After Obsession (16 page)

No incubus infect me. No incubus infect me. No incubus infect me.

While I’m chanting this, my heart is screaming one name with every double beat it takes:
Al-an. Al-an. Al-an.

There’s some kind of noise, loud and bleating.

Through shielded eyes, I see movement that’s not the wind. I can just make out a dump truck stopped beside me, right in the storm. I scramble toward it. The tires are massive and smell like horse poop, but I don’t care. I yank myself up to the cab. Some paper flies out of my backpack and joins the whirl of wind. The door opens. A man shouts, “Hurry! Hurry!” He pulls me inside. While I’m sprawled on the seat he reaches right over me and yanks the door shut. The truck shudders from the smack of the wind. It reeks of Polo cologne and chew and right now I think those are the best smells in the entire universe.

The guy’s voice shakes. “Holy crap, what is this?”

I sit up and stare out the windshield. Bushes and trees are flying by. Branches are smacking into us. Rocks are pelting the side of the truck. “Drive!” I shout.

He hesitates for just a second, then shifts into gear. I pull off my pack and inspect the damage. It’s not too bad. My hands shake so badly that I can’t fix my hair. I don’t know why I try.

“What is this? A tornado?” the driver asks.

“I don’t think so. We don’t get tornados in Maine, do we?”

“I don’t know …” He starts stuttering and loses whatever he was going to say. He’s in his early twenties, with a short blond crew cut and a lot of stubble. His eyes are wide and scared. Both hands clutch the wheel. He’s sweating and peeking over at me.

Something big and hard slams into the side of the truck. It shakes. We keep going.

He swears under his breath. “You okay? You’re a mess. Holy … Holy …”

The truck swerves a bit from the force of the wind.

“We’re almost through it,” I say. I point ahead. “It’s lighter up there.”

“Hold on. I’m going to floor it.” He does. We rush forward. We break through the swirling debris. He doesn’t slow down. “I think I should take you to the hospital.”

“Great. Good.”

He swallows hard. I realize I’m clutching my pack. The sunlight seems so bright. It’s crazy to be able to see clearly again. I touch my face. I’m bleeding. My leg aches. My back kills. I’m a total mess. I start, instinctively I guess, to work on my ponytail again. We’re almost at the hospital.

“I don’t know how you survived that,” he says almost reverently.

“I stayed low.” We bump off the dirt road and onto the pavement. “Wait.” I suddenly think of it. “How did you see me? Why did you stop right there?”

We’re in sight of the hospital. He pulls into the emergency room turnaround.

“No, seriously, why did you stop?” I ask. I touch his arm. He’s still shaking. “You saved me.”

“Do you think that storm’s still out there?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

He rolls the truck to a standstill and sets the brake. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Please. I won’t. I promise. What just happened
was
completely crazy.”

He closes his eyes for a second, like he’s remembering. “There was a woman standing there. She was glowing gold, almost.” He glances over, to see if I think he’s crazy, I guess. I motion for him to go on. A muscle by his eyes twitches. “And I just knew that I had to stop, you know? I knew that someone needed help.”

“Me.” I swallow hard. “I needed help.”

He nods. “So I stopped and I yelled. You didn’t answer. I honked the horn. I couldn’t go out there. I hope you don’t—don’t think I’m a coward, but I didn’t know how I could—stuff was flying all around.” He wipes at his face with his hands. “I’m not making sense.”

“You are.” I touch his arm quickly. “Thank you.”

He turns his head to look at me. “You’re a mess. Let me help you in.”

“No,” I try to object. “I’m okay, really.”

He’s already out of the truck and opens the door. He reaches for my hand.

“Thanks.” I hop down. Everything aches and throbs. My mouth tastes like dirt. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not steady. I’ll bring you inside,” he says.

“No. I can do it,” I insist. “Thank you, though. Thank you for finding me.”

He nods vigorously and hands me my backpack, holding it so things don’t fall out of the rip. “Glad I could help. You better go inside.”

