The High Road

By Conrad Trump

The High Road is a chilling tale that explores human savagery, laced with the supernatural flavor of a classic horror story in the tradition of H. P. Lovecraft, Shirley Jackson and Stephen King. It will leave Mr. Trump's fans terrified, but unable to turn away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9780998871813

Book preview

Afterword

PROLOGUE

Nowhere Road

AT THE END OF TIME THERE FLOWS a river wet with the unfulfilled dreams of all mankind. Its banks are wide and its current is swift. There is no passage to the far side, for the river itself stretches into oblivion. For in every human being since the birth of our kind, there has been at least one great unrealized sorrow.

The sad truth is that for every dream that has come true there are thousands of others that don’t. There are entire cultures and religions that have fallen short of their prayers. Massive armies have been slaughtered shy of victory, and natural disasters have erased tens of thousands of lives all with unrealized dreams.

It is there by this river’s edge without the hindrance of aging, because he is beyond the reaches of time itself, sits a soul. It is an old soul, one as ageless as the river is swift. He sits there on the bank with his gluttonous thirst, drinking greedily from the river. He smiles at the river’s bitter taste as he laps it from his cupped and crooked fingers.

He dips his gnarled hand below the river’s surface and drinks again. There was a time when he walked among the very people whose desires created this current, but that was when there was time, and time is no more. Now there is only an unquenchable thirst and a bitter taste to chase it.

But since that is all there is, that is enough.

BOOK ONE

Road Rage

CHAPTER 1

Thomas’ Road I

NO ONE EVEN NOTICED WHEN Thomas Moorland David marched into the Walmart just beyond Morgantown, West Virginia, on Interstate 79. Even Jacob Pappy Clark, the elderly greeter in the blue apron, was otherwise busy handing yellow, smiley face stickers to the Appleney twins. But even if Pappy had been standing straight up, he might not have thought anything much about Thomas David walking through the automatic doors swinging a Remington twelve-gauge, pump-action shotgun. West Virginia was, after all, the heart of the Appalachian Mountains, and squirrel season was in.

Had Pappy or any other warm body really given Thomas David a serious glance, he might have noticed the strange look on his face, the disheveled way his wrinkled clothes seemed to hang off his thick muscular body, or the beads of sweat running freely down his face and neck. Thomas’ heavy, tar-stained work boots were untied. The plastic tips of the laces slapped the linoleum as he marched through the store’s entrance.

Walmart’s only store-protection system was designed to prevent consumers from leaving without paying. The standard Walmart electronic alarm only sounded when someone tried to leave the store with something they shouldn’t. The system was useless when someone entered the store holding something he shouldn’t, like a shotgun.

Thomas David didn’t pause either, certainly not long enough for anyone to pay him any mind. After strolling purposefully through the door, Mr. David made a left at the Walmart One-Hour Photo Center and worked his way back through the thin crowd toward the sewing and crafts department.

The dried flowers and perfumed candles offended his nose, causing Thomas to wrinkle his face. With the back of his free hand, he swiped the bottom of his nostrils, breathing in a large quantity of his own sweat and stink. Most people would have probably preferred the sweet candles. Not Thomas, he preferred his own musky smell.

Rounding the corner between the aisle that held the house flags and the miniature dollhouse furniture, Thomas stopped.

Standing at the fabric counter with a pair of scissors in his left hand was Billy Guide, department store associate and part-time psychic. Nothing about the man appealed to Thomas David, nothing. This wasn’t the type of individual that Thomas David had ever thought he would seek out, not under any circumstances. Yet here he was, standing ten feet away, ready to plead, beg and, if necessary, coerce with the Remington. Thomas David was a desperate man and desperate times called for desperate measures. This is what brought him into the Walmart sewing department carrying a loaded shotgun, ready and prepared to use it.

Billy Guide was assisting a customer, unraveling a bulky ream of leopard skin print. The customer was a little on the heavy side, but not obese. She was older than someone who would typically be seen in leopard print stretch material. Three and a half yards, the customer said.

William didn’t look up. He only nodded and unrolled the bundle four more times. Carefully he began to measure out the print, yard by yard.

It’s for my daughter’s Halloween costume, the woman told him without his encouragement. She’s got this big sorority bash over at the university.

