Jeffery Deaver - Speaking In Tongues

Matthews parked on a side road, not far from Ernie’s, lifted the bottle away from Konnie and splashed some on the dashboard and seat of the car, handed it back. Konnie didn’t notice. “How you doing?” Matthews asked him.

The big man gazed morosely at the open mouth of the bottle and said nothing.

At the strip mall where they’d bought the scotch Matthews had pitched out a trash bag containing the tire receipts and all the rest of the notes on the Megan McCall investigation. The doctor now climbed out of the car, pulled Konnie into the driver’s seat.

Konnie gulped down two large slugs of liquor. He wiped his sweating, pasty face. “Where’m I going?”

“You’re going home, Konnie.”

“Okay.”

“You go on home now.”

“Okay. I’m going home. Is Carol there?”

“Your wife? Yeah, she’s there, Konnie. She’s waiting for you to come home. You better hurry.”

“I really miss her.”

“You know where to go, don’t you?” Matthews asked.

“I think His bleary eyes looked around. “I don’t know”

“That road right there. See it?”

“Sure. There?”

“Right there,” Matthews said. “Just drive down there. That’ll get you home. That’ll get you home to Carol.”

“Okay.”

“Good-bye, Konnie.”

“Good-bye. That road there?”

“That’s right. Hey, Konnie?”

Matthews looked at the rheumy eyes, wet lips.

“You say hi to Carol for me, won’t you?”

The cop nodded.

Matthews flicked the gearshift into drive and stepped back as Konnie accelerated. He was driving more or less down the middle of the road.

Matthews was walking back to Ernie’s to pick up the Mercedes when he heard the sudden squealing of brakes and the blares of a dozen horns, signaling to Konnie that he’d turned his dark blue Taurus onto the exit, not entrance, ramp of I-66 and was driving the wrong way down the interstate. It was no more than thirty seconds later that he heard the pounding crash of what was probably a head-on collision and-though perhaps only in his imagination-a faint scream.

Night now.

The corridors of the asylum were murky, illuminated only by the light from two outdoor security lamps bleeding in through the greasy windows.

Megan McCall, gripping her glass sword, moved silently through the main wing. She couldn’t get the comic books out of her mind, the tentacles gripping screaming women, the monsters raping them.

Moving toward the boy’s room. Closer, closer.

She stepped into the large lobby. In the dim light, shadows filled the space. She believed he was back in his room but he could have been anywhere.

Megan felt a breath on her neck and spun around, practically feeling the metal rod he carried swinging toward her head. Gasping.

Nothing but a faint breeze.

Was he asleep in there? Reading? Jerking off?

Fantasizing about her?

About what he was going to do to her?

The hospital corridors were like a maze. She lost her way and was no longer sure where his rooms were. Made several false turns and found herself back where she’d started. Feeling desperate now. Megan was afraid that he’d find the trap-her only advantage against the boy She walked more quickly, listening carefully. But she heard no obscene breathing, no lewd whispering of her name. In a way the silence was more frightening than his mutterings, not having the least indication where he was.

Then she turned a corner and found his room. She saw light spilling into the corridor from the open door. It flickered and darkened for a moment.

He was inside, Megan, sweating. Megan, scared.

Scared of dying, scared of the monster who lives up the hail, scared of the whispering bears,

Well, you wanted him, Crazy Megan whispers. What’re you waiting for? Go get him.

Megan started to tell CM. to be quiet. But suddenly she stopped- because a thought hit her with the strength of the cinder blocks piled up in her trap. It was this: that Crazy Megan not only isn’t crazy, she’s completely sane. And more than that: CM. is the only one of them who’s real.

Crazy Megan is the genuine Megan-the Megan who danced on the scaffolding of the water tower on a dare, just to get Bett or Tate or somebody to notice her. The Megan who secretly dreamed of going to San Francisco for a year after high school and then to college in Paris. The Megan who made fierce love with a sexy black boyfriend who- fuck you, Dr. Hanson-I do love after all! The Megan who wanted to poke her finger into her father’s face and scream at him, “The inconvenient child’s back and you’ve got her whether you like it or not!”

Oh, yeah, Crazy Megan’s the sane one. And the other one’s just a loser.

“Okay,” she said out loud. “Okay, prick, come and get me.” The shadow of Peter Matthews froze on the wall.

The light clicked out and the corridor filled with darkness.

“Come on, you fucker!” she shouted.

There was a ring of metal-he must have picked up the rod. She couldn’t see clearly but she could just make out his form lumbering slowly from the doorway. He looked up and down the hail and then turned toward her. “Megan.

God, he’s big.

“Megan!” he rasped.

He started toward her. Moving much faster than she’d expected from the shuffling lope she’d heard earlier.

Her courage dissolved. What a fucking stupid idea this is! Hell, it’s not going to work. Of course it isn’t. He’ll get her.

“No!” she screamed in panic.

Get going! Crazy Megan shouts. Run.

She backed up fast, knowing that she should be watching where she was going but afraid to take her eyes off him for an instant.

Feeling the wall behind her. Nearly tripped on a table. She spun around, pushed it aside.

And when she looked back he was gone.

We’re fucked, Crazy Megan whispers hopelessly

He could be anywhere now! Coming up around her from the left or the right.

And, of course, she remembered, he’d have keys to the place; he could hide in one of the locked rooms arid wait for her to pass by And then… move from room to room and come up behind her.

There was nothing she could do now except return to the dead end corridor where she’d set up the trap. Get there as fast as she could and wait.

But in her panic she was turned around. Was it back that way? Or down this corridor? She gazed down two hallways. Which? He could be down either of them. She could hardly see a thing in the darkness.

There, she thought. It’s got to be that one. I’m sure.

Almost sure.

She sprinted. She slammed into a fiberglass chair, sending it flying. She stayed upright but the noise of the furniture hitting the wall was very loud.

Megan froze, Had he heard? Had- Suddenly a huge form stepped from the corridor about two feet away, lunging toward her. “Megan…

Megan screamed, couldn’t get the knife up in time. She closed her eyes, swinging her left fist toward where his face was. She connected hard and must have broken his nose because he wailed in pain and dropped back, around the corner.

She ran.

Turned one corner and paused at the entrance to the hallway that led to the trap.

He followed, moving toward her.

She made sure he got a good look at her, to see which way she was going, then started toward the trap.

But she stopped. Wait! Was it this corridor? No, the next. Wait. Was it? She glanced into the murky shadows and couldn’t see.

Peter was getting closer. Which fucking corridor? Crazy Megan shouts.

I don’t know, I don’t know, they all look alike…