sleeve, noticing that the sweater still had a hole in the wrist cuff big enough for her thumb to slide through. She poked it through, relishing the small bit of familiar in an unknown world. Then her eyes closed, her last resort at keeping this insanity at bay.

Think, Sarah, her authoritative voice commanded. That voice always sounded a little like her father, God rest his soul. He had always brought out the soldier part of him when she needed the push, and she needed a push more than ever. If this place couldn’t exist in the real world that’s because it doesn’t… which means you’re having a bad dream. Why didn’t you see it before? You broke up with your boyfriend, spent a couple weeks hiding out at home, and then found yourself trapped in a dream where you’re isolated from the rest of the world. There’s a shocker. How about instead of panicking you take a step-by-step approach? When you wake up, call a shrink and let them analyze this crazy dream for weeks to come. But for now, focus on surviving it.

Okay, she whispered aloud, her voice still shaky, but not as shaky as her stomach. You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I can do this.

She opened her eyes, reassessing the situation.

That was when she saw the man on the roof with her.

* * * *

He was little more than a silhouette from this distance, a dark figure etched into the skyline. From where Sarah stood, she guessed he was close to the center of this massive roof. The mere sight of him sent a cold rush through her veins. But it wasn’t his presence alone. He hadn’t appeared out of thin air. He had come from a doorway that wasn’t there five minutes ago. She stared at the white mound that had magically appeared in the flatness. It was the size of a shed and only had the one open doorway. There wasn’t even a door, just a dark rectangular hole in the white stone. Adrenaline surged through her. Whether this was a dream or not, that door meant one thing.

It was her way out.

Help! she yelled, breaking into a sprint. Help! I’m stuck up here!

The silhouette didn’t turn to look, although maybe he didn’t hear her. She caught the barest movement of his legs as he stepped away from the door, heading farther out onto the roof. She decided he didn’t need to notice her as long as he didn’t get in the way of that door. She made a beeline for it, running hard, although her speed faltered as she glanced up.

Clouds swirled above them. The subtle breeze she had noticed earlier rippled ominously. Puffy orange streaks intertwined and snaked around, back-building in a heavenly whirlpool. An electric shudder jittered through the cloud ridges, and light and shadows flickered across the rooftop.

The man with the slow walk didn’t seem bothered by it. She couldn’t tell if he noticed at all. He moved with a slight hunch, and as the gap between them steadily closed she noticed the shine on his bald head from the orange clouds. He had to be in his mid-sixties with horn-rimmed glasses and a pinstriped suit straight out of the 1970s.

What are you doing up here? she tried again, hoping he would hear her this time. But he showed no sign of looking up or changing course. He had moved far enough from the door that she had to decide whether to continue toward it or angle away to catch up with him, something she desperately didn’t want to do.

Light flickered across the sky, brighter this time. Sarah looked up, her chest tightening in a way that had nothing to do with her running. The clouds thickened, turning from wispy streaks to a rolling mass of orange and red. Her breath hitched as she noticed the bulge in the center. The whirlpool dipped, forming an angry-looking knot in the clouds. Downdrafts blew at her, making her eyes water, and for the first time since she woke on a skyscraper taller than any in recorded history, the air felt thin.

The stone floor beneath her shuddered, although she never heard any thunder. Still, everything about the clouds said the sky was about to fall on both of them.

This is a dream, the strong voice reminded her. You don’t have to worry about the old man. Just get inside before this becomes a different kind of nightmare.

Light flashed above. Sparks jittered from one cloud to the next like an invading army. She thought of a hotrod engine revving, the driver waiting for the light to turn green so he could floor the pedal and leave everyone in the dust. What happened when the light turned green this time?

She angled away from the door, running after the man.

We need to get inside! she yelled. It’s not safe out here!

Nothing. The old man continued moseying blindly along—and then stopped. Sarah’s eyes widened as he paused and swiveled his head upward. From this angle she couldn’t see him too clearly, but the way his jaw dropped told her he finally noticed the storm about to break.

Hey, wake up! Over here!

He didn’t turn her way, his gaze locked on the sky above. Part of her wanted to scream in frustration. She sensed the clock running out, and every second wasted getting his attention was a second they could be seeking shelter. But in a moment that wouldn’t matter. She was almost to him.

Can you—hear me—yet? she called through the panting.

The man cocked his head and glanced around. Horn-rimmed glasses turned her way, and through the orange glare reflected in the lenses a befuddled pair of eyes stared back. His bushy eyebrows lifted and he smiled, giving her a little wave.

