Page 125 of The Lineman

Voicemail answered.

I called again.

Still voicemail.

My breath started coming too fast.

Omar’s hand landed on my arm. “Mike. Mike, hey—”

I shoved back from the table, barely noticing that my stool nearly tipped over. “I have to—fuck—I have to find out if that was him.”

Matty was already pulling out his phone. “I’ll call the hospital.”

My hands were shaking.

I tried calling Elliot again.

Nothing.

Matty was talking, his voice too fast. “Hey Brett. Yeah, yeah. You, too. Hey, I’m trying to get information about a lineman who was brought in tonight.” He paused, then made a frustrated sound. “No, I’m not family, but—Jesus, Brett, it’s me. I could drive down there and find out. Can you at least tell me if the guy’s—”

My stomach was in knots.

Matty’s jaw tightened. “Okay. Yeah. Thanks.” He hung up and looked at me.

“Elliot was definitely taken there,” he said. “But they won’t tell me anything about his injuries or condition.”

I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Omar stood. “Let’s go. Now.”

Matty grabbed his jacket, and within seconds, we were rushing out the door.

The trivia game, the beer, the teasing—all of it was forgotten.

The only thing that mattered was getting to that hospital.

And praying that Elliot was okay.

Chapter thirty-five

Elliot

Iwokeupfeelinglike I’d been hit by a freight train. That wasn’t exactly right. I couldn’t actually feel anything, but I wassurea train was involved in something nefarious.

A really dumb train that was currently doing figure eights inside my skull.

My head was heavy, my mouth was dry, and my entire body felt like it had been filled with concrete. Not the good concrete, either—the cheap, lumpy kind that cracked after the first storm.

I blinked up at the ceiling, which was a bad idea, because suddenly the whole room started spinning like a merry-go-round on steroids. I groaned and tried to move, but something tugged at my leg—something tight, stiff, something that feltwrong.

That’s when I heard the voices.

Murmuring nearby. Familiar, but . . . also not. They sounded funny, like cartoon voices but spoken through a toilet paper tube.

I tried to turn my head and squint. Shadowy figures hovered near my bed. They swayed, as though dancing to weird thirties music. I didn’t think they were actually moving, but they sure wouldn’t stand still. There were three of them, I thought, maybe four—or two of the same person standing beside his double? That made sense, didn’t it? They were blurry as hell, shifting in and out of focus like a bad TV signal.

I frowned. “Is this . . . am I in Heaven?”

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