Waking Lazarus (3 page)

A mason jar of gasoline and a match had solved the weed problem permanently. True, that meant torching the corn and carrots, but such was a small sacrifice to watch the weeds shrivel and burn. The weeds didn’t laugh then. They screamed. A beautiful, vibrant, orange-colored scream filled with flecks of purple.

His father’s penchant for gardening, almost as strong as his penchant for cheap whiskey, meant they had to store vegetables. Every autumn was spent canning the garden’s bounty: beans, pickles, carrots, beets. For three solid weeks their home was filled with the low, chattering whistle of a pressure canner. Somewhere underneath that shriek, if you listened closely, was a faint clinking made by the jars bouncing together inside the canner. So many times as a child he had resisted sneaking into the kitchen and unsealing the canner’s lid. In his childhood mind, releasing the lid would surely cause an explosion of shattering glass and boiling water. Even reflecting on it now, years later, he still wished he had opened the canner once, just once, to see the jars inside detonate in a poetic ballet of splintered glass.

His father had converted the basement of their home into a root cellar, where they stored jar after jar of canned treasures from the garden. And next to all those jars sat burlap sacks filled with potatoes. Late at night, after his dad passed out, he often liked to sneak down into the basement root cellar, breathe in the smell of fresh dirt and burlap.

Mice liked the root cellar, too. They couldn’t do much to the canned vegetables, but often the mice chewed through the burlap to get to the potatoes. Sometimes the Hunter himself chewed on the burlap. He wasn’t sure why, but chewing burlap was comforting.
Right
.

Other times he just liked to catch the mice and choke them. Their whitish-gray forms wriggled, squealed in his hands as the life drained from their bodies and into his own. Sometimes the mice would even bite, though he didn’t mind this. He savored the sensation, embracing the pain and watching the blood trickle from his fingers. And really, the pain of the biting mice was nothing in comparison to the pain his father inflicted with belts. Or cigarettes. A shovel, once. He had learned to stay away from his father when the late afternoon rolled around, when the beer or liquor took hold. Father couldn’t control his behavior, which was part of why Mother—

Never mind that. Burlap and dirt. Comforting scents.

The Hunter opened the door to his current home, similar in so many ways to the childhood home that still haunted his thoughts. The house had a deep root cellar, stocked with a fresh supply of burlap bags. He liked to store things in root cellars, too.

His Quarry had been very loud, squirming and screaming after the chloroform wore off. But now, a few hours later, the Quarry didn’t move much. The fun part was ending.

Soon the toy would be broken.

When he was young, yes, the Hunter enjoyed killing the mice. But when he matured—when he
became
—the thrill of killing wore off. Now he really didn’t like killing.

Killing was his least favorite part.

3

HIDING

The man who called himself Ron Gress awoke, as he did every morning, in a sweat-stained panic. He always spent the first few minutes of each day sitting in the recliner where he slept, gulping deep breaths and trying to slow the jackhammering of his heart.

Keep it secret, keep it safe
. He said it in his mind, over and over, a kind of mantra that calmed his body, stilled his nerves.
Keep it secret,
keep it safe
.

Ron looked at the table next to his recliner. The arms of the old-fashioned alarm clock were nearly touching as they pointed down: 6:27. 6:28, maybe. He liked having the old clock with hands; it was gentler, more trustworthy than its digital cousins. Not that he really needed an alarm clock—he managed to wake within five minutes of 6:30 A.M. every morning without one—but it was still comforting to have the clock there, just the same.

A control center for an elaborate alarm system sat below the clock. He pressed a button on the system, changing the crimson LED from ‘‘Status: Armed’’ to ‘‘Status: Disarmed’’ with a short beep. He sat in his chair a few more minutes, remaining absolutely still, holding his breath as he listened for noises in the house. A squeak. A scrape. Anything indicating an intruder. Of course, he knew there couldn’t be any intruders inside his home, especially with the alarm system. But it was comforting to listen, just the same.

He stood and began his usual morning ritual. First, he walked through every room in the house, opening closet doors, looking in dark spaces, searching for electronic bugs. He knew he wouldn’t find anything.

