Alan Wake

wagging a finger in his face. “Aren’t you a clever boy.”

Her eyes were empty, bare sockets of bone, and Wake had to force himself not to look into them or he would fall forever into the darkness, fall so far that no light could ever reach him.

“Such a strong mind,” clucked Jagger, rubbing her hands together, “so creative. I knew it the first time I sensed your presence. Oh, we’re going to have such fun together, you and I.”

“Get away from him,” said Zane.

Jagger glanced at Zane. “You’re dead, Thomas. Did you forget?”

The light flickered, held steady. “You’re not Barbara,” said Zane. “You never were.”

Jagger’s black dress flapped around her as though she were in a storm.

“Get out of here, Alan,” said Zane, trembling in the light.

“Stay!” ordered Jagger. “You have work to do!”

Wake stumbled down the stairs and out the door of the cabin. He looked back over his shoulder at the light in the study, saw the light in the study flare, then start to die. The lake was rising, breaking over the planks of the bridge to the mainland as he splashed across. Out of breath, he jumped into the rental car, started it up, his hands shaking.

The week in the cabin had taken its toll on Wake. Barely able to keep his eyes open, he floored the accelerator, gravel flying as he peeled off down the narrow road. He was driving too fast, outrunning his headlights, but he was afraid to slow down, afraid of what might be pursuing him.

He dozed off for an instant, the car swerving onto the shoulder. He steered back onto the road. There was something else he needed to remember, something just beyond reach, something that was about to happen…

His eyes were so heavy, too heavy to hold up. He thought of Thomas Zane. It must have cost him terribly to help Wake, must have thrown him even deeper into whatever nightmare he now haunted, but he had managed to weaken the Dark Presence and allowed Wake to escape that night. He jerked as the car veered off the road, crashing through a guardrail. He held on tight as the car bounced down the embankment, and, too late, Wake realized what he had been trying to remember.

It was the accident, this accident where everything had begun. In a few minutes, he’d come to in the wrecked car and have no idea of how—

Wake’s head banged against the steering wheel as the car slammed into a tree.

Wake opened his eyes a crack. He wasn’t in the car, steam billowing from the radiator, his forehead bleeding. No night. No woods. No Stucky. The car crash had been days ago.

He was in the Anderson brothers’ living room, squinting in the soft morning light. Barry lay snoring on the floor, curled up on the carpet, the empty jar of moonshine beside him. Wake closed his eyes again, feeling sick as he remembered Bird Leg Cabin, Barbara Jagger, and Thomas Zane.

It was no moonshine-fueled dream. He wished it were. “I wrote it,” he mumbled. “It… it’s my fault.”

“You got that right, Wake.”

Wake looked up, saw a man with a gun standing over him.

“It’s all your fault,” said Agent Nightingale, “and you’re going to pay for it.”

When he stopped the car at the Anderson farm, Walter felt relieved; oblivion was close at hand. The brothers wouldn’t miss a jar of moonshine, or two, in the booby hatch. But then he saw the man on the porch, and he knew who it was. Driving for his life and knowing it was useless, he didn’t realize he was crying until he couldn’t see the road for the tears.

CHAPTER 22

WAKE GRIPPED THE bars of the Bright Falls jail and dreaded the coming of the night. It was dusk and he could hear the bustle on Main Street, car horns beeping happily, kids squealing, all the eager voices excited about Deerfest. They had no idea what was coming.

Wake’s knuckles whitened on the bars as he remembered Barbara Jagger’s words last night, the cruel laugh as she sneered, Did you really think there was going to be a happy ending? The fact was that he had thought so. Wake was used to being in control, being in charge… being a winner. Of course he was going to defeat the darkness and get Alice back. He was going to make it up to her, renounce his past failings and start over. He was the writer. Of course they were going to live happily ever after. Isn’t that the way the story went? Now… Wake beat his fists against the bars. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Barry stirred on the right-hand bunk of the cell, rolled over. His snoring echoed off the concrete floor and painted gray brick walls. He had awakened briefly when Agent Nightingale arrested them in the Anderson brothers’ living room, bleary-eyed and brutally hungover. Barry had begged for a drink, and then curled up in the back of Nightingale’s car in his red parka like a gigantic tomato. He had awakened again when Nightingale dragged them into the station, but while Wake demanded to see an attorney, Barry had stumbled to the bunk and fallen asleep. Wake never got an attorney. Never got to see Sheriff Breaker either, who was out investigating the numerous disappearances in the last twenty-four hours. She should have asked Wake.

Nightingale had confiscated the manuscript pages, had rifled in Wake’s jacket and found them before Wake woke up. In spite of the agent’s gun, Wake had fought him for the pages, but he was still drunk on moonshine and Nightingale had tripped him, cuffed him almost before he hit the carpet. The humiliation burned, but the loss of the pages was worse. He had only read bits and pieces of the manuscript, bits of pieces of what he had gathered over the last few days. He had no idea what the final work would look like, and what effect it might have on Bright Falls.

Wake sat on one of the bunks. He could see the night gathering through the high barred windows of the cell. He could hear a car race down Main Street, desperate to get somewhere fast.

A radio crackled over the intercom, Pat Maine giving his regular update on the upcoming festivities. The man never slept. Wake didn’t blame him.

“Well, we’re expecting a record crowd from the neighboring counties!” chirped Maine. “Naturally, we hope to break the record set by last year’s Moosefest in our neighboring town of Watery. Ladies and gentlemen, some people have asked me what’s the big deal about Deerfest, and I think that this sums it up: it’s about friendship and community. We’ve got a great party coming up, but let’s try to hold it in until tomorrow and get through the night in one piece, huh?”

Wake gasped as a sharp pain lanced through his head. He cradled his head in his hands, rocking back and forth. Worst hangover ever. He looked up as Cynthia Weaver appeared in the cell.

Weaver seemed unaware of him, unaware of where she was. She stood slightly hunched over, a lit storm lantern in her hand.

Wake blinked, unable to focus on her. “Miss… Miss Weaver?”

Weaver didn’t respond, just kept glancing around furtively, her face in the light from the lantern. “I have it,” she said, mumbling to herself. “Someone will come for it when the time is right, oh yes, they will. Thomas said so. He wrote it.” She lifted the lamp higher. “The key is insurance. It’s my job to keep it safe, safe in the light. Always in the light.”

“Miss…” Wake looked around the cell, but Weaver was gone. He rubbed his temples, trying to relieve the pain.

Barry stirred, slowly sat up in his bunk. “My mouth… my mouth tastes like a coal mine. Or a coal miner’s boot.” He looked at Wake. “Al, I need… need extra-strength aspirin and an IV drip. Stat.” He looked around. “We’re in jail?”

“Yeah, the Four Seasons was all booked up,” said Wake.

Barry groaned. “What… what did we do? Is it because we killed all those Taken? We did do that, right? That was… that was no—” He clutched at his stomach, staggered off the bunk, and loudly vomited into the toilet.

Wake looked away.