I Am Number Four

I throw my phone in my bag, make sure everything is zipped and in order. Then I walk through the house, taking everything in as though it will be the last time I see any of it. It's foolish thinking, and I know I'm merely being sentimental, but I'm nervous and there is a sort of calming sensation to it. I pick things up, then I set them down. After five minutes I am ready.

"Let's go," I say to Sam.

"You want to ride on the back of my bike?"

"You ride; I'll jog alongside."

"What about your asthma?"

"I think I'll be okay."

We leave. He gets on his bike. He tries to ride as fast as he can, but he is not in great shape. I jog a few feet behind and pretend that I'm winded. Bernie follows us as well. By the time we get to his house, Sam is dripping with sweat. Sam runs into his room and comes out with a backpack. He sets it on the kitchen counter and goes to change his clothes. I peer inside of it. There is a crucifix, a few cloves of garlic, a wooden stake, a hammer, a blob of Silly Putty, and a pocketknife.

"You do realize these people aren't vampires, right?" I say when Sam walks back in.

"Yeah, but you never know. They're probably crazy, like you said."

"And even if we were hunting vampires, what the hell is the Silly Putty for?"

He shrugs. "Just want to be prepared."

I pour a bowl of water for Bernie Kosar and he laps it all up immediately. I change clothes in the bathroom and remove the door-to-door directions from my bag. Then I walk out and through the house and into the garage, which is dark and smells of gasoline and old grass clippings. Sam flips on the light. Various tools have rusted with disuse and hang on the Peg-Board walls. The truck sits in the center of the garage, covered with a large blue tarp that's coated with a thick layer of dust.

"How long has it been since this tarp was removed?"

"Not since Dad went missing."

I grab one corner, Sam takes the other, and together we peel it away and I set it in the corner. Sam stares at the truck, his eyes big, a smile on his face.

The truck is small, dark blue, room inside for only two people, or maybe a third if they don't mind an uncomfortable ride sitting in the center. It will be perfect for Bernie Kosar. None of the dust from the past eight years has made it onto the truck, so it sparkles as though it was recently waxed. I throw my bag into the bed.

"My dad's truck," Sam says proudly. "All these years. It looks exactly the same."

"Our golden chariot," I say. "Do you have the keys?"

He walks to the side of the garage and lifts a set of keys from a hook on the wall. I unlock the garage door and open it.

"Do you want to paper-rock-scissors to see who drives?" I ask.

"Nope," Sam says, and then he unlocks the driver's side door and gets in behind the wheel. The engine cranks over and finally starts. He rolls down the window.

"I think my dad would be proud to see me driving it," he says.

I smile. "I think so, too. Pull it out and I'll close the door."

He takes a deep breath, and then puts the truck in drive and slowly, timidly, inches it out of the garage. He hits the brakes too hard too soon and the truck slams to a stop.

"You aren't all the way out yet," I say.

He eases his foot off the brake and then inches the rest of the way out. I close the garage door behind him. Bernie Kosar jumps up and in of his own volition and I slide in beside him. Sam's hands are white knuckled at the ten and two positions of the wheel.

"Nervous?" I ask.

"Terrified."

"You'll be fine," I say. "We've both seen it done a thousand times before."

He nods. "Okay. Which way do I turn out of the driveway?"

"We really going to do this?"

"Yes," he says.

"We turn right, then," I say, "and head in the direction away from town."

We both buckle our seat beats. I crack the window enough so that Bernie Kosar can fit his head out, which he does immediately, standing with his hind legs in my lap.

"I'm scared shitless," Sam says.

"Me too."

He takes a deep breath, holds the air in his lungs, and then slowly exhales.

"And…away…we…go," he says, taking his foot off the brake when he says the last word. The truck goes bouncing down the driveway. He hits the brakes once and we skid to a stop. Then he starts again and inches down the drive more slowly this time until he stops at the end of it, looks both ways, and then turns out onto the road. Again, slow at first, then gaining speed. He is tense, leaning forward, and then after a mile a grin begins to form on his face and he leans back.

"This isn't so hard."

"You're a natural."

He keeps the truck close to the painted line on the right side of the road. He tenses every time a car passes in the opposite direction, but after a while he relaxes and pays the other cars little attention. He makes one turn, then another, and in twenty-five minutes we pull onto the interstate.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Sam finally says. "This is the craziest shit I've ever done."

"Me too."

"Do you have any plan when we get there?"

"None whatsoever. I'm hoping we'll be able to scope the place out and go from there. I have no idea if it's a house or an office building or what. I don't even know if he is there."

He nods. "Do you think he's okay?"

"I have no idea," I say.

I take a deep breath. We have an hour and a half to go. Then we'll reach Athens.

Then we'll find Henri.

CHAPTER TWENTY

We drive south until, nestled in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, Athens comes into view: a small city sprouting through the trees. In the waning light I can see a river curling gently around that seems to cup the city, serving as the border to the east, south and west, and to the north lie hills and trees. The temperature is relatively warm for November. We pass the college football stadium. A white-domed arena stands a little beyond it.

"Take this exit," I say.

Sam guides the truck off the interstate and turns right onto Richland Avenue. Both of us are elated we made it in one piece, and without being caught.

"So this is what a college town looks like, huh?"

"I guess so," Sam says.

Buildings and dorms are on each side of us. The grass is green, meticulously trimmed even though it is November. We drive up a steep hill.

"At the top of this is Court Street. We want to turn left."

"How far are we?" Sam asks.

"Less than a mile."

"Do you want to drive by it first?"

"No. I think we should park the first opportunity we get and walk."

We drive down Court Street, which is the main artery in the center of town. Everything is closed for the holiday-bookstores, coffeehouses, bars. Then I see it, standing out like a jewel.

"Stop!" I say.

Sam slams on the brakes.

"What?!"

A car honks behind us.

"Nothing, nothing. Keep driving. Let's park."

We drive another block until we find a lot to park in. By my guess we are a five-minute walk at most from the address.

"What was that? You scared the crap out of me."

"Henri's truck is back there," I say.

Sam nods. "Why do you sometimes call him Henri?"

"I don't know, I just do. Sort of a joke between us," I say, and look at Bernie Kosar. "Do you think we should take him?"

Sam shrugs. "He might get in the way."

I give Bernie Kosar a few treats and leave him in the truck with the window cracked. He is not happy about it and begins whining and scratching at the window, but I don't think we'll be long. Sam and I walk back up Court Street, the straps of my bag pulled over my shoulders, Sam holding his in his hand. He has removed the Silly Putty and is squeezing it like people do with those foam balls when they're stressed. We reach Henri's truck. The doors are locked. There is nothing of importance on the seats or dash.