Waking Lazarus (21 page)

The whole vision thing, the signs . . . those
had
to be delusional. (
No, they’re not. Coincidence can’t explain it all
.)

He slammed down his fist. Yes, it was delusional. He would allow no other explanation. This was all his mind playing tricks on him, pulling the taste of copper from his past and putting it in his mouth at moments of high stress. Yes, and the visions were part of Rachel’s epileptic seizure scenario. After all, they were filled with odd colors and sequences, and he really had no way of knowing the visions were correct. (
Yes you do. Ginny, the waitress—
) He cut off the thought, gulped down the rest of the orange juice. Case closed.

He was about to be discovered, which would destroy all he’d been building. Along with any sliver of normalcy he might share with Nathan. (
And Rachel? Maybe
.)

He needed to clear his mind, reset his thoughts. And he immediately thought of one way to do it.

When Rachel opened the door and saw Ron standing there, she felt the familiar knot clench in her chest instantly. He was all right. Almost without thinking, she pulled him in and hugged him, then caught herself as she felt his body stiffen in the embrace. She let go, turned, and walked across the room. ‘‘Where have you been?’’ she asked. She felt as if she needed to do something with her arms, so she crossed them. ‘‘I . . . tried to call you this morning, and I’ve been worried. I got a strange call last night, and—’’ She stopped, unsure what to say next, because her mind was unsure what to think.

He stared for a moment, then slowly blinked. ‘‘I, uh . . . know. I got your message. I wanted to call you back, I meant to, but I was just at—’’ He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened them again. ‘‘I’m sorry, I’ve been through a lot the last few days, and I’m just fried. Could we maybe talk about it all tomorrow?’’

She nodded. Now, more than ever, she was conflicted. On the one hand, he was still the pathetic puppy; he was a sick man, possibly, who needed her help and prayer. She should show him kindness and understanding. She knew this. On the other hand, the nickname she and Nicole had given him—Boo Radley—fit more than ever. She’d discovered buried secrets in this man’s past, and she’d done the right thing (she was sure it was the right thing, because she’d prayed about it and felt at peace) by calling the police and telling them what she’d found. The man standing in front of her probably wasn’t Ron Gress. So who was he? And who had called her home looking for him?

He stared at the floor. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ he said, ‘‘to be so pathetic. Just have a lot going on.’’

Yes, you certainly do,
she thought to herself.
A lot you probably don’t
want other people to know about
. Then she remembered their last conversation. ‘‘Saw your dad?’’ she asked.

Ron, or whatever his real name was, gave a weak smile. ‘‘Yeah, I saw my dad. For starters. We need to talk about some things. Soon. But tonight, can we just . . .’’ He trailed off, seeming like he was searching for a particular word. ‘‘Can we just be with Nathan?’’ he finished.

He wanted to talk, which was good. She could talk, maybe let him get a little bit off his chest, perhaps that ‘‘I ran away from a mental health facility years ago’’ confession. That she could handle.

Having this man, this Boo Radley, in the same room as Nathan, however—how could she dance around that? ‘‘Um . . . you know, why don’t we talk now?’’ she said, going over to the couch and sitting down.

And then Nathan came bounding into the living room. ‘‘DADDY!’’ he squealed at a level somewhere above a hundred decibels, and sprinted across the room to vault into Ron’s arms. Ron, she noticed, actually opened his arms, actually welcomed the hug from his son.

‘‘I’m making a robot with Magnetix,’’ Nathan said to Ron. ‘‘Wanna see?’’ He started pulling Ron down the hallway toward his bedroom.

Her radar was maxing out now. ‘‘Nathan,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s almost your bedtime, and Ron’s—’’ But they were already down the hall, Nathan chattering about his creation.

She followed, she
had
to follow. She couldn’t just leave her son alone with this man. What would happen if he went into another seizure or something? She walked into Nathan’s room. ‘‘Here,’’ she said, ‘‘let’s get your pajamas on.’’ She went to Nathan’s dresser, fumbled through the doors before finding some Ultra Man pajamas, then went back and grabbed Nathan’s hand. ‘‘Come on. We’ll, uh . . . change in the bathroom.’’

‘‘Mom! I can change here. It’s just Daddy!’’

She bit her lip. ‘‘I know, dear, but it’s not—’’

‘‘Your mom’s right,’’ Ron interrupted. ‘‘It would be more polite to change in the bathroom.’’ Ron looked at her, and in his look she didn’t see the sad emptiness she’d seen before. She saw something warmer. More human.