I hobble into the emergency room entrance, but don’t go to Intake. Instead, I turn left and go up the corridor toward the elevator. There’s only one hall for kids, on the top floor. I stagger into the elevator, which is happily empty, and press the CLOSE DOOR button, then the number 3.

I’m scared, but not horrible scared. I think Alan is right. I think every time the River Man does something big like this he gets tired. I think all magic (good or evil) depletes your energy, so he’s weaker right now. So now is the perfect time for me to try to heal Courtney. He quickly recharges, though; my theory on that is he feeds on fear, on Courtney, on pain.

The elevator grinds to the third floor and stops. The doors open and Mary Harmon, a tall, red-haired nurse, is walking down the corridor in front of me. I slide out of the elevator and to the side just as she turns around to see who’s coming. I’m hidden from view, which is what I want, because I know that if anyone sees me like this there’ll be a lot of questions, and they
will
shove me back into the ER and call my dad. That can happen later. Right now I need to get to Court. I need to get there while the River Man is still weak.

The elevator doors slide closed. Mary’s footsteps flip-flop away down the hall. I count to five and slip out behind her. She turns the corner in the hallway and I hurry, looking at the charts outside the doors, reading names, searching.

Finally, halfway down the hall—TUCKER, COURTNEY.

I slip through the doorway, grab the metal handle, and shut the door behind me.

Courtney is sitting up in the bed. She’s not restrained, which is a super-good sign. She turns her head when the door shuts. “Aim?”

I smile at her. It’s hard to do. Her face is still a mess. Her eyes are weak and tired, cloudy even. She looks so tiny beneath the thin white hospital blanket. “Courtney?”

Her eyebrows lift up a little bit. There’s an IV line attached to her, but it looks pretty mild. I hope it’s just fluids to keep her hydrated. She lifts up the hand without the IV line, but doesn’t get it up very far.

I go to the bed. “How you doing, honey?”

She squints a little. “You called me ‘honey.’ ”

I shrug. “I know. It’s weird.”

“My cousin must be wearing off on you.” She forms the words slowly, like it’s an effort.

“Probably.” I drop my backpack on the floor. It makes a hard clanking noise. Court startles and then focuses on me.

“What happened to you?” she asks.

“A little mishap.”

“Mishap?”

I take her free hand in mine. It’s cold and still has sores. Mine’s not much better: all cut up and dirty. We are not two glamour queens at the prom right now. For a second I wonder what Blake would say; then I ask, “How are you?”

“Amazing,” she says, and softly laughs.

Tears peek out of the corners of her eyes and start to roll down her cheeks. I use my free hand to wipe them away.

“Alan and I are working on something, okay?” I tell her. “We won’t let this keep happening to you, Courtney, I swear it.”

“Very melodramatic, Aim.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.” She closes her eyes, like it’s all too much.

“Where’s your mom?”

“Working.”

I make sure nobody’s lurking and whisper, “Do you know how sometimes when you or Benji get scratched up, how I focus really hard and try to make you feel better?”

Her eyes open. “Yeah. Your dad said it was just the power of suggestion.”

“I love my dad, but sometimes, he’s a putz. It’s like he’s so afraid of what happened with my mom that he denies anything that even hints at the supernatural,” I say. “Can I try it?”

She closes her eyes again, weak.

I panic for a second. “Court?”

Her hand tightens around mine. “Yeah. You can try.”

The light above her bed flickers. In the dark, for just a second, I think I see the shape of a man. The light steadies out. There’s nothing there. I loosen my grip on her hand and take some deep breaths.

“Does Alan know you’re doing this?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I lie. “He’s just stuck at school.”

“You’re not?”

“Got an excuse.” This time I close
my
eyes, spreading my fingers out just a little bit, and put one hand on top of Courtney’s freezing forehead. I put the other over my own heart. I breathe in; I breathe out. The centers of my palms start to tingle in perfect circles. Power twirls there, I know it does. It’s not freak power—it’s my power. Mine. My fingers separate a little. I imagine white light, good white healing light enveloping Courtney.

