It took a week before Caden felt good enough to drive to the TNT and wend his way through the overgrowth. As Lach Evening predicted, the sightings of UFOs had dwindled. Now or then a sporadic rumor cropped up, but for the most part, reports had ceased.
He’d been out of commission for several days, the graze deeper than he’d originally thought. The wound had required stitching, with a few sessions of physical therapy waiting in the wings. At least he’d kicked the prescribed pain meds early and had finally finished the last of his antibiotics. Because he couldn’t blame Lyle for the injury, he’d attributed the stray bullet to a Mothman hunter. That put a clampdown on the TNT with the sheriff’s office stepping up patrols again.
Caden often wondered what had become of Lyle, but had heard nothing from Evening. Parker Kline was still listed as missing, but there was no longer a concentrated effort to find him. Caden had a strange feeling he’d never see the kid again.
Ten minutes in, he stumbled over the bunker where he’d communicated with Indrid Cold. The igloo stood still and silent, bathed in afternoon sunlight. The last time he’d been here, Cold had turned belligerent, Caden’s questions about Parker the catalyst to provoke his hostility. If Parker had really met Cold on the night he’d killed Hank Jeffries, it was possible the alien was partially responsible for Hank’s death.
Parker is my mistake to fix.
The memory of Cold’s words swirled in Caden’s head as he stepped inside the bunker. With the door ajar, a shaft of sunlight penetrated the murky interior. He switched on his flashlight, sweeping the beam to the darkened corners. The place looked much as it had the last time he was here, the old metal canisters undisturbed, the walls marred by graffiti. He turned slowly in a circle, wondering how Cold existed here, a disembodied presence, but couldn’t cross boundaries and appear in the flesh.
“Indrid Cold.” The last time he’d been here, he’d felt foolish addressing the empty dome. Much had changed since then. “Can you hear me?”
Yes.
As before, the voice echoed in Caden’s head. The air temperature plummeted, noticeably colder and heavier. A sense of presence swelled around him, an invisible aura that made the hair prickle on the back of his neck. Unlike his son, or even the Mothman, Cold presented something dangerous. An entity not to be trifled with.
“I met your son.”
No response.
Were they going to play the yes/no word game again?
“He sent me here to ask you about Parker Kline.”
Still nothing.
Caden exhaled. Flicking off the flashlight, he stood in darkness, the only illumination a small shaft of sunlight angled through the open door. Counting the seconds, he waited until they stretched into minutes. Around him the air grew icier, a physical weight that carried the sting of winter. Tension corded his muscles, drawing his body ramrod straight. An ache started in his wounded arm and splintered to his fingertips. Still he didn’t move.
Something wrapped around his wrist. A touch like suction cups pushed beneath his sleeve and fingered the brand left by the Mothman. Caden fought the urge to recoil. He withstood the probing with no more aversion than the slight tightening of his jaw.
Finally the touch withdrew and the air warmed a few degrees. He breathed easier, sensing he had passed a test. A weight lifted from his chest.
Parker is with me. Cold’s voice spoke in his head. He is safe in my world, where I can care for him.
“You took him from the hospital.” Caden thought of the strange life-sized puzzle Parker had taped to his wall. Nurse Brenner said the drawing of Cold had erupted with light, opening a crevice. “From his room. He’s been gone all this time?”
Yes.
“Why?”
I will show you.
The interior of the igloo vanished. Suddenly Caden was on the porch of Hank Jeffries’ house, the lifeless body of Parker’s brother, Tim, cradled in Hank’s lap. But he wasn’t there as an officer arriving on the scene of a murder. This time he saw the grisly night through Parker’s eyes, felt the clutch of red-veined horror at the sight of his brother’s ruined face. Bone, blood, and brain matter soiled the ground in a macabre halo. An eye dangled from one empty socket, a string of connective tissue holding the gruesome orb in place. Hank sat in a puddle of blood, chunks of flesh clinging to his chest and arms where he clasped Tim close.
“No!” Parker screamed.
Hank wailed something in reply, but between his hysterical sobbing and drunken, slurred speech, Caden had no idea what he babbled. He remained inside Parker’s body feeling the thudding beat of his heart, the choking hand of horror as it squeezed the air from his lungs.
Can’t breathe.
He had to get help.
Tim wasn’t dead. Couldn’t be.
It was all a bad dream, a prank gone wrong. He needed to find help. Someone to get Tim to the hospital where they’d piece his face back together.
Stop playing dead, Tim. It isn’t funny.
Parker ran for the road, half crying, half gasping for breath, his legs pumping beneath him. His dad’s truck wasn’t far. They’d left it a half mile down the road.
He was a distance runner. Ran track in school.
Piece of cake.
He’d drive to town and have help back in no time.
Oh, shit, oh, shit.
Why hadn’t he just used the damn phone in Hank’s house?
What a stupid ass.
Turn around. Turn around, you idiot.
He’d have to look at Tim again. Hear Hank blubbering.
Could he do it?
Your brother is dying. Your brother is dead.
No, no, no!
It was just a stupid prank.
He pivoted. Would race to the house. Find the phone. Call for help.
Yes, yes! A plan.
Run like you’re running for a trophy. For the finish line.