Thomas didn’t need to be a psychic to be able to tell the woman was lying. The shame was written all over her face. Of course, he couldn’t be sure, not one hundred percent. She may have been ashamed of her daughter for all he knew, but he was pretty sure that the lady wasn’t telling the truth.

William Guide knew, though. To Billy the lie was as certain as the calories in ice cream. He didn’t intend on peeking, he hardly ever did, but sometimes, quite often actually, he didn’t have a choice. While stretching the material out to cut, Billy Guide and the lady customer touched fingers.

In that instant Billy knew:

Her name was Chase Mary Belle. She was making an outfit for herself, not for her daughter, and she intended to wear it while she and her boyfriend Gil met next week at the Holiday Inn in Bruceton Mills. Mary’s husband, Danny, had tickets to the football game, where he would tailgate, drink and party hard afterward. Game day at Milan Puskar Stadium usually gave Chase a twelve-hour window to fuck herself sore with Gil and sometimes Gil’s cousin Todd. Gil drove a Chevy Blazer, dark red with a black roof. He kept a pack of Camels in the glove box with a Zippo tucked inside the cellophane. Under his front seat now was half a pint of Evan Williams whiskey and in the back seat was brown and gray German shepherd named Major. Major was feeling queasy from the stop and go traffic on High Street below the university. He wished, in his own dog way, that Gil would open the window, but wagging his tail and drooling didn’t seem to be getting the message across.

All this Billy knew. And more. Major wore a red collar that Chase sometimes borrowed when she was feeling particularly frisky. Gil sometimes would pull her about the hotel room on a leash, command her to sit and once he even insisted that she make a puddle on the spread-out sports section of the Pittsburgh Gazette. Gil had clipped a piece of the newspaper’s front page, folded it up and saved it in his wallet as a souvenir of the day.

Two months later, Gil misplaced his wallet. He had taken it out of his back pocket while he was lying on the dirt floor of his parent’s basement, trying to get the twenty-year old John Deere riding mower’s blades to drop. Gil had put the wallet down on the third shelf of Adam’s, his father’s, wine rack on top of a bottle of a sixty-three Burgundy. The wallet remains there to this day, and it will stay there for another seven years until six months after Adam’s funeral, when Gils’s step-mother, Alice, begins to inventory the estate. Professor Milo of the WVU Law School, a wine connoisseur, and close friend of Gil’s father until his death seven years from now, will find the wallet while he is appraising the wines. The first thing Professor Milo will do in spite of his twenty-five years of practicing law, eight years serving as a circuit court judge and eleven years as a Doctorate level academic instructor, is to check the wallet’s fold to see what money there will be there. The forty-one dollars will seriously tempt the man to swipe the cash and toss the wallet aside. He will resist the impulse, thinking then that it is moral decisions such as these that separate him from all the scum bags that he has sent to prison. Professor Milo will search the wallet, finding the yellowed newspaper clipping. To it he will pay no attention, never knowing that the girl buying leopard-skin print at the Morgantown Walmart today had made potty on it almost nine years before.

… And the touch of their fingers was severed when Billy stretched the material with his right hand and began to ease the scissors through it with his left.

After years of practice, William Guide was able to reflect nothing of what he saw through his peeking, on his face or in his demeanor. Sometimes the images were so distinct and intrusive that it took Billy a moment to re-focus his attention after the physical connection ended. Yet no matter how private or how shocking the images were, Billy had become a master at displaying nothing.

She’s going to be a leopard, for Halloween, huh? Well this material is a bit tricky. Better cut the pattern an extra quarter inch and give yourself plenty of room for the zipper.

Chase nodded sheepishly.

There were some leopard print ears in the costume aisle, if we have any left. They match this print almost perfectly.

Thank you, Chase said. I’ll look.

When the cutting was completed, William Guide glanced up, seeing Thomas David for the first time. Caught slightly off guard by the sudden look, Thomas bowed his head and gestured with his free hand for William to finish helping his customer. He hadn’t planned on waiting patiently. Thomas had planned to grab the man by the collar, shove the barrel of his Remington into his cheek and drag his pansy ass out of the store by force. Instead he waited patiently like a child waiting his turn to ride the carousel. Billy locked eyes for a moment with Thomas, and in that partial second, Thomas saw fear seep into them. The pudgy man with the scissors stood up straight and stepped away from the fabric cutting island. He’s reading my thoughts, Thomas’ inner voice warned, and for a second he wondered, really wondered, if a man could really own such a gift. The thought both frightened him and consoled him. Thomas had banked everything on the possibility that there was truth to the stories told around town. Then he remembered the shotgun. It was still clenched tightly in his right hand, so tightly in fact that the creases between his fingers and the skin over his knuckles had drawn white.

