Nightmare City Part 9

"I don't know. Believe me, if I knew I would tell you. But there's something, something that wants to keep you in the dark, that wants to keep you in this coma, that maybe even . . . even wants you to die."

"Whoa." He swallowed hard. "Whoa," he said again. "How do I find it, then? How do I get rid of it?"

"Well, whatever it is," Lisa said, "it must be here somewhere. It must be something inside your own mind. Something you know but can't get to somehow."

"You mean, like, something I've forgotten. Or something I'm blocking out."

"That's right. I think . . . ," Lisa went on-and Tom could tell she was working it out as she spoke. "I think maybe if you could find out what happened to you, find out who shot you-who shot you and why-then you could break the barrier, break through and face the truth and wake up."

Her damp eyes gazed into his with so much feeling that Tom looked away, embarra.s.sed. He looked down at the table.

"That's got to be it, Tom," Lisa said. "Find the truth. The truth is always the way, even when it's scary, even when it's hard. It's like the Bible says, you know. Find the truth-and the truth will set you free."

Tom felt a fresh energy go through him, a fresh fire of inspiration. He raised his eyes to hers. They looked at each other for a long moment, and Tom had the strangest feeling that he had never really seen Lisa before. Sure, he'd seen her face. He'd seen her goofy sense of humor and her insecurity about her looks. He'd seen her courage in trying to deal with her parents' divorce and with the fact that she and her mom didn't have much money anymore, even though they used to be rich. He'd seen her-but he'd never seen her like this, never seen the sweet whole of her, the way he was seeing her now, here in his imagination. It was a sight that filled him up in a way he couldn't have described.

Slowly, she drew her hand away from him.

A new bout of fear went through him. "Don't," he whispered before he could stop himself. "Don't leave me."

"I have to, Tom." She stood up. "This isn't something I can do with you." She tried to smile. "I'm just the editor, right? I can send you out on a story, but you've got to find the answers on your own."

He looked up at her. He tried his best to smile. "Man! This imagination-it can be a pretty scary place, you know? I don't want to be alone in here."

"Oh, Tommy," said Lisa. "You're not alone!" Quickly, she reached behind her neck and undid the clasp of her gold necklace. She drew it off her throat and pressed it into his hand. Tom looked down and saw the gold cross gleaming in his palm. "You're not alone, Tommy," Lisa said again. "Just find the truth. And the truth will set you free."

Tom closed his fist around her necklace and held it fast.

The next time he looked up, Lisa was gone.

The moments pa.s.sed. The house was silent around him. The fog gathered in the backyard. Tom knew his time was running out and yet second after second, he sat where he was, staring at his closed fist.

Find the truth, and the truth will set you free.

All right. Good advice. But how did he do it? How could he find the truth? Where did he begin?

Come on, he told himself. You're the steely-eyed, big-brained reporter. Figure it out, bro.

He shook his fist as he went on gazing down at it. To find the whole truth, he needed to know who shot him-who shot him, and why. And hey, how hard could it be to get that information? He had been shot in the chest, after all. The person who shot him must have been standing right in front of him. He must have seen the person at the time it happened. He must already know who it was. So, as Lisa said, the answer must be here somewhere, somewhere inside his mind. But where?

Well, his memory, that's where.

Being in a coma and all, being trapped inside his own imagination, there were obviously things he couldn't remember. So to find those things, somehow he had to get from here, from his imagination, to his memory. But where was that?

Go to the monastery, Tom. That's where the answers are.

He almost heard Marie's gentle voice speak the words. Marie had told him to go to the monastery. That must be the way, and yet . . .

And yet, it didn't make sense to him. The way to his memory should be through the things he remembered. But he didn't remember being in the monastery. He didn't remember that at all.

There was something else, too. The man in the computer. The Lying Man who had told him that the monsters were gone and it was safe to go out into the hall. The Lying Man had told him to go to the monastery, too. The Lying Man had also told him that's where the answers were. Now, okay, maybe the Lying Man had told him the truth about the monastery just to trick him into leaving his bedroom. But Tom had a feeling that the Lying Man never told the truth, not really. Tom had the feeling that everything the Lying Man said was either an outright lie or some other kind of deception.

