Headlights(108)

“Yeah,” I say.

“This radio thing you talk about. How come it’s not happening in here, right now?”

“I—”

The radio turns to static, and “Highwayman” comes on. Tillman eyes me in the mirror. I shrug, as much as I can.

“So something’s listening in real time,” he says.

He thinks. We wait.

“Why the hair around the tongues?” he asks. “Did you ever have long hair?”

“Um, I guess, as a kid. But not since. And for why, we don’t know.”

“You think … you guys think this Witchwalker thing feeds on fear or pain? And that’s why it’s come to you?”

“That seems to make the most sense,” I say. “But I guess we don’t know for sure.”

“And Father Sky is some kind of like … human familiar to this paranormal entity?”

“I mean, that, or he wants to be. But it talked through him, so … seems like they’ve got some kind of thing going on.”

It’s quiet, aside from the song now playing, a little staticky, a little discordant. Tillman’s face looks pained, thoughtful. Sad, maybe.

Sad for us.

After what feels like minutes, Tillman lets out a long sigh and shakes his head. He looks out the windshield, doesn’t turn back to me.

“I’m sorry, man,” he says.

I exhale, feel Hannah tense up beside me.

A protective surge rushes through me. We’re going in, and these murders will all be pinned on us, and we’ll spend the rest of our lives in jail. I’m sorry, I say to Hannah in that other-place, desperate, frantically searching my mind for any way out. I’m so sorry. I can’t let this happen to her. I calculate what it will take to get out of this car, whether the three of us can survive what might very well be a crash if I rush Tillman.

I’m not gonna let them take you, I say to her in the other-space. I slow down, try to find the fighting calm, try to prepare myself for whatever’s next. Next stoplight I’ll need to be ready. I’ll just figure it out. But she can’t go in, he can’t take her. I will not let Hannah be locked up.

Tillman reaches forward and tries to adjust the radio, maybe back to his podcast, maybe to signal that we’re done talking.

The radio station won’t change. He stares at it for another second.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, and they’re the three worst words I’ve ever heard. We’re approaching a stoplight. I brace myself.

Tillman says, “That I didn’t make you feel like you could be vulnerable with me.”

Music. Snow. Tillman’s words.

He’s pulling up to the light. And—

“It’s important in work and friendships to create an environment of openness and trust,” Tillman continues. “Safe spaces. And … I’m sorry it wasn’t a safe enough space for you to tell me these things.”

I … what is happening?

“You know, back at the brewery,” he says, “I saw your beer go down. It was just upright and almost full, and then it just … was on its side.”

“You…”

“And the way you look at fixed points, the way your eyes track stuff moving through the room, stuff that fully doesn’t exist. And cold spots tend to follow you. I don’t know if you’re even aware of that, actually. Seems like you’re not. But I’ve been walkin’ with ya a lot, and they’re almost always nearby. And you findin’ that motel key … I mean, the easy answer is of course that you did it. But … why? And I can’t think of a good reason.”

I’m stunned. I don’t even know what to say.

“You … believe us?” I ask.

“It didn’t sit right, that you guys did this. I mean,” he says to Hannah, “I don’t know you, miss, but either way it just … I didn’t think it was you two. And I didn’t think it was Oliver Wright either, but he’s gonna get tried for it all too probably, since almost every victim or killer is in some way tied to one of his properties as you pointed out. And since he’s made himself so involved in the prosecution. And I know, us bros gotta get territorial sometimes, but … I’m just relieved you shared this so we can actually get to freakin’ work here. Finally!”

The car comes to a stop at the red light. I don’t move.

Nat Tillman believes us. He—

“Wait. What did you say?” Hannah, stiff beside me, leaning forward. Her mind whirring, moving too fast for me to follow.

“I’m sayin’ we can finally—”

“No, the other … Territorial,” she says. “Oh my god.”

Tillman and I both look to her.

She turns to me. “The hawk. And what he just said, and…”

“I don’t follow,” Tillman says, glancing back.

Hannah’s mind, speeding. Mine, fighting to keep up. She says, “The Drifters skin the victims and walk distances with the skins, then drop them. Do you have a map, of all of their routes?”

“We have a map of all the fixed points, but we don’t know the exact routes they walked, not most of them,” I say. “We’ve tried to track phone data, but the phones always cut out, and are usually left with the skinned bodies.”