Chapter 35

I'm on that train again. You remember the one—barreling down tunnel tracks, straight for a gold-painted wall that I had mistaken for the proverbial light at the end.

This time I'm buzzed on prescription painkillers: fuzzy tongued and cotton-eared. I shouldn't be driving, but at least now it's less of a barreling and more of a creeping along.

That wall? It's still there, but it's retreating at the same slow pace.

I say, "I don't get it."

"You don't, do you?"

I look around, try to figure out where the voice is coming from, but the cockpit is tight and dark and apparently vacant. I don't even seem to be there myself. Dream-logic.

I'm bored and I want to speed this thing up, but I have no idea how I might do that.

"Don't have time for me, huh?" he says.

I turn to the voice, concentrate my wobbly mental energy, and it seems to work. Now someone is sitting in the co-pilot's seat or whatever you call it on a train. I can see the shape of him.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"You don't know?"

"No."

He leans towards me, and I see the bushy beard, and the crazy hair, but what tips me off is the hole in his forehead. Through it is a color-enhanced picture of spectacular blue sky and green rows of crops and orchards with bright orange fruit on the trees.

Then he turns to the side, and the entire back of his head is blown out. Molten lava pours down his back, glowing against the unbearable black of the cab.

It's Charles Van der Horn, but he doesn't look like Charles Van der Horn. He looks like one of the younger Duck Dynasty guys, the one who might be described as hot, in certain company, after several shots of tequila, sort of.

Except he has that blown out skull.

"Okay," I say. "I know now."

"You didn't give me a chance, Vic," he says. "You should have tried to talk to me."

"I know."

"It might have made a difference. You could have shown me some understanding, changed my mind."

"Yes," I say.

"When my brother makes bail—and he will make bail—he'll hunt you down. You know that, too, right?"

"Yeah. I know that, too."

There's a pulsating, burning knot of apprehension blooming in my stomach.

"You're me," I say, putting him in his place.

"Nice try," he says. "If I was you, you'd have a gaping hole in the back of your head. Why don't you check? I'll wait."

I feel the back of my head, and while it's not a back of the head the way you and I know that to feel, it's what I currently understand to be fully intact.

I'm being schooled.

"I mean in the dream," I say.

"No," he says. "Not there, either."

"I want to wake up now."

"Not yet. We're not finished."

His voice and his attitude sound like Branch with a little bit of my father mixed in.

"You don't even sound like you," I say.

"As if you would know what I sound like."

Suddenly he's sitting on what I assume is the dashboard, in front of me, the dark tunnel and the gold wall in the distance behind him.

"Oh . . . that's right," he says. "You heard me say four words six weeks ago, and you understood me. You thought I was what? Autistic maybe? Mentally challenged? That's the way you're supposed to say it, right?"

"Special needs, I think. But no."

"But yes, Vic. You can't afford to add lying to your list of sins."

"I know."

"You thought you knew me. You told them I wasn't a threat even though an hour earlier you'd thought I probably was. Which is it, Vic?"

"I don't know."

"I do. If you can label me retarded or my brother's little bitch, you get to be better than me. That's the game, right? It's the game you've been playing your whole miserable life. If you can draw some conclusion about me based on a few little meaningless clips, you have power over me."

He yawns, and red tears begin dripping down his hairy, morphing face. Now he looks more like a sea lion, but the hole is still there, and it still offers a view of paradise.

"Kind of makes the whole blowing my brains out thing unnecessary, doesn't it?"

"Yes. It does."

"Why don't we talk about who you think you're kidding? We'll move on to that," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, first of all, you can drop the innocent act. You've killed someone now. You'll never be the same again."

"I understand that."

"So look at this guy."

"What guy?"

"The guy you've started fucking."

"Walt?"

"Yes. Walt. Look at him."

To my left, in the area that should be out the window, in the space between the train and the sooty tunnel wall, I see Walt lying in my bed, on his back, the covers pulled up to his bare shoulders, more peaceful than I've ever seen him.

"He's beautiful," I say.

"And he's way out of your league."

I don't know how to respond to that.

"What he needs is a nice woman, and that's sure as hell not you," he says.

"I'm changing."

"That's touching. Really." He scratches his whiskers and his fingers start glowing red. "You think you'll be able to change enough to be anywhere near as nice as the dead wife? What was her name?"

"Martha. No, I'll never be that nice. She was an angel."

"Then why bother, Vic? Someday he'll wake up, after the thrill of all this magnetic sex wears off, and he'll realize that. He's a smart guy."

"I know he is."

"And he's fragile as all get out."

"He's not fragile," I say, offended.

"That's funny."

The red tears transition from dripping to flowing.

"Even if he doesn't come to his senses and realize the foul-mouthed woman lurking in Martha's shadow is a poor replacement, he'll always expect you to take special care with his fragile, fragile heart."

"I told him tonight I couldn't promise not to hurt him."

"Right. And he went with it because he wanted to get laid."

"I can be a better person," I say, and I'm starting to cry, and this time I'm not able to stop it.

"How much better? That's the question. Don't forget homicide has been added to the list."

"I know," I say. "I'm back in the hole."

"And besides that, I just don't think you know how to take care of a man like this."

"I took care of Rufus."

He laughs.

"You took care of a dog for a week and you think you can do this man justice. The dog almost died in your care."

"I love him so much."

Now he's outside, on the tracks and huge, like Paul Bunyan. He's walking backwards, looking like himself, and the hole in the head is just a hole in the head.

"If you love him like you say you do, let him go. Let him find the life he deserves. He has plenty of options."

I turn away from him, back to Walt, but Walt is gone. I'm crying so hard my words come out blubbery: "He deserves a good life."

When I look back, the train is accelerating, and the wall is getting closer and closer. In front of the wall, Charles stands, arms spread out, like Jesus on the cross. Just as the locomotive reaches the wall, killing him for the second time, he smiles, and I lurch into the gray dawn.

There's a warm arm across my stomach, and Walt is propped up on his elbow looking down at me. He touches the wetness on my cheek.

"What's wrong?" he says.

I wipe my tears with my left hand.

"Nothing," I say. "My shoulder just hurts."

"I'm here," he says.