The Hinterlands Saga: Recent Episodes
Travis Thrasher and Frequency.FM
The sun reflected off the windows of the station and the silver white of the snow. The figure kneeling alongside the deserted hotel building across the street scanned the area again, looking carefully in both directions the tracks followed. He had already spotted three of them, but he knew there were more.
Fears. These strange things, stacked high in dark places, tumbling down in the middle of the night.
She found an unnamed country road to drive down for a few moments. Then she pulled the rusty Ford Explorer over to the side underneath the towering white pine tree with light blue-green leaves. She turned the engine off and then began to cry inside her hands.
The picture reminded Gloria Nelson that she used to be softer, both inside and out. A simple, square snapshot, so harmless and so forgotten. Like the smile she wore in it.
5. Somewhere on a day Stephanie didn’t even know at a time she wasn’t sure about in a state of mind she could barely fathom, a weather reporter shared news of the upcoming storm.
“A winter storm warning for the entire western North Carolina region remains in effect tonight through Tuesday night due to a dangerous mix of icing and snow accumulation.”
Stephanie’s eyes hovered on the television as she half-dozed sideways on her couch. It was always the same old thing: some ominous alarm from some young and perky meteorologist that usually amounted to nothing the next day.
“Duke Energy reports they are prepared to respond to the winter storm that’s expecting to move through the region this Monday night. Company trucks are stocked and fueled, with crews ready to respond to outages. The icing could knock trees and limbs into power lines all depending on the strength of the storm.”
The screen showed a number to call and a website to contact for power outages. Stephanie simply closed her eyes and thought for a moment about how much of a supply she had.
I’ll be fine for a while. So bring on the ice and the snow. Let everybody else’s life shut down.
Stephanie knew her power lines had been down for a long time.
She picked up her phone and turned it on. The familiar beach scene came up like it always did. A real place that belonged to her and her memories. It always brought a small bit of hope to see the sand and the blue seas in the snapshot.
The information on top of the photo said it was 4:35 p.m. on Monday, January 25.
She would think about this moment often after everything happened. Stephanie would recall being sprawled out on this couch watching the news and dismissing it the same way she dismissed pretty much everything else in her life.
Some things should never be disregarded and disrespected. Especially Mother Nature.
4. put your arms around it and hold tight it sticks out in front of the blue and the white this wonderful little picture in the box of the sky and the clouds and the hills below it
touch it and take it
Stephanie drifts. Or maybe the land below her does. Or maybe the sky is rushing above her. Or maybe ever single centimeter she can hold onto is starting over again. Starting to breathe. Starting to see. Starting to siege away.
yes
Eyes closed, she can see something but she doesn’t know what it looks like but it’s beautiful in this terrifying sort of way.
Something molded and shaped with something else sticking out.
And she’s somebody standing there, standing on it, standing at the edge, holding and hovering, waiting.
Waiting with the wind.
Waiting with the sun.
Waiting.
What do you have in store and what are you here for?
Breathing.
God what a feeling. Reeling. Reeling again.
take it
Stephanie can see it all but this is a dream or some kind of illusion. David Copperfield has suddenly entered her mind and how can that be ‘cause is he still alive anyway?
breathe out little girl breathe
Sharp. Light. Take. End.
Falling. She’s falling now. She’s trying to run but she can’t anymore. And this place and this urging seems suddenly gone and someone’s laughing telling her it’s all lost and it’s all gone and she’s just one more unremarkable footnote in the story of eternity.
shoot up again little princess
Oh the hateful, awful voices.
shine on you crazy diamond
She wants to run. She wants to reel back. She wants to do anything but she can’t because the black and the malice and the anger and the whole dam bursting cover her entirety.
Coughing, laughing, crying, Stephanie wakes up. In her apartment.
She knows she needs more.
More.
Just a little more.
shine on
So yeah, this little, this awesome, this crazy little diamond.
take it nobody will understand nobody can really understand unless they’ve been here at the abyss take it all you crazy little diamond
Day and night and minute and hour and moment all become intertwined into the same twisted, spiraling knot.
The rush. Once again.
Oh the rush.
yes the rush yes you don’t understand yes it’s good it’s so good
So good until it wears off. And it always will. Always.
3. Eight and free. Eight and golden. Eight years old with eyes yearning for the world outside.
It didn’t take her long to reach that world.
It didn’t take that world long to devour her.
“Everything okay?” the voice behind the door said.
Stephanie stood in another bathroom that didn’t belong to her. She’d grown used to this in the last ten years. Especially the last few years. Sliding inside stranger’s doorways in order to get what she wanted.
The plastic bag in her hand was what she wanted. Needed. Longed for in order to breathe. And if sleeping with the guy she got it from worked, so be it.
You’re getting older and less enticing to those opening the doors.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said.
She snorted another bit and then began to touch up her makeup. When you drove over a road too many times without patching up the rough spots, the wear and the tear began to show. She could try to cover it up but it was so obvious to her. She looked sick. Tired, sluggish eyes and a sunken face and bony features. Only thirty-five years old but looking more like she was almost sixty.
Or almost dead.
Stephanie opened up her hand and looked at the plastic bag. She rarely snorted it unless she was stuck somewhere without a needle to use. She’d been busy enough last night—now she was just being greedy. But this was just one of the many bags she’d be leaving this house with. A quick taste before the fifteen-minute drive back home was all she needed.
