Strangewood (34 page)

"Our Boy!" Tinklebum shouted. "Pay
attention!"

Thomas snapped out of his momentary distraction just as a
sand crab attempted to flank him from the east.

"To the wood?" Brownie asked.

"It will cost us time," Thomas hesitated.

As he spoke those words, there was a splash further out on
the river. Though he was busy reaching down to heft another large stone, and
urging the others to do the same, Thomas glanced out across the river. A flat
black figure skimmed along the rolling water. Another broke the surface. And
another, and another, and soon there were an even dozen of the broad black
things gliding across the river.

"Look!" Tinklebum cried. "Oh, Our Boy,
look!"

"Flying mantas," Thomas whispered.

His mind connected instantly to that moment in Philipse
Manor, when he'd been sitting alone the Hudson and had seen one of these
creatures on the river. He'd doubted his sanity then.

He realized now he'd only doubted it because he had
forgotten so much. Lost so much that was vital to everything he was, everything
he had. Strangewood was as close to him as his heart and soul, and he'd nearly
let it all slip away.

With their long, thin, whiplike stinger tails hanging
beneath them, the mantas swept over the crabs and attacked. Though Brownie
retreated a ways toward the wood thirty or forty yards distant, Thomas did not
move an inch. He knew they were in no danger from the mantas. The flying things
had come to the rescue.

Moments later, the sand crabs were all dead or retreating
into the river. The flying mantas glided over the sand briefly, then banked and
returned to the river, slicing the water as neatly as the hook of a careful
fisherman.

Then they were gone.

The three comrades stood alone on the shore, staring at the
Up-River flowing by. After a long moment, Thomas turned to Brownie and, without
putting voice to his inquiry, began examining the bear's wounds. They would
need to be cleaned and dressed, but none of them were terribly serious. He
would be all right, if a bit sore.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thomas saw the Bald Mountains
looming far ahead in the western sky, and he had a dreadful thought. These
would hardly be the worst injuries Brownie would sustain on this journey.

Suddenly, the air was split by the sound of wind chimes and
carillon bells, and Thomas froze, a smile spreading slowly over his face. Brownie
grunted with pleasure and Tinklebum opened his mouth to shout his happiness at
this reunion.

"Our Boy, Our Boy, I knew you'd come!" Fiddlestick
cried gleefully, and Thomas felt a surge of love and hope in his heart. Where
some of his other friends here might be glad of his presence because they
thought he held the key to Strangewood's future, he knew that Fiddlestick had
genuinely missed him.

He felt the same. "It's so good to see you, little
dragon!" he said loudly, over the music of the dragon's wings, as
Fiddlestick's leathery green wings slowed and he settled on Brownie's shoulder,
his orange belly a bit larger than Thomas remembered.

"What's this then?" the bear growled, sniffing
something on the air. "You haven't come alone, have you, little one?"

There was a moment's pause, and then they all turned to see
the figure standing at the edge of the wood, not yet venturing out onto the
barren scrub between trees and sand. At last, the figure spoke.

"That's a brave little dragon," said the Peanut
Butter General. "I'd likely be dead if not for him."

With great care, he stepped out of the wood and walked with
a slight limp down the river bank toward the stony stretch of shore where they
were gathered. When he was twenty feet away, he stopped, as if waiting to be
invited to join them.

"It's good to see you, Thomas," the General said,
with a tenderness in his voice the others had surely never heard before, if one
were to judge by the expressions on their faces.

Thomas bit his lip a moment, emotions at war within his
breast. Then, voice cracking, he spent all those emotions on two words.

He said, "Hello, Dad."

* * * * *

On Saturday morning, the sun shone brightly through the
window of Nathan Randall's hospital room. The flowers that had come from
Sentinel Software had a wonderful scent; sweet, but not overpowering. They were
a peach color, but Emily couldn't remember what they were called. Something
Lorena had picked out, she was sure.

But she didn't really care about flowers. Not right now.

