The Devil's Dream: Waking Up (21 page)

He had listened to Welch, and he couldn't easily determine a reason why, but he thought it might be because Welch was in a similar position to him. A similar mindset. He had come to kill the man who killed his son, just as Matthew did years ago. No more listening though. Not to him. Not to the voices in Matthew's head. He needed to pull this lever. He knew it would be a hard pull, it hadn't been used in four years, and with all his genius, he hadn't thought to spray oil on it.

Throw it down and be done,
he thought.

I loved you,
Rally said.
This version of me is the only thing that exists, and even it won't exist once you pull the lever, so I want you to know that I loved you, Matthew. I loved you even when I cut you. Maybe more then. I loved you for the man you were, and in some ways, for the man that you became. You became this monstrosity for us, I suppose. For Hilman and me.

Matthew's hand shook as he gripped the lever.

They won't understand that out there. When you pull the lever and the world goes dark, they won't understand the why. That this shuffling, destroyed person was created from love. That love drove you to this, to killing the whole world, and while I want you to stop—or I would want you to stop if I were here—I understand why you're doing it. They won't. And maybe that's okay. Maybe all of this is okay. I don't know. I just want you to know that I loved you and that I understand. In a way, I'm in awe at it. I'm in awe of you, Matthew, and I always have been. I love you. Goodbye.

Rally stopped speaking and Matthew stood there with his arm shaking but his grip firm, listening for her to say something more.

Come back. Please come back, just for a second,
he said. Rally didn't answer. She wasn't coming back. He heard Morgant pounding on some invisible door in his head, beating against it with hand and foot, getting closer and closer to tearing it from its hinges. He heard Sheeb shrieking in the background, telling him to 'stop it right now, 'fo he makes sure her grandson never makes it back.' He heard both of them, but not his wife. She had left. Whatever part of him that had recreated her was gone now, and he was alone with these other two ghosts.

Goodbye,
he said, knowing that if she had ever been able to hear him, she couldn't any longer.

Matthew's eyes glistened, turning the world into a hazy red—whether his eyes were full of blood or tears, he didn't know.

She never told him she understood before. It had always been her begging him to stop, telling him that Hilman wouldn't want it and she didn't want it, and goddamnit, Matthew, things happen in life and you have to move on. You can't control the world. Your brain doesn't give you the right to decide what's right and wrong for the entire planet. She dedicated her whole life, or at least the last fifteen years, to telling him he was wrong. Her belief so strong that she tried to kill him for it. But did she understand, really? Had his mind somehow built an accurate enough replica of her to recreate what her thoughts would have been in this moment?

You're here, aren't you? Inside this dying body? Your mind was able to put you here.

He asked himself a question a long time ago. He went back to the question over and over in his mind, twisting and turning it like a tongue with a piece of hard candy, trying to taste every bit of it. Did Hilman know how much Matthew loved him? Matthew couldn't come up with the answer. All of his brains, all of his genius, and he couldn't know that. Too many variables, too many fights between a seventeen year old and his parents, too many of everything. Had Matthew told him enough? Had he showed him? How could it ever be enough? How could he ever do enough to illustrate his love to Hilman? Maybe that's what this was. Maybe that's what all of this was, his way of answering the question that he shoved away after he discovered it unanswerable. He couldn't go back in time, so maybe if he burnt the world down, Matthew could finally show Hilman how much he loved him. If the world burnt because of what they allowed to happen, Hilman might not know it, but no one could deny Matthew's love. Except they didn't understand, the world still didn't get it. That's what Rally had said. They didn't understand the punishment and they didn't understand what drove it. They understood Matthew to be insane and that insanity needed to be put down at all costs.

Rally understood it though. She saw, now, if not always. Maybe her duty had been to stop him the same as his had been to prove this love, to deliver justice. She couldn't stop him now, though, and she realized it. Even the piece of her that he had recreated saw that he couldn't be stopped. So had she thanked him for it? In her own way?

Something spilled out across his face.

What did Rally want? What would she want more than anything else in this world? The same thing she had been telling him to do since he started down this path. To stop. To relent. To forgive and heal and move on. What did Hilman want? Matthew never wanted to answer that question, but how many times had Rally? She knew Hilman wouldn't want it. She knew and constantly reminded him that Hilman would be horrified at what Matthew did. And, standing here holding onto this lever, with his eyes bleeding, he would be terrified of what Matthew had become.