The barrel of the Remington was raised slightly, not exactly pointing at Billy but no longer was it pointed toward the floor tiles either. With his left hand, Thomas beckoned Billy toward him.

Chase also became aware of the gun. She backed away in step with Billy, pushing behind his shoulder to shield herself. The Walmart corporation places many demands upon its employees. It trains and teaches them how to respect and take care of their customers. It does not however, mention in the gray employee handbook on any page that an associate is obligated by the nature of his job description to sacrifice his life to save a consumer if the opportunity ever presents itself. Instead of stepping forward chivalrously, Billy stepped back even more hurriedly than Mary Chase, the paper-trained slut. Billy wasn’t ready to die, not today and not for her.

Thomas stepped closer and raised the barrel. He cradled the Remington in both hands as if he were trying to control a frightened house cat at the vet’s. It wasn’t until he spoke that Thomas realized he hadn’t yet. Maybe the guy was psychic and maybe he wasn’t, but still he had the right to hear why a complete stranger carrying blue steel in the crook of his arm, was backing him up against the large bin of holiday cotton prints.

I need you, Thomas blurted out. His words said nothing and everything. I need you. Help me. It was not a plea or a question. It was a command, supported by the weight of the pump-action in his arms.

Huh uh, Billy answered, shaking his head. I don’t.

Probably you can’t. We’re gonna see.

I can’t.

Try.

Billy continued to shake his head. Tears were slipping out from beneath his wire frame tinted glasses. The great weight of his body shook, rippling through the exposed flesh of his neck, face and arms like a new gravy colored Jell-O.

I don’t do it anymore, Billy whimpered.

Thomas David lifted the barrel of the gun and pointed it squarely toward Billy’s chest. The black opening, empty and dark, from which at any instant, dozens on tiny lead pellets could erupt, drew William Guide’s panicked stare. The little round sight sat atop the barrel watching, waiting and indifferent to the action that might unfold beneath it. It sat perched at the weapon’s end, like a pedestrian standing on an overpass watching the traffic pass beneath him.

Like that gun sight, William Guide had often watched the action unfold from the high ground. In that instant, delicately balanced between death and continued life, William Guide saw his life flash before his eyes, not so very unlike the visions of other lives he had witnessed. He found himself akin to the black little orb affixed above the shotgun’s mouth. He too had spent his entire existence in a lofty perch watching the joys and sadness, the fears and courage of others on the roads below him.

William Guide walked the high road. He wasn’t comfortable mixing on the more heavily traveled, dirty, faster, more dangerous super highways of humanity. His life of forty-two years had prepared him for no other option than to simply wipe the snot from the rim of his nose, shrug his shoulders and do just exactly as the gunman demanded.

Together they walked through the parking lot to Thomas’ truck without incident. They left the store as Thomas had entered, unobserved. Outside on the blacktop, Thomas gave Billy a slight shove in his back, more to remind him he was still there than to make him move faster. Thomas wanted to get to his truck quickly, but not too quickly. He didn’t want to draw people’s attention by moving too briskly.

Hurry, Thomas said, though he didn’t really mean it. He was afraid of the woman who had seen the shotgun back in the sewing department. Thomas had the notion of forcing her to join the party just until he reached his ride. But what then, if one of the checkout clerks noticed something? Would that person too be forced to join them? How about the lady working the photo mart and the boy steering carts? Thomas might very well have ended up with half the store escorting him across the parking lot. It was better this way. If they reached his truck without an alarm rising, then there might be no one to identify the truck’s make and model. The woman might be able to offer a physical description of him, but that would only be superficial information at best. There was no way anyone could actually link him to the victim, because until the moment he approached William Guide, there was no association to link.

With any luck, by the time the police did attach the name of Thomas David to the kidnapping, Thomas would no longer need the services of the fag-psychic. If the dirty little queer did his job and did it quickly enough, then Thomas would set him free. No harm no foul, just like catch and release trout fishin’ on the Elk River.

