Mr. X by Peter Straub Page A

my father because he could see what they had in their hands.”
    “You don’t really believe that,” I said.
    She gave a soft, knowing laugh. “You’d be surprised at some of the things I believe.”
    One night I dreamed that I crawled into my mother’s bed on Cherry Street and heard her mutter a name or word that sounded like “Rinehart.” Part of the dream’s experience was the awareness that I was dreaming, and part of my awareness was of replaying a moment from childhood. My worries subsided again, though the underlying anxiety surfaced when I was alone in my apartment, especially if I was doing something that reminded me of her, like washing the dishes or listening to Billie Holiday on WBGO. At the start of the third week in May, I asked for all my accumulated sick leave on the grounds of a family emergency. My boss told me to take as much time as I needed and keep in touch. I started shoving things into my duffel bag as soon as I got home.
    I didn’t think I was going anywhere in particular. It never occurred to me that under the pressure of anxiety, I was reverting to my old, self-protective pattern. At the same time, as I said before, I knew exactly where I was going and why. At the moment Star was boarding the Greyhound, I was in the cab of a Nationwide Paper sixteen-wheeler bound for Flagstaff, enjoyably discussing the condition of African Americans in the United States with its driver, Mr. Bob Mims, and my defenses collapsed and the truth rushed in. Star had used the last of her strength to get herself home, and I was going there to be with her when she died. Once Bob Mims found out why I wanted to get to Edgerton,he veered from his normal route to take me to the Motel Comfort south of Chicago on the interstate.
    After an hour of waving my thumb at the side of the highway, I checked in to the motel. All the car-rental agencies were closed for the night. I went to the bar and started talking to a young assistant D.A. from Louisville named Ashleigh Ashton who was on maybe her second sea breeze. When she spelled her name and asked if I thought it was (a) pretentious and (b) too cute for a prosecutor, the drink in front of her seemed more likely to have been her third. If she didn’t like the way defendants grinned when they heard her name, I said, she should grin back and put ’em away. That was a pretty good idea, she said, would I like to hear another one?
    Whoops, I thought, three for sure, and said, “I have to get out of here pretty early.”
    “I do, too. Let’s leave. If I stay here any longer, one of these guys is going to jump me.”
    Sitting at the bar were two heavyweights with graying beards and biker jackets, a kid in a T-shirt reading MO ’ BEER HERE, a couple of guys with chains around their necks and tattoos peeping out from under their short-sleeved sport shirts, and a specter in a cheap gray suit who looked like a serial killer taking a break from his life’s work. All of them were eyeing her like starving dogs.
    I walked her through what seemed a half mile of empty corridors. She gave me a quizzical, questioning look when she unlocked her door, and I followed her in. She said, “What’s your story anyhow, Ned Dunstan? I hate to bring it up, but your clothes look like you’ve been hitchhiking.”
    I gave her a short-form answer that implied that I had learned of my mother’s illness while hitchhiking for pleasure on a whim. “It was something I used to do when I was a kid,” I said. “I should have known better. If I had a car, I could get to Edgerton tonight.”
    “Edgerton? That’s where I’m going!” Suspicion rose into her eyes for a moment, and then she realized that I could not have known of her destination until she announced it. “If we’re still speaking to each other tomorrow morning, I could give you a ride.”
    “Why wouldn’t we be speaking to each other?”
    “
I
don’t know.” She raised her arms and looked wildly fromside to side in only half a parody