Chapter 49
CHAPTER
FORTY-NINE
Morning came too soon. Dawn dragged at his eyelids, roused him from a dream in which Enzo, clothed in a suit of fire, ran through the thick forests of Hidden Hill, flailing and crying, “Get it off me, get it off me!”
Jack tried to run to him, but his feet were rooted to the ground.
No, that wasn’t quite right, he realized.
He had roots because he was a tree, covered in wooden bark, itching with freshly bloomed leaves, green and fragrant.
Enzo left a trail of flames crawling across the forest floor behind him, blinding in their intensity.
Jack had no way to run, no way to help Enzo or himself.
He woke to find Boris sitting at the table with wet hair and a five o’clock shadow, wearing clean clothes from one of the suitcases they’d found crammed under the bed last night.
Beside Jack, Carla lay curled in a ball on her side, snoring.
Dirt was smeared across her face, streaked through her hair.
Morning light filtered through the filmy curtains, gray and dreary. A coffee pot burbled and spat.
“You alright?” said Boris, raising a brow as Jack came to join him at the tiny table.
“More or less. What’s up?”
“Can’t sleep. Been thinking.”
“What about?” asked Jack, even though he had a strong inkling as to the answer.
A sigh. Boris dragged his hand through his hair. “I’m gonna do it. Gonna get someone to take care of the dog and my dad’s house. Then I’m gonna do it.”
For a moment, Jack could hardly believe it.
Could hardly breathe. Then he climbed unsteadily to his feet and made his way to the bedside table, where a decrepit phone waited.
Inside the tightly curled cord was a tunnel of dust. It sprayed onto the carpet as he lifted the receiver. “I need to do something.”
The receptionist answered in a cheerful voice. “Dogwood Motel. How can I help you?”
“I seem to have misplaced my calendar,” said Jack, as politely as he could manage when his voice sounded like it belonged to someone who had just gargled gravel. “Could you remind me what day it is?”
“Oh sure, hon. It’s Wednesday the eighteenth.”
“The eighteenth?” Jack repeated, numb from his scalp to his toes.
“Yup! Wednesday, October eighteenth. Do you need anything else?”
“Um, no, not at this time,” said Jack, shaking uncontrollably. “It’s just that my friend here doesn’t believe me. Do you mind repeating the date for him?” He gestured. Boris rose to take the receiver.
“Yeah?” His face was carefully blank. “Alright. Yeah. Thanks.”
He hung up the phone. Went back to the table.
“It's the eighteenth,” he mused, frowning up at the stained ceiling. “It’s the eighteenth and I’m gonna fucking do it.”
Carla sat up, blinked sleep from her eyes. “It’s the eighteenth?” She looked between them in disbelief. Streaks of mascara and soot ran down her face, leaving stains behind on the pillows.
“Yeah,” said Jack. Tears burned at his eyes. He scrubbed them away before anyone could see. “It’s the eighteenth.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s tomorrow!” she squealed, leaping from the bed to throw her arms around him. “It’s really tomorrow!”
He squeezed her tight, afraid this might be their final embrace. “I think it’s finally over.”
Her face pressed against his shoulder. Hot, wet tears soaked his shirt. “The house is gone,” Carla said, voice muffled. “Ronnie’s gone.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said, and meant it.
“I know, Jack. I know.”
They sat in silence. After a while, Carla dared pose the question. “What do we do now?”
“I’m gonna take the offer,” said Boris with a miserable shrug. “There’s nothing else for me. I can’t spend the rest of my life worrying about this when I could learn how to fight it.”
Carla poured a cup of coffee. The chipped mug trembled in her hand. “Guess I’d be stupid not to.”
Jack only nodded, stomach twisting. A hundred thoughts rattled around in his skull. For the life of him, he could not capture a single one.
When the sedan pulled in front of the motel, he marched outside with one hand in Boris’s, the other in Carla’s.
“We’ve decided to accept your offer,” she said as soon as the window rolled down.
The yellow-eyed man nodded. “I knew you would.”
The doors popped open. Jack inhaled, waited for Carla to squeeze into the middle.
But she stood there, brows drawn together in confusion. “Um, what is that?”
“What is what?” said Boris, letting go of Jack’s hand to peer inside.
Dread clawing at his stomach, Jack followed suit.
Crammed into the middle seat, its grated door facing the center console, was a plastic crate big enough to house a German Shepherd.
“Guess someone needs to sit up front,” muttered Boris, sounding slightly disappointed.
Jack peered into one of the tiny air holes drilled into the crate. A pink nose and mouth greeted him. A second mouth appeared, bared a single fang, and yowled loudly in his face.
“Are those cats?” Carla raised an eyebrow.
Jack craned his neck so that he could see through the grate. Two familiar faces greeted him, cheeks rubbing against the bars.
“Yeah,” he said, voice wavering. “My cats.”
“Thought you might want them,” said the yellow-eyed man, shrugging.
Jack collapsed into the backseat.