Nightmare City

24.

The rain fell steadily. Drenched and weary, Tom trudged up a steep two-lane road. He moved in the shadows of overhanging oak and eucalyptus trees, the cold downpour dripping on him from their leaves.

He looked around, bewildered. It was strange—very strange: he couldn’t remember how he had gotten here. He had stepped out of the school into a raging storm—he remembered that. And he remembered the wind and the lightning and thunder—the incredible intensity of them. But then… ? There was nothing after that. He was just suddenly here. It was as if there had been some weird skip in the video of his life, a missing transition.

And now? He wasn’t sure. Something felt wrong. Something felt different and strange. He couldn’t quite tell what it was, but he sensed he had entered a new phase of this nightmare.

He trudged on beneath the dripping trees, nearing the top of the hill. From there, he would be able to look down onto the main street of town, Route 190. There would be a little strip of stores, gas stations, and restaurants. The freeway to the right, and the ocean beyond. The high hills to the left, dotted with houses.

A few yards from the crest, Tom stopped. He had heard something. A sort of steady whoosh and whisper. He realized he had been hearing it for some time, but he hadn’t noticed it before because it blended in with the background and because… well, because it was so normal. He was used to hearing it every day.

It was the sound of cars on the freeway.

Tom’s lips parted in surprise as he realized this. This was what he’d been missing all this time—all this time he’d been in this bizarre coma-world. The noise of freeway traffic, the songs of birds, the presence of other people. The normal sounds and movements of life. Had they all come back now? What did it mean?

He started walking again, faster, covering the last few yards to the peak of the hill.

He stopped at the crest and looked down into the center of town. A feeling of wonder and hope spread through him. Sure enough, there were cars passing on the freeway down there, just as there usually were. There were cars on 190, too. Cars pausing at the stoplight, moving on when the light turned green. Cars pulling into the diagonal spaces outside the shops and restaurants. Cars stopping at the pump for gas. Just like always.

Another movement caught Tom’s attention and he turned and saw, to his amazement, an actual pedestrian, a sure-enough ordinary normal human being, big as life. It was a woman with a shopping bag coming out of the Easy Mart at the Shell station, heading for her parked SUV. Tom stared at her with wonder, as if she were an angel descended from heaven. And then…

Then Tom lifted his eyes and he saw the Pacific. What a wonderful sight it was! The ocean was dark and churning under the gray sky, its waves rising to meet the rain, its whitecaps snapping at the clouds. But the best part was: there was no fog, no marine layer. In fact, now that he thought about it, there was no sign of fog anywhere. No malevolents.

Did that mean he had finally escaped them? Was he getting better? Was he going to live and regain consciousness?

His excitement rose as he started down the hill.

He entered the heart of Springland. He passed the Greenhouse Restaurant on his left. He could see people through the windows of the green clapboard building: more ordinary people sitting at the tables in there eating and talking. He could see people through the window of the antique shop, too. And more people pulling into the Shell station in their cars. It was as if he had returned to the land of the living after a long journey through a barren nightmare.

Just as he reached the corner, a tall, weathered ranchhand came out of the hardware store and moved past Tom toward a black pickup parked at the curb. Tom smiled a greeting at the man, eager to talk to someone, to anyone.

“Hey. How goes it?” Tom said.

The ranchhand took no notice of him. He walked past Tom as if he weren’t there. Got into his truck. Drove away.

Tom sighed. He had wanted so much to hear another human voice, a real, normal human voice. After the ranchhand was gone, he stood on the corner for a second, looking around for someone else to talk to. But there was no one nearby. The rain continued to drench him. His soaked, clammy clothes clung to him uncomfortably. He had to move on. He had to get to 47 Pinewood Lane. The Pinewood Apartments. That’s why he was here. To find Karen Lee, the woman in the white blouse. To hear what it was she so desperately wanted to tell him. The truth he could not remember.

The building called Pinewood Apartments was the only high-rise in town. Tom could see it from here: a white six-story building embedded precariously in the slope of the hills above him, with balconies on every floor overlooking the freeway and the sea.

Tom started toward it, up the road through the rain.

Then suddenly he was standing outside the building. Again, he couldn’t remember how he had gotten here. He had begun walking and then there was a kind of fritz—like static or something—and suddenly he was just here, looking in through the glass doors that led to the building’s lobby. Very freaky. Very strange.

He shook his head, like a dog shaking off water. He was tired, that’s all. Zoning out. He ran his fingers through his hair, combing out the rain. Once he found Karen Lee, things would start to make more sense. Just tired, he told himself again.

Now he was in the lobby. He didn’t remember pushing through the doors, but he must have. He was standing just inside, in a broad open space with both an elevator and a flight of stairs leading upward. There was a semicircular desk in the center. A receptionist stood behind it, a woman of maybe thirty or so. She had long black hair and a severe expression on her face. She looked, Tom thought, like an angry schoolteacher. She stood still, staring sternly at him as if she were about to scold him for not paying attention in class.

He walked toward her.

“Hi. My name is Tom Harding,” he said. “I’m here to see Karen Lee in 6B.”

The woman went on staring at him—staring and frowning. She didn’t seem to approve of him. She wouldn’t even answer.

“Excuse me?” said Tom. “Hello? I’d like to see Miss Lee in 6B.”

Still—no response. Tom felt a weird little charge of anxiety. He remembered the ranchhand who had walked right past him as if he weren’t there. A cold feeling went down his neck, as if someone had put a piece of ice against his skin.

“Miss?” he said out loud to the frowning woman at the reception desk. He waved his hand in front of her face. “Miss, can you hear me?”

And still, the woman didn’t move, didn’t answer. Her eyes shifted a little, and Tom realized with a jolt that she wasn’t really looking at him at all. She was looking through him, as if she didn’t see him, as if he were invisible to her, as if he were…

… a ghost.

The thought came into Tom’s mind before he could stop it: Am I a ghost? Am I dead? Am I already dead?

Just then the phone on the reception desk rang. Immediately the woman behind the desk responded, picked it up.

“Front desk,” she said in a brisk voice.

She turned her back on Tom and went on talking into the phone.

It was true! She couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him at all!

Tom raised his hands to touch his own chest, as if he might find he had become insubstantial, a phantom. The receptionist went on talking into the phone, oblivious to his presence.

Tom’s anxiety turned to fear. Desperate to prove himself wrong, he moved away from the receptionist. Moved to the elevators. He pressed the Up button. The elevator didn’t light up. Didn’t move.

Of course not.

Because ghosts can’t call elevators, Tom thought.

