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 it was 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 BIGGEST BALL OF TWINE, CAWKER CITY, KANSAS. Didn’t she have a shirt just like it neatly folded in her suitcase?
Tobin’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 see my wife? Or hey! 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,” 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 she 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 McSweeny, who spilled some gin on his . . . ahem! Just to be couth, he added vermouth. I guess you know the rest.” He winked at her.
In high school Becky had taken a gym elective called Self-Defense for Young Women. Now she tried to remember the moves and couldn’t. The only thing she could remember . . .
Deep in the right pocket of her shorts was a key ring. The longest and thickest key fit the front door of the house where she and her brother had grown up. She separated it from the others and pressed it between the first two fingers of her hand.
“Here she is!” Ross Humbolt proclaimed jovially, parting high grass with both hands, like an explorer in some old movie. “Say hello, Natalie! This young woman is going to have a critter!”
There was blood splashed on the grass beyond the swatches he was holding open, and Becky wanted to stop, but her feet carried her forward, and he even stepped aside a little, like in one of those other old movies where the suave guy says, “After you doll,” and they enter the swanky nightclub where the jazz combo’s playing only this