“Heal, sweetie,” I whisper. “Heal. Be safe.”

The whiteness flows over her. I can feel it leave me, leave my hands, stretch out over her. She makes a funny chirping noise. I open my eyes. Her skin is clean. The sores are gone. Her eyes flutter open, meeting mine and widening in shock or fear. Her mouth moves to make a word, but I can’t hear it.

Something inside my head stabs against my brain. The last thing I see is Courtney slowly, weakly reaching toward me, and then my knees buckle. I am gone, just gone.

•
18
•

ALAN

“Alan, you go to the nurse while I deal with these three,” Mr. Everson says as we near the front of the school. He looks to Mr. Burnham and says, “Pat, will you get a towel for Blake here?”

I go on to the nurse’s station. She isn’t there, so Ms. Murillo comes in and helps me find some hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and Band-Aids. There are a few cuts and some bruises already forming on my face, but it isn’t as bad as I’d expected.

“You boys and your bumps and bruises.” Ms. Murillo puts a butterfly bandage on the worst of my cuts, a shallow gash under my left eye, probably made by a ring.

“I’ll be okay,” I say. “I guess I better go see how long I’m kicked out of school.”

She smiles at me in kind of a sad way as I leave her. Mr. Burnham stands guard over Blake and his cronies where they sit in plastic chairs against the wall outside Everson’s office. Blake holds a towel over his face. I can see bloodstains on the white cloth. I guess the one shot I got was a good one.

“Come in here, Alan,” Everson calls. I go into his office with all the Colorado Buffalo memorabilia. “Close the door and sit down.” I do. “Tell me what happened.”

I was in a stall. Should I say I was taking a crap? I decide to be honest. “I went to the bathroom to text my aunt and ask if my cousin was any better,” I tell him. “Courtney is in the hospital because of what happened yesterday, you know.”

“I know,” he says. His eyes are intense, like he’s going to pin me against the back of the chair if I lie to him. “Go on.”

“I went to the bathroom so I wouldn’t get caught with my phone out. I went in the stall, texted my aunt, and she texted back, so I was leaving. I didn’t hear anybody come in. I opened the door and somebody hit me in the face. Then they were in there with me, just basically trying to beat the sh—I mean, beat the crap out of me.”

“Looking at Blake’s nose, I’d say they weren’t the only ones punching.”

“They had me against the wall,” I argue. “I was off balance. I couldn’t even stand up because I tripped over the toilet when they came in hitting me. I threw one punch and I guess I got lucky. Then Mr. Burnham was there and broke it up.”

Everson glares at me for a long moment, and I just know he’s going to call me a liar, say nothing like this ever happened until I came to the school, that I’m just a bad person, all kinds of stuff that means this is my fault. Instead, he says, “I’m inclined to believe you, Alan. Those three told me you started the fight, that they were already in the restroom when you came in, but Mr. Burnham saw you go in first. He says they watched you and went in after you and that someone yelled there was a fight right after that.”

I nod. I’m not sure what to say. “Thanks.”

“It doesn’t get you off the hook,” Everson says. “We have a zero-tolerance policy on fighting. You threw a punch. That makes it a fight.”

“I understand.”

“It’s an automatic three-day suspension.”

I can’t say anything. I can only think about how disappointed Mom’s going to be. Not to mention Aimee. Her face when I came out of the bathroom … shock, disappointment, maybe anger.

“You’re living with your mother and aunt, right?” Everson asks.

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

“How about your dad?”

I look up and find the determination to return his stare.

“I’ve never met him.” Just saying this makes my stomach hollow out even more.

“Your mom’s going to be upset about this?”

“Oh yeah. She will. I promised I wouldn’t fight. But I had to. They had me cornered in that stall.”

“Well, let’s call her. What’s the number?”

The conversation is painful, and after a minute they agree I’m suspended for three days and can drive myself home.

“I think we’re done here, Miss Parson.” Everson punches a button on his phone and Mom is gone. “You’ve got a good mother there,” he says.