‘‘Okay,’’ she half whispered, still looking at Ron. ‘‘Let’s go.’’ She pulled away her gaze and took Nathan into the bathroom to change, barely registering her son’s chatter.

‘‘You okay, Mommy?’’ Nathan said as he popped his head through the neck opening of his pajama top.

She mussed his hair. ‘‘Never better,’’ she lied.

‘‘Can Daddy tuck me in?’’

She felt panic in her veins. She’d guessed this question would come. It was only natural. She closed her eyes, said another quick prayer, opened them again. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said, surprising herself as she said it. Okay, she could do this. Let Ron tuck him in, and just keep an eye on things. That would be fine, wouldn’t it? She bit her lip again.

Nathan rushed back into his room. She followed him and stood awkwardly in the doorway for a few moments. ‘‘I’ll, uh . . . just be out here,’’ she said numbly. Ron looked back at her, that warm,
human
glow still in his eyes. A look that made her uncomfortable because it was so trusting.

‘‘We’ll be okay,’’ he said, and hugged Nathan.

She backed out of the door, closing it most of the way behind her, then peeked through the crack. She was only willing to let faith go so far where her son was concerned.

In the room, Nathan jumped on his bed as if it were a trampoline, even executing a leg tuck and roll. Ron laughed. ‘‘Don’t let your mom see you doing that. She’ll be scared you’re going to break the bed. Or your neck.’’

‘‘Nah, she don’t mind,’’ Nathan said.

‘‘Oh, really? Well, why don’t we just call her in and ask her?’’ Ron turned and looked her direction. She jumped back a step and immediately tried to think of a good excuse why she was eavesdropping. Ron cupped his hands to his mouth and acted as if he was about to call out. Nathan squealed, then leaped to his feet and covered Ron’s mouth.

Ron laughed, a good long laugh that came from deep inside, and Nathan joined in. He hadn’t seen her at all, it seemed.

Nathan fell back on his pillow, letting his head bounce a few times in comic exaggeration. ‘‘You gonna read me a story, Dad?’’

‘‘Sure, we’ll read a story. You pick.’’ Nathan scooted to the bookcase at the end of his bed, picked out a book, then rolled over and handed it to Ron. Ron opened the book but paused. ‘‘But before the story in this book, I want to tell you a story about me,’’ Ron said.

This was it; Rachel knew this was it. Ron was going to tell Nathan something about his past. She didn’t feel comfortable watching, but she didn’t move, either. She could listen, couldn’t she? God would give her something.

‘‘Okay, Daddy.’’

‘‘I wanted to tell you about the best present I ever got in my whole life.’’

Nathan’s eyes saucered; talk of presents was always a good thing. ‘‘The best present ever?’’ he asked breathlessly. ‘‘What was it?’’

‘‘It was this great picture of a hand.’’ Ron held out his hand, tracing around the fingers with the index finger of his other hand. ‘‘It had all these colors on it, and it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’’

Nathan smiled. ‘‘My hand, Daddy?’’

Ron nodded as he bent to kiss him. ‘‘Your hand.’’

Rachel realized at once she had been wrong, and her radar went to zero. Ron hadn’t told a story and made himself cry. He had told a story and made her cry. She swiped a few tears from her cheek and backed down the hallway as quietly as she could. God had indeed given her something in that scene: a reassurance Ron wasn’t a monster, but a man.

Trouble was, she wasn’t sure that was the answer she’d wanted. It was the far more difficult answer.

In the kitchen she poured another cup of coffee and brought it into the living room. Ron would be out any minute, and she wanted to say something to him. What, she didn’t know. But she knew she wanted to say something.

As she sat down, she abruptly thought of a scene from the movie
Alien
. Why she’d thought of it, she had no idea, but there it was. When she’d seen it as a kid, the opening scenes had bothered her— more, in fact, than anything in the rest of the movie. In those scenes, the ship’s crew started waking from a deep sleep. In their little rocket-shaped pods, the astronauts looked dead; the pod doors blocked out air, keeping them preserved. When the pod doors opened and the crew slowly began waking, Rachel had started getting a headache from the tension. She hadn’t paid attention to the rest of the movie, because she’d simply sat immobile, breathing deeply. The thought of those closed doors had cramped her lungs, and she’d needed
air
.

The thoughts came together. Ron was one of those crew members. He’d been in deep sleep for a long time, and he was waking up. And just like in the movie, it was painful to watch.

Ron walked into the living room, interrupting her reverie. She stood, felt awkward. Sat again. She picked up her coffee, took a sip, gave him a weak smile.