Am I where I think I am? he asked, sounding excited by the prospect.

She slowed to a stop, only yards away. I don’t know. Where could you possibly think you are?

He never got to answer, because a tornado landed on top of him.

Sarah fell on her rear as the funnel touched down, the wind shrieking loud enough to mask her own scream. The old man never had a chance. The wall of clouds hit him like a missile and then he was lost inside the current. Light rippled through the funnel like a nuclear reactor about to blow. In seconds, the tornado became a cone of fire.

She sat in shock, her bones and muscles petrified by fear, while flames licked the ground only feet away. She expected her clothing to catch fire, although she couldn’t feel the heat so much as a warm glow. The flickering column writhed and bent, but its base remained fixed at its starting point. It looked more like a bonfire large enough to stretch to the clouds, until she remembered it was the other way around. This fire came from above, and thought fragments ricocheted through her mind, struggling with all of it.

Dream. Please tell me this is a dream. This can’t be a real tornado. Real twisters aren’t made of fire. It would have blown me off the roof or sucked me in by now. It can’t be real. Can’t be. Sarah, how did your subconscious ever come up with something so terrifying and beautiful?

The spinning flames picked up intensity, the centrifuge reaching a fever pitch. She squinted, making out a dark form amid yellow and red blazes, and couldn’t hold in the gasp. The old man was still in there, standing on the roof and staring up into the funnel. His suit flapped in a light breeze not strong enough to pull the glasses from his face. The silhouette of his hand reached up as if to pluck a flower from a vine.

Reach for me! she cried, springing back to her feet. Let me help you!

His cocked head turned her way as if sizing her up. Flames gave his face a strobe-light illumination. She glimpsed magnified eyes full of childlike wonder, and his lips moved, telling her something.

She propped a hand to her ear. What is it? I can’t hear you!

He smiled, shaking his head in a casual off-hand way, then tried again. She focused on his lips, making out the words. If you only knew… That was as far as she got. If there were more words, she lost them as he turned to face the sky again. Both hands lifted up, palms open—and his feet left the stone roof.

The wind inside the tunnel should have flipped, spun and ripped him to shreds, but his flight was anything but violent. She watched in awe as he rose quietly and steadily through the funnel. She staggered backward, keeping his silhouette in view. But he soon was too high and the spinning fire too bright. She turned her head, blinking away spots. When she looked back, any sign of him was gone.

The tornado lurched toward her.

Sarah didn’t have time to think. She yelped and jumped to the right as the base of the funnel roared by. It readjusted, coming back at her in an arc. Fire crackled menacingly as she leapt left this time, the tornado missing her by inches.

Then she was up on her feet, running like crazy for the doorway.

The tornado shrieked in protest. Her flickering shadow stretched out ahead of her, the twister right on her heels. She veered to the right, hoping to throw it off, and glanced back. The tornado changed course, too. Still right behind her, it picked up speed. She changed direction again, every heartbeat exploding like a cannon going off. She scanned back. The twister turned on a dime—in the exact same spot she had turned—and continued following. It senses me, she realized. She looked forward, picking up her pace. The distance to the mound of white rock seemed insurmountable, but the doorway still lay open.

She thrust ahead, pumping her legs hard. Vibrations rumbled underfoot like an approaching train. She put her head down and leaned into the run. Fear escalated through every bone in her body, but she focused on sprinting. The gap between the doorway and Sarah was closing, but the tornado was closing the gap to her quicker.

Then the doorway itself moved. She watched in horror as the mound of stone sank before her eyes. Inch after inch withdrew into the roof’s floor as if the structure was absorbing the mound back into its frame. She wanted to push harder, but couldn’t. The roar grew to the point of deafening. The doorway ahead had already lost two feet and continued decreasing with each passing second. Light flashed around her elbows and feet.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sarah jumped.

She closed her eyes and lunged through the air. Light blazed beyond her eyelids and she knew the funnel had her. She had to be inside of it and floating. But then her stomach hit the stone floor and a very real pain shot through her gut. Her eyes flipped open as her body skidded through the two-foot opening. Then she hit rock-hard stairs. She twisted and flipped, tumbling uncontrollably.

An abrupt stop came ten steps later as the staircase curved and she slammed into a wall. Pain throttled her ribs and abdomen. Overhead the last sparks of orange and red spilled onto the stairs. The wind outside gave a final shriek of outrage as the opening became a sliver and then sealed completely. The roar of the tornado went silent as if flipping a switch. A second later she couldn’t tell there had ever been a doorway at all. The staircase stretched into the ceiling. She gazed at the strange sight; her mind numb, her body throbbing in agony.