No, no, no, that couldn’t be right. The elevator was probably broken. He looked around. The stairs. He would use the stairs. He rushed over to them. The receptionist didn’t try to stop him from going up.

Right. Because she doesn’t even know I’m here.

He climbed the stairs quickly with the question repeating and repeating itself in his mind. Did I die? Was that storm the end of me? Am I dead? Am I already dead?

Out of breath, he reached the sixth-floor landing. Karen Lee’s apartment, 6B, was down at the end of the hall. He hurried to it. Knocked at the door. Noticed a doorbell button. Pressed it. He didn’t hear any bell ring.

Of course not.

He knocked again. He called out. “Miss Lee? It’s Tom Harding. From the Sentinel.” No answer. He pounded loudly on the door with his fist. “Miss Lee?”

Panic was rising in him. Am I dead? Am I already dead? He drew back his hand to pound on the door again. But before he could, he heard sounds behind him. A soft clunk. A whir.

He turned around. It was the elevator. It was on the move.

It wasn’t broken, then. He took a few cautious steps down the hall until he could see the numbers above the elevator door. Sure enough, the light was flashing from one number to another as the elevator climbed, from two to three to four. Five. Six.

Tom moved closer. He was right in front of the elevator when it stopped. He was standing and watching as the door slid open.

He could not believe what he saw inside. He gaped wild-eyed, letting out his breath in a single rush.

Tom Harding stood and stared in fear and amazement as Tom Harding stepped out of the elevator into the hall.

25.

A double of himself! A doppelgänger!

Tom would not have thought anything could have frightened him more than he had been frightened already on this terrible day. He did not think anything could have raised in him the sheer terror he had felt when the malevolents broke into his house or could have chilled him the way the ghosts of his memory had in the school. He did not think anything could make his heart turn to ice the way it had when he had looked into the wicked eyes of the Lying Man.

But this was worse than any of that. This was scarier by far.

The sight of his own double made him feel as if his very soul had been stolen from him. His very essence, his very self. Because if this—this thing stepping out of the elevator—if this was Tom Harding, then who was he? What was happening to him?

The doppelgänger came walking toward him—right toward him, as if it didn’t see him standing there. Before Tom realized what was going to happen, before he could react and get out of the way, his double reached him and walked into him—and then walked right through him!

It was the worst thing Tom had ever felt—worse even than the moment when the malevolents had fallen on him. It was sicker than that. The double broke through the boundaries of Tom’s being and Tom felt for a moment that he had become nothing, that he had exploded into atoms and blown away. For an instant, he had no sense of himself, no memory, no presence. For an instant, he was the double and the double was him.

Then it was over. The doppelgänger had passed through him. Tom felt himself come into being again. Only then, with a nauseating shock, did he remember the momentary, sickening sensation of nothingness.

Unsteady, he turned and watched as the doppelgänger continued down the hall as if nothing had happened.

The double approached the door of 6B. He knocked softly. Immediately, a voice Tom recognized, Karen Lee’s voice, answered from within.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Tom,” said the double. “It’s Tom Harding from the Sentinel.”

You’re not! Tom wanted to shout at him. You’re not Tom Harding! I am!

But he didn’t shout. He didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure anymore who he was or what was real or what was true. All he could do was stand there, gaping in silence, as the apartment door slowly opened.

Karen Lee looked out at the doppelgänger. Tom recognized her at once. She was the woman in the white blouse who had stood in his driveway. A small, thin woman about forty or so. Her eyes shifted nervously past the double. She looked down the hall as if she was worried someone else was hiding behind him. Her gaze passed over Tom but didn’t pause. She didn’t see him. She turned back to his double. She spoke to him in a low, rapid voice, almost a whisper.

“I made a mistake,” she said. “I’m sorry, but you have to go.”

“But you were the one who called me,” the doppelgänger answered, looking confused. “You told me I should come.”

“I… I was wrong,” said the woman. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t want you here. You have to go.”

She’s afraid, Tom thought as he watched them. And he urged his double in his mind: Don’t leave. Stand your ground. Help her.

The double seemed to obey. “It sounded like it was important,” he said. “It sounded like you really needed to talk to me.”

“I’m telling you,” said Karen Lee urgently, “I can’t. Please. Just go away.”

She started to close the door. Watching the scene, Tom thought: Don’t let her do it. Something’s wrong. Find out what it is.

And, as if the doppelgänger could hear him, he put his hand out, stopping the door, holding it open for a second.

“Wait,” he said. “Please don’t. I can see something’s the matter. You’re afraid. Let me help you.”

Karen Lee hesitated, doubtful. “You can’t. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Then tell me,” said Tom’s doppelgänger. “I can’t do anything if I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Karen Lee looked at him through the gap in the door. The fear was plain in her eyes. Tom’s double let his hand fall—he couldn’t force her to let him in if she didn’t want to. It had to be her decision.

Karen Lee and the doppelgänger stood face-to-face at the half-opened door. Tom watched them in that moment of decision—and all at once, he realized: he knew what was going to happen next. Sure he did. He had lived through this scene already. It was his memory. But it was different from the memories he had seen at the school. Those memories had been ghosts. This one was real—more real than he was. It was he who was the ghost!

Karen Lee hesitated one more moment. Then, as Tom knew she would, she pulled the door open all the way.

“Come in. Quickly,” she said. “Before someone sees you.”

The Tom doppelgänger stepped inside the apartment. Tom himself hurried forward, hoping to slip in behind him. But before he could reach her, Karen Lee shut the door in his face.

Oh no, thought Tom.

Then—another fritz—another skip in the memory video—and Tom was inside the apartment, just like that. He didn’t know how it had happened. He didn’t feel he had passed through the door or anything. He was just suddenly there, that’s all. Standing there like an unseen specter while his own double and Karen Lee confronted each other.

Stunned, Tom looked around—and the doppelgänger looked around—and they saw that the apartment was in shambles.

“He came here,” said Karen Lee. “It was like he was insane.”

The chairs were all turned over on their sides. A lampstand lay toppled. Its lamp lay broken beside it amid a sprinkling of shattered glass. The curtains had been torn off the windows and lay in a pile on the floor, the curtain rods broken on top of them.

“He asked me if I was going to tell,” said Karen Lee. “I told him I didn’t know, I wasn’t sure. But I think he could see the truth in my eyes. He offered me money to stay quiet… but when I wouldn’t take it, he just… he went crazy. Lost his temper. He said he wouldn’t let me destroy him and his family. He would hurt me, he said. He said he would kill me if he had to. I was so scared… I promised to keep my mouth shut, but… I just can’t…” She made a noise, covered her mouth with her hand and started to cry. “I can’t keep quiet anymore.”

