“Sorry, Walt.”
“Don’t be. I should have known.” He closed the drawer, suddenly feeling tired again, and leaned back against the stack of pillows.
“It was only a block away.”
“What?”
“The phone booth… it was only a block away. At the 7-Eleven on Kirkwood. I can’t be sure of this, of course, but it looks like they linked that number to a number in Chico.”
“Another phone booth, right?”
“You got it,” Mark said. “And from there, it went down to the Bay Area. After that, it’s anybody’s guess. Sorry.”
“No need. At least that confirms what we’re dealing with.”
“If anything else comes up…”
“Thanks, Mark.”
“No problem.”
Walt hung up and gazed out the window. He watched a puff of gray-white clouds go sauntering past the Motel Six sign and disappear into the distant blue sky like one of David Copperfield’s illusions.
Illusions were showing up everywhere it seemed.
[29]
“Have you got your seat belt on?” Teri did her best to keep the calm in her voice. In the side mirror, the black Ford drifted toward the inside of the lane then back behind the white van again. It was like looking up to find someone staring at you from across the room, and it stood the hairs up on the back of Teri’s neck.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Because you’re supposed to,” she said.
She pressed down on the accelerator, and the car gradually increased speed from thirty-five to forty. The white van began to fall back, shrinking in the rearview mirror, and for a brief moment Teri let herself hope for the best. It did not last long.
The black Ford crossed to the inside lane. The sky, dark and cloudy, rolled across its windshield like an old grainy movie, and beneath the gray veil she could barely make out the figure of someone sitting in the passenger seat. He shifted forward briefly; his hands on the dashboard, then sank back into the shadows again
“So where is he?” the boy asked again about Michael.
“Not now, honey.”
“He’s okay, isn’t he?”
“Please.” The tires began to pound out a sudden rhythm, and she realized the car had drifted too close to the lane divider. She made a small correction back into the outside lane, and focused once again on the black Ford.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing, honey.”
The boy glanced over his shoulder out the back window. “It’s a cop, isn’t it?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
The Ford slowly inched forward, trailing along slightly less than a car-length back now. An endless parade of dark-gray clouds went swimming across its windshield, like a sea of whitecaps, and barely discernible beneath them, Teri thought she caught a glimpse of the driver’s face. It was Mitch.
“Oh, my God.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s him,” she said.
“Who?”
“That man from the other night.”
Up ahead, the stop light turned green and she said a silent prayer that it would hold. She pressed down on the accelerator and brought the speed up to just under fifty.
“What do they want?”
“I don’t know.”
In the rearview mirror, she watched the white van pull into a Chevron station on the right. The Ford immediately increased its speed, moving up along side her on the left. The light turned yellow as both cars sailed through the intersection. On the far side, the Ford switched lanes and cut in front of her.
“So what are we gonna do?”
“I’m not sure,” she said honestly. She thought she had heard a hint of fear in the boy’s voice, and she didn’t want to add to that, not even a little, because it was everything she could do to keep her own fears under control.
A light drizzle began to fall. Teri turned on the wipers. They made a maddening, rasping sound as they scraped across the surface of the glass for the first stroke or two, then settled into the steady tempo of a metronome.
Up ahead, the rear passenger-side window of the Ford slowly rolled down. She watched a black-gloved hand emerge like a vampire bat flitting out of its cave just after twilight. With the index finger in the air, it motioned toward the curb, and she knew time was quickly running short.
“You aren’t going to stop, are you?”
Teri checked her rearview mirror.
“Mom?”
“Hold on,” she said.
[30]
Walt hung up the phone, uneasy with the knowledge that whoever was after Teri, they were obviously sophisticated and very well-funded. He didn’t care much for the implications of that thought. There was a chance—a good chance, in fact—that he might be getting in over his head. Though he tried to remind himself that chance was a two-headed coin. The fact that they were sophisticated at least narrowed down some of the suspects.
All this whirled around in his head like a wind storm shifting the sands, and eventually he fluffed up the pillows and settled back for a short nap.
With the nap, came the dream.
“Write your name, Mr. Travis.”
Walt looked up from his desk. He was in the first row, second to last seat, farthest from the window that looked out across the school yard. Someone had carved the initials W.T. into the desktop, and circled it with a black permanent marker. It was not a nice thing to have done.
“Huh?”
The teacher, who was a man of about forty and stood almost as tall as the top of the chalkboard, held out a piece of white chalk. His eyes were red embers, his brow creased and stern. He was a familiar man, and Walt thought if he resembled anyone it would be his father.
“You heard me, young man. Come up to the chalkboard and write your name.”
The rest of the class all turned in their seats and waited to see what he would do.
“But…”
“Now, young man.”
“I…”
The teacher glared at him a moment, an if-looks-could-kill kind of glare. Then suddenly he slammed the palm of his hand against the board. It made a huge, terrifying noise, sharp and jarring. A cloud of chalk dust swirled madly into the air.
“Now!”
Walt climbed out of his seat, his legs rubbery beneath him. He passed through a row of strange faces, girls and boys that he couldn’t remember having ever met before. Distrustfully, he took the chalk that was presented him.
“Your name, Mr. Travis. On the board. Fifty times, if you will.”
He looked from the chalk to the huge, empty board that towered over him like a mountain waiting to be climbed. Slowly he began to write: JEFF NEWCOMER.
Giggles erupted from behind him.
“That’s not your name, Mr. Travis.”
“Yes—”
“That’s not your name!” A ruler slammed across his buttocks, nearly standing him as high as the teacher’s chin. “Now do it right!”
R-A-Y-M-O-N-D.
“That’s not right!”
Another slap across his back side.
J-O-S-E-P-H.
“No! That’s not who you are! Do it again!”
S-A-M-U-E-L.
“No! Again!”
B-E-R-R-Y.
“No!”
RICHARD BOYLE.
“Richard Boyle. Now remember that,” the teacher said sternly. “It’s Richard Boyle. That’s your name now. You understand me? It’s yours.”