Mr. 8

Chapter 24: A Tangible Link

Blood splattered in random droplets against the sides of the basin. They dribbled down, each following their own mysterious trail, like rain on a windshield. When they reached the water pooling at the bottom of the sink, the drops burst and became dark clouds mixing in with the soap suds.

Denton scrubbed his wrist fiercely. The rough paper towels tore up the blister, and the industrial soap from the dispenser sharply burned the wound. He ignored the pain and hoped his efforts would be enough to stop any contaminants that might be working their way into his bloodstream.

As he worked at cleaning the skin touched by Radnor, he struggled to get his breathing under control. Deep breaths. Inhale through the nose, exhale through the mouth.

The reflection in the mirror was of a much older man. Behind the wire rimmed glasses, his eyes were panicked. Dark circles made them appear sunken, and the harsh restroom light made his skin look deathlike.

He was being irrational. No, I'm being crazy. Now was not the time to let his hypochondria get the better of him, especially not with thoughts as foolish as alien viruses.

He shut off the taps and threw out the wad of paper towels before grabbing more from the dispenser. As he patted his arm dry, the blood soaked into the brown paper and turned it the color of rust.

Very carefully, he wrapped his wrist in several layers of the towels and positioned his sweater's sleeve to hold them in place.

Maybe Foley had been right. Maybe he needed to see a therapist. Perhaps the events at the lodge were affecting him more than he thought. His judgment was clouded. His reaction was overblown. He would never be thinking such things if he wasn't still suffering some lingering trauma.

Simon Foley had been unexpectedly understanding. He was usually so stern and officious. Could he have changed too?

No, Foley had just felt common ground with him, perhaps for the first time in all their years of knowing each other. It was Radnor that had drawn eights.

His office had looked like something out of a nightmare. The man had clearly gone insane. The walls had been covered. He had used ballpoint pens, markers, and highlighters to make the eights. He had used a knife on the desk. Hundreds of the numbers scarred the top and the sides. They were deeply gouged into the wood. In his fervor, Radnor had dug straight through the veneer and chewed up the soft pressboard underneath.

On the way back to his office, Denton's wrist tingled and itched, irritated from the harsh soap and the scouring. Blood was already beginning to clot, making the paper stick to the wound. It wasn't hard to imagine germs were crawling over his skin.

Denton let the hand hang away from his body as though he were afraid to come into contact with it—as though millions of microscopic alien microbes were swarming around it.

He put on his overcoat. Any lasting phantoms of Eddie or the cabin were now forgotten. His only thoughts were on Radnor and where he could be found. Denton couldn't allow himself to dwell on what Radnor might have been thinking when he had grabbed his hand. The important thing was that Cole Radnor was the first living person with the obsession he had come across. He was the first tangible link to what was going on with the eights. If anyone had answers, it was him.

Absently, he reached for the light switch but stopped just short. After a second of inner debate, he switched to his left hand to shut it off, feeling foolish that he was worried about contaminating it. When the door closed, he put on his winter gloves and headed for the stairs.

As he rushed down the two flights, he tried to think where Radnor may have gone. The man was misanthropic and had no hobbies or friends that Denton had ever heard of. At least, that was how he used to be. There was no telling what he was like now. The list of possibilities was endless. But there was only one place that wasn't just a stab in the dark: Radnor's home.