The Tom double stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do, how to comfort her. Tom himself, in a gesture of kindness, moved to where the lampstand was lying. He crouched down and reached to pick it up. His fingers closed on the wooden shaft of it—and they went right through!

The sight was such a shock that Tom tried again. Same deal. He couldn’t grip the lamp. He couldn’t touch it.

I’m fading, he thought. I’m fading away.

He stood up. The doppelgänger came toward him. Afraid he would pass through him again—afraid of that awful feeling of nothingness—Tom moved quickly out of his way. He watched as the double did just what he had done. He crouched down, too. He took hold of the lampstand. He gripped it, lifted it, as Tom had tried to. He set it right. The doppelgänger could do it and he couldn’t.

I’m fading away to nothing. Soon I won’t exist at all.

The double looked at Karen Lee as she cried. “You should call the police,” he told her.

She shook her head. “He has friends on the police force. He has friends everywhere. A lot of them. Powerful people. I don’t know who to trust.”

Tom’s double nodded. “You can trust me,” he said. “Once I write the story, once it’s public, he won’t be able to do anything to you. If he does, everyone will know it’s him. Who is he? What is he trying to keep secret?”

Karen Lee stared at the doppelgänger, her eyes bright through the tears. Tom could see she desperately wanted to speak, to tell the truth. She forced the words out.

“He was the one who sold drugs to the team,” she said. “I’m his receptionist and assistant. I saw everything. The coach—Coach Petrie—he would come to him after hours at the office. He brought him cash, and the doctor gave him hypodermics full of steroids. And pills to take, too. He told me if I told anyone about it, I would go to prison, the same as him. So I was scared. I kept my mouth shut. I kept it secret for three years. But then—then when I heard about your story in the school newspaper, I realized I’d been wrong. I should’ve told at the start. I shouldn’t have stood by and let it happen. I told him: They’re going to catch us eventually. We should do the right thing. We should tell the truth. Maybe that way the law won’t be so hard on us. But he… he got upset. And then he came here. Threatened me…”

Watching Karen Lee—watching the doppelgänger—Tom felt his heart sinking inside him. He knew what was going to happen next, what they would both say next. He remembered. He even remembered the shock he felt the first time he heard it. He didn’t want to hear it again. He didn’t want to be here anymore.

But he stayed where he was. He stood and listened. He had looked too hard for the answers to run away from them now.

“Who was this?” said Tom’s double. “Who sold the players the drugs? Who threatened you like this?”

Karen Lee, still crying, whispered the name: “Dr. Cameron.”

26.

The next moment was beyond belief. Tom saw it happen with his own eyes and still couldn’t take it in, couldn’t get his mind to grasp it.

“Dr. Cameron,” said Karen Lee—and Tom’s double straightened in surprise. Dr. Cameron? Marie’s father! The double began to step back… and then stopped. No, he didn’t stop. He froze. He froze completely in mid-step, his foot half lifted off the floor. Before Tom fully comprehended what he was seeing, his gaze shifted to Karen Lee and he saw that she, too, had gone utterly motionless. She was standing unblinking, with her lips still parted on the name of Marie’s father.

Tom looked around him. The apartment was silent. It was not an ordinary silence. It was complete. Nothing disturbed it. The refrigerator wasn’t humming. There were no voices from other apartments or from outside. The air itself seemed to have stopped moving entirely.

Tom stared at Karen Lee. He stared at his double. He moved to his double and looked right into his face—right into his own face—and yet the doppelgänger did not budge. Quickly, Tom went around him. He went to the glass doors that led out onto the balcony. He looked through.

The rain was motionless in the sky. It streaked the air but didn’t fall. Stupefied, Tom looked down the hill. He saw the cars on the town’s main street. They were no longer moving either. Beyond that, he saw the ocean, saw that the Pacific itself had ceased all motion. Its waves did not rise and fall but were frozen at their crests, reaching up toward the low clouds, which likewise did not so much as shift in the sky.

His eyes wide, Tom spun back to the scene in the apartment. It was just as it had been. Tom’s double stepping back in shock. Karen Lee locked in the instant after she had spoken. A scene so uncanny, it filled Tom with a sense of helplessness, not to mention fear. A million explanations began to form in his mind, but each trailed off unfinished. Because nothing explained it. It was impossible.

Tom glanced out the glass doors again. The rain still hung midair, forever falling from motionless clouds onto a still ocean. But something was different. Something had changed. It took Tom a moment, but then he realized what it was.

The sky was darker now than it had been a moment before. The whole scene was darker. The light had faded. And as Tom stood there staring at the bizarrely motionless view, the scene grew even darker still.

He faced the apartment again and, yes, here, too, the light was going out. It was as if night was falling. Every second that passed, the frozen world turned a deeper gray. Soon, Tom realized, very soon, all the light would be gone. There would be blackness.

Tom took a slow, hesitant step away from the glass doors, back toward his own frozen double. Now, finally, an idea was beginning to take shape in his mind, the beginning of an explanation. Maybe this, he thought—this frozen moment—was the place where his memory ended. He’d heard that happened to people sometimes when they were in an accident or got injured—or got shot. The memory of the trauma was erased. The shock was too much to bear and the brain shut down. Maybe this was that moment. Maybe, in fighting his way to the school, he had unlocked everything that remained in his memory, and this was as far as he could go.

He had come this far through the dangerous world of his imagination, but he had reached the end. The darkness was falling now because there was nothing after this. Only blackness. Unconsciousness. Coma—endless coma until his heart stopped and his life was over.

Unless…

Unless what? What could he do? Moment by moment, the apartment grew even darker. Already it seemed a sort of dusk had settled over the scene. When the darkness was complete there would be nowhere else to go, nothing to think about… nothing.

Tom lifted his hand uncertainly. It was growing dim in front of him. He himself was fading into the darkness. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out toward his double. He extended his hand toward the doppelgänger’s shoulder and then—then, holding his breath, he pushed it through.

As if it were made of smoke, his hand seemed to dissipate and vanish in front of Tom’s eyes. It went right into the double’s shoulder, and Tom gave a groan as he felt the beginning of that horrible nothingness again, that sensation of atomizing he had felt out in the hall.

And yet maybe there was a chance, just a chance, that that was exactly what could save him.

An even deeper darkness than evening now folded over the scene. Tom knew his wounded mind could not remember anymore.

But what if, he thought—what if instead of remembering, I could relive it?