Every now and then she’d picture that eight-year-old girl. So many hopes and dreams. So full of life. There wasn’t one big thing that happened. No ship striking the iceberg in the middle of the ocean that would eventually sink it. In her case there had been hundreds of hidden holes that steadily leaked. She had grown used to wading around in these flooded waters.
Stephanie opened the door and headed back into a house that didn’t belong to her.
Neither did this life.
“Nothing on the news?”
He looked at her from the driver’s seat. Barron was a small man, one of those who didn’t carry an ounce of fat on his body. It wasn’t because he used. Barron liked being in control. He thrived on it. He was fine selling his drugs and taking his money and bypassing the business when he could get a little something extra in return. But Barron wasn’t a user. He was simply tiny in every way possible. Especially deep down in his soul.
“There’s news everyday that only gets worse so what kind of ‘news’ are you looking for?”
His tone sounded like the kind a sober man would use with a completely soused one. Barron was used to talking like this. Most of the time, the people in his life were in fact completely wasted. But Stephanie hadn’t arrived at his place bombed. And she wasn’t leaving high either. Well, not that high.
“I’m talking about anything suspicious?”
“You in trouble?” Barron asked her.
She shook her head.
“You better not be coming around me if you’re in trouble.”
“I’m not,” she said.
He was driving her back to the apartment. This way, if Stephanie saw anything worrisome outside the building, she could make up an excuse and get Barron to keep driving. Little men would act on little lies and little threats. Yes, Barron was a nutjob and dangerous in his own way, but she knew she had complete control over him.
When the door doesn’t open anymore then my use will be done with these men.
“Well, there’s was some massive tornado that destroyed Columbia last night. You see that? That’s all they’re reporting.”
“I didn’t see that,” she said.
She hadn’t seen that because she’d seen a corpse floating in a tub of blood yesterday morning. Then she’d gone home and found the remaining heroin in her apartment and had promptly shot up to get rid of the bad mojo she’d left behind. That afternoon, she had called Barron wondering what he was doing.
“You gotta go easy,” he said to her, looking over at her with those eyes that wandered up and down.
2. The pale color of her stomach. Then her legs. Then her chest. Then everything else.
Stephanie tried to move her arm but it felt heavy and shackled. Her dry mouth tried to swallow but felt stuffed with cotton. She didn’t feel cold but she felt stretched and watched and very naked.
That was some ride . . .
Her flickering, barely opening eyes kept expecting to see the dirty windshield of her car. But instead, there was some kind of fan hovering over her. Stopped like the blades of an abandoned Army chopper.
Where am I?
Everything was slow motion. Her muscles ached and she knew she must have been out for a while. But for how long?
Further examination proved that she hadn’t been alone in this strange bed. She’d been with a man last night. Maybe a stranger was making coffee for her. Maybe he had left with a note on the kitchen counter. Or maybe he had simply escaped before the junkie he’d brought home woke up beside him.
Stephanie hardly ever used that term. The J-term. But she was tired and her mind couldn’t help spitting it out.
It took her several moments to locate parts of her clothes. Her jeans, a t-shirt, a blouse. They were easy to find considering the sparseness of this bedroom. There was only the bed, a small pair of tables next to it, then a black leather chair. She didn’t even bother trying to look for anything else. All she wanted was to get out of there.
The ground wobbled as she tried sorting through her memory like a remote flipping through the channels. The dark haze covered over everything since shooting up in her car by her apartment. What happened after that? She didn’t carry a phone that could give her any sort of clue. She could just feel the keys to her Honda Accord which hopefully was parked somewhere outside this condo/apartment/house?
“Hello?”
Her voice sounded like someone else. Like stepping over a gravel road hearing the crunch underneath your shoes.
“Anybody here?”
The doorway opened up to a loft painted in soft white. The modern furniture was sleek and alabaster and looked brand new. Stephanie scanned the room with the high ceiling and the bookshelf with carefully arranged sets of high-brow books—not stacks of trashy paperback romance novels like she had in her place but hardcover cookbooks and literature and photography journals. A gray minimalistic painting hung on one of the otherwise bare walls.
She had a hard time breathing. Nothing in this place looked familiar or looked like her. This wasn’t her world.
Did I break into this place?
“Hello?” she called out again.
Half a wall separated the living area with the kitchen. It was sparse and modern and clean. No coffee waited for her. No pastry. No note. Nothing.
A part of her wouldn’t have been surprised if she had simply wandered into this condo by herself. She had done worse things. Far worse things. But she knew she’d had sex last night with someone. Naturally she had to assume it had taken place here.
Her body shook and she could already feel it. The longing and the need. If she’d been out long enough, she knew the sensation would start to grow. It wasn’t just a nagging addiction anymore. She was a slave, walking around in shackles knowing there was only one thing that would unlock them. Freedom was momentary and brief, then the irons would be clamped back on her.
Stephanie looked for a bathroom. There was a doorway on the other side of the bedroom with the light on inside. She wanted to shower and clean herself up but she didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary.
The tiles were an off-white with a bone-colored sink matching the shelf next to it. It made the bathtub stand out all the more.
It was black—no it was the color of wine.
This was her first image. Then she saw the dark water on the ground next to it.
