The Passage - By Justin Cronin Page 0,20

who had pushed together three tall tables and were drinking pitchers of margaritas and talking loudly. There was a college nearby, Sam Houston State, and Wolgast supposed they were students, or else they worked together somewhere. The world could be going straight to hell in a handbasket, but happy hour was happy hour, and pretty girls would still fill the bars in Huntsville, Texas. They were wearing clingy shirts and low-cut jeans with fashionable tears at the knees, their faces and hair done for a night on the town, and they were drinking furiously. One of the girls, a little heavy, sitting with her back to them, wore her pants so low on her spine that Wolgast could see the little hearts on her underwear. He didn’t know if he wanted to get a closer look or throw a blanket over her.

“Maybe I’ll stay awhile,” Doyle said, and raised his glass in a little toast. “Watch the game.”

Wolgast nodded. Doyle wasn’t married, didn’t even have a steady girlfriend. They were supposed to keep their interactions to a minimum, but he didn’t see how it was any of his business how Doyle spent his evening. He felt a flicker of envy, then put the thought aside.

“Okay. Just remember—”

“Right,” Doyle said. “Like Smokey Bear says, take only pictures, leave only footprints. As of this moment, I’m a fiber-optic sales rep from Indianapolis.”

Behind them, the girls broke into laughter; Wolgast could hear the tequila in their voices.

“Nice town, Indianapolis,” Wolgast said. “Better than this one, anyway.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Doyle replied, and grinned mischieviously. “I think I’m going to like it here just fine.”

Wolgast left the restaurant and walked up the highway. He’d left his handheld behind at the motel, thinking they might get a call during dinner and have to leave; but when he checked it now, he found no messages. After the noise and activity of the restaurant, the quiet of the room was unsettling, and he began to wish he’d maybe stayed with Doyle, though he knew he wasn’t very good company these days. He removed his shoes and lay on his bed in his clothes to watch the rest of the game, not really caring one way or the other about it, but it gave his mind something to focus on. Finally, a little past midnight—eleven in Denver, a little too late, but what the hell—he did what he’d told himself he wouldn’t do and dialed Lila’s number. A man’s voice answered.

“David, it’s Brad.”

For a moment David didn’t say anything. “It’s late, Brad. What do you want?”

“Is Lila there?”

“She’s had a long day,” David said firmly. “She’s tired.”

I know she’s tired, Brad thought. I slept in the same bed with her for six years. “Just put her on, will you?”

David sighed and put the phone down with a thump. Wolgast heard the rustling of sheets and then David’s voice, saying to Lila, It’s Brad, for Pete’s sake, tell him to call at a decent hour next time.

“Brad?”

“I’m sorry to call so late. I didn’t realize what time it was.”

“I don’t believe that for a second. What’s on your mind?”

“I’m in Texas. A motel, actually. I can’t tell you where exactly.”

“Texas.” She paused. “You hate Texas. I don’t think you called to tell me you’re in Texas, did you?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have woken you. I don’t think David’s too happy.”

Lila sighed into the phone. “Oh, it’s all right. We’re still friends, right? David’s a big boy. He can handle it.”

“I got your email.”

“Well.” He heard her breathe. “I kind of figured. I supposed that was why you called. I thought I’d hear from you at some point.”

“Did you do it? Get married.”

“Yes. Last weekend, here at the house. Just a few friends. My parents. They asked for you, actually, wanted to know how you were doing. They always really liked you. You should call them, if you want. I think my dad misses you more than anyone.”

He let the remark pass—more than anyone? More than you, Lila? He waited for her to say something else, but she didn’t, and the silence was taken up by a picture that formed in his mind, a picture that was actually a memory: Lila in bed, in an old T-shirt and the socks she always wore because her feet got cold no matter the time of year, a pillow wedged between her knees to straighten her spine because of the baby. Their baby. Eva.

“I just wanted to tell you I was.”

Lila’s voice