Welch asked why he was doing this and the only answer Mathew could give was that they had to pay. Everyone had to pay, but what were they really paying for? Were they paying for Hilman, for Rally, or were they paying for Matthew's own life? For this ending, alone, dying, assaulted by his own demons? Was that why he was going to flip this switch and send them all to their graves? Who were they paying for? Whose life?

Hilman's life had been paid for time and time again. Everyone connected with his murder, everyone, was dead. And Rally? Moore and her daughter hung behind him, and her husband long ago rotted away in the ground. There was Art maybe, he could be blamed and payment collected, but who else? Who else needed to pay for those two lives that hadn't already given everything? What were they still paying for? But the answer was clear, had been clear since he penned that note and posted it among those crucified bodies. They were paying for his decisions now. They were paying for his inability to quit. His inability to say that he had lost, that his son was not coming back, and in his all-consuming desire, his wife was now dead too. That's what they were paying for, for his decisions. Fifty-six people waited behind him, all in different stages of death, and they all paid with their lives for his decisions. It wasn't about Hilman. It wasn't about Rally. Not anymore. These deaths, this whole idea, was about him. Was for him. His grief. His pain. His life.

His son's life was worth more than this world. His wife's life was worth more than this world. But those had been paid for, and flipping this lever wouldn't bring them back.

I'm in awe of you, Matthew, and I always have been.

Pulling this down wouldn't give her that awe. It wouldn't commemorate her nor make her happy. It would end the world he had tried to create for Hilman; it would end all of the progress he gave humanity in hopes that one day Hilman could grow old in a world that was better off than when he entered it.

Was Matthew's own life worth more than the world? Was this shambling, broken thing he had become worth anything? His pain, all of it, stemmed from other's actions, but had been multiplied to factors of infinity by his own decisions. He already set the world on fire for Hilman. For Rally. Pulling this lever guaranteed that there would never be any water to quench it.

I understand
, she had told him.

Matthew dropped his hand from the lever. He turned around and looked at the door to the lighthouse.

We've all paid enough.

* * *

J
ake aimed
his gun at the lock on the door and fired, the echo shooting off the building and reverberating in his ears. He kicked the door open and stepped inside. He heard people coming behind him now, following the path he forged to the lighthouse, but they would be too late.

He might not be, though.

He saw Matthew Brand. Red tears streaked down the man's face as he found Jake's eyes. Jake didn't think; he pulled the trigger and put a hole in Matthew Brand's head.

A
rt and Jake
stood in front of Henry Werzen's hospital bed. The med-evac team brought him to the closest hospital in Pennsylvania. His mother and brother arrived a few hours later and now they sat in chairs, one on either side of his bed. Art saw a family in front of him, one that he would never be able to have, and he envied them—not a lot, but some.

Jake and he showed up a few minutes ago; both having checked into a hotel across the street, waiting to see if they would be allowed to visit Werzen. It hadn't looked promising in the beginning. Fever wracked him, bacterial infections ran the course of his body, and his lungs barely worked. Art still saw the picture of him lying on the gurney, a plastic mask over his mouth, his eyes closed and his chest barely moving.

He looked better now. A whole lot better, really.

"Word is you're going to make it," Art said, smiling although he wasn't sure he should be. He hadn't known what would happen when he walked in, whether Werzen's mother and brother would string him up and flog him. He wouldn't blame them, but he came anyway. Jake too. Neither of them willing to shirk this responsibility.

"That's the word," Henry said and smiled too. There would be scars on his hands and feet for the rest of his life, but his face was untouched, still holding that boyish look. "Thank you guys for coming over."

Art felt tears prick his eyes.

"Thank us?" Jake said. "You're kidding right?"

"No, not at all. It's over, you didn't have to show up here."

Art laughed, shocked, bringing his hand to wipe the tears from his eyes before they spilled over. "Henry, we're here to thank you and to apologize. You gave the world a piece of your life that you'll never get back, and you did it selflessly, at the expense of your own family. I wanted to personally thank you for that, and I wanted to apologize for asking you to do it. I'm sorry for everything that happened in there."

Jake said nothing, but Art saw him nodding from the corner of his eyes.

Henry said nothing, he just looked at the two of them, still smiling.