Not dark water that’s blood. Dripping from a pale arm.
The arm was barely draped over the side with a bloody wrist and hand.
Chapter 4 1. With fists clenched Stephanie felt Orinoco Flow inside her Honda Accord. The speakers rattled as Enya sang her theme song all while she lay with the seat back and her fingers clawing into her thighs. Her laugh could only be heard inside this car. Inside this parking lot where the other cars slept just like most of the people in the apartment building next to it. She didn’t belong inside but she belonged here, floating and smiling and being.
Sail away sail away sail away.
Her skin felt open and her flesh felt kissed by a gentleman about to propose. Her heart skipped over the water like some rock unable to sink. Her mouth opened and her tongue licked her lips and she laughed again. Fingers sinking, trying to hold on, trying to savor each moment. That sweet, sweet rush.
It was nine or midnight or three or something like that.
Levi watches.
Stephanie knew it was impossible. It was a lie trying to kill this joy. Her dead son wasn’t watching anything and he wasn’t judging or looking down or doing anything.
Another song came on but she changed it again. Listening again. Coasting again to the song of her youth and her life and her joy. One more shot. One more flood. One more love.
The drift and the air and the swoop and the drop and the flip.
I’m watching you Mommy.
Somewhere on the single play of the same song she started to truly drift away, from the rainbow to the abyss. The unconscious swallow of the rag smothering her soon felt like acid in her mouth. Her eyes rolled back while her mind rolled forward.
Suddenly evening fell and Stephanie could feel herself floating above this rusted-out car and this over-looked parking lot and this forgotten-about life.
Young once with so much of everything. But the years covered her like the lines under her eyes. Like the holes in her arms. Like the leak in her soul.
Stephanie laughed and fell into slumber and remembered the good and better and best times. Like some thick, familiar comforter, they wrapped around her and allowed her to sleep.
At least for a little while.
Interlude 1: Beneath all your darkest fears Looking through the glass, the world watches and waits outside. Breathing to cloud the surface. Blowing to chill the air. Breathless with anticipation. Inviting souls to come out and play. Waving them on with a warm welcome without saying a word about what’s to come.
A windshield playing the flat scenery they pass. A bay window picturing the woods and the rolling mountains beyond them. A dormer presenting the vacant road and the quiet town it sits alongside.
Longing, fear, and curiosity, all barely scratching the surface. Desperate to break and crash, yet stuck.
The air shifts, the forecast suddenly puzzling those watching.
It’s as if the sky itself knows what’s coming.
Those who watch it don’t and can’t know. They can still see the sky.
They can still picture some hue of hope.
7. Wrap me in always, and drag me in with maybes Moving, Danny never feels out of breath. His legs never ache, his body never stops. All along pedaling so fast, pedaling and pedaling more. Following the girl into the sunset, over the sidewalks, onto the trail leading into the woods and across the wooden bridge.
Laughing, Danny stares ahead at her head looking back for the moment. The jump, the inevitable tumble into the leaves. Staring into dusk and watching it blanket them with its shadow.
Your innocence is all I have
Talking. Listening mostly. Listening to her. Listening to someone, to some dream.
Summertime sensations swirling around.
The secrets of your dreams
Danny never plans to tell, never plans to let anybody know, this sharp and precious little secret.
Everyday. This habit and this wonder and this reality. So young with sixth grade on the horizon. So ready to grow up and get the hell out of there.
But youth is wasted on the young
All along, this glimmer never known before now.
We’re forever frozen, forever beautiful
Like her. This blood-red colored gemstone.
Night has come. Again, and again, and again, and again.
The night has come to hold us young
But always and ever, Danny ends up waking up, old again, alone again, remembering again.
The ache still in his side like always. Remembering back to those golden days when he was eleven years old and believed in anything.
For a second he wonders where he is, then realizes it’s a quaint little room in a cute little house in the middle of a creepy little town.
He sighs then crawls out from the covers, feeling little himself. As he pulls the blankets back, he hears something thud on the wooden floor underneath him. He looks over and then notices the flat oval-shaped object. Danny bends over and picks it up.
It’s a rock. A flat grey stone. Quite smooth.
Where’d that thing come from?
It had been at the base of his bed. He hadn’t noticed it last night.
How’d I sleep all night without noticing it?
With another tired sigh, he places the rock on the nearby desk and then decides to try and find some coffee.
6 Please call
Danny shut off his phone, ignoring Brooke’s tenth text of the night. A few were angry, then hurt, then apologetic, and now scared. He just felt done. It was too much. Brooke was too much. He was glad to be away from her and already dreaded heading back home. Danny knew he’d eventually need to be honest and tell her they were done.
Inside the small and cozy room of the B&B, Danny reached for his laptop and then sat back on the cushioned armchair in the corner. The lady who owned this was a sweet woman in her eighties maybe. She gave him a brief tour and then said he was the only one staying there. He had his pick of three rooms so he chose this one. It wasn’t the biggest but it had windows looking out onto the main street in Solitary. Danny figured he might be able to spot some local weirdos wandering down the street tomorrow.
He went through the familiar checklist of sites online. Nothing in his email looked promising. He checked Twitter and shared a couple more things. Recently he had crossed the 100K mark of followers. Danny used to follow everybody but a couple of years ago narrowed it down to about 250. Mostly famous people, some who followed him and some not. Some of his diehard fans were also on his list. He would tweet at least a dozen times a day. His last tweet had been an hour ago, taking a picture of one of the three French Broad beers he’d enjoyed.
