Hope.
Jesus, part of me was hoping I was pregnant.
I read the box.
Opened the package.
Peed on the stick.
Waited.
Waited.
Waited.
Looked.
Read the box again.
Cried. Cried so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.
I must have been in there too long, because someone began to knock on the bathroom door.
“I’ll be right out,” I said, but through the sobs it sounded more like “Abeeiooud.”
“Jack?”
Phin.
I unrolled some toilet paper, swabbed my face.
“Jack? You okay?”
I wrapped the pregnancy test in paper, held it over the toilet, and stopped. I realized I didn’t want to throw it away. Instead I stuffed it into my purse.
“Jack? I’m coming in.”
“I’m fine,” I said, more in control now. “I’ll be right out.”
I washed my hands, avoided looking in the mirror because it wouldn’t have improved my mood, and unlocked the door to Phin standing there, all sympathetic and concerned.
This annoyed me. I wondered if the real reason he’d never betray me was because I had two X chromosomes, and the little woman needed to be protected by the big strong man, which was BS because I’ve beaten up bigger guys than him.
“I’m fine,” I repeated, pushing past him.
I threw some money at Smirking Boy, who hadn’t bothered bagging anything. I tucked beef jerky into my pockets, and shoved the granola bars under my armpit.
Phin grabbed the water.
“I got it,” I told him.
He spread out his hands and backed up. As he should have. I didn’t need him. I didn’t need anyone. I was perfectly capable of carry ing a few lousy items. I crammed the bag of chips under my other arm, grabbed the salsa in one hand, the water in the other, and gave Phin a look that said he better not try to hold open the goddamn door for me. He didn’t, giving me a wide berth, and I shuffled past and bumped the door with my hip, and the salsa slipped and broke on the floor like a gunshot, splattering red.
Phin didn’t say anything. Neither did Smirking Boy. I continued out the door, piled everything onto the hood of the Bronco, and began stuffing it into the backseat. Then I sat down and waited for Phin.
He climbed into the driver’s seat without comment and we got back on the expressway, and I tried to focus on the case instead of my personal life.
Big Z, small d. Big Z, small d. What the hell did that mean? Why did Alex burn that into David Strang’s chest?
No ideas came. And the harder I tried to think, the more my mind kept drifting back to the pregnancy test in my purse, which I clutched in both hands like a life preserver on a sinking ship.
CHAPTER 26
ALEX DREAMS.
She’s ten years old, in a cornfield in Indiana, in the center of a wide circle that she made with Charles. They stomped down all of the dry stalks around them and are sitting Indian style, face-to-face, knees touching. The corn is taller than they are, so no one can see them from the road or from the farm house. This is their private spot. Their special spot. No one can hurt them here. Not bullies. Not Father. Not anyone.
A wind blows through the corn, making a rustling sound. All around them, the corn ripples like a golden sea. Alex smells fresh earth and clean air. The sun is shining, bright overhead, and she turns up to feel it on her face.
But she doesn’t feel it. All she feels is cold.
She looks at Charles, wondering if he’s cold too. His eyes are closed.
“I love you,” she says.
He doesn’t answer. She reaches up, touches him. It’s like touching ice.
He’s dead. Charles is dead.
Then his jaw falls open.
“You’re ugly, Alex,” Charles says. “Scarred and ugly.”
It’s isn’t his voice. It’s Jack’s.
Charles becomes Jack, his features cracking and twisting, and then she’s standing over Alex with angry black eyes, pointing down at her like a vengeful god.
Alex reaches up, feels her own face, feels the scars.
And she’s afraid.
The pleasant field smell sours, becoming the acrid odor of sweat and fear. The gentle breeze goes rotten. The sun shines black.
Alex runs. Into the corn.
The corn grabs at her, tries to stop her. But Alex has a knife, and she cuts and slashes, and the corn cries out and bleeds, bright red arterial jets that sting like acid. Stalks morph into severed arms and legs, and Alex climbs up the bodies of the slaughtered, climbs up an ever-growing pile of people she has killed.
At the top of the mound is a face. Her face. Unscarred. It beckons her on.
Behind her, Jack grows to monstrous proportions, reaching out an enormous hand to pluck Alex away from her goal. Alex dodges, stabs at Jack’s huge thumb, then launches herself upward, hands outstretched and yearning.
Alex’s face is atop a pedestal, and she snatches it up and presses the perfect mask of flesh against her scars. It glows warm, then burning hot, shooting out rays that blind the Jack creature and cause her to tumble down the mountain.
And Alex smiles. Not a half smile. A full smile, all the muscles working, lips doing what they are supposed to, wide and bright and beautiful.
Then Alex begins to grow. Bigger than Jack. Bigger and stronger and almighty. She crushes the squealing lieutenant underfoot, her rib cage cracking like a bird’s nest.
For miles around Alex, the corn trembles and begs for mercy.
Alex’s blade stretches and curves, becoming a scythe.
As the world screams, Alex reaps.
CHAPTER 27
“I GOT NOTHING, SIS.”
I rubbed my eyes, which felt like I had sand under the lids. We were parked in an all-night diner lot, which was half-full even at five in the morning. I’d gone in earlier, not to eat but to borrow a phone book. Now I wished I’d eaten. The salsa-less tortilla chips and five sticks of jerky hadn’t done much to satisfy my hunger.
“Try searching for motel plus Zd plus Wisconsin,” I told Harry.
“I tried that. I’ve tried every possible Boolean search combination, and I don’t even know what Boolean means. Plus I’m exhausted. The only thing keeping me awake is this case of SuperMax Energy Drink I got at the discount store. What the hell is taurine anyway?”
“We’re all tired, McGlade. Try pinching yourself.”
“Does that work?”
“No. But it will amuse me.”
“Funny, Jackie. We’ve got half an hour left. Maybe the Milwaukee PD has found him already.”
“Milwaukee cops find him?” I asked Phin.
Phin shook his head. Naturally, Phin owned a police scanner. He was using an earpiece to listen in so the radio chatter didn’t interfere with my phone call. I was using Alex’s cell, because it was pretty much trace-proof. No doubt the Feebies were tracking my personal cell.
I yawned. “Did you try another search engine?”
“I’m using an aggregator that searches all the top search engines, including foreign ones. I’ve found some pretty horrible things, Jackie. Do you know what a brass clown is?”
“No. And have no desire to find out.”
“It’s this sex thing. But it isn’t really sexual, unless you’re some sort of sicko nutjob. You take a cup. Guess what you do with the cup?”
“I don’t want to know what you do with the cup, and if you try to tell me I’ll hang up on you.”
“I wish I could do a system restore on my brain and go back to a time before I saw it. There are certain foods I can no longer eat.”
For the fiftieth time I fought the temptation to drive to the nearest motel and start randomly searching rooms. With several hundred hotels within ten square miles, the odds weren’t with us. Much better to stay centrally located and be ready to move when we got some information.
The problem was, we had no information. And I held out little hope that Alex would call back with a last-minute hint. The next time she called, it would be to send pictures of David Strang with his head blown off.