It might work. It might. If he could enter his doppelgänger before the darkness fell—lose himself in his double as he had for that one second out in the hall—maybe he could relive the events that had plunged him into this coma-world in the first place. Somewhere in his brain those events were recorded, after all, even if his memory couldn’t access them. But if he could become his memory, then maybe he could force himself to face the thoughts and feelings and events—the suffering—that had brought him here, and that were keeping him from making his way back into the light of life.

It was a frightening prospect. He knew if he went through with it, the Tom he was now would vanish. If he entered into the doppelgänger, if he became one with his memory, he would no longer know that he was in a coma. He would no longer know that this was his imagination. He would be back in the life that had brought him here, and he would no longer know what was going to happen next.

He was going to have to relive the worst moments of his life—the last moments of his life—as if they were happening for the first time. It was the only way he could overcome his mind’s resistance and discover the whole truth.

He was going to have to see it with his own eyes.

The double stood frozen. Karen Lee stood frozen. The world stood frozen. And night fell steadily. The darkness was almost complete.

Tom had to choose—and fast. He had to decide right now which he wanted more, the painless comfort of unconsciousness or the agony of knowing.

It’s like the Bible says, he remembered Lisa telling him. Find the truth—and the truth will set you free.

Well, he answered in his mind, the truth is what I’m here for.

And as the darkness fell around him, he stepped forward boldly. He walked into the body of his doppelgänger. Directly into nothingness. Directly into the moment of his own destruction.

27.

Dr. Cameron,” said Karen Lee.

Tom was so shocked by the words he took a step backward.

“Dr. Cameron? But that’s not poss—” he started to say. He had been about to protest that it couldn’t be true, it couldn’t have been Dr. Cameron who had sold the drugs to the football players. It couldn’t have been Marie’s decent, sophisticated, well-spoken father—the man who served on so many boards of so many charities, the man who had his picture taken with so many powerful, famous people. He couldn’t be the one who had exchanged injections and pills for fistfuls of cash. Who had come here and threatened Karen Lee and violently torn her apartment to pieces.

But the protest died in his mouth. He knew deep down that Karen Lee was telling the truth. Dr. Cameron’s guilt would explain a lot. It would explain what Marie had been saying to Gordon in the gym. She and her father had been trying to make a friend of Tom so they could convince him to stop looking for the rest of the story about the championship Tigers. They thought if Tom liked Dr. Cameron enough—and if he thought he had a chance to win Marie—they might be able to convince him to leave the story alone, to keep Dr. Cameron’s guilt out of the newspaper.

Oh, come on, baby, he could imagine Marie saying to him. In that same irresistible coaxing tone she had used on Gordon. Just do it for me.

Tom took a deep breath. He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. There was a recorder function on it. He pressed the button. He held the phone out toward Karen Lee.

“Miss Lee,” he said. “Tell me the story. Tell me the whole story from the beginning.”

Karen Lee’s tears were subsiding. “All right,” she said with a weary nod. “I can’t keep it secret anymore.”

Twenty minutes later Tom had it all, the whole story recorded on his phone.

Dr. Cameron—Karen Lee told him—loved being an important man. He loved being appointed to boards, loved having his picture taken with politicians and celebrities. But that way of life cost a lot of money, more money than he made in his medical practice. So he had begun making risky investments in the stock market, hoping the large returns would allow him to live at that high level that made him feel important.

When the market suddenly dropped, his money dried up. Dr. Cameron went into debt, deep into debt. But instead of cutting back on his spending, instead of sacrificing his wealthy life and his pride, he began to borrow—to borrow a lot—from the banks, at first, and then, when the banks wouldn’t lend him any more, from loan sharks, mobster thugs from Nevada who charged insanely high interest and demanded to be paid every week or else.

The further into debt Dr. Cameron went, the more risks he took in the market, hoping to hit it big and get free from the mobsters’ clutches. The more risks he took, the deeper into debt he went: a vicious cycle. Soon the thugs were threatening him—threatening his wife—threatening his children. If he couldn’t pay back the money, they said, he would have to pay them back in other ways: by supplying them with prescription drugs that they could resell on the black market.

So now the respectable doctor had become a criminal, a drug dealer.

Dr. Cameron was desperate to get out, desperate to get free of his troubles. And he thought he saw a way. Coach Petrie was one of his patients. The doctor suggested he could help the Tigers play better, ensure they would start winning. He said he could give them a chance to make it all the way to the Open Division and take the state trophy. Coach decided it was worth a try. He was soon visiting the doctor’s office more and more often, buying more and more of the illegal performance enhancers that gave his players extra size and strength. The Tigers started winning—against all odds, against all expectations—and Dr. Cameron started using his drug profits to bet on the final outcome of the championship with the bookies in Vegas. The odds against the Tigers at that early stage were enormous. If the Tigers won it all, the bookies would have to pay off big. Dr. Cameron could get out of debt at last.

It was no wonder Dr. Cameron was so frightened his story would come out. If his role in the Tigers’ corruption became public, all his criminal dealings would be exposed. Not only would he be sent to prison for a long time, but there’d be some very angry thugs in Nevada, tough guys who felt he’d ripped them off by rigging the big game without telling them.

His life—his honor, his importance, his friendships with governors and mayors and celebrities—it would all come crashing down in ruin and disgrace.

Karen Lee had been on hand as much of this tragedy unfolded. She had witnessed some of it and overheard some, and Dr. Cameron, in his misery, had even confided some of it to her. But she’d been afraid to tell anyone—afraid she would get in trouble herself and afraid of the lengths to which Dr. Cameron would go to silence her. She had kept her secrets for three years—right up until she had read Tom’s story in the paper. Then the quiet promptings of her conscience had grown louder and she could no longer resist them. Before calling Tom, she had tried to convince Dr. Cameron to come forward with the truth himself. But he had refused—and then, later, he had come to her apartment and tried to terrorize her into keeping her long silence.

As Tom walked out of apartment 6B, he realized he was walking into a world of trouble. The Sentinel story about the Tigers’ drug use had already caused a firestorm of controversy. If he and Lisa ran this additional story about Dr. Cameron’s involvement, the turmoil would grow tenfold. They would not only be accusing one of the most important men in town of breaking the law. They’d be uncovering a world of corruption and drug deals that could have repercussions through the whole city, maybe the whole state. A lot of people—Dr. Cameron, Coach Petrie, and all their important friends and supporters—would do anything they could to stop Tom and Lisa, to shut them up and shut them down.