Where we going? Billy asked. He didn’t even try to restrain the quiver in his voice.

Get in the truck, Thomas snapped back. That one. The blue Ford.

Billy pulled up on the handle. It stuck. He automatically looked to see if the door was locked. It was not. He tried the handle again, jerking upward with all the power that a three-year old with pneumonia might exert. It’s stuck, Billy whimpered. Please don’t hurt me. It’s stuck.

Pull! Thomas commanded.

Billy tried the door again. This time he pulled with much more force. In fact, he gave the door latch a tug so hard it stung his fingers and hurt his shoulder. It’s broken, Billy whined. I can’t open it. Oh for Christ’s sake, Thomas shouted gruffly, shoving his captive aside. Put some muscle into it you pansy!

With his left hand turned backward so that he could continue to shadow Billy with the gun, Thomas gave what seemed to be an effortless tug upwards on the door handle. The entire truck panel rose half an inch before the door swung open and dropped a full inch and a half.

Now get in! Hurry!

Where are you taking me? Billy asked plaintively. What do you want me to do?

You’re the psychic, Thomas barked back. You tell me.

I can’t tell you which stocks are going to increase in value. I mean I don’t know, Bill said pulling himself up into the Ford’s cab. Much of his weight dug into on the arm rest already bleeding foam. The door groaned the way only metal can when two pieces grind together that no longer fit properly.

Hey Miss Cleo, do I look like I play the fucking stock market? Thomas asked as he lifted the heavy door again and slammed it home.

Quickly, he moved around the front of his truck, opened the driver side door and climbed in himself. He pointed the shotgun at the floor by the clutch pedal near his left foot, where Billy would have to reach across his body to get at it. Thomas didn’t really think he needed the shotgun to keep his prisoner in line. He regretted taking it into the store now, but having only heard of William Guide through town gossip, Thomas had no way of knowing what to expect. The shotgun was a necessary precaution, but now that he had William Guide in his truck, Thomas was confident that he wouldn’t need it anymore.

With a sharp twist of his wrist, Thomas’ Blue Ford roared to life. The engine was much smoother than one might expect looking at all the external dents and dings. The dash and the seat vibrated slightly, but because of his own shaking, Billy didn’t notice. The radio sprang to life as well, as if it were a faithful dozing dog waiting for his master to return from work. It jumped up and licked their faces with loud, penetrating volume. But to Billy, the twang behind an Alan Jackson country classic bit into his ears more like a wild, rabid dingo then it did a beloved family pet. He threw his hands up over his ears, startled by the decibel output, and gasped aloud.

Turn it down! William shouted, trying to be heard above the stereo. It was the final assault. He could stand no more. He began weeping uncontrollably.

Thomas obliged dialing the music to the off position. Better? he asked.

I can’t do you any good with the Powerball either, Billy said between sobs. I don’t— Billy whimpered, testing the noiselessness of the air by only partially uncovering is ears.

Thomas sneered. I ain’t interested in the fucking lottery. He kicked his left foot forward and wrestled the gearshift, finding reverse on his third try. He jammed the stick forward as if he were insulted by Billy’s innuendo. I don’t want no money. This ain’t about money.

As he looked back over his shoulder, Thomas grabbed Billy by the inside of his blue Walmart apron and pulled. Billy stifled a shriek and moved with the material. His breath stank of cigarettes, and upon closer inspection, Billy could see a thick yellow film that had collected on Thomas’ teeth after years of smoking. There was madness in his eyes and a deep crease between his eyebrows. Gray hairs were protruding from his nostrils that matched the spots of gray in his scalp. His cheeks were littered with pockmarks from either a bad case of chicken pox or teen acne. Thomas David had a weak chin and a chunk of wax the color of brass was crusted in his right ear. Weak chin or not though, Thomas was extremely strong. He held Billy tight.

On the verge of blubbering again, Billy tried to worm his fat fingers in between both of their faces. No don’t. Please don’t. I—you, please. Ahh no.

Get a hold of yourself. I ain’t gonna’ hurt you, unless you give me cause to, Thomas spat. But I want you to hear me. Listen closely fat boy. The promise of no pain calmed Billy slightly. He stopped trying to twist his hands under Thomas’ nose, at least.

I didn’t grab you so that you could help me win the fuckin’ lottery. I don’t give a shit about that. Got it?