She glanced once at Nathan, who lay unmoving on his hospital
bed just as he had for what seemed like forever now, though the time could
still be counted in days. Emily was frayed at the edges. It wasn't enough that
she had to see her son and his father reduced to such total helplessness; now
there was the break-in to deal with and the stalker, if that's what he was.

And what was he? Emily didn't want to think about it, but
her mind kept coming back again and again to that face in the darkness. It
terrified her, not because of the danger it represented, but because it made
her wonder about the state of her own mind, and the things Thomas had said
before he . . . before he'd been hospitalized.

Her jaw set and brow creased, she turned back to Dr.
Gershmann, who stood leaning against the windowsill, watching her expectantly.

"I'm sorry, Doc," Emily said, her voice quavering,
hands fluttering madly. "'I don't know' just doesn't cut it any more. It
just isn't good enough. You people are the doctors. You're supposed to know
these things."

Gershmann sighed. A bead of sweat appeared on his gleaming
pate.

"Mrs. Randall, I'm sorry, there's nothing else I can
tell you. As I've told you, we've been in contact with a number of specialists.
Aaron Levitz at New England Memorial in Boston was so taken by the case that
he's driving down next week on his own time. But so far, we simply have no idea
what this brain activity means."

It was so silent in the room, despite the noise from the
hall, that Emily realized she could hear her watch ticking. She stared at Dr.
Gershmann for nearly a minute, at a loss for some kind of cogent response. Until
she realized there was no cogent response. Then she looked down at Nathan, at
the tape over his eyelids, at the way he seemed to have shrunk in his days
confined to that narrow, comfortless bed. She sat down beside him, wanting to
touch him, to stroke his hair and kiss his little fingers the way she had done
when he was a baby.

But she didn't. With Nathan there in the bed and Gershmann
standing by, and with the overwhelming feeling she'd had for the past couple of
days that she was being observed . . . Emily simply felt too exposed. She hoped
that Gershmann would get the hint, but he seemed to be waiting for some kind of
response from her. Something more.

Emily turned her gaze to meet the doctor's. "If you'll
excuse me," she said weakly, "I'd just like to be alone with my
son."

The morning had passed that way, with Emily sitting quietly
by Nathan's bedside. The previous day, she had spent a great deal of time on
the phone. Lorena had called several times from the office. The detective, Walt
Sarbacker, had called to say that they'd found no useable fingerprints, but the
hair fibers were still being analyzed. Francesca had called to say the Fox deal
was going to happen and wasn't that good news?

"Wonderful," Emily had said, without conviction.

But she hadn't heard from the one person whose voice she
most needed to hear. She'd left Joe a message before leaving for the hospital
this morning, but hadn't shared any of the urgency she felt. She hadn't told
him anything about the break-in. As the morning passed, she began to wish she
had told him how badly she needed him. How intensely she felt the desire simply
to be held. Embraced.

Midmorning, she had two calls from Lorena. She was in the
office on a Saturday, which made Emily realize she would have to return to work
soon. It wasn't fair to the other woman, whatever her own personal tragedies.

The next time her phone rang, she was certain it would be Joe.
But when she answered, her tone hopeful, she was disappointed to discover that
it was not Joe, but Chris Lebo, her attorney. As Chris spoke to her, Emily
began to feel numb. By the time he said good-bye, tears of anguish were
streaming down her face. She leaned against her son and wept for several
moments, until a nurse came in to bathe Nathan.

It was nearly one o'clock when Emily left Nathan in the
nurse's care. An errant thought ran through her mind, a reminder that she'd had
nothing to eat save a nibble at breakfast. But she wasn't hungry. After leaving
her son's room, she went downstairs to see Thomas.

In his bed, her ex-husband seemed diminished. The
imagination that had once thrilled her so now simply disconnected. As she
entered his room, she sniffed the air, without truly understanding why she
would do such a thing. She didn't know what she expected to smell. But there
was a scent there. An aroma not generally associated with hospital wards.

The air in Thomas's room smelled wild, like the sky pregnant
with imminent showers and the animals running for some shelter from the angry
storm.

