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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 yanke
d 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.
Mad—and, against my will, a bit worried—I threw the car back into gear and pulled back onto the road. So far I’d been lucky and I’d hardly seen another vehicle; but I couldn’t trust that luck to hold. I couldn’t reasonably hope that no one would be coming or going between the river and the hospital, so I had to choose a strategy.
I could poke along with the windows open, hissing Malachi’s name to the forest; or I could pretend that I was minding my own business and zipping along at the speed limit like a perfectly innocent person on a perfectly ordinary errand. I didn’t know which approach would work better, and I didn’t know what I’d do if I actually reached the hospital. Would I be able to turn around? Would I have to pass some kind of checkpoint?
I tried to think up a story to hand to any potential guards, but I was having trouble coming up with anything plausible, and I kept forgetting to hiss out the window.
“Come out, come out wherever you are, you jackass,” I mumbled, just in time to catch a speed bump entirely too fast.
I nearly drew to a complete halt out of pure surprise.
Who puts a speed bump in the middle of a straight shot? The Bend people, apparently. And they didn’t quit with one, oh no. They spaced them out every fifty yards, so every time I got up to third gear I’d have to slow right back down again.
With every yellow-painted hump I became that much angrier at Malachi, and that much closer to the hospital—the point of no return.
Before long I could see it at the end of the road. The place was lit up like an old gas station, bright but not warm. From a distance everything looked square and sharp. It was all straight lines and right angles. Efficient and unfriendly.
Even as I dreaded getting closer I strained to see it better, but that only meant that I wasn’t watching the road when Malachi lunged in front of me.
Someone had given him a haircut to tame that blond haystack of a head, but he wasn’t dressing any better and he hadn’t gained an ounce. His lanky, clumsy frame stepped into my headlights with arms waving. He thrust himself in front of me far too late for me to avoid hitting him.
I swerved left across the opposing lane, but not before I winged him hard enough to make him yelp.
The car began to slide. Around I spun in a badly drawn circle, my headlights casting a swiveling carnival glare at the trees, the signs, and the knee-high grass. I came to a stop with a neck-whipping jerk when my front right fender knocked itself still against a trunk. Some precious part of the Death Nugget crumpled, and something plastic shattered.
And for a few seconds, everything was quiet.
I unbuckled my seat belt and opened the door. A pinging chime sounded to remind me that my lights were on. I turned them off, then stepped out of the car one shaky leg at a time.
Malachi came limping up, clutching his thigh and panting.