The rest of the social networks followed, then he proceeded to go to his blog and read some of the comments on earlier posts.
“A horse has more common sense than you do, jackass.”
That was from HughFlight45.
Glad he keeps reading my stupid blogs.
HughFlight45 was one of the trolls.
“Keep the laughs coming.”
A newcomer. Always nice to see.
“This is by far the best post you’ve ever done.”
One of his longterm fans. He had written a funny piece on why women are right 98 percent of the time. Danny didn’t actually believe this, of course. Most guys were horny tools. That he knew. But a lot of women were entitled brats who loved working out and then walking around showing off in their leggings. No wonder guys were horny tools. Men got it wrong so often and no longer seemed to care anymore. Women knew the odds of them being right so they no longer questioned whether they were. Danny . . . well, he knew that he had more female fans, and he knew that he could mock his male fans simply because they’d agree with him.
I should write something about how to know when a relationship’s over.
Not feeling an ounce of guilt when not returning a call or a text. That’s a big one. Or feeling an overwhelming sense of freedom the moment you step out of their apartment. But those were obvious. He needed to find the utter stupidity of relationships and then highlight them in his wonderful little way.
Danny thought of the Mexican back at the bar. Vince. A good guy. Danny had a headache now after the potent beers and nothing to eat with them. But the conversation had been worth it. He shifted from thinking about writing about a girl to writing about this town.
Where do I start?
Who were these people in this town and why in the world did they think like they did? Vince just shrugged off these rumors. Really? Either he didn’t believe in the whole occult-ritualistic-death-practices or he actually was still involved with them. What if he believed? Why in the world would he still stay around then? To lose money on a pub?
The questions started at this place. Danny’s gift was figuring out a way to point out the stupidity and still sound like he cared. Even a bit. But like he told Vince, that was the beauty of Seinfeld, right? He didn’t want to act like he knew more than others but that was the honest truth. The vast majority of people--Danny had it at about 87.94 percent—were really, truthfully dumb. He loved that word because he could use other, creative ones, but dumb was just another four-letter word.
5. Just when you thought it was safe to go into a pub, out steps Nosferatu.
Danny had to chuckle when the guy walked toward his booth. No, he wasn’t old and bald and white and didn’t resemble some walking-dead vampire. The Hispanic carrying a wide smile and even wider belly approached with the attitude of a longtime friend. He seemed to be bobbing along toward Danny’s table rather than walking.
“What’s going on?” the man asked as he stood by Danny’s booth.
There wasn’t another soul that could be seen or heard in this restaurant.
“Busy day?” Danny asked as he took the small menu the guy handed him.
The server laughed with a low and muted chuckle. “You know it. Every day is Groundhog Day.”
“You don’t have a southern accent,” Danny said, stating the obvious.
“I don’t quite look southern either, do I? Born in Mexico. Raised in Arizona.”
Danny spotted the splint on three of the man’s fingers. “Get in a fight?”
His friendly face didn’t change. He just gave Danny a nod. “It happens. You thirsty?”
“Yes. And curious. What’s up with the girl in the middle of the road? Pink snowcoat and boots.”
“We send her to freak out people visiting for the first time.”
For a second Danny actually believed him since he said this in such a deadpan, matter-of-fact way.
“Really?”
“No. That’s Roxy. An odd duck in an odd family.”
“Funny,” Danny said giving him the menu. “Give me a Heineken.”
“That’s original.”
“Does mocking customers help business?”
The server just gave him a shrug. “Look—I’m guessing that you didn’t just wander into Solitary. You a reporter?”
“Not quite,” Danny said.
“We get a lot of those. It’s been less frequent but still. Lots come in here. Then there are the ghosthunters.”
“Do I look like one of those?”
The big guy just studied him for a moment. His cheeks looked like croissants.
“No,” the guy said with a laugh. “I look more like one than you do. You’ve got this hipster look about you. So definitely not law enforcement or anything like that.”
“Definitely,” Danny said.
“I bet you got something to do with media.”
Danny gave him a nod. “I bet you got some beer.”
The big fella laughed again and trotted away for a few moments. Danny checked his phone and then started typing a new note for himself.
PUB—Tuco in the house. Witty guy. Not from around here. Very relaxed. What’s his story?
The server came back carrying two beers, then stuffed himself on the other side of the booth and set the bottle in front of Danny.
“This isn’t a Heineken,” Danny said.
The guy just nodded. “You don’t want a Heineken. You know that Asheville has more breweries per capita than any other city in the US?”
“That’s nice,” Danny said. “But I actually did want a Heineken.”
“That’s a Gateway Kolsch. Brewery is French Broad. As in the French Broad river. I have their IPA. Awesome stuff. If you don’t like it the beer’s on me.”
There was no reason to be a jerk to this guy. Danny knew he’d love the beer even before his first sip. He enjoyed trying new things, especially ones that added color to his life (AKA his posts about them). It was just he absolutely hated someone telling him what to do or how to act or what to drink.
“You always sit with your customers and drink on the clock?”
Another low chuckle. “Customers are rare. Especially ones I don’t know. And I’m always on the clock. Or never. I own the place.”
“Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“Both. Mostly just bad. Name’s Vicente but everybody around here calls me Vincent. Or Veensaynt.”
Danny shook his hand. “I’m Danny.”
“I was going to call this place Vicente’s something, or somehow work my name into the title. But never bothered getting around it.”
“How long have you lived around here?”
“See--I told you you’re a reporter.”
Danny took another sip of his beer and shifted on the vinyl seat. “I write a blog. I’m an online personality.”
“A blog, huh? News blog or something like that?”
4. The girl stood in the middle of the street as if she was guarding the town.
He had taken I-85 for the hour-and-a-half drive to Solitary, listening to a podcast he’d downloaded on his phone before leaving. It was an hour-long discussion hosted by a couple of guys who claimed to be ghost hunters. Danny assumed they were part-time ghost hunters and full-time Walmart employees or something like that. They sounded to be in their late twenties. Probably single, living in a smelly apartment, staying up late playing video games and corresponding with similar nerds on social networks and secret chat rooms online. The reason he was interested in hearing this was because they were talking about urban legends in the Smoky Mountains and this included about twenty minutes on Solitary, North Carolina.
The story that they spoke about matched the information Danny had found about the town. It was located in western North Carolina, not far from Asheville. A simple and quiet town of about 1,700 people, though reports stated a lot of them had moved out since all the happenings a few years ago.
The exit off the highway was so nondescript he almost passed it by. It took him only a few moments to get to the main street in Solitary, the one where this odd little girl was now standing. Danny slowed his car to a stop a dozen yards away from her. She had dark hair falling just below her ears and wide eyes hovering like twin moons. She wore a thick, pink winter coat with a hood she wasn’t using and matching pink polka dot snow boots even though there wasn’t any snow to be seen. The eight or nine-year-old stood straight as if she was a soldier at attention, her arms at her sides unmoving.
Danny rolled down his window letting in the cold air. “Hey do you mind? Watch out.”
He didn’t like kids. Anybody under the age of about sixteen or fifteen . . . No thanks. They all annoyed him. Junior high kids with all their confusion. Someone like this—maybe in second or third grade—with all their high-volume energy. Babies with all their smelly diapers and drool. Danny’s older sister had a couple of boys and visiting them always confirmed his vow of never repeating in her shoes.
Finding the right woman is one thing. But having children with her?
The girl didn’t move, so he honked the horn of the rental car. It came out with a loud blare, but the girl still didn’t move. She looked strange, as if she was hypnotized.
Of course there’s going to be a girl standing in the street waiting. Bet her name is Regan.
Danny began to let the car coast while veering away from the girl. Last thing he needed was to show up in the news after hitting some kid. He pulled up beside her and stopped the car again.
“You waiting for somebody?” he asked.
She was cute. Those dark brown eyes, the little nose, the round cheeks. But she’d be a lot more cute if she smiled. Or even looked halfway awake.
“No.”
Her voice wasn’t cute. It was flat and lifeless.
“You know it’s bad to stand in the middle of the street? Especially when a car is coming?”
“I’m not stupid,” she said.
Ah we got a pulse.
The street behind her that led into the small town that could be taken in with one glance looked completely empty. Danny assumed it wasn’t dangerous standing in the middle of a road nobody drove on.
“You the only one in town?” he asked.
She shook her head.
What is this girl’s deal? The weirdo look. Those wide eyes.
Danny really thought someone was playing with him. That someone knew he was coming and was messing with his mind. He glanced all around the vehicle to see if there was anybody else hiding, maybe recording this.
“Is this a practical joke?” he asked. “Did someone put you up to this?”
She stepped closer to the window and leaned her head toward him. “It’s coming.”
His body suddenly felt coated in goosebumps, a bit like it had been back in his apartment right before finding the rattlesnake.
3. “So how big was it?”
The voice on the other end of the iPhone sounded shocked. Danny shifted in the padded chair in the crowded United terminal. He had spent the last ten minutes telling his college buddy Kevin the whole story about the snake. He didn’t have to make anything up, but Danny still loved heightening the drama with those inner observations of his. His friend didn’t believe him at first, and now was finally realizing just how crazy this situation sounded.
“It was wrapped around like a massive chocolate swirly cone hiding under my desk. It filled the entire space. I bet I couldn’t get both of my hands around its body if I tried.”
More laughter on the other end. “That’s insane. What did the cops say?”
“I had to call a guy who removes snakes. Like instead of The Horse Whisperer he’s The Snake Charmer. I mean—how does a guy like that stay employed? In Denver? You know?”
“That’s his only job?” Kevin asked.
It sounded like his friend was walking outside somewhere. Kevin was in the financial world and was always making deals and on the go and traveling. Danny didn’t know exactly what Kevin did in exact terms except that his friend made money. Lots of money. And like Danny, Kevin was single. Well, both had girlfriends and both seemed to have a fifty-fifty chance of making it.
“No, I’m pretty sure he gets rid of other animals too. I had to leave my key with a neighbor—one of the steroid guys in the building who wants to bench press me. He wasn’t happy.”
“You’re not that hard to bench press,” Kevin told him.
“If only you could see how much my mind weighs.”
“Why? ‘Cause it’s that dense?”
“If you only knew, brother,” Danny said, thinking how unclever Kevin could be. “I gotta go. I’ll send a pic if the snake patrol takes one like I asked them to.”