As he thought about that, an image came into his mind. It was the image of Marie, sitting right here, right in the kitchen, at this very table. He remembered the way she reacted when he wanted to answer his phone. The way she tried to stop him when he wanted to go downstairs to see his brother on TV. Why would she do that? Why would she try to stop him from seeing Burt? Why didn't she want him to answer the phone?

It's not that he didn't trust Marie, he told himself. That would be crazy. Why wouldn't he trust her? It was just that . . . well, he didn't want to do anything the Lying Man told him to do, that's all. That's all.

So where did that leave him?

The seconds pa.s.sed. He went on sitting there, gripping the necklace, shaking his fist as he thought it through. And a fresh idea came to him. He wanted to get from here to his memory, right? So where was the borderline between the two territories? The border of his memory must be marked by the things he almost remembered but couldn't remember completely. If he could find his way to something he almost remembered but couldn't quite bring back, then he knew he could find his way from there to the rest of it, the things he had forgotten completely or had blocked out.

What do I almost remember? he asked himself.

The answer came to him at once. The woman in the white blouse. The woman who had called him on the phone and tried to talk to him through the static. She was the one who had called him back from the brink of death, trying to reach him, trying to tell him something. He knew who she was-sort of-but he could not quite place her, could not quite call her ident.i.ty to mind.

But he knew where to find her, didn't he? He knew where to start at least. She had told him herself.

The office of the Sentinel in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the school. He had written her address down on a piece of paper there. That was where the memory trail began. If he could find that address, he could find the woman in the white blouse. If he could find her, he knew somehow that he could find his way back to the rest of it, to everything.

Tom let out a long, unsteady sigh and opened his fist. His hand was empty. Lisa's necklace was gone. He didn't mind. He knew Lisa herself was still there, still nearby, sitting by his bed, praying for him, waiting for him.

You're not alone, Tommy.

He looked up. Looked out the window. The fog was now rolling in across the far edges of the backyard. Already, the hedges that marked the Laughlins' property had vanished beneath a pillowy whiteness. Already, Tom could see hulking, limping shadows moving in that whiteness. The malevolents. Coming back for him.

He stood up, the chair sc.r.a.ping the floor beneath him. He had to go. He had to find his memory, find the truth. He had to get to the school, to the Sentinel's office.

And that meant he had to leave the house and go out into the fog.

He felt the fear flare inside him as he moved down the hall to the stairs. But he felt something else, too: the old pulse of curiosity, the old fever for the answers. As he pa.s.sed the front door, he glanced out the sidelight. He glimpsed the thickening sheets of mist covering the front lawn. Pretty frightening-but there was no point in dwelling on it. He turned away and dashed up the stairs, taking two at a time.

Into his bedroom. The baseball bat-the Louisville Slugger Warrior-was back in his closet, as if he'd never removed it. He reached in and felt the cool of the aluminum against his hand. It made him feel a little better to grip the bat and bring it out. He was going to need a weapon out there. The Warrior wasn't much, but it was all he had.

He went to the computer table. Collected his phone and his keys. He started back to the bedroom door-and as he did, there was a soft sound behind him. A brief electronic sizzle, almost like a whisper. Tom stopped in his tracks. He knew where the sound was coming from. The computer. He glanced over his shoulder at it. The little whisper of sound came again, and at the same time there was the faintest hint of light in the depths of the monitor, the faintest appearance of a shape, a silhouetted figure.

Something was in there. Someone. Trying to get out. Trying to talk to him.

The Lying Man.

Tom stood where he was a moment. He was tempted to wait, tempted to listen. It was just that this place-his house, his empty house-was so lonely now. And he was afraid, afraid of going outside. The musical, soothing sound of the Lying Man's voice would be some sort of company, some sort of comfort, even if it told him lies.

It cost Tom a measure of will to turn away, but he did turn away. Lies were of no use to him now. Before the computer could make another noise, he hurried out the door, carrying his baseball bat with him.

Back down the hall. Back down the stairs. Back to the front door. He pulled it open.

A heaviness came into his belly; a darkness came into his heart. The forward wall of the marine layer had now crept up over the edge of the driveway and was tumbling steadily toward him. He couldn't see the malevolents in the depths of the whiteness yet, but he knew they were there. Close. Getting closer.

