“No cops. Your wife wouldn’t look nearly so beautiful with a bullet in her head.”
Wake didn’t know how long he stood there listening to dead air before he broke the connection. He checked the number, but it was blocked. He thought about going to the sheriff, but couldn’t risk it. She was clearly competent in dealing with local problems, but this was different. Even the feds didn’t usually get the victim back alive. No, the secret was to play the game. No tricks, no high-tech tracking. Just meet the man and do whatever he wanted. Pay whatever he asked. As long as Wake got Alice back.
Near the front desk, Wake spotted the elderly lady he had seen carrying a lantern in the diner that first day. She had the same lantern with her now, light blazing. She flicked the light switch in the hallway off and on, off and on.
“It’s working,” the lantern lady called to the female deputy behind the desk. “Can’t be too sure.” She started for the front door.
“Thanks, Ms. Weaver,” said the deputy, a brassy redhead with thick glasses and eyebrows plucked so thin they were practically invisible. She glanced over at him. “Mr. Wake? I’m Deputy Grant. I’ve got your suitcases.”
Wake started toward the deputy when the front door to the station burst open, and a male deputy dragged a handcuffed man inside.
“Hey! Hey! I need more light in here!” bellowed the handcuffed man, his speech slurred. “Goddammit! More lights! I don’t like the goddamn shadows in here!”
“What’s wrong with Snyder this time, Mulligan?” said Deputy Grant. “I thought he quit drinking for good.”
“No such luck,” said Deputy Mulligan, trying to hold the handcuffed man upright. “Snyder here went on a bender and beat Danny pretty badly. He started shouting like a wild man the moment he woke up.”
“Hey!” shouted Snyder, staring at Wake. “You going to help me? It’s too damn dark in here. Give me some light!”
“Come on, Snyder,” said Deputy Mulligan, pulling him through a door marked CELLS. “Try to cooperate for once.”
“Do something, mister!” Snyder screamed at Wake. “I need more light!”
The door to the cells slammed behind Snyder and the deputy.
“Don’t mind Snyder, Mr. Wake,” said Deputy Grant, handing him the suitcase. “He’s always been a mean drunk.”
A man in matching beige slacks and open-necked shirt strode up to the desk. The neatly-buttoned white cardigan he wore was probably meant to suggest a relaxed, friendly attitude, but his stiff manner and pinched expression was all wrong for it. He looked familiar, and the fact that Wake couldn’t place him was faintly unsettling. Maybe the doctor was right about the effects of a head wound.
“I’m afraid I’m here to pick up the Anderson brothers again,” the man said. “I can assure you, Deputy, my staff has been reprimanded for letting them wander off—”
“Any recommendation for a place to stay?” Wake asked the deputy.
“The cabins at Elderwood National Park are pretty nice, Mr. Wake,” said the deputy, looking relieved at being able to ignore the man. “You can make arrangements with Rusty at the Visitor Center.”
“Wake? Alan Wake?” The man narrowed his eyes, then thrust out a hand. “I’m
Wake stood motionless.
Hartman pulled his hand back. “I understand completely. Human touch can be upsetting to many creative people.” His eyes were dark and cool and utterly unreadable. “Mr. Wake, I’d like to invite you to stay at Cauldron Lake Lodge as my guest.”
“You’re the one my wife talked to,” said Wake, remembering Hartman’s face from the book he had found among Alice’s things. “The shrink.”
Hartman’s thin smile could cleave a diamond.
“
The man idly ran a thumb along the collar of his shirt, assuming Wake was paying him a compliment. “Yes, I’ve had the pleasure of discussing your… problem with your lovely wife on the phone several times. I’ve read two of your books in preparation, and I think
Wake punched him, knocked Hartman backwards against the counter.
Sheriff Breaker was walking out of her office as Wake hit Hartman. She grabbed Wake’s right arm as he went to hit him again. “Enough.”
Hartman straightened up. Smoothed his trousers. “Quite… quite all right, Sheriff. I’m as used to volatile personalities as you are. Occupational hazard.” He pursed his lips. “I think your problems extend far beyond writer’s block, Mr. Wake. I can help you, but not without your trust, or willingness to acknowledge your—”
“You can’t help me with anything,” Wake said quietly as the sheriff continued to keep a grip on him.
“Al!” Wake turned at the commotion from the front door.
“Hey, get your hands off my client!” Barry Wheeler, Wake’s New York literary agent, bustled in, a short, stocky man looking faintly ridiculous in new hiking boots and a bright red parka. He wagged a finger at the sheriff. “You’re asking for a lawsuit, lady.”
“What are you doing here, Barry?” said Wake.
The sheriff laughed. “You know this Red Butterball here, Mr. Wake?”
“I’m Barry Wheeler,” Barry said to the sheriff, “I represent Mr. Wake.”
Hartman rubbed his jaw. “No harm done, Sarah. I won’t be pressing charges. Clearly, Mr. Wake has a lot on his mind.” He smiled again at Wake. “My offer of accommodations at the lodge still stands.”
“You have a car, Barry?” said Wake.
“I didn’t hitchhike,” said Barry, “and they don’t have subways out here.”
“Take care of yourself, Mr. Wake,” said the sheriff. “We still have a lot of things to clear up. When you’re more rested, of course.”
“Of course,” said Wake.
“Sheriff?” called the deputy, listening to someone on her headset. “We just got a call from the foreman at the number four logging camp. Vandals hit the site again last night. This time they pushed a trailer into the ravine with a bulldozer.”
Wake picked up the suitcases. “Let’s get out of here, Barry.”
Some of the Taken retained echoes of their former selves, but these were just the nerve twitches of dead things. They were puppets filled with darkness and nothing else. In most cases the Taken were enough for the purposes of the Dark Presence, but for anything more elaborate, as with the writer, more was required. It needed his mind. And so, rather than taking the writer over completely, it merely touched him.
CHAPTER 8
WAKE TOSSED THE suitcases into the back seat of Barry’s rental car, a big orange SUV with maps and fast food wrappers strewn around the floor.
“What the hell was that all about with you and the guy in the Mr. Rogers cardigan, Al?” said Barry as they got in. “We don’t need a replay of your bout with the paparazzi. I thought lady law was going to lock you—”
“Alice’s been kidnapped,” said Wake.
“You’re shitting me,” said Barry, his fingers frozen on the ignition key.
“Drive,” said Wake.
“What are the police doing about it?” said Barry.
“I haven’t told them,” said Wake. “Now
Barry drove. He kept glancing over at Wake, trying to start a conversation, but Wake remained silent. When they were out of the city limits, cruising along the two-lane road through the forest, Barry couldn’t contain himself
