Daryl Gregory - The Devil's Alphabet

“No, no. Just paying the bills. I’d been hoping for some bank stuff to come through, but-never mind. Sit down, P.K. I’m glad you found the place.”

“Donna gave me directions.” There was nothing in the room but a pair of paint-stained barstools the size of step ladders. Pax leaned over one with his elbows on the seat. “She was at the house with some beta women and their baby-she said it was her cousin?”

“Shit. How was she doing?”

“Donna? Fine, why?”

“Donna and babies… It’s hard for her sometimes, to be around them.”

“She looked fine,” Pax said. “Happy.” At least she didn’t look un happy. “So, have you looked at the emails from Weygand yet?”

Deke looked back at the screen as if he couldn’t remember what he’d been working on. “Last night. I’m pretty sure they’re from Jo Lynn. She talked about things only a real beta would know about, and a couple things she mentioned…”

“What?”

“They were personal things. Stuff only Jo Lynn would know.” He sat up, changing the subject. “The rest of it, well, Weygand wasn’t kidding when he said that Bewlay talked a lot about this parallel evolution stuff. Pages and pages of it. Gets kind of freaky. If I didn’t think it was Jo I wouldn’t believe a word of it. Like the stuff about genetic engineering.”

“Not that shit again,” Pax said. After the Changes, one of the most popular of the conspiracy theories was that someone was experimenting with them. The Russians, their own government, aliens. Half the town probably still thought that.

“Yeah, I know,” Deke said. “I just was hoping to find something that would tell me what happened. What was going on in her head.”

“Like what?”

“A suicide note?” He tapped at the keyboard with the eraser end of a pencil and the spreadsheet window minimized. “No, not really. But maybe some clue that she was upset, suicidal.” He shook his head. “I don’t know, man. I’m just bangin’ around in the dark.” He looked at Pax. “So how you feeling today?”

“I need your help,” Pax said. “I need you to help me get my father out of Rhonda’s place.”

“Wait a minute,” Deke said. “Back up.”

Pax told him about the visit to the Home, the conversation with Rhonda, the papers she’d taken from the house. He’d started pacing.

“And even if I did sign them,” Pax said, “I didn’t give them to her.”

“Did you leave the door open behind you?”

“Fuck, I don’t know! I was in kind of a hurry, if you remember. You called me.”

Deke looked away. The muscles of his jaw worked beneath chalky skin. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “The papers, how she got them, all of that. Rhonda isn’t the problem.”

“Then who the fuck is the problem?”

Deke swung his big head around and regarded him squarely. After a long moment he said, “It’s not your father you’re wanting, Paxton.”

Pax stepped back, his face hot. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Listen, man. What you’re feeling is chemical. A few days ago you couldn’t wait to get out of here, and now you’re going to move back? Now I’m not judging you. You had an accident. But you have to realize that you’re not thinking straight. That’s why your dad needs to stay at the Home right now.”

“That’s bullshit. First of all, Rhonda is the one that wants him for what he’s producing. I’m his son. I can’t just sell him off-”

“Calm down, P.K.”

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down! Jesus, how the hell did she get you wrapped around her fat finger? Is this some kind of clade thing? Chubs and trolls versus the skips?”

“You’re over the line, man.”

“Just tell me. You’re the Chief, right? Are you going to back me on this or not?”

“It’s not about backing you. Why don’t you take some time to-”

“Time? Time?” Pax looked down at his hands clutching the edges of the barstool. His knuckles were white. He released his grip-one hand, two, easy does it-and stood up. “Forget it. I can see you’re too busy for this. You have yourself a wonderful day.”

“P.K…” Deke followed him across the shop, trying to talk to him the whole time.

Paxton sat in the dark at the side of the highway, engine and headlights off. No car had passed for ten minutes. The only light came from the light pole set next to the driveway to the Home.

He got out, jogged across the road, and started up the drive. He’d planned on going straight up the hill, avoiding the driveway-because what if they had cameras watching it?-but he saw now that that was impossible; he hadn’t remembered how high the banks were, how thickly the brush covered the hill.

The driveway was also much steeper than he’d thought. Immediately he was sweating, his heart pounding in his throat. He jogged around the first curve and the light from the pole vanished, plunging him into darkness.

He slowed to a walk, panting, then stopped altogether, hands on his hips. He stared at the ground, but he could barely make out his shoes in the scant moonlight.

Fuck it.

He clumped back down to the car, cranked the engine. He aimed for the mouth of the driveway and pressed the accelerator as far as he dared. The Ford lurched up the hill, engine whining. He swung through the first curve a little too fast, over-braked as he entered the second, and then the car stuttered and he was losing momentum. He dropped into low and hunched over the wheel, willing his headlights up the slope. When he passed the third curve and he thought he was almost at the top he stopped the car, cut the lights, and set the emergency brake.

Five more minutes of walking got him within sight of the iron gate and the stone wall. There was a light pole here as well, casting a circle of light on the gate and the patch of pavement around the intercom. He skirted the light, moving off to the right until he was standing at the base of the wall.

The wall was set into the slope. He couldn’t take a running start because he’d be running uphill. He ran a hand over the surface, but the big stones didn’t project far from the mortar; there was no way he could pull himself all the way up by his fingers, and a fall would send him rolling down the hill.

He started moving along the wall to the right. The ground had to level out at some point. Or maybe he’d find a tree or something close to the wall that would let him drop over.

With every step away from the light it grew darker. By the time he reached the first corner he couldn’t see his hands. He moved around the corner and his feet slid out from under him. He stifled a yell, but then his chest hit the ground and his elbow struck rock, sending fire shooting up his arm. He swore loudly. Then he started to slide. It felt like the hill was almost straight down on this side. He threw out his left arm, hands clutching at weeds and grass, and spread his legs.

He slid to a stop after ten or twelve feet. He pressed his face into the grass and lay there, breathing.

Then he saw the lights.

Fuck, he thought. Fuckity fuck fuck.

A pair of headlights snaked up the drive. The lights disappeared for a moment behind the bulk of the hill, then reappeared, higher and closer. The underside of the car glowed neon green, and he could hear the thump of bass from its stereo.

The car stopped not quite up the hill. A spotlight switched on from the passenger side, and the light illuminated his Ford Tempo. After a few seconds the glowing car rolled forward and he lost sight of it again.

Pax rose to hands and knees and started crawling to his left, toward the driveway. A minute later he could see the glowing car again, stopped in front of the gate. The stereo had switched off. The spotlight played over the grass near the wall. Pax dropped low and began crawling backward. If he could drop down about fifty yards he could cut across to his car and get the hell out of here.