“You gonna post something about it on your blog?”
“That’s a dumb question.”
Moments later, while flipping through the different streams of information and communication happening on his iPhone, Danny read the awful news coming out New Mexico.
It’s crazy when a school shooting wasn’t the lead story in the news, but it turned out nature was becoming more deadly than psychotic students gunning down a few kids in the hallway of their school. Four to be precise. Four high school students, all claimed to be unknown to the shooter, were killed while another half dozen injured. A teacher was shot taking down the gunman, some sophomore whose name was being withheld.
Danny finished reading the report and then adjusted his glasses. He shook his head, staring back out to the strangers waiting to board the United Flight heading to Charlotte. The lead story was the tornado that had obliterated a good amount of Columbia, South Carolina. The death toll now stood at 146, a number that kept going up since the initial report. The pictures they were showing revealed nothing but rubble with people standing over them staring in shock. Tears, desperation, emptiness. Pictures that were as commonplace in the news these days as weather reports.
How about them, Danny? Got some funny quips about those people?
Oh how he hated hearing Brooke’s voice in his head. He needed to switch the channel from needy girlfriend station to something else.
The school shooting ran through his head again. As if the world didn’t have enough problems on its plate, something like this had to happen.
The classic song “Mad World” rang through his head. Not the original but the cover version by Michael Andrews. The lyrics were his personal motto in life. “I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad . . .” So many things—almost everything, in fact—could be viewed this way. He found people and situations and events funny and sad. He liked to find the funny in sad things and vice versa. Many, many times he liked to reveal the sad out of the funny. The world could have its amusement and Danny would be there to hold up a melancholy mirror.
2. The cold wind made him clench his unzipped coat and crouch his head. Danny walked down the sidewalk that faced his apartment building and wondered how soon he’d move back in. He’d leased the new luxury pad less than a year ago. It was in the middle of Prospect neighborhood, close to Coors Field and Union Station. Living there had allowed him to meet and impress Brooke at a nearby bar one night. Little did he know at the time that he’d eventually move in with her. It wasn’t because Brooke’s place was nicer. It was more to keep her out of his life just in case.
Just in case she turns out to be boil-the-rabbit material.
He’d once used that term around her and the twenty-something didn’t get it. Danny understood. He was thirty-one years old but knew enough about pop culture to understand the reference from the ‘80’s film Fatal Attraction about a psycho lady. Danny was proud of his knowledge of films and music and books and anything else related to media from the last fifty years.
Brooke had stayed angry at him last night and had even decided to sleep in the guestroom. Her guest bedroom. He’d made one attempt to make up, but he seriously didn’t have the energy. Danny didn’t care. He honestly didn’t. This was why he’d moved in with her. Why he was going to lease the apartment again even if things were going along fine. There was a reason he wasn’t married by now. It was because women always, always turned into Brooke. Needy, wanting, griping babies.
His suitcase was packed for his trip and he was ready to go to the airport, but he remembered one thing he needed to pick up from his office. He still came in to work just like anybody else would. The difference was he was self-employed and his office was in his apartment.
Danny reached the fourth floor and unlocked his door. The silence that greeted him was actually soothing. He dropped his phone and keys on the island in the kitchen, then checked the fridge to see if there was any kind of food inside that could get funky while he was on his trip. Everything appeared just like it had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Brooke called him a neat freak and a germaphobe and someone with OCD. But coming from a chick who was clearly cuckoo, these insults didn’t mean much.
The inside of the refrigerator agreed with Brooke. His milk was in its regular place facing outward, the bottles of beer lined up with their labels all front and center. Lots of rows and items that seemed to fit side-by-side. He usually only ate lunch in this apartment, but still he needed to maintain order and cleanliness.
Brooke’s right but whatever.
There was a folder on the town he was heading to in North Carolina that he’d forgotten in his office. He didn’t have to come by and get it—most of the info he had could be found in links online and in information he’d already placed in a Word file called SOLITARY. Right now he was finding out facts and rumors and anything else that would be noteworthy to find. The folder contained articles he’d printed out and also random notes he’d either made or found, but most important was the photo inside. The picture of the retired sheriff who had been on record talking about the events that made national headlines in this town just a few years ago.
Before heading into his office down the hall, Danny picked up the framed photo of himself standing between his parents. The bald, round man with a big smile on one side and the petite, curly-haired woman with a look of pride on the other. It had been the day he’d signed his publishing deal for six figures. Two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars, actually. For two books, one that he was still currently working on. All because of his wonderfully witty blog Brooke never read.
Four years ago. A lot could change in four years. A father can die of a massive and sudden stroke. A mother can suddenly start to go senile. Your two biggest fans can suddenly be gone.
Chapter Three
1. “Do you know that seventy-seven percent of the people out there believe in the presence of a secret society called the Illuminati but only 65 percent believe in God?”
His thumb kept moving and his eyes stayed focused on the screen of his iPhone even as he tossed the random thought over to Brooke. Danny Chord usually had about fifty to choose from any given moment but this one seemed fascinating and worth sharing to the young woman sitting next to him.
“So you're going to visit the Illuminati?” Brooke asked.
This made him stop and look at her. He wasn’t sure if she was joking—she didn’t sound like she was—and her face didn’t seem to be in the teasing mood either. One reason he really liked Brooke was because she couldn’t be sarcastic. He had enough of that for both of them.
