Майкл Корита - If She Wakes

Dax listened thoughtfully, then said, “Killing time.”

It was a common expression, and yet when it left his mouth, Abby thought he meant that the hour of murder was upon them again.

“They’re waiting on the cavalry to arrive,” Dax said. “Which means we can get there first.”

With that, he backed out of the driveway. This time, the gates opened automatically. Abby still hadn’t spoken. She stared at the gates as they closed again.

“Onward!” Dax said jauntily, and he pulled onto the street. “It’s your time now, Abby. Are you ready to own the moment? A lot of people will be counting on you.”

He had a heavy foot on the gas pedal, was doing forty-five in a thirty-miles-per-hour zone and gaining speed. The Hellcat’s power could sneak up on you if you were distracted, and the kid was distracted. The cheerful mask was a false front, and his voice was no longer his natural taunt but something he was ginning up because he needed to feel that old confidence. Abby was confused. She had no sense that killing bothered Dax, and yet something about this one had rattled him.

“Who was he?” Abby said.

“No one of significance to you.”

“But he knew your father.” This much Abby had heard while she strained at the cord around her throat. Talk of a father and an uncle. That had mattered to him in a real way, one that his masks could not fully conceal. The car was still gaining speed, roaring down the residential street at more than fifty, and he had no idea.

“You’re going too fast,” Abby said.

He registered the speed with surprise and eased off the accelerator.

“Good eye,” he said, the forced cheerful demeanor back. “You’re a fine partner, Abby. Don’t ever let me forget to acknowledge that.”

The weakness is family, Abby thought, watching him, and then: One of them was named Jack. That person matters to him. And this last murder wasn’t like the rest. For a reason involving family, it was different.

Had he killed a family member back there? It seemed possible; with him, any horror seemed possible. But Abby didn’t believe that was it. The dead man had been important to him, but he wasn’t family.

The kid hooked a left turn and then they were on a four-lane street, leaving the neighborhood, and up ahead, the lights of the interstate showed.

Abby leaned back against the headrest to let the cord loosen as much as possible and felt the thrum of the big engine work into her spine. Only hours ago, that had driven panic through her, but now she felt the connection again.

She knew that the headrest would come off. She’d been close to getting it, and she would be faster the next time.

If she survived until the next time.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “Or have you killed enough people for one day?”

“We’re not done,” the kid said. His voice was a monotone, as if he couldn’t muster the energy to do his typical upbeat act. “You’re going to see Tara. If things go well, you might live a little longer. So might Tara.”

When Dax shifted onto the interstate ramp, the Pirellis spun on the wet pavement, and the Challenger fishtailed briefly. He got it under control fast, and he didn’t react with fear or even surprise. He might not understand the car, but he understood power, and he learned quickly.

Boone wanted her own car, but asking for assistance from her employers would break the silence around Tara Beckley, and adding more actors to the mix, even a simple driver/bodyguard who understood rank and wouldn’t ask questions, felt risky right now. The operations protocol around Oltamu had been silence, and though he was dead, she didn’t think that protocol should be.

The rental counter would waste time, and Uber would not, so when she made it to the ground, she went against her strongest instincts and sacrificed control for speed. The plane had circled for twenty-five minutes while the storm lashed the New England coast beneath it, but it had finally landed, and now all that was left between her and Tara Beckley was fifteen miles. She summoned the Uber, and when it arrived, she stepped off the curb, got into the car, handed the driver — a too-friendly chick with dyed-pink hair — a hundred-dollar bill, and told her to start moving fast and keep moving fast.

“I don’t want to get a ticket,” the girl protested. She had approximately twenty piercings and fifty tattoos, but she didn’t want to challenge a speed limit?

“If you get a ticket, I’ll pay it,” Boone said.

“It still affects my Uber status! They’ll know if I—”

“Then you won’t get a ticket,” Boone snapped. “I can make it disappear. Trust me on this, would you? Any cop who stops us will let us go in a hurry.” The girl, mouth open, looked at her in the mirror, and Boone said, “Keep your eyes on the damned road.”

Boone texted Pine while they pulled away from Logan. She told him she was en route and asked if anything had changed. Pine said no. Boone asked where the family was. Pine said the sister was present but the mom and stepdad were in their hotel room; did she want them? Boone said no. She just wanted the girl. Tara might or might not have the answers, but the parents definitely didn’t.

Get rid of the sister, Boone texted.

Can’t be done, Pine replied.

What do you mean, it can’t be done? Boone wrote.

You’ll learn, Pine responded.

Tara rests while Dr. Pine and Shannon talk about inconsequential things; everyone is waiting on the arrival of the investigator who will make sense of it all. Tara knows that will require conversation again, the exhausting process on the alphabet board. Dr. Carlisle has promised they’ll experiment with computer software soon, but that’s not going to help Tara now. She’s got to rely on her eyes, nothing else, and she’s got to call up the stamina to make it through. Last mile, running uphill. She’s been here before.

But she hasn’t, of course. She has never had to face that last mile suffering the relentless pain of tubes jammed into various orifices or the maddening cruelty of paralysis. There is no analogy in the world that applies here. She’s not invisible any longer, but she’s also no closer to leaving this bed or even making a sound than she was when she woke up.

Don’t let yourself think that way. Be strong.

She’s tired of being strong, though. Tired of how much everyone cares about Oltamu and his fucking phone. He’s dead, but Tara isn’t, and maybe she’s worse off than him. Endless days like this, endless expenses... what if there’s no finish line? What if this is it?

Remember your thumb.

Yes. Her thumb. Capable of spasmodic twitching. What a win!

You take your wins where you can find them, though. Water could erode rock, drop by drop.

She tunes out the conversation around her and focuses on the channel between brain and thumb. Visualizes it, imagines it like a river, sees her force of will like a skilled rower pulling against the current, forcing her way upstream. Brain to thumb, no turning back, and no portages around treacherous water. You had to beat the current.

The visual takes clearer shape, and she can see a woman who is like her but who is not her, a different version of Tara, more dream than memory, but so tenacious. The rowboat becomes a kayak, and though real Tara is awkward with a kayak paddle, dream Tara is not. She’s strong and graceful, fighting a current that flashes with green-gold light just beneath the surface. As she paddles, the river widens, and the current pushes against her, and then, impossibly, it reverses direction and begins guiding her downstream, an aid rather than an enemy now.