Via Dolorosa(84)

“Okay.”

“You will, too, Lieutenant,” Myles said.

“Sure.”

“You’ll be haunted, too.”

“Okay, Myles.”

“By all this.”

“Okay.”

“Shit,” Myles said with little humility, “just shoot me in the head.”

“Myles…”

“Have baby,” Myles said, more blood frothing at his lips. “In stomach.”

“Close your eyes,” said Nick.





—Chapter XXIV—





Sound filtered back to him. Water. Lapping water against… against…

Then vision: and he opened his eyes on a midnight sky, speckled with a thousand stars. He was frozen and numb. He knew, too, that he was in pain…but he could no longer actually feel pain.

“Because I’m dead,” he whispered. “I’m dead.”

“Almost, but not exactly,” said a man’s voice.

Immediately Nick sat up—and immediately he vomited water into his lap. He was in a small johnboat out on the sea, staring at Roger, who was busy rowing the boat and staring back at him. Beneath the light of the full moon, Roger’s skin was pale, mealy and translucent, speckled with the roving flutter of countless cicadas. They were caught in Roger’s hair and clung like brooches to his shirt. They batted their wings against his cheeks and ears and, like conspirators, soldiered across the white terrain of his forehead…but he did not seem to notice.

“What the hell…” Nick managed, attempting to right himself into a comfortable sitting position on the floor of the boat. Doing so sent a bolt of electric pain up his right arm. He looked down, not knowing what to expect, and saw that his bandage had come loose and fallen away, and that the hand and the arm itself had swollen to twice its size. It throbbed dully. Looking quickly up at Roger, he said, “What happened?”

“You almost drowned,” said Roger.

“What…what…” But then it all started to return to him. He felt his heartbeat quicken. “The boat. Where is it? I was…I was swimming to the boat…”

“Is that what you were doing?” asked Roger, though the tone of his voice was void of all sincerity, all interest.

“Where did it go?” Looking around, he could only see the placid black water and the lights of the island. The Kerberos had vanished.

“If you’re talking about that big cabin cruiser,” said Roger, “it’s gone. Went south along the island, probably down toward Florida.”

“It’s gone so quickly?”

“Quickly?” Roger said. “I scooped you out of the water over an hour ago, Nick. You’ve been sleeping for most of that time.”

Nick said nothing and simply let Roger’s words sink in.

The boat rocked. Every once in a while, they could hear the solid pling! as a cicada drove itself into its aluminum side.

Finally, Nick said, “None of this makes any sense.”

“All right,” said Roger.

“You saw me in the water? You pulled me out?”

“Looked like you could use the help. You went under pretty quick.”

“What are you doing out here?”

“I’m out here every night,” said Roger. A cicada attempted to creep inside his mouth. Roger hardly seemed to notice. The bug played about his lip, vibrating its cellophane wings, then disappeared back into the night. “I’m out here every night. Out here looking.”

“For your daughter?” Nick heard himself say.

“She hasn’t been found yet. I’ll be out here until she’s found. Until I can bring her home.”

Then, like an epiphany, it dawned on Nick that he hadn’t met a single soul on this island that wasn’t in some phase of mourning…

How could that be? How?

“Where are we going?” he asked Roger. “Where are you taking me?”

Roger laughed dryly and without humor. “You make it sound like I’m kidnapping you. We’re not crossing the River Styx.” Roger nodded toward the coast. “I’m taking you back to the hotel, Nick.”

Nick turned and, sure enough, could see that the island was drawing nearer. He could see, too, the eastern face of the old, magnificent hotel, and could see the lights on in the main lobby beyond the stone veranda, and in some of the rooms.

“I want you to go home, Nick,” Roger said from nowhere. “Do you understand? I want you to stop painting that mural and go home.”

Nick frowned. “I don’t…I don’t understand…”

Roger shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Just promise me that you’ll do it.”

“Roger—”

“Just promise me.”

“All right. I promise.” He considered. “You were the one who complained about it to the hotel manager. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Roger said.

“Why’d you do it?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Was there anything else he could say? “I’m going to get some of the staff and paint over it after you leave.”

“Why?”