He continued to walk, even as the bridge drew closer and a chill pervaded his body.
“I’ll be waiting for you at the bridge...”
Now who did he remember having said that? Not the little girl on the road, nor even the hellhound that had spoken in its fading seconds of manifestation, before the flames had consigned it once more to the rotting animal matter of which it had been briefly constituted.
And what was the connection to the hazy memory of the dinner scene at his parents’ house, with his parents and sister, and some other presence?
On one hand he felt that he should take the time to figure this all out before he stepped within the confines of the bridge. On the other hand, there was really no time and no choice about the matter. He would have to pass over the bridge in order to complete his journey. And it was the very same bridge that Gary Cook and Anne Teagarden would have passed over only a few hours ago. The bridge had not killed them; so logic dictated that he would be able to pass through it as well.
There was an obvious contradiction here: the fact that nothing that had occurred tonight conformed to the dictates of logic.