Cast a Pale Shadow(6)

He found a set of car keys next to the coffee pot. At least he had a car, a Ford this time. He never questioned whether it was stolen, or paid for, or bought on time. Some dab of self-preservation must remain in the dark cavern of his lost time to spare him that. The purchases made, decisions rendered, and actions taken during the blanks in his memory had always been easily reversible, at least any that Cole had found out about. Sometimes he suspected that the prospect of a long-term commitment was what returned him to himself. Cole had learned to be a master of escape and extrication.

He lifted the curtain and scanned the parking lot to see how difficult his search for the car would be. The worn condition of the keys and his obvious and chronic state of financial distress hinted that the Ford would be old. Spying but two likely prospects in the lot, he shouldered his bags with relief and made his way to the dark green '58 coupe parked closest to his own door.

Success. The keys fit and he opened the trunk and loaded his belongings. He would not be returning here. Whatever boss expected him to report for work tomorrow morning would be disappointed. Whatever utility bills he had accumulated would go unpaid. Whatever human connections he had made were just as well severed. When traveling down the road to insanity, one learned to travel light.

The first stop had to be a service station. With the tank filled and the oil, air, and water checked, Cole studied the road map the gap-toothed attendant had provided him. He was in Cleveland, a city he had never visited before to his conscious knowledge.

"Going on a trip, Nick?" the attendant asked as he counted out his change.

It took a moment for Cole to respond to the name. He was not used to being called that anymore. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Ann Arbor," he lied. It was close enough. "Got any advice on the fastest route?"

"Sure. My cousin lives there. Used to go up there all the time and fish with him. Gimme that map."

Cole handed him the map and his pencil, and the attendant sketched out the roads for him.

"Sure would be nice to be able to go fishing right about now. Is that what you're up to?"

"Naw, family business, I'm afraid. Not a vacation." It was another talent necessary to the pretense of sanity -- to be able to fake familiarity with total strangers who knew you on a first name basis -- a first name that wasn't really yours.

"Sorry. Not sickness, I hope."

"Not serious."

"That's good. Here." He poked a grubby finger at the penciled map as he handed it back. "You'll wanna watch this junction at Toledo. Heavy road construction. This way is shorter. I marked it, see."

"Thanks. Catch you in a couple weeks."

"You betcha, Nick. Drive careful now, you hear? Say, hey, what about your gal? You're not leaving her here unattended, are you?"

Cole felt a claw of anxiety clutch at his stomach. "No, uh, she's gone. You know how these things are. Hot one day. Cold the next." This Nick and his 'gals' would be the ruination of him yet. He shrugged and flashed the attendant a knowing, who-the-hell-cares smile.

"Ah, well, shit. Plenty of fish in the sea. See ya, Nick." The attendant thumped the counter to send him on his way.

Images of Nick's gal haunted the drive toward Lansing. Cole would find out soon enough how close the imagined came to the real. There would be a picture of her in the file or undeveloped in the camera. They always turned up there. He had found no other evidence of her in the apartment he had left, so it was probably true that she had gone on her way sometime in Nick's regime.

The headache he had been fighting since he read the telegram burst upon Cole full force, blurring his vision and constricting his chest. He would have to stop near Toledo for the night. The mental disorientation he could manage, but when the torture of it began twisting at his heart, driving was impossible. Not that he would sleep, he couldn't chance the dreams.

He looked like hell when he finally slouched in the chair across from Dr. Fitapaldi. He could see the look of judgmental concern on the good doctor's brow. It was part of his couch side manner, an expression that was probably fifteen percent of his grade in Patient Manipulation 101. That and the smoothly cultivated sincerity in his tone as he told him of his father's present condition and whereabouts had probably earned Fitapaldi a place on the honor roll in his student days.

"The research grant simply went unfunded this year, and the state decided they could no longer manage this placement. The state facility is quite adequate."

"Quite," Cole responded with flat emotion. "I'm sure."

"You needn't worry about him. He'll be taken care of."

"I never worry about him. Your telegram, however, hinted at some urgency in this matter."

"You sensed urgency? Yet, I sent that telegram ... oh, it's been about three months now, I think." Fitapaldi stroked his hand over his hairless pate as he must have done when whatever locks he once possessed fell onto his brow. Taking up his pencil, he made a few notations in the file he had opened on his desk then closed it and shuffled it to the bottom.

Cole straightened in his seat when he saw him open a second file and sift through it. It was Cole's. He knew it. How dare he keep a file on him? When Cole realized that his fists were clenched with knuckle-whitening intensity, he tucked them between the chair arms and his legs. "It took a while to reach me. I've been on the road."

"I want to continue seeing you, Cole."

"Continue? There is nothing to continue. The funding ran out, remember? My father is gone."

"I am very concerned about you."

Concerned. There it was, the key word. Cole knew he would let it slip. They charged by the hour for concern. Setting his mouth in a grim smile, Cole nodded and rose. "Has the loss of my father hit you in the wallet?" he asked scornfully. "What an ambulance chaser you have become, Doctor."

"An ambulance responds to an emergency. Do you feel your situation is an emergency?"

"Do you?"

"There may be danger in it."

"To myself or others?"

"To yourself, I believe."

"Then the danger is as minimal as the victim is meaningless. I was saved once already by the wonders of modern medicine. I can show you the scars to prove it." With deliberate ease, Cole slipped the pencil from Fitapaldi's scribbling fingers and closed the file on his hands. "One miracle to a customer."

"I do not have to see the scars," said the doctor, watching him without blinking. "But they are not only physical."

"Scars are evidence of healing, Doctor. I must therefore be healed, correct?"

"How much do you remember of your father's attack?"

"To which attack do you refer? They were numerous and varied. My father had a talent for torture."

"The last one."

"Ah, yes, the last one. I should invite you into my nightmares sometime. Mere words could not do justice. But, this sounds an awful lot like analysis, Dr. Fitapaldi. You must save your probing for your patients. I have a life to live, restored to me for some momentous purpose which so far has eluded me." Cole raised his hands. "But fear not, I shall continue to seek it. As a survivor, I owe the other victims as much. I suppose this is goodbye then. With my father gone, there is no reason for my return, is there?"

"You know I believe there is."

"You're probably right. But I don't care enough to find out."

"If you don't, perhaps there is someone else in your life who might."

Cole shook his head. Fitapaldi was snatching at dust motes, yet seemed surprised to find his hands come up empty. He should know there was no one. There could never be anyone. He strode the few steps to the door.

"Don't worry. No one ever gets close enough for that. I make sure of it. The victims of Duncan Brewer have ended with me. It is just that I haven't reached the convenience of being buried and forgotten like the rest." Cole paused with his hand on the doorknob. "But that will come. Eventually."





Chapter Two





Cole



The Thanksgiving craziness attacked Cole with a vengeance as November ebbed away. He devised list after list of menus and supplies, ripping each of them to shreds when he would find them later, destroying the physical evidence of his compulsion. But it did not help. The lists were etched on his soul.

"That will be fifty-one dollars and ninety-six cents."

"What?" The figure shocked him to consciousness. It was more than he made last week.

"Fifty-one, ninety-six. You must be expecting a crowd for the holiday. Big family?"

"Uh... oh yes," he shrugged, fighting the rising panic as he realized his wallet did not have enough to cover the bill. Only the crumpled dollars and loose change in his jacket pocket allowed him to escape the humiliation of disavowing the paper sacks filling his cart.