Billy nodded hurriedly and profoundly, wanting to make certain that Thomas saw that he was in complete concert.

I don’t much believe in what people say about you. I don’t believe in angels, dragons or fuckin’ Bigfoot! There ain’t no such thing as ESP.

Billy glanced up, and though the question remained unspoken it was there in his eyes. Then why?

Like I said, Thomas continued, suddenly letting go of Billy’s clothes. I don’t believe in none of that bullshit, but I got no choice. If you got any of that ESP shit, I need it, and I need it bad.

What? Billy mouthed.

It’s Geri. Geri’s missing. She’s my wife, and she’s gone.

There were a thousand obvious reasons why a woman might want to put some distance between herself and this monster. They circled through Billy’s mind all at once. It was a good thing that Thomas didn’t share his special talent.

I know what you’re thinking. Why don’t I just go to the police? Right? Well, I can’t.

Billy said nothing. Instead he settled back comfortably onto the passenger seat. Thomas took his silence as a cue to answer his own questions. Fuck the police. I got to do this on my own.

The tone in the truck turned as Thomas guided it out of the Walmart parking lot. You help me find her. Can you?

Billy shrugged his shoulders honestly. I don’t know.

If you can tell me where she is right now, use that ESP stuff that people say you got, and I’ll let you out right here, shake your hand and never bother you no more ever.

How long has she been gone?

Almost two weeks, Thomas answered. There was a deep cracking in his voice. In spite of his size, he suddenly sounded small and frightened. He sounded how he felt. She’s been gone eleven fucking days.

CHAPTER 2

Billy’s Road I

THOMAS DAVID DROVE HIS BATTERED BLUE FORD all over the Morgantown area. For the better part of the next hour he hit all the roads that most four-year college students living in the city never see. He was silent for a time, concentrating on his rearview mirror and watching for pursuit. After twenty-five minutes Thomas announced, It looks as if there ain’t no one following us. We’re free and clear. He said it as if it were something they should both be happy about.

A few minutes later, after striking up what had to be a celebratory Marlboro, Thomas turned to his passenger as they crossed the bridge into Westover. You going to help me?

You giving me a choice? Billy asked in return.

No, Thomas answered sharply. I mean you are gonna’ help me, and I’ll make you if I have too. What I’m asking ya is, do you think you can help me…Find Geri and all. That’s the kind of stuff you’re supposed to be good at?

I don’t know. I have located people before, but…

But what?

I have on three occasions found missing persons. I have done it before, yes.

But?

But I have to tell you Mr., sir—

What?

Nervousness crept back into Billy’s throat. He didn’t want to answer the question. He was afraid to answer the question. Unfortunately, he was more afraid of what this crazed man with the shotgun might do if he didn’t. The end result was not happy any of those times.

Why?

Quick and short, Billy spat out he answer, hoping that his captor might not hate what he heard quite so much if he heard it quickly. Two were dead, and the third, a fifteen-year-old from Grafton, was prostituting herself in Philadelphia. She didn’t want to come home.

Why the hell not? Fifteen years old and she was a whore? Why not go home?

Maybe she liked what she was doing? Maybe home was worse. Billy grabbed the dash as Thomas took a curve too sharply. Some people, most people missing I suspect, are missing because they want to be.

Billy thought momentarily that his message had been lost completely on the driver, because Thomas never said a word. He smoked and drove never altering either action in the slightest. It was only after a moment of quiet pensive reflection that Billy realized his captor had been listening at all. The quiet reflective moment was over even before Billy even realized that they were sharing one. You know, I thought about that a lot these last couple of weeks.

Thomas took long smoky pauses between sentences. "What if Geri is you know, happy someplace else? Maybe she found herself some other guy. Fuck I don’t know. Maybe she went to Paris to become some hot-shot model. Lord knows I fuckin’ told her she could often enough, and I wouldn’t fuckin’ blame her, that’s for certain.

But dude, she would have told me. She would have fuckin’ told me.

It wasn’t the same man who had boldly marched into Walmart only half an hour ago and forced Billy out of the store at gunpoint. That man had been headstrong and fearless. The man behind the wheel of the Ford had cowered considerably. His voice was cracked and his shoulders, no longer strong and straight, had slumped toward the wheel. The desperation was still in his face, but the mask he wore had changed from madness to self-pity.