Here we go, he thought.

He stepped out of the house and pulled the door shut behind him.

His heart beat hard, and the fear coursed through him like blood as he headed up the driveway to the garage door. His mind was crowded with a thousand doubts and reconsiderations. What if Lisa was wrong? What if he should have stayed in the house and toughed it out? What if Marie was right and he needed to get to the monastery as quickly as he could? He wished Burt was around to help him figure out whom to trust, whom to believe.

He reached the garage door. Took a nervous glance over his shoulder to make sure none of the creatures were sneaking up on him. The main body of the fogbank was still down toward the end of the drive, though the mist up on the lawn was denser than it had been even a few minutes ago.

Taking a deep breath, he turned his back on the scene. He stooped down and grabbed the garage door handle and rolled the door upward.

Burt's old yellow Mustang sat inside in the shadows. Tom moved to the driver's door, unlocked it, and slipped in behind the wheel.

He moved fast, trying to outrun his doubts. He shut the door. Stowed the baseball bat on the pa.s.senger side, wedging it half upright between the seat and the door so he could grab it fast if he had to. He snapped on his seat belt. Worked the key into the ignition and switched the engine on. With a deep breath, he shifted to look out through the rear window. He backed out of the garage slowly, backed down the driveway slowly, rolling toward the wall of mist.

The car backed into the street-and the fog closed over it. Wrangling the Mustang's transmission stick into Drive, Tom faced front. The white ma.s.s was plastered to the windshield, blotting out the view. He could barely see past the car's hood. He turned on the wipers. They swiped away the condensation on the gla.s.s, making it clearer. He turned on the headlights. They carved out about three feet of visibility in front of his fenders. That was as good as it was going to get. He was going to have to take this slow.

He pressed the gas pedal down gingerly. The car started rolling forward at about fifteen miles an hour. Any faster than that and he'd be barreling blind through the fog. And yet every instinct he had urged him to go faster, to get through this mess, to get to the school, to get back indoors as quickly as possible. It took all his restraint to keep the Mustang's speed under control.

Slowly-so slowly-he rolled down the street. His breath came shallow. His heart beat hard. He cast his eyes briefly to the right and left as he moved, peering through the fog to see what he could. Mostly: nothing. White on cloudy white. But now and then he thought he caught a hint, a shadow, a shape of-something. Was that the hovering outline of an oak tree? Was that the looming ma.s.s of the Willoughby house hunkering right by the curb at the corner? Yes. The mist shifted a little and he got a clearer look at the old place. All the windows in the house were dark. No one home. No one home anywhere. Tom knew he was all alone out here.

He looked ahead, out the windshield-and let out a gasp as a hulking figure appeared at the edge of his headlights' glow. It vanished almost immediately back into the mist. Gone.

Tom took a few hard breaths, trying to steady himself. He could feel his palms sweating on the steering wheel. The Mustang rolled on-slowly, slowly. He reached the end of his street, where it met with Eucalyptus Road. That was the broad, straight, open avenue that led north to Highway 182, where the school was. The stop sign became visible just before he reached the intersection, but Tom was afraid to halt the car. He was afraid the malevolents would seize the opportunity, that they would come swarming out of the fog and surround him, block his car, break in and devour him. He knew they were out there, just waiting for their chance.

He went right past the stop sign without even slowing. Hey, let the police pull me over, he thought. Really, there was nothing in this world he would have liked better than to see a cop right now, traffic ticket and all!

He turned the Mustang onto Eucalyptus. On the wider street, the fog seemed to spread out and become a bit thinner. He lifted his eyes from the small patch of road directly in front of him and scanned the scene through the windshield. He could make out houses like shadows, and the low broad shape of the YMCA building, and the modest spire of the Hope Church where he and his mom went, and where Burt used to go, too. His eyes lingered for a moment on the church as he remembered those mornings when they had all sat together . . .

But then, something-a movement in the mist-caught his attention. He turned toward it.

