CHAPTER 12

WAKE STARED AT his yellow legal pad. Four hours ago he had written the words DEPARTURE, by Alan Wake at the top of the page, underlining it three times. The rest of the page was still blank. His fingers were cramped from gripping the ballpoint pen, his head throbbed, but he hadn’t written a word. Not one word. Alice had brought him to Bright Falls hoping to jump-start his writing, but he still was locked in, even now when writing was the only way to free her.

The clock was ticking, Alice’s very survival at stake, and he stayed poised over the table, waiting in vain for some inspiration, some thought… anything that might save her. He glanced over at the crumpled and flattened manuscript pages on the desk, the pages found in the woods, at the logging camp… at Stucky’s gas station. Had he really started the book, started it during the missing week after Alice was kidnapped, a week he had no memory of?

He rubbed the bump on his head, wincing at the memory of the impact that caused it. Why was finishing the book so important to the kidnapper, so important that it was the only ransom he demanded? The man didn’t seem like much of a reader. There was someone else behind him, pulling the strings.

Two years of writer’s block were nothing compared to this. He couldn’t scrawl a single word, not even to save Alice. Now he had two days to complete the manuscript and deliver it to him at the Bright Falls coal mine. Two days.

At least Barry wasn’t here to distract him with offers of aspirin, canned chicken soup, coffee, whatever you need, Al, just say the word. A few hours earlier, Wake had finally convinced Barry to drive into town and ask around, see if anyone recognized the kidnapper from Wake’s description. It was a long shot, but Bright Falls was a small town. Maybe everyone really did know everyone. Wake had watched through the window as Barry drove off, relieved at being left alone to work, but also oddly uneasy. Barry was the only one he trusted, his only connection here with life outside of Bright Falls.

Wake yawned. It was unfair of him to push Barry out the door and Wake knew it. It hadn’t been easy for Barry, particularly when they went by the lodge this morning and saw the mess from last night. The mess, an oddly sanitary term for the blood splashed across one corner of the main room where Rusty had been hacked to pieces by one of the Taken. No body, of course; Rusty himself had become a Taken, and Wake had killed him. Nothing to show for it other than a huge hole in the wall of the lodge.

The sheriff had stared at the hole, hands on her hips, stared at the dried blood too, then started cataloging the crime scene, directing her deputies. That much blood it had to be a crime scene.

The workers at the lodge had stood around gawking, coming up with various scenarios. That the earthquake that everyone in the area had felt had collapsed the wall, crushing Rusty. That a bear had come in to drag away the body. Others offered up the possibility that a drunk logger had driven a loader into the wall, accidentally killing Rusty, and then got rid of the body, hoping to hide the crime. Or an angry spirit had done it, that’s what one of the old-timers said, a grandpa in a red wool cap with a mouthful of chaw. An angry spirit, he repeated; his mama had told him stories when he was a kid, stories about things from the woods that snatched the unwary, snatched disobedient children too. The crowd laughed at the old-timer and Deputy Mulligan joked back that it was probably Buck-Toothed Charlie come to life. But Wake didn’t laugh. He knew better.

The sheriff had asked Wake if he had heard anything last night, seen anything, and he lied to her, said no, he’d been exhausted and turned in early. He wasn’t sure she believed him.

Without even noticing it was happening, Wake’s chin drifted lower as he struggled to stay awake…

Wake beat on the typewriter and the typewriter beat on him, click-clacking away in Bird Leg Cabin, bent over the desk in the upstairs study, typing as fast as he could. His fingers ached from pounding on the keys of the manual typewriter, his manual typewriter, the one Alice had brought with them, the sound of it as familiar as his own breathing. He tore at the keys in a frenzy, desperate for completion, sensing someone behind him, looking over his shoulder, but Wake couldn’t turn to see who it was, wouldn’t turn if he could. All that mattered was that he keep writing. His fingers flew.

Wake jerked as a horn beeped, someone really leaning on it. He rubbed his eyes, looking around in disbelief. He was back in the living room of the Elderwood park cabin, his neck stiff, his shoulders sore, but here, not in Bird Leg Cabin. He saw Barry pull up outside, waving from the front seat of the car. Wake looked down, saw the legal pad in front of him still blank. The pencil he had been holding lay snapped in half on the table. Wake wanted to cry. Wanted to scream in anger and frustration.

A wasted afternoon and he had no time to waste, not if he wanted to get Alice back. He kicked the desk in frustration, cracking the bottom drawer. He leaned down and opened it, the handle falling off. But that wasn’t all. Stacked neatly in the rear of the drawer were three new manuscript pages. Hands trembling, Wake picked up one.

Barry got back to his feet inside the Bright Falls General Store and dusted himself off. Right next to the cans of baked beans was a locked case filled with flare guns. And yet, here was a conveniently placed barrel of crowbars! Barry’s smile widened as he realized that this was the classic movie scene where the hero had to gear up and arm himself to the teeth. Barry threw himself into the role.