“Yeah. I know,” I say.

He scrawls on some papers and hands them to me. “Bring these to me when you come back.” I take the papers and stand to leave. “Alan, try to stay away from Blake. I’ve known him since he was a freshman. He’s not a bad kid. All this is kind of a surprise to me. Maybe he just needs some time to get used to the idea of having someone faster than him, and getting over Aimee. Don’t go looking for trouble, okay?”

“I won’t,” I say. There’s already enough trouble to go around without having to hunt down some stringy cross-country runner to fight. Everson nods and I leave his office. Burnham and the other three guys are gone.

I halfway expect Blake to jump me on the way to my truck, but there’s no one to be seen. Off to the south, though, the sky is dark, like there’s a storm moving in.

In my truck I check the messages on my phone. There are two. The first is from Aimee:
HOPE U R OKAY.
I write back,
I’M OK. SUSPENDED. PICK YOU UP AFTER SCHOOL.

The second message is from Mom.
GO STRAIT HOME.
Mom isn’t the world’s best speller, especially in texts.

It’s early. Mom won’t be home until late, and there are things I need to buy. I head for home to get some cash out of the metal box I keep in a drawer of my dresser. With a couple hundred dollars in my pocket, I drive to the Craft Barn on the outskirts of town.

“Yes, we have sweetgrass and sage,” the middle-aged woman tells me. The store isn’t huge, but I’d been walking around it for at least fifteen minutes without finding anything but baskets and candles. She leads me around a few corners to a little back room that’s got some dried plants. “Here’s the sweetgrass. Now, we don’t have a lot of it because it’s native and so easy to find growing wild. You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer.

“Thought so. Lots of people have this growing right in their backyards and they just mow it down like a common weed. Can you believe it?”

“Some people just don’t appreciate nature,” I say.

“The sage,” she says, beaming with approval as she moves up the aisle a little and waves toward a section filled with dried sage, “is another story. We have lots of it. People love it in their potpourri, and it’s harder to come by in the woods.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Is there any chance you sell granite rocks? The kind you’d put in a lawn display? Not huge, just about this big?” Using my hands I make a circle that’s somewhere between the size of a softball and a bowling ball.

“No, nothing like that,” she says. “You’ll probably have to try Bergerman’s for that. Do you know where that is?”

I shake my head, so she gives me directions. I thank her and she leaves me.

I grab a dozen bundles of both sweetgrass and sage, then find a roll of heavy brown twine and head for the checkout. Purchases made, I follow my directions and find Bergerman’s Lumber, which isn’t half the size of a Lowe’s or Home Depot, but is surprisingly well stocked. A guy in an orange vest takes me outside and shows me pallets of granite in various sizes and shapes. I put seven stones in a cart. Each stone is about the size of a football, and they make the cart really heavy.

Back inside the store I find the tarps and pick out a heavy canvas one. Aimee suggested sailcloth, but I don’t know where to get that without her, so this will have to do. I also pick up a small tree saw and a good hunting knife. I’m in the checkout line when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I don’t check the text message until I get all my purchases into the bed of my truck.

CAN U COME 2 HOSPITAL?
It’s Aimee. Why is she out of school? I write back:
B THERE SOON.

Something’s up. I jump into the truck and take off as fast as I dare. No way I’m going to follow my suspension and disobeying Mom’s order to go “strait” home with a speeding ticket.

From the hospital parking lot I text Aimee:
WHERE R U?
She immediately responds by calling me.

“Alan, are you here?” she asks.

“I’m in the parking lot.”

“Come to the top floor. Room 312.”

I come face-to-face with a wide-hipped, severe-looking nurse as soon as I step out of the elevator. “Can I help you?” she demands.

“I’m looking for 312.”

“Just down the hall.” She watches me as I make my way past the nurse’s station, like maybe I’m going to steal a pen or peek at a computer screen or something. As I walk, I reach up and run my fingers through my hair, like I’m combing it out. That always gets to the older, conservative types who don’t like long-haired guys. Behind me, I hear the nurse grunt and stomp off in the other direction.