When he started crying, Art did too, and he moved to the bed to hug the young man.

* * *

"
T
here's someone
at the door for you," Larry said, entering the kitchen.

Joe sat at the table with a bowl of Cheerios in front of him. "Who?" He asked through the food in his mouth.

"Never seen him before but if this is about drugs, you've got to get out," Larry said, his face holding all the seriousness of a funeral. "The guy's in a wheel chair, but he doesn't look like someone we need hanging around."

Joe leaned back in his chair. He couldn't be here. What for? They knew each other for two weeks at the most and all that was over. Joe felt no real sadness when he heard what the cop did to him, hadn't bothered going to the hospital. They weren't friends, weren't even colleagues. They came together for something that looked more and more stupid with each passing day, so why would Charles Manning show up?

"It's not about drugs," he said. "He won't be coming back, I promise." Joe stood up from his chair and walked through the living room to the foyer. The door was open but Manning remained on the stoop outside, sitting in a wheelchair just as Larry said. Joe stopped when he saw him, shocked at Manning's appearance. Manning had been big, both physically and with his personality, but he looked small in that chair. He'd lost some weight, but that wasn't it completely. The man's knees weren't working and might not ever work again from what Joe understood. He may not ever leave that wheel chair. Manning once put a gun to Joe's forehead and said he was going to kill Joe. Now he couldn't reach Joe's forehead unless Joe bent down.

He started walking again, stepping outside and closing the door behind him.

"Hey," Joe said.

"Hey," Manning answered.

They both looked at each other for a few seconds, an awkward silence resting across them.

"I don't know what one says in this situation," Joe said.

"I'm not sure anyone's ever been in this situation before," Manning answered, smiling.

Joe smiled back. "That's probably right. What can I do for you?"

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry I didn't show up," Manning said.

Joe's smile broadened. "You're sorry? You don't have any kneecaps, man."

"Yeah, I know, but that's my fault. I should have thought things out better, and I didn't. It could have ended up a lot worse for you, for us all."

Joe nodded, looking up and past Manning, looking out across the neighborhood that he'd only recently begun to discover. He lived here for a year before, a solid year, and he couldn't have told anyone what street he lived on. He knew it was Sycamore Lane now, and he knew the one that crossed it to the left was Red Bird and the one to the right was Rogue. He knew that it took twenty minutes to walk the whole neighborhood, twenty-five if his brother's dog wanted to stop and sniff at every flower he saw. Joe still dreamed every night, but Patricia didn’t fill them anymore, instead he saw Brand. He saw those blood filled tears falling from Brand’s eyes and his hand shaking on that lever. Sometimes they spoke, but most times he just watched Brand turn around and saw the look on his face. Not peace, but acceptance, maybe. Joe wondered, when he woke up, what the man had accepted. He could have pulled the lever down, Joe didn't doubt that at all. The cop came thirty seconds too late. Brand hadn't pulled it, though, he turned around with his hands at his side and the lever facing the ceiling.

Joe looked back at Manning. "Yeah, it could have, but it didn't, and you don't have to apologize. I knew the risks and I went ahead. I appreciate the gesture, though."

Manning nodded and said nothing for a few seconds. "Do you still hate him?"

Joe shook his head. "No."

"Really?"

"He..." Joe paused, not knowing how to finish the sentence. He hadn't spoken to anyone about it, not what he actually saw. He described to the police what happened when he was debriefed, but not what he saw. His brother had asked a week ago, but Joe said he'd rather not get into it and that ended the conversation—happily for his brother. Manning wasn't Larry, though, and maybe Manning deserved something. Not because he had sobered Joe up or placed a tracker in his neck, but because Manning's brother was still dead just like Joe's wife and son. "You can't hate someone who's blind, I think. Brand was blind in that building. Not physically, but spiritually, morally, whatever you want to term it, he couldn't see a thing. There wasn't anything left to hate. He was...he did worse to himself than either of us ever could."

Manning looked up at him for a few more seconds, seeming to search, to see if Joe was putting him on. "Are you happy he's dead at least?"

