"John, you shouldn't be alone right now; we need to talk.
I'm coming over—I don't even know if you're at home, or somewhere else, but I can help you. Please let me help you. I'll be there in just a few minutes. See you soon."
He had come to help me. In the middle of an ice-cold January night, he had left his home and gone into the empty streets to help me. Empty streets where a killer was hunting for fresh prey and finding none, until poor, defenseless Dr.
Neblin walked right into his sights. He was the only man in town that the demon could find.
And he'd found him because of me.
I stared at the body, thinking of all the others who'd gone before—Jeb Jolley and Dave Bird; the two cops I'd led to their deaths; the drifter by the lake that I didn't speak up to save; Ted Rask and Greg Olson and Emmett Openshaw and however many others I didn't even know about. They were a parade of cadavers, resting inert in my memory, as if they had never been alive at all—a row of eternal corpses stretching back through history, perfectly preserved. How long had this been happening? How much longer would it go on? I felt that I was doomed to follow that row forever, washing and embalming each new corpse like a demonic servant— hunchbacked, leering and mute. Crowley was the killer, and I was his slave. I wouldn't do it. That row of corpses ended tonight.
The demon hadn't taken any of Neblin's organs yet, which meant that any second now, he'd come barging back out of his house, desperate to regenerate. If I hid the body first, he might wither away and die. I grabbed the body by the shoulders and pulled it upright. My gloves slid wetly across the blood from the wound, and I let go abruptly—I was covering myself with evidence. I stepped back, fighting with my paranoia. Did I dare link myself to the crime? I'd been so careful—moving quietly, hiding my tracks, planning for months to keep myself completely distanced from any of the attacks, and from any of my responses to them. I couldn't throw it all away now.
But was there any other way? Hiding the body was my one chance to kill the demon, but I couldn't do it without covering myself in Neblin's blood—if I tried to keep blood off myself, by dragging the body by the feet, I'd leave a trail of blood that would ruin the whole plan. I needed to keep the blood off the ground, and that meant getting it all over myself.
I took off my coat, wrapped it around Neblin's head and shoulders like a bandage, and grabbed him by the shoulders.
A sudden howl from the house cut through the silence. I dropped back, my eyes darting first to the back door, then to the front, back and forth, wondering from which direction the demon would emerge. Mr. Monster, screaming in my head, told me to run, to get out of there, to get away safely, and try again next time. That was the smart thing to do, the analytical thing to do. The demon would live, but so would I. I could stop him eventually without risking anything of my own.
My eyes fell on Neblin. He wouldn't leave, I thought. Neblin had gone out of his house in the middle of the night, knowing full well that there was a serial killer on the loose, because he wanted to help me. He did what he needed to do, even though it put him in danger. I've got to stop thinking like a sociopath. Either I endanger myself, or Crowley kills again. Two months ago, even two hours ago, the choice would have been obvious: save myself. Even now I knew, objectively, that it was the smartest thing to do. But Neblin had died trying to teach me to think like a normal human—to feel like a normal human. And sometimes normal, everyday humans risked their lives to help each other because of the way they feel. Emotions. Connections. Love. I didn't feel it, but I owed it to Neblin to try.
I grabbed Neblin by the armpits and pulled him toward me, feeling his bloody shirt slap against my coat and cover me in incriminating DNA. There was another howl from the house, but I ignored it, heaving Neblin backward and pulling him out of the car until his legs—still clean of blood—flopped out onto the driveway. The blood stayed on my clothes rather than dropping to the ground, and I gritted my teeth and started to move. The body was heavier than it looked; I remembered reading that dead and unconscious bodies are harder to lift than active ones, because the limp muscles don't compensate for movement and balance. He felt like a sack of wet cement, ungainly and impossible to carry. I kept his head and shoulders pressed tightly against my chest, my arms wrapped under his armpits and locked across his sternum. Turning my body carefully, I balanced on one foot and tugged on the door with my other, getting it nearly closed before Neblin's arm fell to one side and his body weight shifted awkwardly. I fell against the car, clinging tightly to the body and trying to hold it straight.