There they were. Two-no, three-no, wait, four-limping shadows, hulking in the mist: one on a lawn, one in a driveway, one outside the Y, one by the curb. One, that last one, was close enough so that Tom could make him out clearly through the drifting marine layer. He could make out that bizarre and awful elongated face. He could see those red and hungry eyes. They watched him drive past. Once again, he had to fight the urge to hit the gas, to try to race away.

Keep it slow. Keep it steady. They can't touch you if you're in the car, if you're on the move. If you make a run for it in this fog, you'll crash, he told himself, and then they'll have you.

He forced himself to focus forward, and he drove on.

The malevolents slipped away behind him. Now there was nothing again, nothing but the fog. Tom's pulse began to slow. His breathing began to even out.

Then the radio started playing.

It was so startling he nearly jumped out of his seat. All at once, the digital display lit up and the car filled with the sound of static. The next moment the numbers on the display started to change, climb. The radio was scanning, looking for a channel. As the numbers on the readout shifted rapidly, the whisper of white noise wavered and dimmed. For a second, Tom heard a snippet of music, a note or two. Then it was gone. The next second he heard a weatherman's voice: "No break in the dense . . ." Then that, too, disappeared into the static as the readout numbers continued to roll on.

The next sound, though . . . the next sound distressed him. Just for a moment, dimly under the white whisper, Tom heard a woman weeping, sobbing.

Was that his mom? Was that his mom crying for him?

Before he could be sure, the noise was gone. There was another snippet of music under the hiss of static. It sounded like a rock band performing in the belly of a giant snake. Then that music, too, dissolved.

Enough, Tom thought.

He reached out to the Off b.u.t.ton and pushed it. It had no effect. The radio kept scanning. The static went on. Holding the steering wheel with one hand, Tom tried to hit the b.u.t.ton again.

And a voice spoke to him out of the radio with shocking clarity, "Don't touch that dial, Tom."

He knew at once it was the Lying Man. He recognized the calm, lilting, hypnotic voice. He hit the Off b.u.t.ton again-harder-and then again. No change. The readout stayed lit.

The Lying Man said, "No, no, no, Tom. That's no use. I'm with you. Whatever you do. I'm always with you."

Tom had to watch the windshield to keep from running off the road. He took his hand away from the radio, put it back on the steering wheel.

"Did you think I would abandon you?" the mellow voice continued. "I would never do that. I'm here for you, Tom, even when you try to escape me. I'm not only traveling with you-I'm waiting for you wherever you go. Where are you headed now? To your school? I'll be right there when you arrive. Me and all my friends. You can't get away from us. Ever."

There was a flash of movement at the corner of Tom's eyes. He turned to the side window just in time to see another malevolent limp off into the mist. He tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. His neck and back and sides, on the other hand, were pouring clammy sweat.

"It's just like Lisa told you," said the Lying Man. "You're not alone."

"What do you want?" Tom said hoa.r.s.ely. The Mustang continued its slow pa.s.sage through the deep mist.

"Oh, it's not about what I want," said the Lying Man with a sound of gentle sympathy and concern. "It's about what you want, Tom. That's what I'm here for. For you. It's all about you."

"I just want to find out the truth," Tom said tersely.

"Well, then that's what I want, too," said the serene voice from the radio. "I want you to find out the truth also. The truth about yourself. About what you're really like. About what your life is really like. And about what you really want more than anything."

The sweat poured off Tom even harder. He shivered with the clammy cold of it. His shirt clung to his skin.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"I think you do," said the Lying Man. "I think you know deep down. I just think you need a little help to figure it out. I think you need my help before you can really face the truth."

Tom glanced at the radio. He sneered. "I know you," he said, his voice trembling. "I know what you're like now. You lied to me. You're nothing but lies. You're . . ."

At that moment, with a horrible thud, something-someone-smashed into his fender.

Without thinking, Tom hit the brakes. The tires squealed as the Mustang skidded to a stop. Tom shouted in fear as a figure tumbled out of the fog and collapsed over the side of the Mustang's hood. At first, he thought it must be a malevolent. But it wasn't. It was a man.

Sprawled over the front of the car, the man looked up through the windshield, looked at Tom desperately. His forehead was streaked with blood. His eyes were wide and shining with a sick brightness. His expression was one of terror.