Joe pursed his lips together as he thought. He hadn't thought about that before. He didn't think about any of the past four years with terms such as happiness; there hadn't been any at all. Now that Brand was dead, for good, was he happy? He thought it would make him happy, would bring him peace, some resolution to everything. There was no resolution in death, though. Resolution could only be found with life; death always left things undone, unsaid, incomplete. "I'm indifferent, I suppose. It's good that he's gone, because now the rest of us can live, but personally? I wouldn't call myself happy. I'm glad I got to see him before he died, because it kind of puts some of my longing to rest, but there's no happiness in anything that has to do with Brand. What about you, are you happy?"

"I think I'd be happier if I had killed him," Manning answered. "It's...not fulfilling, I guess."

They remained on the stoop for a few minutes, not saying anything. Joe looked out into the lawn and Manning at the wooden door behind him. Joe traveled through his own thoughts not feeling awkward in the slightest.

"He's probably happier," Joe said at last. "I know I would be."

* * *

"
H
ey
," Jake said, opening the hotel room door.

"Hey," Art answered. Jake held two bags, one in each hand, holding the door open with his foot. "Time to catch the flight?"

"Yeah, was just heading down to the lobby."

"Give me a bag," Art said, reaching forward. "I'll help ya carry them."

Jake offloaded one and Art stepped away from the door and out into the hall to make room for Jake. "Good thing I showed up when I did, I thought the flight was later in the evening for some reason. I'm slipping in my old age, I suppose."

Jake didn't say anything back and both of them started walking.

"No last minute changing your mind?" Art asked as they reached the elevator.

"Nah, I can't handle DC. Subways creep me out."

"From the sound of things, you might be able to get Gyle to give you a car and a driver if you push him hard enough," Art said, smiling, looking at the red light on the elevator button.

"Two weeks ago he wanted to leave me in jail. Gyle doesn't change quite as easily as the wind, but close to it."

"Probably some truth there. You're a hero now, though—no reason not to ride the wave out." They were both heroes. Plastered across every television, newspaper, and magazine in the country. They would most likely be asked for their autographs when they reached the lobby. Art had turned the autograph seekers down at first, but after a week, he'd probably signed a hundred. He hadn't seen Jake much over the last three days, but he imagined it was the same for him.

"Do you feel like a hero?" Jake asked.

"I feel lucky. You?"

"I feel like I want to see my mom and dad. That's all."

The elevator arrived and both stepped in.

"Have you talked to Manning?"

"Not him, just his lawyer. He dropped all the charges and then Gyle did some maneuvering behind the scenes to make sure it wouldn't affect me at all. I think he agreed to make sure Manning got a nice payday out of it. I don't know, I didn't really ask."

"Yeah," Art said. "I think he felt guilty about having almost left you in jail, kind of realized we'd all be sitting in darkness right now if he'd gone through with it."

The elevator ticked down and both were quiet for a few seconds.

"You're sure you don't want to stay? Not in DC, but with the Bureau? You could write your ticket, Jake. Anywhere you wanted to go, any job you wanted. You were made for this. You caught Matthew Brand by yourself, without anyone else's help."

Jake turned slightly, looking at Art. "No, I'm done with it all. I'm not going back on the force in Katy, either. I'm done with law enforcement."

Art understood some of what Jake felt. Jake was turned from a near pariah to a celebrity almost overnight. He missed jail by a whisker, and if Manning ever walked again, it would be with a severe limp—and now the world sung of Jake’s triumphs. The Russian Times wanted to interview him, but Jake turned them down. What Art didn't understand was the quitting. He meant it when he said Jake was made for this. He was made to catch the uncatchable.

"Why?" He asked.

"I guess the same reason Moore quit. I'm surprised you don't see it. I don't know why I ever wanted to chase people, to be honest. It doesn't make sense to me anymore, like, it's just a waste of time. And I don't mean that offensively, it just seems so pointless. I killed Brand and what comes next? Another criminal? Someone else doing something horrible to people? And then I catch him, and then I just go onto the next one. I don't want to be the hound on the track, chasing the fake rabbit anymore."

The elevator door opened and Art stepped out first. He scanned the lobby, hoping to God that the place was mostly empty. He didn't want to be bothered right now, not for the next few minutes. There were a few people sitting in the lounge chairs, cocktails in hand, but that was it. They didn't even look over at the elevator as the two of them exited.

Jake and he started walking to the doors on the other end of the lobby.

"I guess I'm too old to do anything else," Art said. "That rabbit is all I have anymore."

"Not retiring like Gyle said you were?"