stopped him for good. That and a brain-scrambling shot to the head are
the only wounds he fears.
When he reaches the cashier’s window, he pays for the order with some of
the money he took from Jack and Frannie in Oklahoma more than
twenty-four hours ago. The young woman at the cash register can see his
arm as he holds the currency toward her, so he strives to repress the
severe tremors that might prick her curiosity. He keeps his face
averted, in the night and rain, she can’t see his ravaged chest or the
agony that contorts his pale features.
At the pick-up window, his order comes in several white bags, which he
piles on the littered seat beside him, successfully averting his face
from this clerk as well. All of his willpower is required to restrain
himself from ripping the bags asunder and tearing into the food
immediately upon receipt of it. He retains enough clarity of mind to
realize he must not cause a scene by blocking the take-out lane.
He parks in the darkest corner of the restaurant lot, switches off the
headlights and windshield wipers. His face looks so gaunt when he
glimpses it in the rearview mirror that he knows he has lost several
pounds in the past hour, his eyes are sunken and appear to be ringed
with smudges of soot. He dims the instrument-panel lights as far as
possible, but lets the engine run because, in his current debilitated
condition, he needs to bask in the warm air from the heater vents.
He is swaddled in shadows. The rain streaming down the glass shimmers
with reflected light from neon signs, and it bends the night world into
mutagenic forms, simultaneously screening him from prying eyes.
In this mechanical cave, he reverts to savagery and is, for a time,
something less than human, tearing at his food with animalistic
impatience, stuffing it into his mouth faster than he can swallow.
Burgers and buns and fries crumble against his lips, his teeth, and
leave a growing slope of organic scree across his chest, cola and
milkshake dribble down the front of his shirt. He chokes repeatedly,
spraying food on the steering wheel and dashboard, but eats no less
wolfishly, no less urgently, issuing small wordless greedy sounds and
low moans of satisfaction.
His feeding frenzy translates into a period of numb and silent
withdrawal much like a trance, from which he eventually arises with
three names on his lips, whispered like a prayer, “Paige . . .
Charlotte . . Emily. ..”
From experience he knows that, in the hours before dawn, he will suffer
new bouts of hunger, though none as devastating and obsessive as the
seizure he has just endured. A few bars of chocolate or cans of Vienna
sausages or packages of hot dogs depending on whether it is
carbohydrates or proteins that he craves–will ensure abatement of the
pangs.
He will be able to focus his attention on other critical issues without
worrying about major distractions of a physiological nature.
The most serious of those crises is the continued enslavement of his
wife and children by the man who has stolen his life.
“Paige. . . Charlotte. . . Emily. ..”
Tears cloud his vision when he thinks of his family in the hands of the
hateful imposter. They are so precious to him. They are his only
fortune, his reason for existence, his future.
He recalls the wonder and joy with which he explored his house, standing
in his daughters’ room, later touching the bed in which he and his wife
make love. The moment he had seen their faces in the photograph on his
desk, he had known they were his destiny and that in their loving
embrace he would find surcease from the confusion, loneliness, and quiet
desperation that have plagued him.
He remembers, as well, the first surprising confrontation with the
imposter, the shock and amazement of their uncanny resemblance, the
perfectly matched pitch and timbre of their voices. He had understood
at once how the man could have stepped into his life without anyone
being the wiser.
Though his exploration of the house provided no clue to explain the