Wings to the Kingdom (Eden Moore #2)

Wings to the Kingdom (Eden Moore #2) Page 8

“Don’t talk that way, Eden.”

“How in the hell do you expect me to get you out of there? If I show up saying nice things about you, they’re likely to chuck me inside with you. Call Harry or something. Call a lawyer. Call Eliza, if she’s still alive—but the craziest thing you could possibly do is call—”

“Would you listen to me, please? I’m not inside the hospital. I’m just on the grounds. I’m outside. I tried to get in but I couldn’t. And now my car won’t start and I’m stuck. Can you please come and get me?”

I had no choice but to go quiet. I was too confused and surprised to say anything else, until he prompted me again.

“Please? You can run me out to the airport if you want, and I’ll be on the next plane back to Florida. You can call Harry and let him yell at me. You can do whatever you want—just please don’t leave me here tonight. I’m wet, I’m cold, and I think I’ve been bitten by a snake.”

“A snake?”

“It might have been a copperhead. I couldn’t see it.”

Pulling to a stop in front of a red light, I rubbed at my eyes and then, very slowly, I beat my head up and down on the steering wheel. “When were you bitten by a snake, Malachi?”

“Huh? I don’t know. Maybe it was, I don’t know…What time is it now?”

I glanced down at the blue LED on my dashboard. “It’s after midnight.”

“About thirty minutes ago. It happened before I tried to see Kitty. But I couldn’t talk to her. Something’s happened to her. She’s scared, Eden. And I’m scared. I think something’s out here, on the grounds. Something is…” His voice fuzzed in and out, and I missed the last half of the sentence.

“Malachi? Malachi?”

“Come and get me, please?”

The light had turned green; but there was no one behind me, so I took another moment to hit my forehead on the wheel some more. If there had been anyone else Malachi could have called, he would have. If he’d had anyone in the world other than me, I wouldn’t have been beating a groove above my eyebrows.

But he didn’t have anyone else, and no one knew it better than I did.

Headlights spilled towards me, reflecting off my rearview mirror. I lifted my head and took my foot off the brake. I put my right blinker on and turned onto Market Street.

The fact that he continued to speak lucidly—well, lucidly for Malachi—inclined me to think he hadn’t been bitten by a copperhead, but he was scared and alone, and I couldn’t bring myself to hang up on him. I sighed hard.

“Where are you?”

“Oh thank you, thank you Eden—I owe you one. I owe you big. When will you be out here?”

“First…” I pronounced every letter in the small word, for I was determined to keep my cool. “First you have to tell me where you are.”

“I told you, I’m at the Bend. I’m outside. There’s a payphone, but I’ve got to get off of it before somebody sees me.”

The Bend.

Like the Barrel, a place recognizable even without its first name. I knew roughly where it was, but I wasn’t one hundred percent positive how to reach it. That’s the beauty of city planning here—there wasn’t any.

Moccasin Bend—the state mental-health facility—is located upon Moccasin Bend, a thumb-shaped peninsula created by a sharp crook in the Tennessee River. From the brow of Lookout Mountain the river rather decidedly resembles a snake, and thus the name, or so I guessed. Since it’s surrounded on three of its four sides by running water, I had to assume that there would be but one way out there short of swimming—and I wasn’t sure what that one way would be.

“Malachi, I know you’re at the Bend. But I need for you to be more specific. I’ve never been there before, and I’m not sure I can find it. How did you get there?”

“Okay, okay.” He was excited now, knowing I was coming for him. “Okay, go downtown.”

“I am downtown.”

“North or south of the river?”

“South. I’m a block or two over from Miller Park.”

“Okay. Go towards the river. Go over the river, I mean. Go over the drawbridge to the north side, and go left at that first stoplight there. Do you know where I mean?”

“Frasier Avenue, yeah. I know what you’re talking about.”

“There’s that road that runs underneath the interstate, and it dumps onto the road right there to the left of the stoplight. There are signs talking about it being a bike route to Moccasin Bend. Follow the signs. That’s how I got here. It’s kind of confusing, though.”

“That rings a bell, now that you mention it.” I’d thought about trying to scribble down some notes, but I didn’t have anything handy in the car and I had a pretty good idea of what he was talking about anyway. There are a lot of scenic bike routes around the valley, and if one ran out to the Bend, so much the better.

“It’s dark out here, Eden. Please hurry.”