So Tom knew he needed to act fast. Once the story was in the newspaper, once everyone knew the truth, Dr. Cameron wouldn’t dare attack Karen Lee again. And any important friends he had would probably turn tail and run instead of helping him. They wouldn’t want to risk getting in trouble themselves.

Tom’s heart was beating hard as he rode the elevator down to the lobby. Thoughts were crowding into his mind. He had to call Lisa. They had to get to work as quickly as they could. Write the story, put the paper out before anyone could stop them.

Marie will never forgive me, he thought. She will hate me forever.

He tried to push the idea out of his mind. What difference did it make whether Marie hated him or not? All her affection for him had been a lie anyway. He couldn’t lose a girl he’d never really had.

But even as he told himself that, the image of her face came to him. That amazingly pretty face he had loved since he was a little kid. The idea that she might hate him forever hurt—it hurt more than he wanted to admit. And he had a feeling it was going to hurt for a long, long time to come.

The elevator stopped. The door opened. Tom stepped out into the lobby. The receptionist with the stern face flashed a brief smile at him from behind her desk.

“Have a nice day,” she said without much feeling.

Tom nodded and walked out of the building.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle now. Tom’s Mustang was parked across the street. He got into it, turned on the engine, turned on the windshield wipers. As the wipers swept the rain off the glass, he dug his phone out of his pocket again. He called up Lisa’s name on his speed dial.

But before he could press the Call button, the phone rang. The readout lit up: Marie Cameron.

Tom stared at the name for only a second. Then he answered.

“It’s me, Tom,” she said.

The sweet, soft voice seemed to pierce through him. “Marie.” Her name came out of him in a low murmur. This was probably the last time she would ever speak to him, he realized.

“I need to talk to you, Tom,” she said. “It’s important.”

Holding the phone to his ear, Tom looked out the windshield at the street in front of him, looked through the air gray with rain. “Go ahead,” he said.

“Not on the phone. We have to meet. It’s about… it’s about my dad.”

“Your dad?”

“Yes. And about the football team. My dad was the one who… Look, I don’t want to say it on the phone. Please…”

Tom was quiet a moment, surprised. This was a twist. It didn’t make sense. If Marie had been flirting with him to keep him from finding out the truth, why was she telling it to him straight out like this? “I already know about that,” he said. “And listen, I’m sorry. I wish I could keep quiet about it.”

“Keep quiet?” said Marie, sounding startled. “No, no, you can’t keep quiet. Of course not. You have to write about it in the paper. But you can’t write about it until you know the whole story. The real story.”

Now Tom was just plain confused. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not what you think, Tom. It’s totally different than what it sounds like. Believe me. You have to meet me. Somewhere secret. I don’t want my father to know. Or Gordon.”

“Gordon? What’s he got to do with it?”

“Tom,” said Marie—and again, her voice seemed to go right into him. “I promise I’ll tell you everything if you just meet me.”

Tom only hesitated another moment. What could he do? He had to meet her. Maybe she was right. Maybe he didn’t know the whole story. Before he did anything else, he had to find out all the facts.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Where do you want to meet?”

“Up on Cold Water Mountain,” Marie answered. “No one goes there since the fire. Meet me at the monastery.”

28.

It was a ten-minute drive to the trailhead. Half an hour’s hike up into the hills. Soon Tom was moving through the part of the woods that had been destroyed last summer by the Independence Fire. The blaze had started after a bunch of kids set off some fireworks near the trail. The dry summer brush had been torched, and the flames had swept through the woods for nearly three days before the firemen had finally managed to put the fire out. It had left behind a hellish landscape: a whole forest of twisted, blackened trees, their gnarled branches stunted, their broken silhouettes twisted against the boiling, cloud-covered sky.

The rain had stopped, but the light was failing. Evening was spreading across the mountainside like a gray stain. Tendrils of mist twined among the spooky, corkscrewing, coal-black corpses that had once been living trees.

Tom’s footsteps were the only noises in the deserted place. They were eerily loud as he made his way along the trail, under the gnarled branches. It was not long before the charred timbers of the monastery roof became visible over the ridge. A few more steps and the rest of the retreat came into view.

Santa Maria had been a retreat for Catholic monks who wanted to get away from the world and contemplate God. Most of the monks came up from the main monastery building in the town below, but others came from around the country, too, to see the artwork here and to appreciate the beautiful views of the mountainside and the ocean. The place had actually been kind of famous for a while. But it was just a ruin now. Jagged, fire-blackened walls stood against the backdrop of the distant sea. There were piles of toppled bricks. A stone chimney still standing lopsided under a burned oak. Remnants of rooms with one or two walls remaining. Pieces of furniture—tables, chairs—burned and broken, lying in the dirt under the burned, broken trees as if they were part of the forest as well.

Just beyond the building site, there was a huge table of rock jutting out from the side of the mountain. It formed a sort of natural balcony, beyond which Tom could see the town spread out among the trees below, and the ocean, endless and dark blue under the churning gray sky. The monks had often come out onto this rock at the end of the day to watch the sunset.

Tom scanned the scene. Silent now. Motionless.

He called out, “Marie?”

But no one answered. Only the wind stirred, sending the high clouds tumbling and turning.

Debris crunched under his sneakers as he moved farther into the monastery site. He stepped out from behind the chimney and came into a room. It was the only room left standing here—almost intact, as if the fire somehow hadn’t touched it. It had been the monastery chapel. The roof had burned off and one wall had crumbled to charcoal rubble. But three walls remained standing, scorched though they were. Some of the pews had survived as well, some toppled, some still in their rows, all of them scarred. The chapel crucifix seemed to have been melted into the wall behind the altar, but the shape of the cross remained there. The stained glass was all gone, but the peaked shapes of the windows were still visible high on the wall, open to the sky.

Tom stepped farther into the chapel, the grit on the floor jabbing up through his sneaker soles. He had the weird feeling that some ghostly presence was watching him—and then he understood why. On one of the walls, a heavy gilt picture frame hung askew. The painting in the frame had been burned away—all of it except one small jagged patch that held part of a face, the part with the eyes.

Tom felt a little chill. The eyes really did seem to be gazing at him through the gathering dusk. They were gentle eyes but full of pain. There was a line of blood running down the temple beside them. Maybe this had once been a picture of Jesus on the cross, Tom thought, or one of the suffering saints. He didn’t know.

“It’s sad to see this place in ruins,” said a voice behind him.

Surprised, Tom spun around. Dr. Cameron was standing at the opening of the chapel, the place where the fourth wall had been before the fire destroyed it. The silver-blond-haired man with that perfect face so much like his daughter’s looked relaxed and casual. He was wearing jeans and a sports jacket over a sweater, as if he had stopped off here on his way to a dinner out with friends. He smiled easily as Tom stood staring.

