The Best of Me - Nicholas Sparks [107]
This is real.
He could hear Candy screaming hysterically from the locked office.
Oh, my God…
In the rear of the bar, the guys who’d been playing pool suddenly bolted toward the emergency exit, dropping their pool cues as they ran. It was the slapping sound the cues made as they hit the concrete floor that caused Alan’s heart to hiccup in his chest, kicking into gear a primitive instinct for survival.
He had to get out of here.
He had to get out of here now!
Alan shot off the stool like he’d been jabbed with an ice pick, sending it toppling backward and grabbing at the bar to keep from falling down. Turning toward the cockeyed front door, he could see the parking lot beyond. The main road out front beckoned, and he surged toward it.
He was only vaguely aware that Abee was pounding and shouting that he was going to kill Candy if she didn’t open the door. He barely noted the overturned tables and chairs. The only thing that mattered was reaching that opening and getting the hell out of the Tidewater as fast as he possibly could.
He heard his sneakers hitting the concrete floor, but the cockeyed door seemed to be getting no closer. Like one of those doors at a carnival funhouse…
From far away, he heard Candy scream, “Leave me alone!”
He didn’t see Ted at all, nor did he see the chair that Ted heaved in his direction until it smashed into his legs, sending him sprawling. Alan instinctively tried to break his fall, but he couldn’t stop the momentum. His forehead hit the floor hard, the impact stunning him. He saw bursts of white light before everything went black.
Only slowly did the world come into focus again.
He could taste blood as he struggled to untangle his legs from the chair and turn over. He felt a boot step down hard on the side of his face, the heel cutting sharply into his jaw as his head was pressed to the floor.
Above him, Crazy Ted Cole stood pointing a gun right at him, looking faintly amused.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
Dawson pulled the car to the side of the road. He half-expected the figure to vanish in the shadows as he stepped out of the car, but the dark-haired man stood in place, surrounded by knee-high grass. He was perhaps fifty yards away, close enough for Dawson to notice the windbreaker rippling in the evening breeze. At a sprint, even fully clothed and running through high grass, Dawson could reach the man in less than ten seconds.
Dawson knew he wasn’t imagining the stranger. He could feel him, could sense him as plainly as the beating of his heart. Without taking his eyes from the man, Dawson stretched his arm into the car and turned off the engine, killing the headlights. Even in the darkness, Dawson could see the splash of the man’s white shirt, framed by the open windbreaker. His face, however, was too vague to make out, as always.
Dawson stepped from the road, onto the narrow gravel median beside it.
The stranger didn’t move.
Dawson ventured farther into the meadow grass, and still the figure remained, unmoving.
Dawson kept his eyes trained on him as he slowly began to close the distance. Five steps. Ten. Fifteen. Had it been daylight, he knew he would have seen the man plainly. He would have been able to make out the distinct features of his face; but in the darkness, those details remained obscured.
Closer now. Dawson moved deliberately, feeling a wave of disbelief wash over him. He was as close as he’d ever been to the ghostlike figure, near enough to reach him in a single burst.
He continued to watch, debating when to break into his run. But the stranger seemed to read Dawson’s mind. He took a step backward.
Dawson paused. The figure paused as well.
Dawson took another step; he watched as another step backward was taken. He took two quick steps, his movement mirrored precisely by the dark-haired man.
Throwing caution to the wind, Dawson broke into a run. The dark-haired man turned then and began to run as well. Dawson sped up, but the distance between them stayed eerily constant, the