How’s that for staying a step ahead? she whispered to no one.

As the pain settled into a growling murmur she lifted her head. Two things occurred to her at once. One, this was no dream. The nauseating ache in her sides proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. Wherever she was and however she had gotten here, it wouldn’t flitter away once the alarm clock went off.

And two—now that she had escaped the roof she had a whole skyscraper to explore.

Chapter Two

Communicating

Eddie Conroy lay on his side of the bed, awake again and staring at the empty space to his left, when a scream came from his son’s bedroom. It hit him like an electric shock, and he jumped so fast he nearly lost his footing scrambling out of bed.

I’m coming, Ray! he called, hoping to sound reassuring, although he was scared, too. Raymond never woke before sunrise and certainly never in a panic at one in the morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he heard the ten-year-old scream. Perhaps this was the first time.

He threw open the bedroom door, ready to see a burglar or spider or a full-blown boogeyman. But it was only Ray, sitting up in bed, hyperventilating and glistening with sweat, his wide-as-the-sky eyes jerking back and forth, as if checking for invaders. Eddie approached the foot of the bed, giving his son time to absorb his presence.

What’s up, buddy? he asked softly.

Ray scanned the corners of the room one more time before bringing his gaze back to him. Tremors shook his arms and head, jiggling his cowlicks.

I never saw one connected before, he said, his voice somehow low and squeaky at the same time. He was stuck to her, hurting her. I couldn’t stop him. His breath caught in his throat for a second. Dad, I couldn’t stop him.

Eddie watched his son, a wave of recognition turning his insides to bumper cars. He knew what this was about, had expected it to happen sooner actually. And now that it was happening he had no idea what to do about it. But someone would. He would call person after person, letting the phone ring until they couldn’t take it anymore, until he found someone who knew the correct way to handle this. For now, all he could think to do was reach over and touch his son’s foot through the blanket. He gave it a gentle squeeze.

It’s gonna be okay, bud, he promised. We’re going to get through this.

* * * *

The sky outside was a dull, gun-metal gray. Inside wasn’t much better. Dr. Chilton’s waiting area held a side table, five fold-out metal chairs and a cheap-looking coffee maker. Eddie avoided the coffee, focusing instead on the Chicago skyline, wondering how some days it could look like the most beautiful city in the world and other days, like today, look like a desolate maze engineered to drive its inhabitants mad.

Superimposed over the skyscrapers was his ghost of a reflection. Thinning dark hair, a long face and troubled eyes came into focus, and once he saw them he couldn’t shift back to the larger view. He was struck by how old the semi-transparent man in the window appeared, certainly older than his 34 years. If any hints of boyish handsomeness remained in those features, he couldn’t find them. He recalled a boozy coworker at a Christmas party calling him the poor man’s John Cusack, which had cracked Lenna up. He didn’t know if that would apply after the year he’d had.

The phone buzzed in his ear as he waited for someone on the other end to pick up.

Police Communications, a husky voice barked.

Hey, Kelli, he said. I’m calling off for the weekend due to a family emergency.

You sure? It’s supposed to be a quiet weekend. I called all the citizens and they promised to behave.

He gave a hint of a smile. That was her way of saying police dispatch was already short-handed enough without him bowing out. Sorry, ma’am. Can’t be helped this time.

She considered that. Yeah, I believe you. You’re never one to play sick. She was quiet a second. I hope your boy’s okay.

Yeah, he said, slightly frustrated that she put the pieces together that easily. Me too.

He ended the call and immediately brought up Sheila in his contacts. Once he punched DIAL he gritted his teeth. The second call would not go as smoothly.

Sure enough, she started right out of the gate.

Don’t. Don’t do this to me.

Sheila, I have to.

No, you don’t. You only think you do, because that’s your MO. You over-think everything until fun sounds irresponsible. We’re talking a single afternoon on a sailboat. Let the wind ruffle your hair. Let Ray get his feet wet. Forget about everything else for a while.

Ray’s why I’m calling. He had an incident this morning.

She blew out a long stream of frustrated air, giving him time to think that sisters were supposed to be more supportive than this. Of course, the sailing expedition wasn’t about him and Ray. Sheila had won it in her divorce settlement, and any chance to use it was a chance to give her ex the finger.

Is this a real incident or an Eddie incident?

An Eddie incident? What’s that supposed to be?

Usually a molehill that’s been turned into a mountain.

Nice. This from the woman who’s been married three times.