She’s just angry that I’m leaving right after I came back in town.
“No, I’m not visiting any Illuminati even though that would be terribly amusing,” he told the restless beauty in front of him. “I'm just trying to prove my point.”
Her lips tightened for a moment. “I thought your point was to make people look stupid?”
She was trying to get his attention. Trying to get into a fight. He knew it and realized she was simply trying hard to lasso him back around.
“Well, no, I'm not trying to make people look stupid,” Danny said. “I'm trying to make stupid people look even more stupid.”
“So you’re going to find some random strangers in some little town to mock? Aren’t there enough politicians and famous people to go after?”
Danny wanted to scratch at his ears. Sometimes he hated the sound of her voice. It had a pinching-the-nose shut sort of tone, an only-child-syndrome sort of attitude. Sometimes Danny wanted to tell her just how awful she could sound, but a woman who looked like Brooke had surely never heard that sort of truth. Danny didn’t want to be the one who told her. At least not now.
“My goal as always is to shine a little light on the stupidity—and hypocrisy—of our world,” Danny told her as he still typed away at the text he was sending.
She shuffled on the couch trying to get his attention. He had work to do and didn’t want to be pulled away by neediness. He could see her playing with her long blonde locks from the corner of his eye.
“Isn’t the world a dark enough place without mocking those who actually believe in something?”
The text finally left his phone and he set it down to fully engage with her.
“I’ve said this before. The thing I hate are these people everywhere who see something bad and then suddenly act like there’s this visible breathing thing called evil that’s like some kind of cold front. Whether they think God’s judging us or that evil is inciting this. That kind of moronic discourse only serves to make the general public look more asinine and ignorant.”
“And that’s why you’re leaving?” she asked.
Now Brooke was giving him the wounded puppy look. It was probably her last ditch effort to make him stay. It wasn’t like she was suddenly so interested in having him around so she could pick his brain and hear his thoughts and laugh at his jokes. Most things, like this, went over her head. When they had started dating and then even when he moved in with her, Danny could tolerate this. But it was get tiring.
“I have a job to do,” he said, picking back up his phone because it had been about ten seconds since he checked it.
“You blog,” Brooke said with that contemptuous attitude he had fallen in love with but could sometimes really hate. “You type free thoughts and free form and free crap all day.”
“Advertisers like that free crap, thank you very much.”
She stretched out those never-ending long legs and it felt like she was trying to make a point.
Yeah, fine, you’re taller than me and better-looking but you’re still with me so there.
“I’m going to be so bored back here,” Brooke said.
“Read my last five blogs.
8. Everything quivers. She hangs on, clasping the ice, shivering. The weight—the wind—the rush all pull Allie back but she shakes and keeps fighting. Eyes flickering, opening and shutting, the heavy snow cutting at them. She can see the wall. The white towering pillars hovering over her. Moving closer, as if they’re breathing, as if they’re pushing her back.
Then amidst the screaming wind of the storm she can hear the laugh. His laugh. His delirious, angry, burn-the-world-down sort of laugh. The cold burn in her eyes feels like staples trying to keep them shut. But she forces them open to see the white enveloping her. Long, sharp alabaster daggers reaching out toward her face, her throat.
Those aren’t pillars or daggers they’re teeth and they belong to my husband.
And Bernardo keeps laughing as he begins to bite down and tear the part of her cheek that’s stretching to scream out but can’t be heard over the wailing wind rushing over her.
Something scratching woke her up.
The wind blew outside, but not in some kind of scary way but more in a soothing one, the kind you’d find on some kind of app and play to fall asleep to. The other sound, the scraping sort close-by, was the one that sounded a bit alarming.
She could feel her body drenched in sweat. Parts still shook. The nightmares weren’t anything new. She had grown used to them. These were the ones she didn’t mind. At least she could awaken from these horrors.
Allie opened her eyes and waited in the dark. There was no sound at first, then the clawing came again.
This time she could feel the tugging on her comforter.
This isn’t happening.
She didn’t ever flip out over little rodents or tiny animals that either slithered or scampered in the dark. But she wasn’t about to stay in bed letting whatever this was continue munching on part of her blanket. Allie climbed out of bed on the other side and then went over to turn on the lone lamp on the nearby table. Even before she could peer around the mattress to examine the culprit, she saw something white pop up on top of it like part of some magician’s trick. Something white—anything white—anything that even remotely resembled those chomping, smiling, sickening teeth----
Bolting backwards, she banged a shoulder against the wall and then saw the monster.
The cat simply crawled to the middle of the bed and then snuggled up as if she’d done this a thousand times before.
With her body still shaking and a heart that felt like a marathon-runner, Allie carefully approached it, then examined it from a few feet away. The white animal didn’t look wild or mean, but she’d never been a big fan of cats so she wasn’t going to be stupid and get bit.
“What are you doing here?” Allie said, moving closer, then sitting on the edge of the bed.
Allie wore comfortable jammies that had never been worn before. Bernardo wasn’t a big fan of flannel pajamas even if they had come from Victoria’s Secret. But that very fact alone—that she had actually been worried about wearing them—was utterly ridiculous. Just like staying with him as long as she had.
Just like this white cat waking me up at two in the morning.