‘‘Won’t be long ’til he’s out,’’ Ron offered.

‘‘Lots of excitement. Your coming over was a special treat for him.’’

‘‘Well,’’ he said, ‘‘I’ve had my share of excitement lately, too.’’

‘‘You’ll have to tell me about it sometime,’’ she said.

‘‘I promise.’’

He walked to the door and opened it. ‘‘Don’t take this wrong or anything,’’ Rachel found herself blurting before he could leave, ‘‘but you seem different.’’

He stopped, his hand on the door handle. ‘‘Different how?’’

‘‘I don’t know. Like a different person.’’

He smiled. ‘‘Maybe I am,’’ he said. After the door clicked shut behind him, she closed her eyes and listened. His car door creaked open and shut; then the car started and moved out of the driveway. A few seconds later the sound of the car receded into the distance.

Her prayers had worked: God was helping her see Ron as an actual, honest-to-goodness person.

She just hoped there wasn’t an alien inside him.

30

TESTING

The guy who ran the polygraph machine (
What would he be called?
Polygraph Technician? Lie Detector Administrator?
) sat at the end of the table. He looked something like Mr. Clean to Jude, mostly because of the bald head. Jude was about to take a lie detector test from Mr. Clean. There was a joke in that somewhere, but Jude couldn’t think of one; he was getting too nervous.

Jude tried not to concentrate on the wires and paraphernalia. Electrodes sprouted from various parts of his body, including his temples. A blood pressure cuff gripped his right arm. And the actual polygraph machine itself was enormous: when Mr. Clean sat down behind it, Jude could see just eyes and the top of a bald, shiny pate.

Maybe this was a mistake. Jude hadn’t done anything wrong, sure, but that didn’t mean he’d come through the test unscathed. Just sitting here was nerve wracking enough, and the electrodes were beginning to itch. With his left hand he reached up to scratch. Wires popped off and hung limply.

Jude gave a weak apology. Mr. Clean said nothing. Instead he stopped jotting notes on his clipboard, stood, and reattached the wires, this time to Jude’s arm. When he sat down again, he checked a few readouts on his Frankenstein machine, marked something with a black marker, and finally looked at Jude. Jude, the Laboratory Rat.

‘‘Okay, Mr. Gress. I’ll ask a series of questions, and you’ll just answer yes or no.’’

Jude tried a smile, but he was sure it came across as more of a grimace.

‘‘Let’s start with the date, then. Is today September twenty-eighth?’’

First question, and he didn’t know the answer. Jude Allman, once upon a time, had been good with dates. Ron Gress, on the other hand, never had much use for them. When you didn’t keep a busy social calendar filled with charity events and social soirees, you had no need to worry about such things.

‘‘Um, I don’t know,’’ Jude said truthfully. ‘‘Is today September twenty-eighth?’’

‘‘Yes,’’ Mr. Clean assured him.

‘‘Then yes,’’ Jude said. Mr. Clean made another mark on the readout. ‘‘Did I get that one right?’’ Jude asked. He needed a little humor, a bit of levity.

Mr. Clean didn’t chuckle. He looked at Jude, his mouth unyielding and straight as a razor.

Okay, so much for humor. It wasn’t working for Jude, either; he felt more like throwing up than smiling.

‘‘Are you thirty-two years old?’’

Jude took a breath. ‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Is your name Ron Gress?’’

He answered automatically. ‘‘Yes,’’ he said, then realized that wasn’t the total truth. ‘‘Um, no,’’ he added quickly.

The technician arched an eyebrow at him, then looked down at his readouts again. ‘‘Do you have a son named Nathan Sanders?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Do you know a man named Kenneth Sohler?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘And have you had any contact with Kenneth Sohler in the last twenty-four hours?’’

Jude paused. Where was this going? ‘‘The last time I had
contact
with Mr. Sohler, it was a bedpost making
contact
with his head.’’ This test was beginning to make him a bit angry.

‘‘Yes or no, Mr. Gress.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘And do you know where Mr. Sohler is now?’’

‘‘No, I don’t. Do you?’’

‘‘Have you and Mr. Sohler been kidnapping children, Mr. Gress?’’

Jude blinked a few times, felt as though he’d just stepped out of a nice warm shower only to have a bucket of ice poured on him. Did Mr. Clean ask if he’d been kidnapping kids? The kidnapper—Sohler— wait, wait. Jude recalled the television interview, and Odum saying they were looking for the owner of the house. Maybe Sohler really
was
missing, and maybe the police really
did
think he had something to do with the abductions.