Jack.
Of course. What better than Jack Johns as Evan’s archangel and a Black Hawk to bear him into the sweet hereafter?
The machine gun unleashed overhead, razing the pines behind Evan, and he understood that Imaginary Jack was protecting him, driving Candy McClure and Orphan M back into the woods, pushing them downslope and away.
Evan was safe now. He was beyond harm.
The helo set down, the rotor wash ruffling Evan’s hair, his clothes. He smiled into the fever dream.
Jack hopped down and tromped over to Evan, the sun winking into sight behind his head. He’d aged. He’d be in his seventies by now but looked a hale sixty.
Evan knew that he was beyond a dying fantasy, that he was dead and gone, riding the last random neuron firings through his expired brain.
Two more men leapt from the Black Hawk and jogged over, a stretcher bouncing between them. Jack shouted over his shoulder, “Get him out of here!”
The men sped up, wading through the snow.
Jack set his hands on his knees and grimaced down at Evan. “What are you doing lying there?”
“… dying.”
Jack’s face warred between concern and anger. “You gave that asshole a wide-open shot. Where’s your gun?”
“… back in woods … couldn’t fire anymore … right arm … no good…”
Jack’s square head snapped down, assessing Evan. “Nothing wrong with the left one,” he said.
Evan peered up at the brilliant violet sky, grinning.
Jack. That was Jack.
The medics finally arrived, bulled Jack aside, and swept Evan up. They jostled him back toward the Black Hawk on the stretcher, Jack jogging alongside them. Evan caught an upward view of Jack and could see that concern was winning out now.
As they loaded Evan into the chopper, the RoamZone fell out of Evan’s coat pocket. He twisted and grabbed for it, crying out, but the noise of the rotors swept away his words.
“What?” Jack shouted. “What’s wrong?”
They slid Evan into the belly of the Black Hawk. He kicked and reached. Jack followed him in, the shattered phone in his hand. “This? You want this?”
Evan nodded.
Jack looked from the busted casing and shattered screen to Evan, his forehead furrowed. “Okay.”
Evan grabbed the phone, squeezed it tight. A needle pricked his arm. His stomach swooned as they lifted up. The cold, cold air breezed through the open door.
Jack was shouting into a headset: “—blood units ready, throw the saline in the freezer, and get a trauma surgeon there. Now.”
They banked high above the valley, and Evan peered down at the dollhouse of the chalet, spirals of smoke still rising from the blown-out wall.
Jack: “I don’t care how hard it is. You don’t get me someone in time, I will land this helo on your skull. Understand?”
Movement below caught Evan’s eye. A caravan of black SUVs blazed up the gravel road, sweeping onto the cobblestone driveway, doors flying open, men spilling out.
Breaking from the tree line, two dots sprinted to meet them.
Evan felt himself going out, and he blinked hard, fighting to stay conscious.
A figure broke from the pack of men, waiting to receive Candy McClure and Orphan M. The man was dressed differently from the others, wearing some kind of cloak. He paused, turning skyward to glare at the Black Hawk as it hung overhead. His hood was raised, his face shadowed, but Evan knew right away who it was.
Van Sciver.
The Black Hawk banked again, the view swept away, replaced by the endless scroll of the sky.
Evan shut his eyes, and this time they didn’t open.
57
A Very Persuasive Call
Pain.
Horizontal.
Drifting along as if in a canoe.
Evan’s throat — sandpaper and rust.
His hand cramped around the RoamZone.
Needle jammed in his arm, saline bag clutched in Jack’s blocky fist.
Fluorescent lights floated overhead.
An empty corridor led to another empty corridor.
Doors.
A warehouse interior.
Arranged in the middle of the blank space, lit like a movie set, a full operating theater.
Bizarre.
As out of place as René’s basement lab.
The afterlife was weird.
A doctor in blue scrubs ran over. “Who is he?”
Jack’s disembodied voice, gruffer than usual. “John Doe.”
“Who are you?”
“John Doe Sr.”
Thumb on eyelid.
Flare of penlight.
Latex fingers on the side of his neck.
A nurse called over, “Can someone please tell me what the saline is doing in the freezer?”
Jack waved her off.
Trauma shears zippering open the coat.
Fabric peeling wetly back from Evan’s wound.
“Jesus,” the doctor said. “Um…”
Jack: “Speak.”
“Look, I got a very persuasive call from the 202 area code telling me to get to this location. I want to help, believe me, but I’m an anesthesiologist—”
“An anesthesiologist? For the love of Mary.”
“He needs a vein graft into the damaged subclavian vein. That requires a trauma surgeon.”
“I asked for a trauma surgeon.”
“Guess how many of those there are in Piscataquis County? Your guys, they finally tracked one down, but … um, the weather, the roads — she’s still two hours out. I’m just a placeholder till she gets here. But…”
“Get the words to come out faster.”
“Look. I’m sorry. He’s not gonna make it that long. He’s not gonna make it.”
Jack’s face bunched up.
Evan tried to make a noise, but nothing happened.
The lights wobbled in and out.
“Okay.” Jack tilted his forehead into the span of his palm. When he looked up, his eyes were different.
“Kill him,” Jack said.
58
Cold
Cold.
59
Reborn
Lights fuzzed into existence.
Cabin. Soft bed. Jack sitting bedside.
“You have been,” Jack said theatrically, “reborn.”
“You look old,” Evan said, and drifted into the beckoning darkness.
60
The Only Person Worse Than Us
Fade in on a new day.
Evan’s shoulder pulsed beneath the bandages. Jack remained in that bedside chair, same clothes, more scruff. The cabin smelled of wet cedar and coffee.
Seemed like a sorry-ass excuse for the Elysian Fields.
Was it real?
“Quit whining and get your ass up,” Jack said. “We got work to do.”
Yeah, Evan thought. It’s real.
“What’s … date?” Evan’s throat clutched, sending him into a coughing fit.
Jack said, “October twenty-seventh.”
Three days. That gave Evan three days to get to Alison Siegler before she got to Jacksonville.
He was still coughing. Jack handed him a glass of water. Evan took a sip, felt the coolness glide all the way down his parched throat into his stomach.
The cabin was one big room. Worn leather books lined a bookshelf, ordered by descending height. A water-filled heavy bag hung from one of the ceiling beams. A kettle perched on a stovetop, centered on the heating coil. Not a crumb, not a speck of dust in sight. Jack lived here, all right.
Evan set the glass down. Grimacing, he reached out with his left hand and poked Jack’s chest. Solid.