The Night Parade (8 page)

T
hey had driven several miles before David realized he had the duffel bag in his lap, wedged between himself and the steering wheel, making it difficult to steer.

“Help me with this,” he said, shoving the duffel bag over his shoulder and into the backseat. Ellie reached over and lent some assistance without uttering a sound. Once his heartbeat slowed, David eased up on the accelerator and glanced over at his daughter.

She was staring at him, her face emotionless. Based on the whimpering sound she had made as they fled the parking lot, he assumed she'd been crying, but she wasn't. She was stoic. Unmovable. He felt colder for looking at her.

“Are you okay?” he said.

Her eyebrows ticked together, a movement so subtle it was nearly undetectable. She glanced toward the windshield.

“Ellie?” he said.

“Why didn't you help that woman?” She was sitting ramrod-straight in the passenger seat, which looked very unnatural to David. As if she might launch herself at the windshield at any moment.

“There was nothing I could do.”

“She was hurt. She was bleeding.”

“I saw, Ellie.”

They merged onto the highway. David felt about as conspicuous as someone driving around with a missile strapped to the roof of his car, even with so few vehicles on the road. When he looked to his left, he noticed the woman's bloody handprint on his window, stark as an accusation. He quickly rolled the window down, flooding the car with a cool wind.

“She was crying,” Ellie said.

“It's none of our business.”

“She was hurt.”

“No,” David corrected. “She was sick. It's different.”

“How?”

He shook his head. It was all too much to explain. “Cut me some slack, will you, please?” he managed.

“We could have driven her to the hospital.”

“You don't understand,” he said. “The hospital won't do her any good.” He glanced at her. Those deep, searchlight eyes. “That's probably the first time you've seen it,” he said. “Up close like that, I mean.”

Ellie turned away from him, facing forward to watch the horizon. “No,” she said, quite matter-of-fact. She had the suitcase down at her feet, but was picking at the plastic handle with her thumbnail.

“No?” he said.

“The first one was a girl at school,” she said. “There were others, too. But the girl at school was the worst.” She added, “Up close like that,” as if to turn his own words back around on him.

As she said it, he recalled the incident with the girl at school. It had happened during recess, out on the playground. But other than that, he hadn't been aware of any other occasions Ellie would have witnessed such horror.

“What others?” It seemed impossible. In fact, it seemed as if he had failed her in some way. He and Kathy had done their best to sequester her from it all, and until that moment, he had thought they'd done a commendable job.

Ellie shrugged. “Doesn't matter,” she said.

“Well, I want to talk about it with you.”

“I don't.”

He continued to stare at her until someone blared a horn at him. He jerked the wheel, centering the car back in its lane. His whole body felt prickly with perspiration. When he glanced up at his reflection in the rearview mirror, he was dismayed to see streaks of black sweat spilling down his forehead from his hairline. Goddamn hair dye.

“Okay,” he said after a time. “That's okay. We don't have to talk about it right now if you don't want to.”

“How 'bout the radio?” she said, still not looking at him.

“Have at it.”

She switched it on and scrolled through the dial. Most of the stations were nothing but static. She paused when she came upon an evangelist orating on the sins of mankind. “Many will tell you that the time for repentance is now, brothers and sisters,” he rallied amidst washes of static and crackling audio. “They'll tell you to repent, repent! But what if we are faced with some greater truth? What if the magic has turned black? Perhaps repentance is no longer an option, children. Perhaps we are the marching doomed, a parade of devils, the hopeless dregs paying for the sins of a world that has gotten so out of control, so repulsively foul with sin—”

“Find something else,” David said.

She was staring at the radio dial, unmoving.

“Find something else,” he repeated.

Ellie reached out and spun the dial, eventually stopping on a station playing old swing music. She finally settled back in the passenger seat, her posture seemingly more relaxed. Yet her eyes remained alert.

T
hey drove for another two hours before David decided to stop for lunch. With no destination in mind, he had fled the main highway to the back roads that wound and twisted and looped through a gray September wilderness. He guessed they were somewhere in the southwest corridor of Virginia by now, though he couldn't be sure. For all he knew, he'd spent most of last night driving in circles.

“I'm not hungry,” Ellie said as he pulled into the parking lot of a diner. There was a large handwritten sign over the entrance that said, simply,
WE ARE OPEN
.

“We should really eat something,” he said, pulling into a parking space. The parking lot was comprised of white gravel, the tiny stones popping beneath the Oldsmobile's tires and raising a cloud of white powder. When he turned off the engine, the whole chassis seemed to shudder and die. He resisted the urge to crank the ignition again, just to make sure the engine hadn't seized up on them for good.

Ellie did not move. She stared at the diner through the windshield, as if trying to divine some great secret hidden within the 1950s-style design of its chrome-and-glass construction. Her forehead glistened with sweat. She looked like a stranger sitting beside him, her long tresses shorn away, her face stoic and impassive.

“Put the hat back on,” he told her.

She only stared at it, turning it over in her hands.