“You should see the look on your face,” he said with a laugh. “You don’t have to be so amazed. It’s not like I’m a ghost or anything.”

It was a moment before Tom could answer. Then he said, “I was expecting Marie.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you were,” Dr. Cameron said with another laugh, a harder laugh. “But I’m afraid I’m the best you’re going to get.”

Tom understood right away. Marie’s phone call had just been more lies.

You have to write about it in the paper. But you can’t write about it until you know the whole story. Meet me at the monastery.

He should’ve known. None of what she had said was true. She had just been doing her father’s bidding. Tricking him into coming up here where there was no one to hear them, no one to see. Tom had been a fool for her from the beginning. Nothing had changed.

“I was worried that Ms. Lee might not be able to keep her mouth shut,” Dr. Cameron went on. His footsteps crunched over the dirty floor as he came forward. “I paid the receptionist a few bucks to keep an eye on her for me. She told me you came by. I knew why.”

“So you had your daughter call me and lure me up here,” said Tom.

Dr. Cameron gave a full laugh, his white teeth gleaming in the darkening twilight. “Lure you! That’s a sinister phrase! What do you think I am, some kind of gangster?”

Tom decided not to answer that.

“I just wanted a private place where we could talk,” said Dr. Cameron. “I wanted to reason with you before you did something that could hurt a lot of people—and that might make your own life pretty difficult as well.” He stopped advancing and stood still a few yards away from Tom. The gilt picture frame was on the wall between them. The suffering eyes that were all that was left of the painting seemed to watch them both. “Your choice is pretty simple, my friend. On the one hand, you write a story in the newspaper about me. You’ll be pulling a thread that will unravel relationships throughout this town, throughout this state, even beyond that, and the repercussions will be enormous. You’ll suffer. I’ll suffer. A lot of important people will suffer. And Marie—Marie will suffer maybe more than anyone. If things go badly for me, her life will become”—he gestured at the burned-out walls around them—“a ruin, like this place. So that’s one way you can go. The other way: you let me be your friend. I can help you—and your mom. There might be some money for you, for instance. You could use that, I’ll bet. And I can help you get into a good college, get a good job. I have a lot of friends, Tom. Powerful friends. We can all help you.”

Tom nodded. “If I agree to lie.”

Dr. Cameron shrugged. “Nobody’s asking you to lie. Not at all. I’m just asking you to use some discretion. Hold back. Don’t write about me in your newspaper. Don’t give people information they don’t need, information that’ll only do harm.”

“Leaving stuff out is lying, too,” said Tom. “Not telling the whole truth is lying.”

Dr. Cameron smiled again. Looked down at his loafers. Shook his head. Looked up at Tom. “Have it your way. But here’s how it is. If you tell the whole truth about me, you’ll cause yourself and everyone else around you pain. If you… lie, as you say, I can give you so much. Money, contacts, success. The keys to the world. Don’t be a fool, Tom. It’s a good offer. It’s everything. All you have to do is keep silent.”

Tom hesitated for a moment before he answered. He knew Dr. Cameron was right. It was a good offer, as these things go. And maybe he should have felt tempted. But he didn’t, not really. Money, contacts, success—sure, he wanted all that. But to lie in bed every night knowing he was nothing but a liar and a coward and a man who could be bought off—well, that didn’t sound like having the keys to the world. That sounded like hell on earth.

A memory flitted through his mind then. Something Burt had told him once. Just a goofy piece of big brother–type advice he’d given him when they were both a lot younger, something about playing what Burt called the “bigger game.” It was a long time ago now, one of Tom’s birthdays. Burt had given him a baseball bat, Tom remembered, a Louisville Slugger Warrior. He still had that bat in his closet somewhere. Even though he never used it anymore, he wouldn’t let his mother give it away…

“Tom?” said Dr. Cameron, breaking into his thoughts. “It’s getting dark. I have a dinner engagement. I need an answer. Now.”

“You know, my brother died in Afghanistan about six months ago,” Tom said. It hurt him even now just to mention it. “He was helping evacuate some kids from a school that was in a danger zone. He was getting them to safety when a sniper shot him.”

Dr. Cameron gave a puzzled gesture. “Yes, I heard. Too bad. But what’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s just… He didn’t have to be there, you know. He volunteered. He didn’t have to. He could’ve gotten a job. Earned some money. Become a success in the world. He wanted that. He wanted all that stuff. All he had to do was stay home. Just stay home. But he was playing a bigger game.”

“You’re not making any sense,” said Dr. Cameron.

“I’m not as brave as he was,” Tom said, and his eyes got misty as he said it. “I’m not a hero like he was. But I’m playing that game, too. And you can keep your money, Dr. Cameron. And you can keep your important friends. And you can keep your daughter, if it comes to that. Because I’m going to write the truth about you, and nothing’s going to stop me.”

Dr. Cameron shook his head one more time. Then he put his hand in his jacket—and when he brought it out, he was holding a gun. The relaxed smile was gone from his face, and even in the growing darkness, his eyes gleamed with fury and hatred.

When Tom first saw the gun, he was surprised and frightened. Then he was not surprised. What was surprising about it? This was who Dr. Cameron was. This was what he had made himself. Tom stared into the weapon’s deadly black bore and knew the doctor would pull the trigger without hesitation and that his life was over.

“You have a lot to learn, son,” Dr. Cameron said. “Too bad you’ll never get a chance to learn it. You want the truth? Here’s the truth: this is what happens to people who can’t keep their mouths shut.”

It flashed through Tom’s mind that he had to rush the man, had to try to get that gun from him—but there was no time for more than the thought. Because indeed Dr. Cameron did not hesitate. He pulled the trigger without conscience or remorse.

Tom never heard the explosion. He only felt the jolt of the bullet ripping into his flesh.

Then there was nothing but agony and darkness.

It was Tom’s eleventh birthday. It had been a great day, a perfect spring day. He had had some friends over to the house for a party. Then, when the party was over, Burt had given him his last present. It was an aluminum baseball bat. A Louisville Slugger Warrior. Burt had wrapped it up in some red paper, but of course he couldn’t disguise the shape of it. It was obvious what it was. Burt handed the long cylinder to Tom and said, “Here, kid. It’s a sweater.” Which had seemed hilarious at the time.

The next day was a Sunday. In the afternoon after church, Burt took him to the park and pitched to him. He gave him some tips on his swing, told him how to choke up late in the count. After about an hour, Tom could tell that the lesson had worked. He was whacking the ball better than he ever had, hitting solid singles right over Burt’s head, plus a couple of blasts that would have definitely earned him extra bases in a real game.

