He couldn't find his car. Whether he was still in a daze or because he'd somehow misplaced it, Balthazar couldn't find his Impala. In fact, he believed he was still in that daze, but he couldn't say how much it controlled him. He was certain, too, that he was looking in the right place, that he was mistaken. The car should be here, in this hold. He feared he would be arrested for public insobriety. He began to panic.
If it wasn't here, where was it? It had to be somewhere. It couldn't have vanished. To the young Denny Hay, so long ago, his parents had vanished, and even once reunited he never believed that he had found them. He became interminably lost, and so did his rescuer, Cotton Colinaude. It was a childhood trauma, like so many others, that had never left them, had gone on to define their lives.
Balthazar had no such experience to fall back on. Boy Benjamin had assured that, and in the process forged a man of determination, who did not want to be smothered, because that was all he had ever known. The spoiled ones were smothered too, but neglected, and the smothering was meant as compensation. All Balthazar had ever known was the smothering, and he grew to resent it, and grew up with the intention to never feel its embrace again. It had started very early. Too early. And he had needed to hide it all away.
Where was his car? Having searched every level of the hold, meticulously, painstakingly, he emerged, confident that it was not there but also certain that it had once been. Even if he had had no memory of leaving it there, Balthazar would still have known it had been there. Its memory permeated the hold, not a distant one but a recent, piercing presence. The car itself was dear to him, and he could not easily overlook it.
He began to canvas the surrounding area on foot. Nothing like this had ever happened to him. Whether it was because of his reputation or his association with Boy Benjamin, he had never been jacked, had never been harassed by the local gangs that thrived in Traverse, where if you're weren't going anywhere you inevitably turned on each other. Balthazar should know; that's what he was going to do to Boy Benjamin. It was the natural course of things, and he was fine with that.
Where was that car? All that time spent on the subway, suddenly seemed a fool's revelry. No matter what he thought he'd gained at the time, he was now losing it, and he didn't care. Whatever magic Hopper possessed, it was temporary, whatever hold, made of quicksilver. Balthazar let it all slide away. He had a new skin to cover himself in, and it was called pandemonium.
Where was the car? He could find it nowhere. He didn't even care if he found it stripped, so long as he did. he could salvage it, bring it back. As long as the heart survived, he could bring it back to form, as if nothing had happened. He just needed to find it. But where was it? Where was his car? He could feel time advance, as if he was costing himself something with every minute this search continued.
Smoke rose up ahead, like a funnel, black like dying embers. There was red, he knew. Something was on fire. He approached the smoke out of fear, with dread in his heart. It was his car. It was the Impala. His Impala was in flames, and he thought he could see its heart in its final throws. It was dying. His car was dying.
There was a crowd gathered about, and nothing useful was being accomplished. No one had a phone in their hand. No one had called the fire department. There were no wails to suggest it was on its way. Balthazar knew there was a fire company nearby. Yet they let his car burn, all of them. He pulled his own phone out, and dialed the department. They wanted to know what he wanted, and it was all he could do to refrain from shouting that it was an emergency. He told them where to look, thought of but did not tell them of the smoke signal, that had called himself here. His car told him a final message. It told him goodbye.
The engines roared in the distance, and Balthazar walked away. By now some in the crowd had realized who he was, at least as far as his ownership of the burning car, and whispered amongst themselves, but did not attempt to restrain him. They let him go. He was back in that daze. Oh yes, he was. He surrendered to it. He didn't know where he was going, just that he was going somewhere, anywhere. He stumbled forward.
His car was no more. Balthazar had lost his chariot. In the daze, he imagined another conversation with Hoppper.
(You are directionless,) this Hopper told him. (You are directionless because you do not have a path. You have attempted to blaze a trail, but have found that you have run out of fuel, and don't know where to reload.)
(Don't speak to me of riddles,) this Balthazar said. (I have had enough of those. Tell me your secrets. Tell me how to triumph where you failed.)
(I did not fail,) this Hopper said. (This is where I was meant to be. I succeeded, and it was a grand triumph, a great success.)
(This was no triumph, no success,) this Balthazar said. (You failed, and you have been wallowing in your failure for years now. Why? Why are you so content with your failure?)
(Failure and success are the same thing,) this Hopper said. (You must understand this.)
(Nothing makes sense to me anymore,) this Balthazar said. (I am lost.)
(Then find yourself,) this Hopper said.
(I don't know how,) this Balthazar said.
(Yes you do,) this Hopper said. (You've simply chosen to ignore it.)
Like the real Hopper, the illusion let his philosophy explain itself, and left Balthazar behind. He found himself back in the hold. He should have been stopped. Why had he not been stopped? Why had he been drawn back to the memory of his dead Impala?
Balthazar slumped down onto the cold concrete. He believed the figmentary Hopper, who'd said he was lost. He lacked a sense of direction, because he himself was his destination. Everything he had ever done was improvisation, because there was no map to follow, at least none he would have ever put stock into. Tekamthi could have helped him, if he'd wanted to, but the old man, the so-called Dread Poet, had told him the journey was discovered personally, and that was the only way it should be. Well, it was easier said than done, and Tekamthi probably understood that. Everything accomplished came with work. The amount of work determined the level of achievement. How committed was he, Balthazar, to his quest? Deadly. The term scared him. He did not want to go like Fred. He believed he was better than that. He had to. He had nothing else, nothing else he wanted to or thought he could depend on. Certainly not Boy Benjamin, who thought he dictated so much, by godfatherly right and otherwise. Balthazar controlled his own fate, for better or worse.
There were other people about in the hold, dropping off their car, picking them up again. Cars, he realized, were much like pets. They came first, whether their owners realized it or not. If they didn't, they died, and their owners paid the price. He had left his Impala behind. He had signed its death warrant. He should have been more careful.
A car pulled up directly beside him, too close, he thought, almost with malicious intent. But would someone really do that? Perhaps they had been stunned to find him there, squatting beside a pole, as if he were guarding it, too stunned to know what they should do, so they parked just the same.
Still, it disturbed Balthazar, rustled him. He stood up, as if he was embarrassed to have been found that way, in here, where a man should have been found like that. It was almost as if he were apologizing, and he had no idea why he should.
The driver had still not emerged from their car, which Balthazar noticed, with trepidation, was an Impala. He couldn't explain the trepidation, either, the dread. At that moment, he wanted the Dread Poet, William Tekamthi, by his side. He was a man who knew how to deal with things. He'd made a living of it. Why would he not help others do the same? It was selfish.
The driver was still sealed in the car, the Impala, which was colored the same deep green Balthazar's had been, before the fire scorched it darker, unrecognizable. He would have believed it was his car, if he'd allowed himself to do such a foolish thing.
The door began to open, slowly, deliberately. Such as it never did under usual circumstances. The dread thickened within Balthazar. None of this was an accident. He tried to think of who his tormentor might be, but he could think of no possibilities. This was theatrical. A hand reached above the door frame, clad in white leather, and gripped it. Balthazar thought of walking away, but he knew he couldn't. There was no running from this monster. A head emerged, sheet white hair, but not the white of age. With no further pretension, the face revealed itself as well. Piercing blue eyes, such that did not naturally accompany that hair, but Balthazar knew it was the reverse. The man with the white hair and blue eyes, silently pulled himself to his full height, staring all the while at Balthazar, closed the car door like an afterthought, and advanced toward him. There was menace in those eyes, and Balthazar understood what it meant. He embraced them.
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