“I don’t believe this is a matter of sufficient importance—”
“Please.”
Hundreds of miles away, on the other side of a continent that might as well be a world, Patsy Sinclair stops. The despair in the boy’s voice is shockingly strong, but more, there’s a command there, and part of her wants to answer it. Part of her wants to do whatever he’s asking her to do. And it’s a loud part. It seems like it’s a part worth listening to.
Patsy Sinclair has been a secretary for thirty years. She’s good at what she does; she knows how to winnow the wheat from the chaff, as it were, when making sure that cranks and weirdos don’t get through to the faculty in her care. She’s heard it all, from the honors students desperate not to be held accountable for plagiarism to the slackers praying for one more chance. This boy . . . this boy sounds like he’s dying. Or like someone else is.
When she speaks again, her own voice is gentler, softer, designed to calm. “It’s all right, son. What’s going on?”
“Please. Dodger was talking about hurting herself, but we didn’t think she’d do it, only she’s not here, and I think she’s done something terrible. Please, can you try his number?”
“All right,” she says. There’s a breathlessness to her tone, and Roger knows he has her. Maybe, in the absence of Dodger, he’s a decent liar after all.
(Maybe it’s something else. But whatever it is, this is not the time.)
The line clicks. The line rings. The blurriness keeps spreading across Roger’s field of vision, creating a narrowing tunnel leading down, down, down into the dark. It’s like a rabbit hole. Any moment now Dodger will appear, wearing the White Rabbit’s waistcoat and watch, and tell him he’s going to be late. It’s all falling apart. It’s all going to pieces.
I’m not bleeding, but I’m suffering the effects of blood loss, he thinks, and that third, final seizure noses a little closer, like a dog straining toward its master’s hand. He isn’t its master, but it doesn’t know that. It will love him to death. We weren’t supposed to go to Wonderland, he thinks, and the Impossible City is burning, and it will all be over soon.
The line rings, and then—miracle—someone answers. “Professor Cheswich’s office, Professor Cheswich speaking.”
“Sir, I’m a friend of your daughter’s, and she’s bleeding to death in the gully behind your house.” He’s too tired to lie anymore. He needs to frighten this man into immediate action. “She has a spot under the blackberries. She’s been going there since she was a kid. It’s not too late, but she’s lost a lot of blood. You need to hurry.”
“Who is this?” There’s rage in Professor Cheswich’s voice, yes, but there’s also fear; enough fear that this may work after all.
“A friend. Please. I know you don’t want to believe me, I know this sounds insane, but for Dodger’s sake, you need to go home as fast as you can. You need to save her. You need to go home, and you need to save her.”
Professor Cheswich is sputtering and demanding more details when Roger gently sets the receiver back in its cradle. That’s all; he’s done what he could do. He’s tried. He has reached the end of his endurance, and he has tried.
“How many times we gonna do this, Dodge?” he mumbles. His words are soft around the edges, mushy, like they’re crumbling away. She can’t hear him. There’s no sense of connection, nothing to indicate the door is even still there. That’s okay. That’s okay. He tried. He tried to . . . to . . .
The third seizure pushes forward, and it’s bigger than the world. Everything else goes away, and then he goes away, and that’s okay. That’s okay. He tried.
He tried.
RESCUE
Timeline: 7:51 PST, September 5th, 2003 (same day same day same day).
Peter Cheswich is not easily frightened. He never has been. He watches horror movies with his daughter, laughing at the rubber monsters and over-the-top violence; he reads the news with mounting disgust, but not with fear. Fear has always been for other people, not for him.
The flashing lights of the police cars parked outside his house when he comes racing around the corner are almost enough to stop his heart.
They have the driveway blocked, so he slams his car into the first open spot he sees, front wheel humping up onto the curb. He doesn’t care. He’s already