NOVEMBER 6
I barely have time to write. Everything is coming together now just as it should. Even though Alex has so many walls around him I know it is all part of the plan. I know that the man named Edwin who was close to him was like Judas himself. He needed to be removed. I was even more careful with the blood this time. I gave another note to Alex and I even told him my new theory about the blood being more powerful than the microwaves and how Edwin is at the bottom of the lake where he will never stand in the way again. I think it is almost time to go to Alex. I must sleep now so that I will have strength and courage for the final task.
NOVEMBER 7
It is time. I can barely type I am so excited. It is time to go to Alex and to take him through the door. I know he must feel fear and even a little pain but I also know that in the end it will all be worth it. I know I can make it all happen the way it must happen. I know the gun he has is not a real gun at all. It is only an illusion meant to fool bad men and it can never hurt me. It is all part of the plan just like a dance with two parts. Now I will do my part and he will do his. And when it is over we will be together forever.
I read his last words and then I closed the folder. I wanted to see something else that would help me make sense of it. Drags, a needle, a syringe. Some chemical excuse for this utter madness. There was nothing.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.
“Make sure you put it all back the way you found it,” Prudell said.
“It is.”
“No, I mean exactly. The folders were right on top of each other before.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said.
“You know they took pictures,” he said. “They’ll notice if that top folder has been moved a few inches.”
“Just get out,” I said. “Go.” I didn’t care if anyone knew I had been here. They could have busted the door down right then, put me in handcuffs. As long as they got me the hell out of that place.
I hustled him out the back door. I stood there breathing in the cold night air as he carefully reapplied the police tape. “Come on,” I said. “I told you it doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t be a fool, McKnight.” He worked on it until it was perfect, and then we finally made our way back through the woods to my truck.
We got in. I started the engine and pulled away, retracing our way through all the tree-named streets and then the number streets, back to the highway. Neither of us said anything for a long time. There was only the sound of the wind rushing through the open window. It was cold enough to hurt, but I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to feel something real, something I could understand.
“What did it say?” Prudell finally asked.
I thought about it for a minute. I didn’t know what to say, so I just shook my head. He didn’t press it.
When we got back to his restaurant, he got out of the truck and went right to his car.
“Hey,” I said. “Aren’t you going back to work?”
“I think tonight was probably my third strike here,” he said.
“So you’re saying I got you fired from another job?”
“This one I don’t mind so much,” he said.
“Let me pay you your five hundred dollars, at least.”
“Forget it,” he said. “I don’t want your money.”
“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I appreciate your help.”
He came back to the window. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry I roughed you up the other night.”
“You mean at the bar? The night you swung at me twenty times and missed and then I put you down with one punch? That night?”
“One punch, my ass,” he said. “I slipped on the gravel.
I’m talking about when I hit you in the face with my keys.
That must have hurt for days.”
I laughed. I was surprised I could laugh. “You’re right, Prudell. You really got me.”
“You had it coming,” he said. “Just stay out of my way from now on.” As he turned to go I thought I saw the beginning of a smile.
I LEFT HIM there in the parking lot, drove away into the night, back down 1-75 toward home. Route 28 to 123 to Paradise. I had worn a rut in these roads the past few days, driving into the Soo and back every day. Now it’s over, right? Now you go back to your normal life? Demented loser stalks you, contacts the madman who shot you fourteen years ago, thinks he becomes the madman for God’s sake, kills three people including Edwin, tries to kill you, you end up killing him. Now you’re supposed to forget about it and go back to splitting wood and cleaning out the cabins?
I drove. Darkness. The smell of pine trees coming through the window. A car coming toward me. Bright lights blinding me. It passed.
How did he contact Rose? He didn’t say how he did that.
A sign for the casino. The last place Edwin was seen alive. I could go there now. Play some blackjack. Have a drink. I don’t want to go back to that empty cabin. Lie there staring at the ceiling.
The fear should be gone now. Rose is in prison forever. And this other man, this man who made me doubt my sanity, he’s dead now. I shot him four times, chest chest head chest. The fear should be gone forever.
I saw the lights on at the Glasgow, thought about stopping in, but kept going. I slowed down at the logging road to my cabin, thought about going home, about trying to get some sleep.
I kept going.
She shouldn’t be alone. She sounded so distraught on the phone. Everything that’s happened, she shouldn’t be alone in that house.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
I drove up to the Point, turned west on their service road. I thought about Mrs. Fulton’s dream. The car with the lights off, gliding through these trees. The driver watching the house at night. She saw that in her dream. And the blood, as well. It didn’t even seem so fantastic anymore. After all that had happened, I could believe anything.
I saw the glow before I made the last turn into their driveway. Every light was on in the house. The yard was bright enough to play baseball on. As I parked the truck I could see all the way down to the beach and into the water. There was probably a seaman on a freighter a mile offshore, looking at the house in his binoculars and wondering where this new lighthouse had come from.
I heard the music as soon as I turned the truck off. When I opened the door it assaulted my ears. It was some kind of opera piece, a soprano climbing the scales in Italian.
I didn’t see Sylvia anywhere.
I found the stereo in the study. The speakers were as big as refrigerators. It hurt to go near them but I wanted to turn the music off. It was one of those ten-thousand-dollar stereos with more buttons than a jet airplane, but I finally found the power button and shut the whole thing down. I shook my head in the sudden silence and wondered where Sylvia might be. It didn’t take long for me to imagine the worse. Hanging from the curtain rod in the bathroom, or lying on the bed with a bottle of pills clutched in her hand. But then I finally heard her coming down the stairs. “Who turned the fucking music off?”
“I didn’t know you liked opera,” I said.
She appeared in the doorway, a bottle in her hand. Her hair was a tangled mess, her eyes red and swollen from crying or drinking or God knows what. She looked fantastic. “What are you doing here?” she said.
“I was worried about you.”
“I told you to stay away.”
“I came anyway.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“How much have you had to drink?”
“That’s none of your business.”
I went to her. I took the bottle out of her hand. It was champagne. “Are you celebrating something?” I said.