“Ellie,” he said.

“Back at the motel,” she said. “Were you telling me the truth? About what's going on back home? The quarantine, I mean.”

He felt the skin across his face grow tight. “Yes,” he said.

“If we're not sick, then why would people be after us and wanting us to go back home? Why would they want to keep us locked up if we're okay?”

“It's just how they do things now, Ellie. They don't know who's okay and who's not.”

“But we've been doing our blood tests,” she said. “They should know.”

“I don't make the rules,” he said. “Now, put your hat back on.”

She tugged the ball cap onto her head.

Before climbing out of the car, David blotted the inky runnels of sweat from his forehead with a wad of Kleenex. Then he offered Ellie a sad little smile, hoping the girl would give him one in return.

She didn't.

“You're my son, not my daughter,” he reminded her before stepping out into the sunshine.

David was relieved to find that they were the only patrons in the place. The hostess, who also turned out to be their waitress, was middle-aged and portly. She sported a dismal expression that made David limit his eye contact with her. Which was for the best, anyway. She had a paper mask hanging from her neck, similar to the kind David had purchased earlier that morning from the sundries store, and a photograph of two small children pinned where her name tag should be. She led them to a booth and set two laminated menus on the table before departing, quite unceremoniously.

David picked his up, thumbed through its sticky pages. After a time, he glanced up at Ellie in the seat opposite him, who hadn't moved a muscle since sitting down.

“They've got bacon cheeseburgers,” he told her.

“Don't really care.”

“Honey, you've got to eat.”

“I told you I'm not hungry.”

“You'll be hungry later.”

“Then I'll eat later.”

There might not be time for that,
he thought but did not say. Their situation was still too unreal to him: his daughter seated across from him with a short haircut, wearing a monster truck T-shirt and a blue baseball cap. Not to mention the hilt of the Glock poking into the small of his back.
Yes, my friend, it is all too unreal. Like the plot of a movie. Or walking through a dream.
For whatever reason, he realized at that moment that he was out the hundred bucks he'd left with the motel proprietor as a security deposit the night before.
Shit.

“How about a salad, then?” he suggested. “Something light.”

“I'll eat if I can call Mom first.”

David scratched a fingernail along a paper place mat. “The cell phone is in the car,” he said. He held his hands out, palms up—
what can we do about it now?
“We can call her later.”

“I won't eat unless I can talk to her.”

His thumbnail scratched so hard he tore the place mat. Smoothing over the tear with his palm, he said, “Okay. I'll get the phone and call. You wait here.”

“I want to talk to her myself,” she said.

“Yes, I know,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “I know, Ellie. Just wait here.”

He walked out of the diner at a quick clip and with his head down. Outside, the daylight seemed overly bright, and he shielded the sun from his eyes with one arm.
Sunglasses would have been a good idea, too,
he thought.
Even better to hide my face.
The Olds was parked across the lot, but as he climbed into the driver's seat, he could see Ellie intently watching him through the diner's plate-glass window. He waved at her, then held up the cell phone to show her that he was dialing.

He didn't dial. Instead, he faked it, then held the phone up to his ear. It wasn't even powered on; it was a cold black brick of plastic pressed against the side of his head. He thought about all the intricate little bits and pieces that made a cell phone work. When he inhaled, he could smell the plastic of the thing. For some strange reason, it brought tears to his eyes.

When he saw that Ellie's gaze was still on him, he feigned a conversation with someone on the other end of the line. He found it impossible to know how to express himself while speaking nonsense—should he frown, smile, look concerned? He was a horrible actor. He recited a few lines from an old Bruce Springsteen song, then set the phone back down on the console and returned to the diner. Before he could sit down at the booth, Ellie was frowning at him.

“What's the matter?” she said. “What about Mom? I wanted to talk to her.”

“She's in treatment right now,” David said, sliding into his seat opposite her. The waitress had returned in his absence, leaving behind two tall plastic cups of ice water with accordion straws.

He thought Ellie's eyes narrowed just the slightest bit.

“You folks made up your mind?” the waitress said, returning to the table. Her expression was no more pleasant than it had been when she had first shown them to their table. She held the paper mask up over her mouth as she spoke.

“Two bacon cheeseburgers,” David said, ordering for the both of them.

Without another word, the waitress collected the menus and performed her disappearing act once again.

Ellie turned her gaze from him. She plucked the straw from her ice water, her thumb pressed against the straw's opening at the top. She proceeded to release droplets of water onto her place mat, lifting her thumb in quick little jerks. Whenever she looked up, it wasn't to address David, but to glance at the television set mounted to the wall over his shoulder.

“You haven't told me what you think of my new look,” he said.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Do you like it?”

“Not really.”

“Does it at least look natural?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don't know.” She still wouldn't look at him.

When their food arrived, David went overboard saying how delicious the burgers looked, then proceeded to douse his in ketchup. Ellie said nothing, though he was pleased to see that after the first bite it didn't take any coaxing to get her to finish her meal.

