Kill Her Again

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They were nearing the Ludlow off-ramp when Evan had another seizure.

Except for the occasional murmur about red hats, he’d slept quietly for most of the ride. Pope had spent their short time on the road wondering if the boy’s mutterings had come from something more than a simple nightmare.

But what else could it possibly be?

In the end, it didn’t really matter. Pope had more pressing things to think about.

Like staying alive.

He checked his rearview mirror for what must have been the hundredth time in the last few minutes. He half-expected to see Arturo and crew blasting toward him on the highway, but the road looked empty. No sign of headlights except for the big rig and the motor home he’d passed a few moments ago.

Pope figured his best bet was to get Evan back to Jake, who could make sure that he was properly taken care of. Hanging out with a fugitive from the fuckup factory was probably not the best place for a kid to be. Pope still wasn’t quite sure why he had agreed to watch him in the first place.

Or was he?

No matter how much he tried to deny it, there was something about Evan that brought out Pope’s paternal instincts. Instincts he thought had died along with Ben.

They were about a mile out of Ludlow when Evan twisted in his seat and started murmuring again.

“… Chavi…,” he said.

Pope glanced at him, saw that he was still asleep, his brow furrowed as if he were concentrating heavily.

“… Is it you, Chavi?”

Pope frowned. What the hell was going on in this kid’s head?

Evan was quiet for another long moment. Spotting the Ludlow off-ramp ahead, Pope pointed the nose of the Tercel toward it and accelerated, wondering what his next step would be.

Should he ignore Sharkey’s request and tell Jake what had happened? Or was it possible that Jake already knew about Troy and Sharkey?

No, if Sharkey was involved in a long-term undercover operation, Pope doubted some dirt-water sheriff’s deputy would be in the loop. And maybe it was best to leave it that way. Whatever Sharkey was up to, it wouldn’t be good for Troy-and that was just fine with Pope. Multimillionaire or not, the guy was almost certainly a psychopath, and Pope didn’t relish being on his hit list.

They were nearing the off-ramp when Evan let out a small cry of pain. Pope spun his head toward him, and saw his body stiffen, and knew immediately what was coming next.

Then Evan started convulsing, his eyes flying open, rolling back in his head until only the whites were visible.

Holy shit.

Pope jerked the wheel and hit the brakes, skidding to a halt in the gravel beside the road. Reaching over, he quickly unfastened Evan’s seat belt as the boy bucked and kicked, his head rolling from side to side.

“Easy,” Pope told him, trying to calm himself as much as Evan, knowing he was probably speaking to deaf ears. “You’ll be fine, son. You’ll be fine in just a minute.”

Pope was reminded of the first time he’d witnessed an epileptic fit. His grandpa Joe-a Vegas real estate broker-convulsing by the pool on a hot Sunday afternoon as Grandma M. stood over him, a glass of iced tea in hand, telling everyone with a tight, embarrassed smile, “Not to worry. He’ll be just fine.”

But Pope was worried now. There was something different about Evan’s seizure this time. It was more than your typical grand mal. He was sure of it. The convulsions seemed twice as violent as before, and Evan continued to cry out in pain, hands clutching his chest as if he were having a heart attack.

A hospital. Pope had to get him to a hospital.

Putting the Toyota in gear, he was about to dig out when, all at once, Evan was still, the attack over. Done.

Gripping the wheel as he tried to calm himself, Pope stared at the boy, saw that his eyes were closed, sweat beading on his brow. His breathing was uneven, but was gradually getting steadier.

Heaving a shaky sigh of relief, Pope shoved the gearshift back into park and just sat there a moment, memories of Ben once again forcing their way out of the lockbox he tried so hard to keep them in. But this time he let them come, let the sadness envelop him.

And before he knew it, tears flooded his eyes.

What had he been doing to himself these last two years? Why had he allowed his grief to control him? Allowed himself to fall prey to the cards, the pot, the women-when all he had to do was cry? To release the pain. The toxins. Purge them from his soul.

What he had become did not honor the memory of his son. If Ben could see him now, he’d be ashamed. Mortified, in fact.

Pope blinked away his tears and looked at Evan again. He was about to reach over to wipe the sweat from the boy’s forehead when Evan suddenly bolted upright, showing only the whites of his eyes.

“He’s hurting her. You have to stop him. He’s hurting her!” Pope just stared at him. “What?”

“The man in the red hat. He’s hurting her. He’s hurting my Anna.”

A chill ran through Pope. One so strong that his teeth nearly chattered. Despite his admitted indifference to the idea of unexplained phenomena like ghosts and UFOs and psychic healers and, yes, past lives-looking at Evan, he knew one thing for certain:

This was no fucking nightmare.

“Help her!” Evan cried. “Don’t let him take her away.”

Pope grabbed him by the shoulders. “Where, Evan? Where is he taking her?”

“The house of mirrors. Dr. Demon’s House of Mirrors. Do something. Now.”

Pope didn’t need much more of a kick in the ass than that. Quickly pulling Evan’s seat upright, he strapped Evan in again, jammed the Tercel into drive, and hit the accelerator, shooting back onto the off-ramp.

He wasn’t sure what Evan was babbling about, but the bit about the house of mirrors had triggered something in his mind:

The carnival.

The carnival was in town.

Pope had spent part of every summer of his childhood haunting the grounds of Ludlow High, flirting with girls, riding rides, and navigating the maze inside Dr. Demon’s House of a Thousand Mirrors.

Middle of July meant carnival season, and whatever was going on down there did not bode well for Special Agent Anna McBride.

Pointing the Tercel in the direction of the school, he fumbled for his cell phone and hit speed-dial.

Two rings later, Jake was on the line.