Rick Burroughs - Alan Wake

Sinclair crumbled to the floor.

“Down she goes!” cheered Odin. “Down for the count!”

Tor charged Birch, who fled across the room.

“Bye bye !” shouted Odin. “Thank you, come again!”

Tor raised the hammer into the air, gave a triumphant shout to his brother. “We’re on a comeback tour, baby!”

Wake bent down over Sinclair and checked her pulse. She was still breathing but she already had a lump on the side of her head. He rifled through her pockets and pulled out her keys.

“Tom Zane’s making a jailbreak!” called Tor.

“Tom?” Odin stared at Wake, shaking trying to hold himself together. “You get out of here… go to the farm. Have yourself a party.”

“Jailbreak! Jailbreak!” shouted Tor.

Wake ran to the door of the Staff Only office wing. The first key didn’t work, but the second one did. He closed the door behind him, raced down the hallway. Dr. Hartman’s door was ornate, his name in nameplate bronze. Wake unlocked the door. First key he tried.

The lights in the office flickered, went out, then came back on. They didn’t seem as bright as they had been.

Thomas Zane knew he had to remove all that had made this horror possible, including himself. That was the only way to banish the dark presence he had unleashed and now looked at him through the eyes of his dead love. But he also knew that despite his best efforts, it might someday return, so even as he wrote himself and his work out of existence, he added a loophole as insurance, an exception to the rule: anything of his stored in a shoebox would remain.

“SO HOW DID you end up here—?” started Wake.

“The cops released me after they picked me up at the trailer,” said Barry, brushing off his Hawaiian shirt, a psychedelic, yellow silk print featuring pineapples and exploding volcanoes. “The sheriff was all apologies, but that FBI agent was a real ass.”

“I’d have arrested you just on the basis of that shirt,” said Wake.

“It’s a classic ,” said Barry. “Anyway, after the cops let me go, I get a call from that son of a bitch Hartman, who told me that you were here and I should come pick you up. When I got here, two goons clobbered me and locked me up.”

“I’m trying to find Hartman’s office,” said Wake.

“Knowing the right answers is my business.” Barry pointed. “Two doors… Hey, wait up!”

As Wake unlocked the door to Hartman’s office, the lights in the whole building flickered, went out, and then came back on. They didn’t seem as bright as they had been.

“We should get out of here,” whispered Barry. “I’m not a fan of darkness.”

“Soon,” said Wake.

Hartman’s office was elegant and spacious, but too precise and neatly arranged for Wake’s taste. The two brown leather chairs were at the exact same angle from the end table between them. The pictures on the wall exactly horizontal. The long desk bare of anything except a fat Mont Blanc fountain pen lying diagonally across a prescription pad. A control freak’s paradise.

The large windows looked out onto the stone terrace and Cauldron Lake. Wake could see the darkness rolling across the choppy water, the sky boiling with storm clouds.

“What… are you looking for, Al?” said Barry as Wake rifled through the desk drawers.

Wake pulled open the bottom drawer. He picked up his gun and flashlight, tucked them into his jacket. “This,” he said, picking up the pile of manuscript pages. Some of them were dirty, mud smeared, some had been crumpled and smoothed out, and some of them seemed to have come fresh from the typewriter. Most were damp. He flicked a thumb through the pile. All the pages he had on him when he was thrown into the lake were here, all of them and more. Much more. He couldn’t wait until he had a chance to read through them.

“When this is all over, and we’re back home in the city, you might be able to turn those pages into a book,” said Barry, wandering over to the bookcase that ran along one wall. One whole shelf contained multiple copies of Hartman’s book. “Might even be able to get a movie deal out of this mess.”

“I just want to find Alice,” said Wake. “Let’s go.”

“Hang on…” Barry pawed through a whole shelf of tiny audiocassettes with the names of patients on them. “Hey, check this out.” He handed Wake a cassette with the name Alice Wake written on it, the script prim.

Wake held the tape in the palm of his hand. It felt as light as a dandelion, but weighty somehow. Had Alice been a patient of Hartman’s? Wake felt light-headed. Not for the first time he wondered if he might be having a psychotic breakdown. Or if he was lying in a hospital bed somewhere after an accident, lost in a coma and dreaming this whole thing up. Wake examined the date written on the cassette case, saw that it had been recorded prior to him and Alice leaving New York. Wake felt relieved by the simple notation. Alice hadn’t been a patient; Hartman had simply recorded her phone calls to him, building a file before he ever met Wake.

The lights flickered again.

Wake saw another familiar name on the shelf: Agent Nightingale . The FBI agent who had chased him at the trailer park, the man who had tried to shoot him.

“ There’s a guy who needs to see a headshrinker,” said Barry, seeing the cassette. “Nightingale wanted to put me in prison just for knowing you.”

Wake tucked both cassettes into his jacket, along with a microcassette player, which lay on top of the bookcase. Time enough to listen to the tapes later. He had his hand on the doorknob when he noticed the framed photo on the office wall: the staff of the lodge, all of them standing near the sundial outside the lodge, the lake behind them.

“What’s wrong, Al?”

Wake tapped the man standing next to Hartman. “I know this guy.” He checked the names below the photo, left to right. Ben Mott. He was the kidnapper. The one who pretended to have Alice. The one who had been carried away by the Dark Presence. Mott had been working for Hartman all along. Wake remembered him pleading with the darkness, telling it that they never had Alice, that the whole thing had been a trick to get Wake to cooperate.

“Yeah?” said Barry. “Talk to me.”

“Nothing,” said Wake. “Just starting to figure things out. I’ll tell you later.”

The door opened, and Hartman hurried in, cried out as he saw them. “You… you startled me, Mr. Wake. Lovely to see you too, Mr. Wheeler.” He had regained control of his voice, but the doctor was still trembling. Wake didn’t think it was because of the sight of him and Barry.

“You really shouldn’t be in here, Alan. Not only is it a privacy violation, an ethical and legal breach, but it’s going to set back your recuperation. We need to trust each—”

“I know what you did,” said Wake, so angry it felt like his skin was on fire. “I know about Mott.”

“Mott?”

Wake pulled out the pistol, shoved it into Hartman’s bland face, backing him up against the desk. “Tell me one more lie. Go ahead, do it.”

Hartman’s face glistened with sweat, but he tried to shrug off the threat.”No need for histrionics, Alan. Let’s work together on this.”

“No, we can’t,” said Wake, the gun steady in his hand.

“You’re too emotional,” said Hartman. “Don’t you see? With your creative ability”—he plucked at the collar of his shirt—“and my own rather unique skillset, we can create something absolutely wonderful—”