“You can be a big hitter if you work at it,” Burt said as they walked home from the park. The light of the long day was dying as the sun went down toward the ocean.

Tom shrugged. “We play in school sometimes, but it’s not much fun.”

“What do you mean?” Burt asked, surprised. “You don’t like baseball?”

“Not the way Mrs. Lerner plays it. She won’t let us keep score.”

“Oh yeah,” said Burt with a laugh, “I remember Mrs. Lerner.” He did a comical, high-pitched Mrs. Lerner voice that made Tom laugh, too. “‘It doesn’t matter who wins, children. If you don’t try to win, you won’t feel bad when you lose.’”

“That’s her, all right,” said Tom. “She makes the game boring.”

“Well, yeah. ’Cause, I mean, that’s what a game is all about, right? It’s about trying to win. When you’re in a game, you should try to win with everything you’ve got or else there’s no point in playing. You just have to play the bigger game at the same time, that’s all.”

“What do you mean? What bigger game?”

“Well, let’s say you’re playing baseball, right? You want to win, right? You want to win more than anything in the world.”

Tom nodded. That was the way he felt, no matter what Mrs. Lerner said. No matter what Mrs. Lerner said, he was always keeping score in his head, trying to win.

“So you play as hard as you can,” Burt went on. “You practice. You get excellent. You work. You sweat. You play and try to win with everything you have in you.”

“Right.”

“But do you cheat?”

Tom laughed again. “No.”

“Well, why not?” said Burt, giving his eleven-year-old little brother a friendly clap on the back of the head. “I thought you wanted to win more than anything in the world.”

“I do.”

“So why don’t you cheat, if that’s what it takes to win?”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. ’Cause I don’t want to be a cheater, that’s why.”

“Exactly. God didn’t make you to be a cheater. He made you to be the most excellent Tom Harding–type guy in the universe. Being that guy he made you—that’s the bigger game. So you play to win the game of baseball with everything you got, but if you lose…” He shrugged. “You feel bad for a while, but so what? Feelings are just feelings. The important thing is you keep working at being the excellent Tom Harding. Then even when you lose, even when you feel bad for a while, you can feel good, too, because you’re still winning the bigger game.”

They walked home the rest of the way in silence, as the light continued to die and the air turned a deeper blue and the first stars began to shine.

29.

Tom’s eyes fluttered open. At first he saw nothing but a blurred darkness. Then the indigo evening world swam into focus. He saw the sky. He saw the charred timbers of the chapel ceiling. The blackened walls. He remembered.

The monastery. Dr. Cameron. He’d been shot. He was dying.

Already he didn’t have the strength to move. He didn’t even have the strength to breathe. He could almost feel his life draining out of him—just as his blood was draining out of him, spreading around him over the chapel floor.

He let his eyes fall closed. He lay still, waiting for the end. At least it doesn’t hurt, he thought. He didn’t even feel scared or sorry. He was just tired, that’s all. He just wanted it all to end.

Dear God, he thought in a farewell prayer, please comfort my mother. Please give her strength.

A sunset wind moved over him. It felt refreshing on his face. He heard it whisper in the burned-out branches around him. In his fogged mind, it almost sounded like a voice.

With an effort he opened his eyes again. Was someone there with him in the dusk? Yes. Someone was standing above him, looking down at him. Tom squinted, trying to see through the gloom. Then he realized: no. It was just that painting on the wall. Those painted eyes with the line of blood trickling down beside them.

The eyes gazed at him with enormous sorrow and compassion. Tom tried to smile at them.

Bad day, he thought up at them. It seems I’ve been murdered.

Yes, the eyes responded at once. That happens sometimes when you insist on telling the truth. People don’t always appreciate it.

Tom nodded slightly. He wondered whose voice that was. Was it Burt’s? It sounded a little like Burt. Maybe that’s why there was blood on him. From where the sniper got him.

It’s not so bad really, Tom told the eyes. Maybe I’ll get to see you in heaven.

But when the eyes spoke again, the voice sounded more like Lisa’s voice than Burt’s.

The road to heaven isn’t death, Tommy. It’s life.

Tom peered up at the eyes through the darkness. His consciousness fading, he thought he saw the whole painting restored in its frame: Christ crucified, the rivulets of blood streaming down from under his crown of thorns.

But you died, Tom said to him. You died and went to heaven.

No, the eyes answered, sounding more like Burt again. I lived. That’s the whole point. I lived. And now you have to live, Tom.

Tom did not think there was any energy left inside him, any strength with which he could feel anything. But at the words that came down to him from the painting on the wall, he felt something inside him tremble and break open. He felt something rush out of his center and spread through the rest of him, something dark and heavy that he had been keeping inside, keeping secret, secret even from himself, for a long time.

I can’t live! he confessed to the painting. That’s the truth.

I don’t know how to live anymore! He gazed up desperately into the compassionate eyes and his whole soul cried out to them: I don’t know how to live! I’m so sad! I lost my brother! I’ve lost all my friends! I’ve lost my girl! My heart is broken! I don’t care if I die! I want to die! I don’t know how to live anymore!

Tom thought the eyes would grow stern and angry now. He thought they would flash like lightning. What a horrible thing to think, after all. I want to die. What an awful thing.

But the eyes, gazing back at him with all his own pain inside them, said only, Remember the Warrior. Play the bigger game. Tom did not know whose voice this was anymore. Lisa’s or Burt’s or some other’s or all of them together. That’s what I was trying to tell you, it went on. That’s your mission. Live. And don’t just live. Live in joy. Even in your sorrow, Tom, live in joy. That’s what I made you for. Remember the Warrior. Play the bigger game.

As he grew weaker, Tom’s eyes sank shut again. But strangely, he felt relieved. He felt better. He had told the eyes the worst thing in his heart, and the eyes had not condemned him. Not at all. And really, he knew they were right. Deep down, he did want to live. Even with Burt gone, even with everything that had happened, he wanted to feel joy again. It was just that he was so weak, so tired…

Something touched his face. Something cold. Wet.

He’s crying for me, Tom thought hazily.

But it was the rain. It had started again. It spilled down lightly out of the evening sky through the chapel roof and washed over his cheeks, refreshing him a little, giving him a little strength.

Maybe I can still do something, he thought. Maybe I can reach my phone, anyway. Maybe I can call for help.

He felt awfully bad, awfully tired. But he might be able to do that. Just get his phone out of his pocket. Just dial 911. That couldn’t be so hard, he thought.