That’s when Aimee steps out of a room ahead of me and waves me closer. She does not look right. I only get a quick glance before she ducks back in. I pick up the pace and push through the door and into the room.

“Alan!” She lunges at me as soon as I’m in, throwing her arms around me and hanging on like she’s drowning. I hug her back, then grimace.

“You smell like dirt, Red. What’s going on?”

She looks up at me and I see the pain, fear, and exhaustion in her face. And the dirt under her eyes, the scratches on her cheeks and forehead. A tear leaks out of the corner of her left eye and leaves a trail through a coat of grime as it runs down her cheek.

“What?” I ask. I hold her at arm’s length and look her over. Her clothes are filthy, with small tears and bits of sticks and grass and leaves stuck to her. “Aimee, what happened?”

“He attacked me,” she says, then she breaks down for real, pushing her way back into my arms. While I rub her back and stroke her hair she tells me about the attack and her rescue by a dump-truck driver. “He saw a golden woman in the road who made him stop.”

“What?” This is all too much. I don’t know what to think. “What do you mean?”

For the first time I take note of Courtney, sitting up in a bed across the room. She’s trying to act like she’s not watching us, but she so is.

“What do you mean, Aimee? A golden woman?”

“It was my
mom.
She made the driver stop. At least, that’s what I think. I didn’t see her. He did, which means all of this is real. We aren’t delusional.”

“We already knew that.” I hug her and rub her back some more and think about it. “Sounds like we have some help, then.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she breathes against my chest.

Courtney has waited long enough. “Hello? I’m the one in the hospital. Is anyone going to pay attention to me?”

I laugh and hug Aimee tighter, bending to whisper in her ear. “You okay?”

“Been better,” she says.

We walk toward Courtney. Aimee is just sort of hanging on my side and I know it’s more than her being glad to see me. I gently push her so that she has to sit on the bed, even though she’s dirty. I look around, then pull up the room’s only chair and sit facing them.

“Your face,” I say to Courtney. “It’s cleared up.”

“Aimee did it,” she says, smiling at her friend. I look to Aimee for an explanation and she nods.

“Yeah. I can do that.”

“Do what?”

“Heal things.” She shrugs it off like it’s no big deal.

“She does it all the time,” Courtney says. “She did what the doctors here couldn’t do.” She gives Aimee a worried look, then adds, “Not that they didn’t try. I know they did, but they’re not made of awesome like you are, Aim.”

“They’re just not equipped to cure you, Court,” I say. It’s time to just blurt it out. She has to be on board with it or this thing won’t work.

“Tell me,” Courtney says.

“You have what the Navajo call Ghost Sickness,” I tell her. “It’s, well … it’s like demonic possession. An evil spirit—”

“You mean like in the horror movies?” Courtney interrupts.

“Yeah, like that. All the stages are there. Except the last one, and I—we—think it’s happening.”

“What is it?” she asks.

“Total possession. He—this thing—has taken possession of you already, but he isn’t strong enough to stay yet. He takes you for a while, then gets weak, or distracted or whatever, and leaves. That’s when you collapse.”

Aimee says, “That’s just what I was thinking.”

Courtney is nodding, but her face shows her fear. “What if he gets stronger?”

“He’ll take over your body and won’t leave,” I say. “Not until …”

“I’m dead,” she whispers. She pulls her knees up and presses her forehead against them. Aimee, sweet Aimee, leans into her and hugs Courtney as best she can.

“It’s going to be okay,” Aimee promises. “Alan knows how to fight it. We’ll make it leave you alone.”

“I just wanted my dad back,” Courtney says without lifting her head. Her voice is muffled against the blankets covering her legs. “He said he could bring Dad back to me.”

“Who is he, Court?” I ask. “Did he tell you his name?”

“River Man,” she whispers, as if saying it will bring him, and maybe it will. Aimee and I both look out the window, then at each other. I shake my head.