It stopped her, there in the doorway.

She looked into Thomas's face and saw Nathan's. Never had
the two shared so much, looked so alike. And yet, where Nathan's face had
looked serene and unlined, Thomas's expression was troubled. Perhaps, she
thought in a fleeting moment of fancy, he too had the scent of the coming
storm.

"Emmy, you're losing it," she told herself, and
forced a dry chuckle that even she did not believe.

She would not believe.

Emily walked into Thomas's room and over to his bedside. She
stood there for a moment, love and sorrow in her heart, though she was still
angry with him for what she thought a cowardly action. But she could not remain
angry with him. For whatever he might have done to her, what she was even now
doing seemed, to her at least, to be so much worse.

With a sigh, she crouched down beside Thomas and put her
hand on his bicep. She studied the stubbled face and the way his salt and
pepper hair had gone over to more salt than pepper in the past week or so.

Biting her lip, she said, "I'm sorry."

Behind her, someone cleared their throat.

Emily stood, face flushed at this interruption of the
closest thing to intimacy she and Thomas had had in nearly a year. When she
turned, her eyes were cold and hard. Until she saw the familiar figure framed
by the door, the burnt blond hair and tender gray eyes.

"Oh, Joe . . .” she whispered, feeling suddenly weak.

He moved to her swiftly. Emily drew him close and held him
as tightly as she was able, her face pressed against his chest. Though she
tried her best to fight them, fresh tears sprang to her eyes as she told him
what had happened the night before. For the first time, Emily began to realize
just how frightened she had been. And she was forced to admit that the terror
had not departed.

She told him about the man who had broken in, and he was
furious with her for not telling him sooner. Emily felt a bit angry. Did he
actually expect her to leave that kind of a message on his machine? Besides,
when he didn't call, she had thought he needed some space.

When her crying had subsided somewhat, Joe whispered to her.
"You're okay, sweetheart," he said. "I won't let anything happen
to you. I promise."

Emily stiffened. Joe felt her sudden tension and stepped
back from her a bit, studying her face. She didn't know what to say to him. Was
he aware, she wondered, of what he'd just promised? And was it a genuine
promise, or merely spoken to calm her?

At length, she relaxed a bit and offered a wan smile. "I'm
glad," she said. "After yesterday morning, I don't want you going
anywhere. Not that I need protection, mind you."

"Oh no," Joe agreed, shaking his head. "But
there's strength in numbers."

"Exactly," Emily agreed.

This time, her smile was warmer, more natural. She embraced
Joe again, and it felt better than she could have imagined. Whatever was
coming, he planned to stick by her. That was what had really transpired here,
and it was exactly what she needed at the moment. The night before, alone in
her house, she had been terrified that the intruder would return.

Joe asked, "So what are you apologizing to Thomas for? It
isn't like you're the one who gave him that booze-and-pills cocktail."

With a small shudder, Emily pushed gently away from Joe,
allowing the fingers of her right hand to stay entwined with his as she turned
to look at Thomas again. He had not moved, of course. But unless it was her
imagination, his face seemed even more troubled than before.

"I heard from my attorney today," she said. "He
believes my motion for sole custody will be approved. Of course, when Thomas
recovers, they'll give him a psychiatric evaluation to see if he's fit, but . .
. for now . . ."

Her words trailed off, and Emily let her head fall, her eyes
closed as she said a silent prayer. She pulled her hand away from Thomas and
ran her fingers through her messy blonde cascade of hair.

"You make it sound like that's a bad thing," Joe
said tentatively. "I thought . . . I mean, isn't that what you
wanted?"

Without turning to face Joe, Emily nodded slowly. "It
was. But now, I just don't know. I don't know what's best for Nathan, and if I
don't . . . then who does? I've reached the point where I can't be sure if
Thomas's raving was just him losing it, or if it was . . ."

Emily froze. Her eyes were wide and she looked down upon
Thomas without really seeing him. It felt as though she and Joe were both
holding their breath. She had just realized what she had been about to say, and
she knew that Joe realized it as well.