“Does Mom know about the quarantine back home?” Ellie asked.

He hesitated too long on the question, causing the girl's eyes to narrow again. “I don't know,” he said.

“Have you told her?”

“No, not yet. We can tell her when we talk to her.”

“Or maybe she saw it on the news,” Ellie said.

“Maybe,” David said.

Ellie opened her mouth to say something more, but no words came out. Instead, her mouth just widened as her chin sank lower. She had her gaze fixed on the TV above David's head.

“What?” he said. “What is it?”

When she didn't respond, he turned around and looked up at the TV.

There were two photos on the screen—one of him, one of Ellie. He recognized the photo of himself from a vacation in Ocean City two summers ago. Kathy had taken the picture. Beneath the photo was his full name, David James Arlen. They did that with criminals and presidential assassins—used their first, middle, and last names. So there would be no confusing him with all the other David Arlens there might be in the world.

The photo of Ellie was more recent. A school photo, with a fake woodsy backdrop. In it, she was bright, vivacious, and somehow cunning. Her smile was a thing of beauty. Beneath her photo was her own name, Eleanor Arlen. She was an innocent, so there would be no need for her middle name, which was Elizabeth.

The first thing that hit him was a jarring sense of disbelief. He was sitting here, looking at himself smiling in a photograph on a TV news broadcast. The second emotion that struck him, nearly instantaneous with the first, was pure fury at having been violated in such a fashion. Because they would have had to break in to their house to obtain those photos. There was no other way. Which also meant they had started looking for them sooner than he would have thought. Or hoped.

He caught the final few words of the male newscaster, whose voice was superimposed over the photos: “. . . have issued an AMBER Alert for the pair, who are assumed to be driving a black Ford Bronco with Maryland tag number M-one-five-nine-seven-two. Arlen is being sought for questioning following the death of his wife, Kathleen Arlen. Police also advised that Arlen's daughter, eight-year-old Eleanor Arlen, is in dire need of medical assistance. If anyone knows the whereabouts of David Arlen, police are requesting you contact . . .”

David turned back to face his daughter. Briefly, the whole diner seemed to tip to one side. His skin prickled with heat, yet at the very core of his body it felt like a solid rod of ice had formed, restricting his movement and freezing his guts.

A single tear spilled from Ellie's eye. When she looked away from the broadcast and found her father's face, David saw that his own vision had grown blurry and threatened to break apart.

Ellie mouthed, “
Dad
. . .” But only the slightest whisper of sound escaped her. Ellie's lower lip quivered. A second tear burned down her cheek and pattered onto her plate.

He was already digging his wallet out of his pants before he knew what he was doing. He tossed a handful of bills onto the table, not bothering to count them, then reached out to his daughter with one hand. She did not move, did not recoil from him as he feared she might, and he was able to grasp her around one wrist. With his other hand, he stuffed the wallet back into the rear pocket of his jeans. Distantly—or seemingly so—there sounded a muted
thunk,
and it took him several seconds to realize that it was the sound of the handgun coming loose from his waistband and landing on the cushioned seat behind him.

“Shhhh,” he said. It was somewhere between a whisper and a moan. “Look at me, Ellie. Look at me. Don't take your eyes from me.”

He released her wrist just long enough to tug the bill of the ball cap lower so that it obscured her eyes. With his other hand, he felt around the seat until he located the handgun. When he did, he stuffed it down the back of his pants again. The gun's cool metal slid freely along the sweaty pocket of flesh at the small of his back.

Ellie groaned. It was a tiny sound, and it approximated the word “
Mom.
”

“Come on,” he whispered. “Let's go. Let's get up and go.”

He took her by the wrist and gave her a gentle yank out of the booth. She went limp and he caught her with an arm around her shoulders. He whispered nonsense into the side of her face, then begged her to keep it together, keep it together, they needed to get out of here without making a scene . . .

Their waitress studied them with a puzzled expression. She was wedged between two vinyl bar stools at the counter and thankfully didn't approach.

“He doesn't feel well,” David said.

His hand atop her head, he kept her facing the floor as he ushered her through the diner and out into the parking lot. He felt her go limp again and threaten to collapse to the ground, but he held her upright by the forearm and refused to let her go. He never slowed in his trek across the parking lot to the car. His shoes stirred up dusty white clouds.

“Shhhh,” he said.

“No, no, no,” she said, her voice choked with tears.

His grip on her arm tightened. “Let's get to the car.”

She uttered something—a sound so pathetic and alien to him that it seemed impossible it had come from another human being, let alone his daughter.

He directed her around to the passenger side. It seemed to take forever to get the door open. And when he did, Ellie refused to move.

“Get in.” He squeezed the sweaty nape of her neck, though gently. “Please, baby. Get in the car. Get in the car.”

She turned and looked up at him. Beneath the brim of her ball cap, a faint crease formed between her eyebrows. Catching her breath, she said, “You're a liar.”

“Honey . . .”

“You lied to me.”

“Ellie,” he said. He attempted to turn her around and shove her through the open door.