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They took John’s Suburban. Dave rode shotgun. Dan lay in the back with his head on an armrest and
his feet on the floor.
“Lucy kept trying to get me to tell her what it was about,” Dave said. “She told me I was scaring
her. And of course she thought it was Abra, because she’s got a little of what Abra’s got. I’ve always
known it. I told her Abby was staying the night at Emma’s house. Do you know how many times I’ve
lied to my wife in the years we’ve been married? I could count them on one hand, and three of them
would be about how much I lost in the Thursday night poker games the head of my department runs.
Nothing like this. And in just three hours, I’m going to have to eat it.”
Of course Dan and John knew what he’d said about Abra, and how upset Lucy had been at her
husband’s continued insistence that the matter was too important and complex to go into on the
telephone. They had both been in the kitchen when he made the call. But he needed to talk. To share,
in AA-speak. John took care of any responses that needed to be made, saying uh-huh and I know and I
understand.
At some point, Dave broke off and looked into the backseat. “Jesus God, are you sleeping?”
“No,” Dan said without opening his eyes. “I’m trying to get in touch with your daughter.”
That ended Dave’s monologue. Now there was only the hum of the tires as the Suburban ran south
on Route 16 through a dozen little towns. Traffic was light and John kept the speedometer pegged at
a steady sixty miles an hour once the two lanes broadened to four.
Dan made no effort to call Abra; he wasn’t sure that would work. Instead he tried to open his mind
completely. To turn himself into a listening post. He had never attempted anything like this before,
and the result was eerie. It was like wearing the world’s most powerful set of headphones. He seemed
to hear a steady low rushing sound, and believed it was the hum of human thoughts. He held himself
ready to hear her voice somewhere in that steady surf, not really expecting it, but what else could he
do?
It was shortly after they went through the first tolls on the Spaulding Turnpike, now only sixty
miles from Boston, that he finally picked her up.
(Dan)
Low. Barely there. At first he thought it was just imagination—wish fulfillment—but he turned in
that direction anyway, trying to narrow his concentration down to a single searchlight beam. And it
came again, a bit louder this time. It was real. It was her.
(Dan, please!)
She was drugged, all right, and he’d never tried anything remotely like what had to be done
next . . . but Abra had. She would have to show him the way, doped up or not.
(Abra push you have to help me)
(help what help how)
(swapsies)
(???)
(help me turn the world)
4
Dave was in the passenger seat, going through the change in the cup holder for the next toll, when
Dan spoke from behind him. Only it most certainly wasn’t Dan.
“Just give me another minute, I have to change my tampon!”
The Suburban swerved as John sat up straight and jerked the wheel. “What the hell?”