The world wasn't a fable or an epic or even a comic tragedy.

It was a psychopath.

A red Acura, idling at the side of a country road. Inside, a man leans into a palmtop. He covers his other ear as an eighteen-wheeler roars past.

'Sam… Yeah, it's me.'

He looks down to his lap.

'I'm just outside a place called Climax.'

Glances nervously out his windshield, smiles nervously.

'No. I'm not joking. It's a town upstate, north of the Catski—'

He scowls, scratches his chin.

'You alone?'

He blinks tears from his eyes.

'Just following up a lead. Dead weight chasing a dead end.' Another blink. 'You should meet me, though. I could use your help.'

He draws a sleeve across his cheeks.

'No. Not over the phone.'

Again he looks down—an ancient gesture of concentration.

'You're calling me paranoid? That's rich. Look, it could be important. Likely not, but it could be. Either way, you need to check it out.'

His eyes unfocus, as though he's counting his pulse.

'Only two and a half hours. North on the 87.'

He glances at a silver sub-compact that flashes past.

'Sure, I'm okay. Just meet me, please. Have a little faith, for Christ's sake.'

Scratches the side of his nose.

'Like I said, go north on the 87, turn off at exit 21B. You'll see me. I'll be waiting in my car.'

He shakes his head from side to side.

'Yes, yes. Look, I gotta go. See you in a bit, okay? Oh, and Sam?' He leans back, seems to glimpse himself in the rearview mirror. 'I… I love you.'

Motionless.

'What do you mean?'

He pulls a hand through his hair.

'No-no… We'll talk about it later. Drive safe.'

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

August 30th, 6.44 p.m.

From the passenger seat of Sam's Mustang, the drive back to the cottage possessed a surreal, theatrical quality for Thomas. The angling afternoon sunlight, revealing the inner complexities of trees. The war of gravel and thistled grasses along the rushing verge. The epileptic gallop of tires across cracked and quilted asphalt. It all seemed like some impossible show, sharp because it was so blunt, intense because it was so mundane. Cinema verité. He could almost believe that Gerard, who sat directly behind him, nursed a bag of popcorn.

The lie he'd told them had come easily, thanks to Control. Shouting above the gust and roar of passing transport trucks, he had even managed to apologize to Sam with his eyes. No more dead weight, his look had said. No more Nora. But now, as the world parted about the windshield and they drew closer and closer to him, the implications of his deception began to accumulate. Nothing matters except Frankie, he told himself, over and over, like a curse or a fervent childhood wish. Nothing. Not Gerard. Not Sam. Not me…