“What about the kid?”
Ah, Christ, now she was fading again. He was so scared that the truth popped out with absolutely no trouble at all, and at top volume.
“Fuck the kid, Becky! This is about us now!”
Directions melted in the tall grass, and time melted as well: a Dali world with Kansas stereo. They chased each other’s voices like weary children too stubborn to give up their game of tag and come in for dinner. Sometimes Becky sounded close; sometimes she sounded far; he never once saw her. Occasionally the kid yelled for someone to help him, once so close that Cal sprang into the grass with his hands outstretched to snare him before he could get away, but there was no kid. Only a crow with its head and one wing torn off.
There is no morning or night here, Cal thought, only eternal afternoon. But even as this idea occurred to him, he saw that the blue of the sky was deepening and the squelchy ground beneath his sodden feet was growing dim.
If we had shadows, they’d be getting long and we might use them to move in the same direction, at least, he thought, but they had no shadows. Not in the tall grass. He looked at his watch and wasn’t surprised to see it had stopped even though it was a self-winder. The grass had stopped it. He felt sure of it. Some malignant vibe in the grass; some paranormal Fringe shit.
It was half past nothing when Becky began to sob.
“Beck? Beck?”
“I have to rest, Cal. I have to sit down. I’m so thirsty. And I’ve been having cramps.”
“Contractions?”
“I guess so. Oh God, what if I have a miscarriage out here in this fucking field?”
“Just sit where you are,” he said. “They’ll pass.”
“Thanks, doc, I’ll-” Nothing. Then she began screaming. “Get away from me! Get away! DON’T TOUCH ME!”
Cal, now too tired to run, ran anyway.
Even in her shock and terror, Becky knew who the madman had to be when he brushed aside the grass and stood before her. He was wearing tourist clothes-Dockers and mud-clotted Bass Weejuns. The real giveaway, however, was his T-shirt. Although smeared with mud and a dark maroon crust that was almost certainly blood, she could see the ball of spaghetti-like string and knew what was printed above it-world’s largest ball of twine, cawker city, kansas. Didn’t she have a shirt just like it neatly folded in her suitcase?
The kid’s dad. In the mud- and grass-smeared flesh.
“Get away from me!” She leaped to her feet, hands cradling her belly. “Get away! DON’T TOUCH ME!”
Dad grinned. His cheeks were stubbly, his lips red. “Calm down. Want to get out? It’s easy.”
She stared at him, openmouthed. Cal was shouting, but for the moment she paid no attention.
“If you could get out,” she said, “you wouldn’t still be in.”
He tittered. “Right idea. Wrong conclusion. I was just going to hook up with my boy. Already found my wife. Want to meet her?”
She said nothing.
“Okay, be that way,” he said, and turned from her. He started into the grass. Soon he would melt away, just as her brother had, and Becky felt a stab of panic. He was clearly mad, you only had to look into his eyes or listen to his text-message vocal delivery to know that, but he was human.
He stopped and turned back, grinning. “Forgot to introduce myself. My bad. Ross Humbolt’s the name. Real estate’s the game. Poughkeepsie. Wife’s Natalie. Little boy’s Tobin. Sweet kid! Smart! You’re Becky. Brother’s Cal. Last chance, Becky. Come with me or die.” His eyes dropped to her belly. “Baby, too.”
Don’t trust him.
She didn’t, but followed just the same. At what she hoped was a safe distance. “You have no idea where you’re going.”
“Becky? Becky!” Cal. But far away. Somewhere in North Dakota. Maybe Manitoba. She supposed she should answer him, but her throat was too raw.
“I was just as lost in the grass as you two,” he said. “Not anymore. Kissed the stone.” He turned briefly and regarded her with roguish, mad eyes. “Hugged it, too. Whsssh. See it then. All those little dancing fellas. See everything. Clear as day. Back to the road? Straight shot! If I’m line I’m dine. Wife’s right up here. You have to meet her. She’s my honey. Makes the best martini in America. There once was a guy named McSweeney, who spilled some gin on his ahem! Just to be couth, he added vermouth. I guess you know the rest.” He winked at her.