The Year's Best Horror Stories 11

“The county mental health agency could decide what was best for him.”

“What if he doesn’t agree with them?”

“Your testimony in court would take care of that.”

“I couldn’t,” Elaine said. “Not even now. I’ve got to love him back to health.”

“That’s my condition for going out after him—that you promise to do whatever’s necessary for him to get better. And if you say no, I’m going to have to call the police myself.”

“Oh, Chris…” She sounded tired. “Find him. I promise.”

All Wood had to go on was what his friend had done the first time—head for Cross Creek. There were too many places Hall could have gone, and too few people searching. For the first time, Wood wished he had given in and bought a citizen’s band radio. But he hadn’t, and he could find little enthusiasm as he pulled onto the North- South Freeway.

Not expecting to find Hall anywhere but on the road or in Cross Creek, Wood nearly drove past the unlit car on the shoulder. But as he neared it, he caught a glimpse of the many bumper stickers adorning the back of the car, and recognized it as Hall’s. He pulled onto the shoulder himself and stepped out of the car into a night well lit by a gibbous moon.

The car was empty, and Wood started up the grassy hill to the row of trees above. A short trail led through the clump of trees and to a clearing, in the middle of which Hall sat cross-legged. Wood approached him cautiously.

“I understand,” Hall said clearly.

“Richard?” Wood said tentatively.

Hall turned his head. “Hello, Chris.”

“Richard, I want you to come back with me.”

“I was nearly ready to go, even if you hadn’t come here.”

“What are you doing?”

“I was listening.”

“Listening?”

“Yes—to the world.”

“Meditating.”

“If you wish.” Hall rose and brushed the bits of grass and dirt from his jeans. He seemed exceptionally calm.

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing—nothing from outside. From inside, a great deal.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Perfectly. Are you ready to go?”

They walked down the slope, and Wood steered Hall away from his car. “Leave it here, we’ll get it later. Please, ride with me.”

Hall smiled understandingly. “You’re afraid I might run off again.”

“Yes.” Wood admitted. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“No. Not anymore. Of course I’ll come with you, if that’s what you prefer.”

“I do.”

“Can you explain it to me?”

Wood found Hall’s almost beatific calm disturbing, but hesitated to say anything, for fear of setting Hall off once more. Finally he could not resist any longer. “You seem very different.”

“It’s just that I understand what’s happening now.”

“No.” Hall twisted on the seat so that he was facing Wood. “How can you see from the outside what I can barely grasp from the inside? I wish I could make you understand. You and Elaine both. I want you to be able to accept it. You have the closest ties to me, so it should happen to you last.”

“All right, Richard. You don’t have to go on.”

“I would if I knew what to say—that I’m slipping into the cracks between moments—that a mistake is being edited out of the cosmos—”

“Please stop. It’s hard for me to listen to you talk like this.”

“It’ll be harder when I’m gone and you don’t understand. There isn’t much time left. They’re very close to me now.”

“We’ll protect you,” Wood said, near tears. “We’ll get you all the help you need.”

“I don’t need any help.” They were nearing the city; traffic was building up and structures outnumbered trees along the highway. “I’m not afraid, Chris. When I’m gone, everything will be in the place that it was intended for it. At least that’s how I feel. I’ve made my peace.”

Wood took his eye off the road. “Dammit, stop!” he blurted. “You’re sick but you’re going to get better. Just grab on to that thought, all right?”

“That car is stopping,” Hall said in measured tones.

Wood glanced back at the road. “Idiot drivers,” he said, braking and honking the horn. He looked in the side mirror, saw that the next lane was clear, and swung the car out of danger with a twitch on the steering wheel. The screech of tearing metal said that the car behind them had not done as well.

To his credit, Wood did not cause an accident himself when he saw that his passenger was gone.

The apartment door opened only moments after he knocked.

“I’m sorry, Elaine,” Wood said. “I had him, and I lost him. I was distracted by traffic, and he must have taken that moment to jump out. I couldn’t look for him very long, because he was on foot and I had a car back on the highway.”

“Find him? Find who? What are you talking about?” she said, kissing him perfunctorily.

The kiss had the emotional impact of a heavyweight’s best punch. “Richard, of course.” When she showed no recognition or understanding, he added, “Your husband.”

“You have a strange sense of humor sometimes,” she said stiffly. The phone rang. “Come in and sit; I’ll be ready in a few moments.”

Wood stared as she disappeared into the kitchen, the folds of her long dress swishing with her precise steps. Then he looked at the rest of the room, seeking some clue that would relieve him of his confusion.

Almost immediately his eye fell on the picture that hung by the front closet. It had been a huge print of Richard and Elaine’s wedding picture. Had been. Had been. Now there was a graduation photo of Elaine, and beside it in a second frame, her college diploma. Why had she changed it? No—how had she done it—the diploma she had never earned, because she had married Richard.

Wood felt beside him for a chair and fell back into it. He held his head in his hands, fighting the pain of accepting the unacceptable. Then he looked back at the photo and diploma, and was confused. It had been a fine graduation—a beautiful clear day, a wild party at night.

Elaine returned from the kitchen. “Now, will you please explain your joke about Richard? You make me feel like such a dummy sometimes.”

Wood looked up at her and frowned. “Richard who?”

Elaine sighed. “I’m not going through that again. Do you have the tickets? I’m ready to go.”

Wood patted his pocket absently, as though something had happened that he had missed. “Yes.”

That night, they enjoyed each other as though it were the first time.

THE EXECUTOR by David G. Rowlands

Born August 1, 1941, David G. Rowlands is a biochemist who makes his home in Buckinghamshire. Presumably such a technical profession would have predisposed Rowlands to direct his writing interests toward “hard” science fiction; instead, he discovered the ghost stories of M.R. James while at Eton College Choir School