But it was comforting to check, just the same.

When Ron felt certain he was alone in the home, he followed his gnawing stomach to the kitchen. Along the way, he turned on the television and flipped it to the local morning news. The set percolated to life, blaring something about a local kidnapping.

Inside Ron’s cupboard was a place setting for one: one plate, one bowl, one glass, one fork, spoon, and knife. He reached for the bowl and spoon as he listened to the television. The newscast wasn’t really about
a
kidnapping; it was a report on the recent string of child abductions. Within the past six months, kids had mysteriously disappeared in Bozeman, White Sulphur Springs, Harlowton, Miles City, and even a few hours south in Cody, Wyoming. None in Red Lodge, where Ron lived, nor nearby Billings. But the reporter wasn’t afraid to suggest such a thing could happen. After all, in that ratings-happy, give-’em-something-big world, the sensational was perfectly normal. It had to be. Ron himself knew something of that world, once upon a time when . . .

He let go of the memory.
Keep it secret, keep it safe
.

At the refrigerator, Ron checked the milk’s expiration date—still four days out, he should be safe—and splashed some on his Grape-Nuts. The television faded into the background as he wandered to the single chair at his small dining table.

The town of Red Lodge had a long reputation as a refuge, a place to escape the physical world. In the late nineteenth century, outlaws such as ‘‘Liver-eating’’ Johnson and the Sundance Kid often came to the remote wilderness of the area to hide from their growing infamy. Keeping it secret, keeping it safe.

Red Lodge was still a fine place for someone with a past to hide. Buck pines and cottonwoods intermingled along the banks of gurgling Rock Creek, while the granite peaks of the Beartooth Mountain Range—every bit as rugged as their name suggested—were the ancient sentinels protecting the town from the twenty-first century.

How long had he been in Red Lodge now? Seven years? Some-
L
AZARUS
thing like that. He couldn’t quite remember; when he tried to wipe out memories of who he’d once been, he also wiped out memories of other things. At times like this, when Ron tried to take old thoughts off the shelf and examine them in isolation, he failed. His mind had thrown a thick, heavy blanket over all of it. If he tried too hard to think about details, the blanket lifted, letting a ray of recognition light up whole memory banks.

He took another bite of Grape-Nuts. Better to leave that blanket undisturbed.

The sun marched into the twilight of late afternoon when Ron returned to his home. After putting in eight hours at the school, he was ready to be cocooned safe inside, away from all the prying eyes.

He didn’t mind being a school janitor. In a fitting way, it was pure. Honest. He showed up on time and did his work without complaining; in return, no one hounded him. Or asked questions.

But occasionally, he knew he was being watched at work. Especially after school hours. When all the kids went home, and the halls echoed every clank of the mop bucket, he sometimes felt
their
eyes boring into him. Waiting. Encouraging him to do . . . something. But he had figured out long ago to act unaware of the staring. Just go about his business, pretend he was oblivious. After all, if he let on,
they
would surely send more people to watch him. Or maybe do something even more drastic.

That was why he had to lock his home, beginning with the knob on the handle. Then the chain. A dead bolt. And another dead bolt. He turned the action on each of the locks to make sure they were all engaged. You could never be too careful.

Satisfied the door was properly secured against the outside world, Ron turned and walked toward his bedroom. The security system needed to be armed.

A knock came on the door before he’d gone more than two steps. His heart shrank, shriveled, and refused to contract for a long moment. Had he been followed? He stood still, listening.

Another knock, accompanied by the muffled voice of a woman. ‘‘Hello?’’

A third knock, louder, more insistent. Ron stood in place, held his breath.
They
had probably sent her, and that would mean she might have an infrared monitor to let her see inside his home. But if he stayed still—absolutely still—

‘‘Jude Allman? I know you’re in there.’’

His stomach somersaulted, and he felt his legs turn to oatmeal. Jude Allman. He hadn’t been called that name in years. Not since he’d been in Red Lodge. Not since he’d left Jude Allman behind and become Ron Gress, trustworthy school janitor. This was trouble. Serious trouble.

