Page 68

“Nothing wrong?” the man sputters. “I can barely breathe. Everything’s fuzzy, and not just because my glasses are cracked. I have a concussion, and my ribs must be broken. I don’t need a doctor to diagnose that.”

“Okay, okay,” Henry murmurs, resting his hands gently on the man’s shoulders. “I’m guessing you bumped your head, and it didn’t break the skin. Same as with your ribs. I’m going to feel them.”

Henry crouches and runs his fingers over the man’s ribs, asking the man to tell him where it hurts.

“It all hurts,” the man moans. “I’m in agony here.”

“What the fuck?” a voice whispers, and I follow it to see Raymond standing there, holding the vodka. He looks over, his expression echoing the curse.

The man claims to be in agony, but he isn’t acting or talking like someone in actual pain. He sits upright on the stool. His tone is even. He doesn’t flinch at Henry’s touch. He’s calm and relaxed … until we suggest nothing’s wrong, and then he’s angry.

He says he can barely breathe, but he’s breathing fine, and as Henry examines his ribs, Henry’s expression grows more and more confused, telling me he’s not finding any sign of broken ribs.

I look at the man’s shirt, hanging on the hook. It’s soaked red. He stinks of blood and booze, and he’s admitted to drinking, and I know alcohol can dull the senses, but it’s not going to magically heal injuries or make a man think he’s in agony when he’s fine. It’d be the opposite, right? You’d be badly hurt and feeling no pain, as the saying goes.

“All right,” Henry says slowly. “I’m going to get you into the next room, maybe have you lie down so I can take a better look.”

“Or call an ambulance?” the man says. “Look, dude, I’m not doubting you have some medical training, but I’ve been in a serious car accident. Please tell me an actual ambulance—with actual paramedics—is on the way.”

“No signal,” Raymond says, and the newcomer looks over, as if seeing him for the first time.

“There’s no cell signal,” Raymond says. “The storm must have knocked it out.”

“What storm?”

Raymond waves toward the door. “It keeps stopping and starting.” He looks at Henry. “You need a hand with him?”

“Please.”

Raymond and Henry get the man to his feet, and I hold open the door into the bar. The newcomer is small compared to the two older men, dwarfed by them and sagging as if he’d collapse on his own. Henry murmurs gentle encouragement while Raymond keeps casting suspicious glances the newcomer’s way.

I hate siding with Raymond, but something’s very wrong here. I just can’t figure out what it would be. Is the guy faking his injuries? Pretending he was in the pileup? But if so, he wouldn’t cover himself in blood—he’d just claim internal injuries.

What if it wasn’t only him in his car? What if someone else was there and died, and because he’s been drinking, he panicked? Maybe he hauled his companion out of the car and that’s where the blood came from? Or, worse, hid his companion in the forest, so he could pretend it was just him?

When Henry and Raymond help the newcomer in, Noemi and Caleb back up, as if they’d been lingering near the door.

“Oh my God, he’s really hurt,” Noemi gasps.

“Actually not,” Raymond mutters, earning a glare from Noemi.

“He can barely walk,” she snaps. “His trousers are soaked with blood.”

Henry waves at them. “We’re taking him through to the middle of the room. Is there something we can lay on the floor? Towels, maybe?”

“Wh—what?” Caleb says, his voice rising to a squeak, and it’s such a strange response to the question that everyone turns.

Caleb stares at the newcomer. Then Noemi looks over, gives her own little squeak, and backpedals, hand flying to her mouth. Henry quickly settles the newcomer on a chair.

“Nightmare,” Caleb blurts. He lets out a long eerie, hysterical laugh. “Of course. How could I be so stupid. I’m having a nightmare.”

“Caleb?” I say, stepping toward him.

“That explains everything,” he says firmly. “Oh no, there are monsters outside! Whatever shall we do!” He marches toward the door. “Go and ask them to tea.”

He throws open the door. Henry is on him in a second, pulling him back, but Caleb wheels and swings, his fist striking Henry in the chest.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, cheerfully, as Henry staggers back in shock. “But you aren’t real. Now let me go. I want to meet the monsters.”