Don’t start with me.

Just saying. Your definition of molehill may need revising.

She huffed. You were saying something about Ray?

He felt the tension in his shoulders, the way it clawed up the back of his neck and gripped at his skull. He woke up screaming. Then he talked about the accident.

Oh, sounding flippant. And then a more sincere, Oh… what did he say?

He looked down at his shoes, trying to say the words without seeing it in his head. He saw them—connected.

The silence drew out. Geez, Eddie, she said. That poor kid has had more than his share.

That gave him a mental picture of angels and demons sitting around a card table, shuffling a deck and dealing out cards with different disasters on them. He didn’t believe that, though. Bad things happened, period. Making sense of them or assigning blame to make-believe characters was a waste of time.

Yeah. Well, we’re at an emergency counseling session now. He’s in with Dr. Chilton, talking it out.

Are you sure that’s necessary?

He blinked. She could ask the stupidest questions sometimes. Of course, it’s necessary. I’m not equipped to handle that kind of trauma.

You don’t have to be equipped for anything. You have to listen to him.

He snorted. Oh, is that all? Listening will take away all the pain. You’ve saved me so many insurance co-pays.

She sighed. Fine. Be a schmuck. But I’m right about this. You’re not doing him any favors by hiding behind treatment plans.

Sheila had a way of calling him a schmuck and sounding motherly at the same time that boggled his mind. Running away from the problem and going sailing isn’t doing him any favors either.

Silence again. He knew Sheila. She was debating whether to throw another barb at him or end the call on a good note. Barbs were easier. They could go all day zinging each other. But after a while it got old.

Mom always said you were the neurotic one, she said. Probably why she never told you you’re adopted.

A good note then. He put a smile in his voice. Look, I’ll call you next week. If he seems to be doing better, we can hit the bay.

I hope so. You two are the only reason I haven’t sold the useless thing.

Thanks for putting up with us.

Whatever. I think I need emergency counseling.

I’m hanging up now.

And just in time. As he slid the phone in his pocket the door opened. Ray stepped out first, followed by Chilton. Eddie’s eyes stayed on his son. The kid looked too small for his clothes, or maybe that was how they hung on him. His chestnut hair fell over his downcast eyes, but glittery pupils shone through, taking in the world in ways Eddie couldn’t fathom. They went to the window first, examining the bleak skyline, and then turned to him, making eye contact for the briefest of moments before returning to his sneakers. Eddie saw an unmistakable look of disappointment. Or perhaps he was imagining that—at least, he hoped he was.

Here we are, Chilton said warmly, as if he had done Ray a kindness by locating his father. The plain clothes doctor kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder, perhaps to seem fatherly, perhaps to keep Ray from escaping.

Hey, bud, Eddie said. How’s everything?

Fine. We’ve been communicating, Ray said, not meeting his eyes. He said communicating as if he was bringing home a bad report card.

Chilton bent over, speaking into Ray’s ear. Would you mind if I borrowed your father for a minute? I’ll have him back to you in a hurry. Promise.

Sure. Ray stepped to a fold-out chair and took a seat, moving with a subtle jerkiness that had been with him ever since the accident.

This way, Chilton said—in case Eddie couldn’t remember which way the doctor’s office was.

Okay. Eddie trudged after the doctor, glancing back at Ray. The boy sat motionless, his blank gaze fixed on the window, seeing nothing. Then Chilton shut the door and Eddie looked forward, taking in a bland, sparsely decorated office—the best his HMO had available.

What’s the verdict?

Chilton leaned on the desk, arms crossed, his too-young face beaming an understanding smile. He says he only had a bad dream.

But he said—

I know what you think he said, but—

What I think he said? Like I made it up?

No, of course not, Mr. Conroy. But maybe it meant something different from what you thought it meant.

Eddie stood bolt straight, resisting the urge to slap all the papers off the desk. He wanted to yell, but then the focus would shift to him and that wasn’t why they were here. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

You know the details of the crash, he said evenly.

I do, Chilton said, and Eddie knew he was treading carefully. It was a head-on collision, and the drunk driver was ejected through his windshield.

Like a cannonball.

Raymond was in the backseat, and you think he saw… Eddie waited him out, letting Chilton fish for the words. … where the drunk driver landed.

If you mean he crashed through my wife’s windshield and buried his head in her ribcage, then yes. That’s exactly right.

Chilton shifted uneasily, looking a little gray in the cheeks. We don’t need to go into that kind of detail.

Excuse me? Eddie couldn’t help himself. He took a step forward, getting in