4

(January 31, 2015)

From the Journals of Dipper Pines: After we left the nursing home, Grunkle Ford drove us a few places, we saw a few sights, and we sort of calmed down a little. He treated us to a fancy lunch at the Assembly Restaurant on the bay, but even Mabel didn't feel like eating much.

Then on the way home, he cautioned, "Don't show a sad face to your parents. It's better to keep people away from these paranormal events if they're not aware of them."

We both acted happy when we got home around two. Ford visited with Dad and Mom for a while, and then he had to drive to the airport for his flight back to Portland and Gravity Falls. I should have waited to call Wendy, but just after Ford left, I couldn't stand it and texted her to ask if she had time to talk. And I admitted I needed someone to talk to.

Huddled on his bed, back against the wall and knees drawn up, Dipper answered the phone the instant it rang. "Wendy!"

"Hey, Dip," she said, her face appearing on his screen. It looked as though she were sitting in her car. It must have been cold up in Gravity Falls—instead of his pine-tree cap, she was wearing a knitted brown-and-white toboggan cap, and Dipper could see a green scarf wound around her throat. "What's wrong, dude?"

Dipper took a deep breath. "Oh, it's—it's really sad. Can—I shouldn't have even—are you where you can talk?"

"Yeah, went out to do the grocery shopping and I haven't gone into the store yet. Still sittin' here in the car in the parking lot. I got a few minutes."

"Will—will you be OK? You look dressed for the cold."

"Meh, sun's out now and I'm in the car, it's not bad. I'll listen to whatever you want to tell me, dude."

Dipper poured it out, hardly able to hold back the rush of emotion. Twice Wendy had to ask him to slow down, she couldn't understand, and with an effort he managed to get through the whole story. His voice trembling with rage, he finished, "He emptied her! Took away her mind. Left her just—just a shell of a person. And from what she said, it sounded like he did—horrible things to her. Beat her and, and worse."

"Oh, my God," Wendy said. "No wonder you're upset."

"Listen, listen," Dipper told her. "I can't think straight right now. Help me, please. Mabel doesn't want Susan—doesn't—want her to be left with nobody to—who—I'm sorry, Wendy." He took a deep breath. "Mabel doesn't want the poor woman left with nobody to ever visit her. She wants us to go up every week."

Wendy tilted her head, her green eyes bright with what might be unshed tears. "Can you get there?"

Dipper's throat ached. "We can take a bus. It's about a forty-five-minute ride each way. Yeah, we could—we could manage it, and I think Mabel could talk Dad into letting us go up on our own. But—oh, Wendy, I don't want to!" He bit his bottom lip, humiliated by the admission.

"Why not?" Wendy asked gently.

He could only shake his head. "It's so hard to see the poor woman the way she is. She—she's not in her right mind, and, and there's nothing we can do. I feel so bad for her. It's even worse for Mabel."

"Yeah," Wendy said quietly. "I can see how it would be. That's rough, Dipper."

"So—help me, Wendy—what should we do?"

Wendy thought for a moment and then asked, "Well, do you think visiting her would make her feel worse? Or better?"

"I don't know. I don't know if she can remember anything." Dipper swallowed. "I guess there's a chance it might help her. They said she hadn't talked any in the last months, but, you know, she—she talked to us." He didn't add his unspoken thought: I wish I could unhear what she told us.

"I can't tell you what to do, Dip," Wendy said. "It's something only you and Mabel can decide. I just know that it'll be the right thing. 'Cuz I know you two, man."

"Yeah. I guess. We'll—if Dad and especially Mom agree—Mom will be the problem, I think—we'll try going up the next few weekends," he said. In an anguished near-whisper, he added, "I don't want to do it."

"Then why—"

"Because one thing I've learned is that when I don't want to do something—that means it's something I ought to do."

On his phone screen, Wendy mimed a kiss. "That's mature of you, Dip. And brave. Wish I could come down and help."

"No, no," he said. "You've got school and your family and all. I understand, Wendy. I just—I had to talk. I'm sorry for dumping on you."

"I don't mind. You know why.": She dropped her voice to a warm whisper: "'Cuz I love you, man."

That finally brought a sad smile to his face. "Love you, Lumberjack Girl. Better let you go before you freeze out there in the parking lot."

She grinned ruefully. "Yeah, gotta get back to Casa Catastrophe. Laundry never seems to get done when I'm not there!"

Now calmer, Dipper said quietly, "Thanks, Wendy. Thanks so much."

"Dude, I didn't do anything."

"You did more than you know. By talking to me. By being there. By being you."

Ford laded in Portland just in time to visit a branch of his bank before it closed. He told a teller, "I want to transfer a thousand dollars to a nursing home in San Pablo, California, to be credited to the purchasing account of a patient."

"Oh, so the patient can buy snacks and so on?"

"Yes, exactly," Ford said.

"We can do that," the teller said, reaching for a form.

And on the same day, just after nightfall, the plane from Colombia landed at Benito Juarez International Airport. George Adam Friel had flown in Tourist Class, and unlike the other passengers, he remained seated until he could bring up the end of the line shuffling down the aisle.

He presented his passport to the Customs officer, who asked in English, "Is your visit business or pleasure?"

"Pleasure," he said.

"And how long will you stay?"

"A week."

"Departing from here?"

"No," Friel said. "I will visit Tijuana and return to the States from there."

The officer, a squat man with a bandito mustache the color of black coffee, stamped his passport and returned it. "Next."

And Friel walked out into the night, a man with no fixed residence, no ties, untraceable. He did not even plan a way to get from Mexico City to Tijuana, or to plot how to cross the border into California without arousing the least interest.

The darkness would provide.

He had always trusted . . . the darkness.

The End

(but we haven't seen the last of this guy)