Thanks but no thanks. Max smiled without showing teeth.
She left the office and headed to Bud’s home. Tree-lined streets, racing kids out of school for the day, a crossing guard on every corner, Beemers, Volvos, and minivans full of Moms and excess children. Affluent, ordinary, and without a clue, Max wanted to warn them, too, about the monster living in their midst.
His Cadillac wasn’t in the driveway. Could be in the garage. Cruising, she parked two houses down on the opposite side of the street, again to keep out of Witt’s way should he read her mind. The Toyota would fool him, but not if she parked anywhere near Bud’s house. Slamming the door behind her, she turned her head left then right, scanning for telltale black-and-whites, non-descript department vehicles, blue Cameros, or Ram trucks. Nothing. She was as clear as she was going to get. Crossing the street, she walked down, paused a long second before the expanse of green lawn rising to the colonial-style monstrosity, then padded through it despite her heels sinking into the turf as she cut to the front path.
The doorbell sounded inside, echoing through the house howling with emptiness. She could have broken in to make sure. She’d done that before when she’d had to. But she didn’t need B&E or psychic powers to know he wasn’t there.
She swore once, then went back to the SUV. The interior was cold; she’d parked in the shade. Late afternoon, she was suddenly tired to the bone, the day washing over her. “Can’t stay here,” she whispered and started the engine.
Pulling out onto the street, her eyelids burned. Sleep, she wanted so badly to sleep, five minutes, half an hour.
“Let’s take a nap.” Cameron had said that sometimes on a Sunday afternoon when he’d wanted sex.
Her chest ached, and she couldn’t answer.
“There’s a mall just down the freeway. Park there. Sleep.”
“I have to find him.”
“Sleep will help you find Bud.”
She parked in the sun in the far end of the mall lot where few cars ventured.
“I should be out looking for him.” But she was tired, so tired, her limbs unwilling to obey the dictates of her mind.
“You need sleep.” Sleep, sleep echoed in her head as if he were trying to hypnotize her.
The sun through the windscreen took the bite out of the raw November air, its warmth lulling her. She scrambled into the back seat, with a brief thank you to Sutter’s roomy Toyota and its tinted rear windows. A pillow, carelessly tossed, lay on the floor behind the driver’s seat. Convenient. Too convenient? Seemed someone had anticipated her every move.
“Sleep,” Cameron whispered once more, and, without another protest, Max succumbed to his voice and the dream that came.
She sat behind the wheel of an old car, gear shift on the column, torn leather beneath her rear, cracks webbing the dashboard. The speedometer didn’t work, the odometer stuck on 666. The sign of the devil.
They traveled a freeway in the slow lane. With a few seconds of orientation, she recognized the San Jose Airport coming up on her right, which meant she was heading south on Highway 101. Without thought, without movement, as if the car drove itself, she exited on the next ramp, circled under the clover leaf and ended up on the opposite side of the freeway. Planes roared overhead.
Daytime. Heavy traffic. The car got in the left lane at the first light. Green arrow. Turn. She’s sleepy, so sleepy. And the car is doing all the work. Turn again at the second right. Then first left. Right into a driveway. Warehouse ahead. The gates close with a bang behind her like the gates of a prison. Or the gates of hell. The car rolls to a stop. Rolls. Her lids droop.
Suddenly she was outside the car, hovering above, then beside it, finally walking in its wake. The paint job was new, shiny, yet she knew the car was the same, a Rolls-Royce. It glided slowly along a yellow brick road, waves of heat rising off its black surface. Her own reflection stared back at her from its rear window.
The yellow brick road disappeared into a field of pale flowers, purple, blue, and in the distance gleamed the Emerald City. In the land of Oz, only she and the Rolls were out of place.
Max followed in the car’s path, her heels tapping musically on the bricks. A dog barked—could it be Toto?—the breeze rustled through the flowers, and exhaust fumes tinged her nostrils.
The distance between them could be measured in slowly increasing feet as the Rolls lumbered forward. The bumper, too, was shiny, chrome-plated and almost blinding in the high noon sun. Spots popped in front of her eyes. She blinked to get rid of them, once, twice. The spots began to form numbers, letters, and then she realized she was reading the rear license plate.
4WDY452. For Wendy 452.