As we slid forward into a thick blackness, the briny oily smell slowly turned into something else.
It was familiar, but it took me a moment to place it.
It was the scent of Dewberry perfume oil that I’d smelled back in the truck all those years ago.
And then I was suddenly adrift in the in-between place, but it was different this time—less chaotic.
Once again I felt the cool syrupy darkness, and the seemingly endless currents were rushing by just like before, but this time I felt more in control. If I focused my thoughts, I could see the colors and shapes of the currents, and if I closed my eyes, I could actually feel them and bring them closer.
This time I didn’t reach down to try to find my mother’s hand, or Chloe’s.
This time I was holding Emily’s hand, and I could feel her strength helping me focus. I could feel the strength of her desire and love for me.
I knew that it was time to make a choice.
I focused all of my attention on the currents, and immediately felt the familiar deep buzzing start moving through me, but this time, somewhere way out there in the darkness, I saw a distant smudge of light.
I knew what I had to do.
I squeezed Emily’s hand, and once again reached down into the endless darkness.
I’d made my choice.
I cleared my mind and willed the distant light closer.
The smudge slowly became a flicker, then it morphed into a glowing swirl as it rushed toward me, slicing through the darkness, speeding, pulsing, humming, and burning, and then— I was on my mother’s knee in a strange house surrounded by our things, and— Running through an open field jumping over the black well, and— Broken and alone in the Harvard Exit Theatre waiting for The Passenger, and— In somebody’s kitchen laughing with my father as an old man, and— In the truck with Annie and Emily Connors—
The left side of my body began to tingle as the light came closer, but just as it was about to reach me, I felt somebody grab my other hand and pull.
I turned my head to see who it was.
That’s when the light hit me, and the world exploded in a blinding flash. I was stretched thin and twisted, all emptiness and cold.
And then the light was gone, and I was choking on the darkness.
I couldn’t move or breathe. I felt like I was in a sensory deprivation tank filled with wet black cement.
And then I was back in the car with Emily.
Through the windshield, I could see the twisted shape of the gray shadow thing that had torn the Magician apart in that Super 8 film.
It was swaying back and forth, a melty twist of dark burning smoke.
I saw Emily close her eyes as she squeezed my hand tight.
I opened my mouth to scream, and suddenly I was a black hole, and I was pulling everything that existed into me.
There was a screaming from the burning heart of the world and everything exploded in a brilliant blaze of liquid fire and darkness.
And then there was nothing.
45
A THREE-HUNDRED-LANE FUCKMONSTER SPEEDWAY
I woke up alone in a large bed.
Sunlight streamed into the room through two sets of leaded glass windows.
I was in a medium-size bedroom in what appeared to be some kind of cottage-style country house. I could see a thick grove of evergreens through the windows, which led me to believe I was probably still somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.
I could hear a song playing from a distant room.
It was “Third World Man” by Steely Dan.
I slipped out of the bed and followed the sound of the music.
It was coming from the kitchen. Somebody was in there, and it sounded like they were cooking. I moved down a long hallway, turned a corner, and saw Alan Scarpio standing in front of a stove making what appeared to be French toast.
“Good morning,” he said. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Scarpio looked pretty much the same as the last time I’d seen him, although this time he was wearing dark jeans, a black long-sleeve cotton shirt, white Stan Smiths, and an apron with a saying on the front that read: MR. GOOD-LOOKIN’ IS COOKIN’。
“Where’s Emily?” I asked.
He shook his head. “You were alone when I found you.”
I nodded and tried to remember what had happened in the car after we’d turned off the headlights.
Scarpio held up a spatula. “We got French toast, eggs, and some kind of vegan bacon.”
“Where are we?” I asked.
“We’re in Lakewood, in the summer house of somebody named…” Scarpio picked up a piece of mail from the kitchen counter. “Morris Peterman, apparently.”
“How did I get here?”