I’m sorry, Billy said honestly, suddenly struck by the driver’s pain. I wish I could help you. I don’t think I can.

Nodding, Thomas rolled down his window, just far enough to suck out all the smoke that had been collecting in the truck cab, then he pushed the but of his Marlboro out after it. A phony huh? I knew it.

Neither admitting nor denying the assumption, Billy offered instead, I understand why you kid—, ah… took me. I really do, and I hope you find your wife, but I’m not your answer. Let me out and I’ll forgive the entire incident. I won’t press charges, and I won’t send the police after you. I promise.

Still nodding, Thomas drifted the truck onto the right-side brim. There was an embankment on the left. A guardrail of wooden posts and a pair of heavy cables protected drivers from the sharp thirty-foot drop off. The posts had twisted and blackened over the years. Some of them had rotted completely, leaving the cable to dangle and drag the road.

I didn’t really expect you to know nothin’ you know. Had to try though. I had to.

Working the door handle quickly, Billy popped it open. The door was easier to manipulate from the inside, but as he pushed it open with his elbow it sagged heavily on its hinges.

Standing just beyond the cab, Billy peered back into the truck, checking to make sure that his captor hadn’t decided to drive him to this secluded spot and shoot him. The Remington was still wedged in beside Thomas’ knee, and he showed no indication that he was planning to use it. In fact, Thomas David was sobbing. He was crying silently, the way a strong man who is easily ashamed of emotions would cry. His right shoulder was turned so that his convulsing body was hidden, and his face was pressed against the far window.

Billy wanted nothing more than to slam the door and move away from the truck. He didn’t care where he was, nor did he care that he didn’t have a ride back to town. He was alive and free, and so he wanted to remain. Yet, the sight of Thomas David weeping like a four-year-old stung by a bee, softened Billy’s heart. Now that it seemed his peril was over, Billy couldn’t turn his back on Thomas and walk away. He just wasn’t built like that.

Hey, Billy said. "I hope you find her.

Thomas nodded. It only made the convulsions of his sobbing deepen. He didn’t bother turning around. He waved his hand with a backwards flip, kind of a get off with you gesture.

Listen—

Just get. I don’t know what I was thinkin’. Crazy shit.

Give me your hand.

Just go, Thomas implored him.

With what may have been the largest gaff in judgment in his forty-two years of life, Billy reached back into the truck and touched, just briefly, the back of Thomas’ neck. His fingers closed around the gray and black locks of hair not even for the length of a heartbeat. It was enough.

She’s alive, Billy said. He was sure of it. She’s alive and she misses you, Tommy.

At the sound of his name Thomas’ head shot up, and he pivoted on his right cheek spinning around so quickly that it startled Billy, causing him to stumble backward on the gravel.

Don’t fuck with me.

I wasn’t, Billy gasped, suddenly frightened for his life again.

How do you know my name? How the fuck do you know my name? I never told you that! Thomas David followed William Guide out of the truck through the passenger door. He left the shotgun where it was. The wild look had returned to his face, only now it had the added punch of wet cheeks and eyes red from his crying.

Don’t, please, William begged. He turned to run but his bulk and age were no match for the younger, more athletic Thomas, who snatched him by his shoulders. Thomas jerked William around, actually lifting all two hundred and fifty pounds into the air as he did.

Agghhhh, Billy screamed. He thrashed his mighty weight like a fish trying to free itself from the angler’s line. Please! Don’t hurt me.

Answer me you fuck! How did you know my name? And what do you mean Geri’s alive?

She is! I swear it. She is.

Thomas shook him again, forcing Billy’s head to flop to and fro. Answer me!

She’s alive. Trust me. She’s okay.

Where is she? Thomas shouted. He continued to shake Billy, causing the fatter man’s arms and legs to flail about like a dancing marionette. Tell me where she is.

I can’t! I don’t know.

Tell me or I will kill you with my bare hands right fucking here!

You’re hurting me. I…

I’ll do worse than that.

I can’t think. I… it hurts!

How did you know my name? What kind of horseshit is this?

Agghhhh. Please I… I can’t talk like this. Please let go.