“I’m doing my best. Now where do you want me to pick you up?”

“I’m on the road—” And here it sounded like he dropped the phone, or he was shifting to hide himself. “I’m not out to the sign yet. I’ll try to get all the way to the sign before you get here.”

“What sign?”

“There’s a sign that marks the entrance. It’s two signs, actually. Big concrete ones that look like they were put up in the sixties. You have to pass them to get onto the grounds.”

“And you’ll meet me at the signs?”

“I’ll try to.”

I shifted the phone to my other ear. “Malachi, so help me God if I get to those signs and you’re not there, I’m turning around and driving home. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” he whined. “I’ll try to be there, but it’s farther out than you’d think. I’ll come out to the signs as fast as I can.”

“All right then, so will I.” I hung up then, tossing my cell phone onto the passenger’s seat and clutching the steering wheel so tight I thought I might bend it.

I tried to picture the Bend in my mind, and compare its location to my mental map of the area. Once I got to Manufacturers Road, if I kept bearing west and south towards the river, I’d have to hit upon the entrance eventually—or so I hoped.

As I neared the edge of the peninsula, I found myself in a darkness that mocked my headlights for their woeful inadequacy. I passed a big liquor store on my left, but it was closed; and on my right I saw a few enormous factory buildings in various states of repair.

In front of me there was nothing at all, except for a strip of pavement that slithered off between the trees. I turned on my brights, kept my eyes open for signs, and hoped for the best. The road was growing less linear and flat by the foot, so I drove more carefully than I usually do. Every curve was blind, and every hill promised obstacles just beyond my vision.

There were also about a thousand signs—but none of them seemed to tell me exactly what I wanted to know. I thought I’d hit pay dirt when I spied a brown sign with a cyclist on it, but while the path might have eventually brought me to the Bend, it was unpaved; my car isn’t exactly made for off-road excursions, so I thought the better of roughing it. Besides, Malachi had said he’d driven to the compound, and I didn’t see any evidence of tire tracks, so the right way must lie elsewhere.

Up and down Riverside Drive I wandered. I wasn’t lost—I could see the river through the trees—but I didn’t know how to get where I needed to be, so I may as well have been. For a mad moment or two I thought about stopping for directions, but I didn’t see so much as a gas station or a bar, and even if I had, how would I have broached the question? “Pardon me, ma’am or sir. I realize that it’s well after visiting hours, but I’m trying to find my way to the crazy bin. I don’t suppose you could help me out?”

I’d end up talking to the cops faster than you could say “One flew over the cuckoo’s nest.”

On a whim, I yanked my car to a sharp left turn. “Well, Malachi, at least I’m giving you plenty of time to get to the entrance. And by God, you’d better be there.” A gold glow up ahead suggested lights, and I got my hopes up in time to be disappointed by a water treatment plant. But past the plant the road evened out into a promising-looking straightaway, so I stuck with it. If I was going the wrong direction, at least I was somewhere near civilized electricity.

I didn’t see the river anymore, so I chose to assume that I was on the peninsula and bearing the right way. As I drove, I began setting limits for myself and counting them out loud: “When this next song on the radio is over, I’m going to turn around. If I don’t see any hint of the place within another five minutes, I’m giving up.”

But I didn’t stick to any of them. By instinct or by suspicion, I kept driving until I spied the two big signs that told me I’d found the right place.

I slowed the car and cut the lights, drawing to an idling stop on the pseudo-shoulder beside the main drag.

No spindly-limbed half-sibling of mine stepped out from behind the signs or from the woods beside them.

I pressed the ball of my foot on the gas pedal, revving the engine to get his attention with a rush of subtle volume. I stared hard at the two signs, back and forth between them, and then again to the trees on either side. Nothing.

I lifted my palm, intending to shove it against the horn. But I changed my mind. I put the car in park and rolled all four windows down.

“Malachi? Malachi, are you out there?”

Up a nearby hill I saw a large building of indeterminate size and purpose. There weren’t any lights on, and I wanted to keep it that way, so I kept my voice down to a hard whisper. “Malachi, you bastard.”

He wasn’t there.

I knew it. I’d given him nothing but time as I wandered around trying to follow the river, but the dumb son of a bitch hadn’t been able to make it anyway. He was truly and completely useless, and I decided on the spot that if I did find him, I was going to punch him in the head.