Ron (
Jude
) cleared his throat and moved toward the door. For the first time, he wanted a peephole in the door to let him see the person outside. He knew, of course, that if he ever installed one,
they
would sneak into his home and reverse it so
they
could see him in the magnified fisheye. But he still wished for the peephole, just for a moment.

Keep it secret, keep it safe,
Ron (
Jude
) reminded himself.

‘‘I just want to talk,’’ the voice said.

He would have to respond if he was going to get the faceless stranger off his front step.

‘‘What did you say?’’ he yelled through the door.

‘‘I said I just want to talk.’’

‘‘No, before that.’’

‘‘I’m looking for Jude Allman,’’ the voice answered.

‘‘Never heard of him.’’

A slight laugh from the other side of the door. ‘‘Everybody’s heard of Jude Allman. You’re not a very good liar.’’

Okay. She wasn’t going to leave. He had to stay calm, especially if she was one of
them
. Unless . . . maybe, just maybe, she was a reporter. He had always figured some ego-tripping journalist would finally track him. And if she was just a reporter, he could handle her.

He’d handled them before. He could probably even convince her he wasn’t Jude. (
Ron, he was Ron
.) Sure. He’d fooled a lot of people, stayed under the radar for several years. He could deflect some news jockey sniffing down a dead trail.

He had to. If he didn’t, the report might get back to
them
.

The man who called himself Ron Gress, and who had once called himself Jude Allman, reached for his first dead bolt. ‘‘Just a minute,’’ he said as he fumbled with the knob, then worked the other dead bolt and locks with increasing urgency. He wanted to see the person who waited on his doorstep, the person who had managed to track him across several years and lifetimes.

He cracked open the door, then peeked outside.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Someone different. Someone who loomed large, and who gazed at him with icy steel eyes. Instead, the woman who stood there was rather small, with chocolate eyes and light hazel skin. Maybe she was Indian. Or Hispanic. Or a light-skinned African-American. Or a mix.

She smiled, as if they were old pals reunited after years of being apart. In her hands she held a book. Even before she held it up for him to see, he knew what it was. A tome entitled
Into the Light
, written by one Jude Allman.

‘‘Yeah, it’s you,’’ she said. ‘‘I can tell from the photo.’’ She spun the book around. The man in the photo was younger, thinner. Less scraggly. But also recognizable. The photo penetrated deep recesses in his mind, bounced around for a few seconds, and dislodged white-hot memory flashes. The blanket, despite his best efforts, was lifting. He looked from the photo back to the woman.

‘‘I’m Kristina,’’ the woman at the door offered. ‘‘I need to talk to you about your book. About—’’ She paused. ‘‘About everything.’’

‘‘Everything,’’ he said. ‘‘Not my strong subject.’’

She blinked, smiled again.

‘‘How did you find me?’’ he demanded.

‘‘Let me in and I’ll tell you,’’ she answered.

Jude (
Ron. It’s Ron!
) considered for a moment, then looked beyond her, up and down the length of the street. Quiet. No one had followed her, and he
was
getting uncomfortable standing here with the door wide open. He was sure, at some point,
they
had sprayed the exterior of his home with unknown pathogens. The longer he held the door open, the more pathogens would leak in. Just what
they
wanted. He backed up and waited for her to enter.

Kristina stepped through the doorway, stopped, and backed out again. She studied his windows. Or rather, where his windows used to be. The previous year, he had gone to Renton’s Hardware and Home Center for a special sale on Sheetrock. In one weekend he’d been able to seal off the windows with fresh dry wall. It was little protection from the infrared scanning technology
they
could use to scan his home, and probably even less protection from the pathogens. But it was something.

Kristina looked at the glass windows outside the home, then poked her head back in again to see the smooth surface of Sheetrock. ‘‘Love your window treatments.’’

He shrugged, waited for her to enter. She glanced around the room, then stepped in and made her way to the lonely easy chair in the center. He re-engaged the dead bolts and locks before turning around. She was already sitting.

It felt uncomfortable having someone inside his home, like having an itch in a place he couldn’t reach.

‘‘So I’ll ask again,’’ he finally said as he pulled his dining room chair into the living room, ‘‘how you found me.’’