He was wrong, though. It was hard. It was fantastically, amazingly, unbelievably hard. Moving his arm even a little bit required an effort of will greater than any he had ever made. He had to focus every bit of his energy on getting his hand to lift off the floor. Using all his strength, he lifted it—lifted it—then dropped it onto his waist. Now, slowly, slowly, he began to push the hand down toward his pants pocket. The work made him cough weakly. He felt the blood boil and gurgle in his chest. He thought for sure he would collapse and die before he managed actually to reach into the pocket, to get a grip on the edge of his phone. But he did it. He caught the slippery little rectangle of plastic between the tips of his fingers. He began to draw the phone out—and then he lost his hold on it. It slipped from his grasp.

He let out a noise of frustration. He gazed up into the eyes watching him. The rain pattered down on him gently. He gathered his strength again and willed his hand back down into his pocket. He willed his fingers to pincer the phone again. To work the phone—slowly, ever so slowly—out onto his belt buckle…

He had to rest a moment after that. He lay on the floor in the pool of his own blood, gasping and coughing. The eyes watched him sorrowfully from the frame on the wall.

I know, I know, he told them. My mission. Right. Live.

He went back to work. He willed his hand to his phone again. He picked it up off his shirtfront. He lifted it until he could see it there in his hand. He pressed the numbers for the police: 9… 1… 1…

And the readout said: No service.

Tom lost what little breath he had and his hand fell back onto his belly, the phone still grasped in his fingers.

No service.

Sure, of course. He was in the middle of the woods. No cell tower nearby. Trees all around him. The chapel walls around him. No way to get a signal here unless he…

Tom nearly laughed in despair at the thought. Yes, he might get a signal if he could move out of the chapel, if he could make it out to that jutting ledge of rock at the edge of the monastery, that natural balcony overlooking the town below. He might get a signal out on the ledge, but how was he supposed to get there? Fly? He could barely move his hand to his pocket.

He cast an appeal at the eyes looking down on him. The eyes were silent now. It didn’t matter. He didn’t need the eyes to tell him what he had to do. He already knew. He had to try.

He gathered himself for the attempt. If moving his hand had been hard, how much harder was it going to be to get his whole body moving? Another moment of focus, and then, grunting with the explosive effort, he rolled onto his stomach, blood spilling over his lips as he coughed and gasped for air.

He managed to lift his head, to lift his eyes and look out ahead of him. It was hard to see. Harder than ever. It was getting darker. And he was fading. And there was something else, too. What was that? Tom squinted. Stared.

Fog. Yes. Thick fog just beyond the edge of the chapel. The marine layer seemed to have moved in as he was lying there. The cottony white mass had pushed up across the mountain, swallowing the stunted, fire-charred trees until they were nothing but twisted black figures in the depths of the mist. It seemed to Tom the fog was full of such figures, and that they were almost more like hunched, hulking human shapes than like trees. It seemed to him these creatures hunkered in the depths of the fog were waiting for him to come toward them, pacing like zombies and waiting until they could get their claws on him and devour him. And the look of them, their eyes. They were so… so…

… malevolent, he thought.

He shook his head trying to clear it, but the fog—and the creatures hulking in the fog—remained. Sweat poured down into his eyes, making them sting. The rain made his hair feel heavy and damp.

He was losing strength fast. If he was going to move, he had to move now. Whatever was in that fog—trees or creatures—whatever—he was going to have to face them, get past them, get to that balcony of rock.

He started crawling. Well, crawling was too nice a word for it. Clutching his phone in his hand, he started dragging himself over the chapel floor, elbow and knee forward—drag—the other elbow and knee forward—drag. The effort made him cough again. The cough brought more blood up into his mouth. The blood spilled out, dripping down his chin.

He dragged himself elbow over elbow, inch by inch, toward the edge of the chapel floor. He tumbled off the edge into the dirt, and even though it was hardly any distance at all, he felt like he had fallen off a ten-story building. The landing jolted him and made him cough again. He spit blood, staining the earth.

He rolled over onto his back, exhausted. The rain fell onto his face. The blood gurgled in his throat so that he thought he would strangle on it. With a groan, he rolled over onto his belly again and kept dragging himself through the dirt—right into the fog.

But a strange thing happened now. The fog began to dissolve around him. With every yard of ground Tom crawled, a yard of fog dissipated into a mere drizzle, and the front of the marine layer seemed to recede. The creatures inside the fog fell back with it. Where they had stood, the twisted trees began to appear more clearly on every side of him. Still hanging on to his phone, Tom dragged himself another yard and another, and the mist and its malevolent creatures continued to dissolve around him, the main body of the fog and the things within continued to fall back like an army in retreat. There was the shelf of rock up ahead, now visible as the fog vanished. There were the lights of the town sparkling through the mist in the gathering night below. It took every ounce of his failing will and failing strength to shift his arm and leg forward one more time, to dig his elbow into the ground and brace his knee against the surface and push and push and push himself forward another few inches, another half a foot, but he did it, and then he started the process all over again. The sweat and rain mingled on his forehead. The breath wheezed and whistled in his closing throat. He thought of nothing, focused on nothing but moving his body through the dirt, beneath the blackened trees, and through the light, cold rain that fell on him as the fog dissolved.

Now—to his astonishment—his hand touched the cold rock. He saw the white of it beneath his face. He lifted his eyes and saw the cliff. There was no more fog at all, no more trees over him or in front of him. There was nothing but the open sky. His phone was still gripped in his sweaty, dirty hand. He brought it slowly up in front of his face.

No service.

The same message on the readout as before. No signal at all.

But then the message winked out. In its place, there was a bar, a single bar. He had a signal. A low signal. But maybe it was enough.

He coughed blood. He moved his shaky thumb over the dial pad. It hovered over the Redial button.

Don’t make a mistake, he thought. You won’t get another chance.

He brought his thumb down hard. He heard the tones playing through the speaker.

One bar, he thought. It has to be enough.

It was. Far away, he heard the phone ringing. He willed himself to lift the phone to his ear.

“Nine-one-one,” a woman’s voice said. “What’s your emergency?”

Tom opened his mouth to answer—and nothing came out but blood. He didn’t have the breath to form the words.

“Hello?” said the operator. “Is anyone there? What’s your emergency?”

Tom forced himself to speak.

“The monastery.”

“What? What? Hello?”

“The Santa Maria Monastery,” whispered Tom. “I’ve been shot. I’m dying. Help me.”

His hand and face fell to the rock together and he lost consciousness.