Barry burst through the door of the cabin, still wearing the red parka in spite of the heat of the day.

“Hey! Good news! I got a call on my way back from town. That waitress, Rose, says she’s found a bunch of your manuscript pages. She wants us to come by and pick them up. ”

“How did she get them? ”

“How do I know? ” said Barry. “She works at that diner, talks to everybody. Besides, she’s your biggest fan, just ask her. ”

Wake quickly gathered up the pages on the table. He started to tuck them away in a drawer, then thought better of it, folded them lengthwise and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “You got an address for her? ”

“Oh yeah, ” said Barry, following Wake out the door. “She lives in the trailer park. Big surprise, huh? ”

“Don’t be a jerk, ” said Wake.

“You’re right, ” admitted Barry as they got into his car. “It’s easy to look down on people when you don’t need them. Rose, she’s alright. ” He glanced over at Wake as they drove toward the main road. “I found a lot of information in the local newspaper’s archives. There’s been all kinds of weird stuff happening in Bright Falls for over a hundred years. Very weird stuff. ”

Wake checked his watch. It would be dark in a few hours. He didn’t used to dread the night, but he did now.

“This place is a regular Night Springs episode, ” said Barry, accelerating. “Mysterious deaths, Bigfoot sightings—”

“Any kidnappings? ”

“No, not that I heard of, ” said Barry, “but there’s plenty of disappearances, locals who walk away from their cabin and never come back, tourists that pass through town and never get to the campground, and get this, Al, most of this stuff takes place around Cauldron Lake. ”

Wake stared straight ahead, watching the trees whip past. It felt like he had been punched in the stomach.

“The Indian tribes considered Cauldron Lake to be the gateway to Hell, ” said Barry, excited. “You got to write about this stuff…” He caught himself. “As soon, you know, as soon as we get Alice back. ”

“Just drive, Barry. I want to get those manuscript pages. ”

“I was trying to help, that’s all. Little conversation. Pass the time. ”

“You are helping, ” said Wake, shaking his head. “I’m the one with the problem. I feel like I’m in a nightmare and I can’t wake up. ”

A half hour later they pulled into the parking lot of Sparkling River Estates. Twenty or so small trailers were scattered across the gravel, most of them with satellite dishes on their roofs, barbeque grills beside their front doors. A flagpole stood out front, the American flag hanging limply in the stillness. Surrounding the park was a white picket fence that needed painting. Wooden pallets, old tires, and fifty-gallon oil drums littered the site.

Barry nodded at the rusting Chevy up on blocks, its hook raised. “This looks like where NASCAR nation goes to die. ”

“Barry… this is going to sound a little crazy—”

“I’m shocked. ” Barry held up a hand. “Sorry. What do you want to say? ”

“If at some point you find yourself in the general store in town, you should know that there’s a case of flare guns—”

“Flare guns? ” said Barry, genuinely confused. “Like when you’re lost in the woods? Like the Bat signal? ”

“Yeah, like that. The flare guns, they’re stored next to the baked beans. The flare guns are locked up, but there’s crowbars nearby, so you can open up the case. ”

“Okay, Al. ” Barry patted his arm. “I’ll put that information away for safekeeping. ”

Wake’s phone rang. “Hello. ”

“Mr. Wake? It’s Sheriff Breaker. Sorry to bother you, but we have an FBI agent here, an Agent Nightingale. He’s… anxious to see you. Can you come by the station? ”

“FBI? ” Wake was even more concerned now. The kidnapper had made it very clear that bringing in the law would get Alice killed. “I thought you were going to wait until your men had searched—”

“I didn’t call in Agent Nightingale, ” the sheriff said tightly. “He showed up unasked and unannounced. ”

“I’ll be over as soon as I can, ” said Wake, breaking the connection.

“Maybe it’s a good thing the FBI is getting involved, ” said Barry.

“No, it’s not, ” said Wake.

“You want me to make some calls, Al? ” said Barry. “I got an attorney that springs Mafia dons. He can be on a plane—”

“I don’t need an attorney. ”

“That’s what they all say, ” said Barry. “Right before the prison door slams. ”

Wake got out of the car and walked over to where a middle-aged man was raking leaves out of a wilting flower bed. The man wore camouflage pants and a bright-yellow vest over a short-sleeve shirt.

“Excuse me. We’re looking for Rose Marigold’s trailer. ”

“What do you want with Rose? ” The man leaned on his rake, squinting at Wake. “You that writer fella? Rose has a display with your picture on it at the diner. ”

“Yeah, I’m Alan Wake. Can you show us where her trailer is? ”

The man rubbed his potbelly as though that helped him decide. “I guess it’s okay, then. Rose, she’s your biggest fan. ” He noisily cleared his throat, spat. “Me, I’m not much of a reader. I’m Randolph. I manage the park. ”

“Pleased to meet you, ” Wake and Barry said at the same time.