Thomas let go. He let go hard, throwing Billy to the ground. Billy landed on his face and right arm, peeling skin off both. Tiny black rocks were stuck to his cheek when he rolled over onto his back and buttock. Thomas was there standing over him, menacing and large. His fists were clenched and the veins in his arms bulged like a body builder. His breathing was labored as he attempted to regain control.

God, Billy whimpered, vainly trying to scoot away on his oversized rear. I–don’t be mad. I—you’re not mad at me? You said I could go! Let me go.

Thomas squatted down by Billy. The new position made him look even more frightening, like a coiled snake. Blocking the sun with his back, Thomas cast a shadow across Billy’s face so that the fallen man could see more clearly. Billy didn’t want to see more clearly. The sunshine had suited him just fine, burning through the tears in his eyes. He didn’t want to see Tommy’s face anymore.

Reaching out with his left hand, Thomas pinched a handful of Billy’s hair in his fist. Using it, he jerked Billy’s forward. Talk!

I— I—can’t. You—

Billy heard the slap before he felt it. One minute he was blubbering, trying to turn away from Thomas and the next his cheek was again pushing gravels out of the way. The slap echoed inside his head with an almost stereo quality. Even after the assault had passed, Billy could hear the heavy thud of Thomas’ open palm striking his fleshy fat face. Billy could also hear a sharp ringing in his ear. The moment became surreal and time crawled by. Billy cleared the cobwebs by blowing the tiny rocks out of his nostrils and giving his head a tiny shake.

Better.

It wasn’t until he heard Thomas’ praise that he realized he had stopped crying.

Now, where is my wife?

I don’t know, really. The voice coming out of his mouth sounded foreign to Billy, clear and without hysterics. Was that really him talking?

How do you know she’s alive? Thomas too sounded as if he had gained some semblance of control. The slap, it seemed, had done them equal good. You said she was alive.

Yes, she is, Billy agreed. I did say it.

Was it bullshit?

Huh-uh. She’s alive.

How do you know? Thomas asked. His voice was gaining momentum again.

I just do.

That’s no fucking answer, Thomas countered. "How—?

It’s who I am, Billy told him. He worked himself up to his knees and flopped over into a sitting position. He used Thomas’ leg as ballast to pull himself around. Thomas didn’t move, allowing himself to be used, but his lip curled with a nasty sneer, watching and feeling the fat man grapple with his own weight.

Processing didn’t come easily for Thomas. It often took considerable time, yet after mulling it over in his head, Thomas considered the possibility for the first time that maybe, just maybe, snatching the fag psychic wasn’t such a crazy idea after all. How do you know she’s alive?

I just do?

That’s not good enough, damn it! Thomas shouted. He was having trouble asking the questions that would lead him beyond this stalemate. His first impulse, as with all things frustrating, was to break the stalemate with a good swift kick to Billy’s head. It was an impulse that he was able to table for now. Kicking the man unconscious wouldn’t help him find his Geri. He could never be accused of being the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but sometimes Thomas had his moments. He paused his questioning long enough to find a different angle from which to approach the topic. In that time he managed to ease the anger out of his voice.

When did you first… ah, learn that my wife was still alive?

Just now.

Tell me.

After I got out of the truck, when I touched the back of your neck.

That’s what did it? When you touched my neck? You learned my name then too?

Billy nodded. His eyes had glazed up as if he was lost in thought.

You didn’t hear my name in Walmart? Somebody could have recognized me, and said my name. It wasn’t likely. Thomas had been searching everyone’s face as he combed his way through the aisles, and he hadn’t seen one person he recognized.

Billy’s head bob switched to a slight shake.

Maybe you found my name in the truck on a check stub or a piece of paper.

No, Billy whispered, continuing to shake his head. I picked it up when I touched your neck.

What else did you pick up? Thomas asked. He couldn’t keep the hopeful sound out of his voice even though Billy had already told him he knew nothing more.

I don’t know. Not much. Her maiden name was Sweet. She’s mixed with green eyes. She likes to garden. Just stuff like that.

Taken back by the truth of Billy’s words and the certainty of what he heard, Thomas’ chin dropped. How could you know all that? How?

I just… do, you know? Billy answered. Trying to explain the process to his kidnapper when he never understood himself, would be a waste of breath.

It’s true about you then, what they say? This psychic stuff you got inside your head, it’s real? It’s fucking real?

Nodding again, Billy answered. Yes, it’s real.

Then the truth dawned on