Randolph cackled. “You don’t look like twins. ” He waited for a reaction, looked disappointed when neither of them smiled. “Okay. ” He dropped the rake and hitched up his jeans. “Follow me, ” he said, limping toward the rear of the park. He looked back over his shoulder. “Rose… she’s a good girl, you know. Always pays her rent on time, not like some of the losers around here. ”

Wake dogged Randolph, frustrated by the man’s slow pace.

“You ever hear of a writer named Thomas Zane? ” Barry asked Wake.

“Name’s familiar, ” said Wake, trying to remember where he had heard it.

“Supposed to be a bestseller back in the day, but I did a search at the library and couldn’t find a thing he had written, ” said Barry. “He supposedly owned an island in the lake—”

“Diver’s Isle, ” said Randolph, walking even slower now. He stopped to cough.

“What? ” said Wake.

“Diver’s Isle, that’s the name of Zane’s island, ” said Randolph, still coughing. “Old folks around here say he was a diver, used those old-time pressure suits. That lake’s deeper than it looks. Guess he liked to explore—damned fool if you ask me. That lake’s eaten more cars and people than you’d believe. Hell, it ate the island! ”

Wake remembered now where he had seen the man’s name: on a shelf of books in Bird Leg Cabin. He grabbed Randolph’s arm. “This island of Zane’s… was there a cabin on it? A cabin sitting on a nest of sticks? ”

Randolph shrugged off Wake’s arm. “Don’t know, mister, I only moved here thirty years ago. Folks were still talking about the volcano under the lake erupting in 1970. Sank the island. Sank Thomas Zane along with it, that’s what they said. ”

“The story gets better, Al, ” interjected Barry. “Local girl Barbara Jagger and Zane were lovers. She drowned in the lake just a week before the island sank. Told you this place was spooky—”

“You city folk will believe anything. ” Randolph coughed, spat at Barry’s feet. “Barbara Jagger’s a bedtime story mamas tell their kids to scare ’em straight. ” He hacked up phlegm, swallowed it this time. “Folks around here call her the Scratching Hag, comes for you in the dark. Or Granny Claws, that’s another one of her names. ”

He flung his open hands at Barry. “Boo! ” He laughed loudly when Barry jumped.

“That’s not funny, ” fumed Barry.

Randolph limped on.

Barry beckoned for Wake to hang back. “A lot of the articles about the history of weird things going on in Bright Falls were written by Cynthia Weaver. ”

“Who? ”

“Some crazy lady that walks around all day carrying a lantern, ” said Barry. “Apparently, she knew both Jagger and Zane. After they died she had some kind of a breakdown. ”

“Barry… I met Cynthia Weaver my first day in town, ” said Wake, trying to put things together. “She was at the Oh Deer Diner. She tried… she tried to warn me about the dark corridor, but I wouldn’t listen. I went into the corridor to find Carl Stucky, to get a key from him… but I met this other woman instead. A woman in black who sent me to Bird Leg Cabin. ”

“Geez, Al—”

“Randolph? ” A woman staggered over from one of the trailers, barefoot, her bathrobe flapping around her. “Have you seen Ellen? ”

Randolph shook his head.

“Damn. ” The woman smelled of bourbon and cigarettes, half of her mousy hair pinned up, the other half falling around her face. “I got up a while ago and couldn’t find her. She supposed to do the laundry and change the sheets today. ”

“Maybe that’s why she made herself scarce, ” said Randolph. “You check the library? She’s always got her nose in a book. ”

“Yeah, miss junior scientist. You see her, you tell her to get her ass home, ” said the woman, trying to hold her bathrobe down in the wind. “Kids, ” she said, walking back to the trailer. “God charges too high a price for sex, you ask me. ”

Randolph jabbed a thumb at the next trailer in the row. “We’re here. ”

Rose’s trailer was small and neat with flower boxes on the front porch and wind chimes dangling from an awning. A young woman making the best of things.

“Thanks, ” Wake said to Randolph.

“She’s a good girl, like I said, ” said Randolph, not moving, clearly uncomfortable leaving two men about to knock on Rose’s door.

“Mr. Wake. ” Rose opened the door, stared blankly out. “Glad you and Barry could make it. ” She waved to Randolph.

“You let me know… you give a whistle if there’s a problem, ” said Randolph, shuffling back toward the front of the park and the weeds that awaited him.

Rose ushered them into her trailer, closed the door, and locked it behind them.

For decades, the darkness that wore Barbara Jagger’s skin slept fitfully in the dark place that was its home and prison. Hungry and in pain, it dreamed of its nights of glory when the poet’s writing had called it from the depths and given it a brief taste of power and freedom. Years later, the rock star brothers had stirred it again from the deep sleep, but it had not been enough. They had not been enough.

When it sensed the writer on the ferry, the darkness opened its eyes.

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