The gentle purring of the Persian Cat could be heard. Its copper eyes looked up at her with wonder.
“Where’d you come from, huh?” she asked, finally moving a hand to pet the long and sleek white fur.
The cat bolted out of the bed. Thankfully it went right past Allie instead of jumping right at her head. It landed on the floor like some kind of ballet dancer and then dashed out of the small room through the slightly open door. Allie thought about heading out to find the animal, but it was late and she was tired. Either the owners of the cabin had left her there or maybe she was just roaming like cats did. Maybe she was married to the black cat she’d seen earlier.
That look. It felt strange because it felt . . .
Familiar.
But she’d never owned a cat.
7. I’m going to feel this wine tomorrow.
She finished brushing her teeth and looked into the small, round mirror on the wall. It was a bit warped so she looked like one of those pictures you could take on your MacBook that distorted your face and made it into something funny. Nothing about the portrait she looked at appeared humorous, however. She could still see her fear and fatigue washed over her pale face.
For a brief moment Allie thought of the plane ride and the mirror. She moved her hand to touch this one, but pulled it back.
Don’t be stupid.
She held a backpack full of memories involving mirrors going all the way back to her first recollections of being in preschool. Bernardo had called it her obsession, but she’d only told him a handful of the stories. A man both obsessed and possessed couldn’t say a word on that topic.
In her small bedroom with the sloping ceiling, Allie found her phone and thought about turning it on. But she resisted. She didn’t want to know what sort of messages awaited. He would find a way to reach out even if she blocked Bernardo in every single way known. He’d discover a way and then he’d smile as he threatened her.
It’s so easy to be caught up in the smile shuffling through some unseen door. It’s so easy to be sucked in before you realize the smile is like a movie poster, designed to capture your attention and get you in the seat regardless of whether the film is any good or not.
Oh, but his smile . . .
She could see him now, just like always, just like the way she used to remember him by. Smiling those pearly whites, the dimples flashing, the dark eyes looking so dynamic. This brilliant, creative spark in a world full of mediocrity.
Swept off her feet. That was how she had been. This whirlwind, this breathless leap, this intoxication. Too delicious to have an aftertaste. Too sudden to have a hangover. Those aftereffects would come, of course, and they would be bitter. But in the beginning, there was only the sweet, tempting taste of devotion.
Words, so many and so yet so few, bounced off the clouds and the stars. She had been mesmerized the way some kind of member of a cult might be. Falling under a trance and not realizing the traces of desolation hovering all over her.
In her dreams, the places she feared to go, Allie saw him holding her hand, smiling. Walking alongside of her, fitting. Laughing with her, loving. Basking in the wonder of new love.
For a while it was really, truly wonderful. There were no signs or omens. There was nothing to tell her to run. She felt—Allie believed—that he understood her.
She could not fathom that someone would reach such a deep place without a clue of how he got there. Without knowing what to do once he got there. Without being worthy of coming anywhere close to this place.
Bernardo didn’t leave this place. Instead, he stayed and became a terrorist of the heart and the soul.
Allie still sometimes dreamt of the man she thought she had fallen in love with since that man was completely and utterly a figment of her imagination.
She put the phone back down and turned off the lamp, then crawled underneath the heavy blankets hoping sleep would arrive quickly.
Her twirling head and the thoughts bouncing inside it seemed to have other ideas.
Like always, Allie would eventually think about that movie. The one that had started everything, the inciting incident that she could blame.
At that time in her life, the idea of an artist fascinated her. She was interested in a little bit of everything, and even felt like she had a talent as a photographer, yet she still didn’t have the spirit of an artist. She didn’t realize the door she had opened, however. Sometimes the truth was like learning the mysteries behind a magician’s tricks. You saw things differently. You might even wish you didn’t know how the magic worked.
This happened early on when Allie began to learn more about this wonderful and mythical f...
6. A comforter covered her in this cozy little cabin and its name was Fiona Apple. Her pillow happened to be some kind of red wine Morgan had bought. Allie realized that sitting around by a fireplace sipping wine on a Sunday night wasn’t really a great way to declare victory over the booze-faced bastard she’d just left but she was coping. Morgan had given her a pill to help with the panic, too. Maybe that helped. Allie wasn’t much of a fan for either of these vices but tonight she needed them and welcomed them. The music was simply the soundtrack for her sad little soul.
You meet the man of your dreams and you’re swept off your feet. With an Italian name and an accent and all the promise of this wonderful art he created. A director. A visionary. A fresh voice.
A monster.
Allie wondered if most men had similar demons or if the artistic ones tended to carry a special breed of them. The tortured souls falling victim to their own vapid shadows. Believing the hype predicted and then medicating over the cliff tossed over.
At one point, Allie had tried to carry Bernardo. She understood the industry and how fickle and ferocious it could be. She also understood how things changed—how everything suddenly stopped once California was partially decimated. They had moved and people had died and the entire industry suddenly started to circle. Some being sucked inside the swirling hole. Some of it surviving but changing. Some of it simply vanishing into thin air.
Bernardo’s career had been of the latter sort. Nobody wanted clever art anymore. The world was ending. Nobody wanted anything that could be called art or even rhymed with that word. Bernardo’s career wasn’t just on hold. It was finished. Done. Over. Thank you very much for coming, here’s your consolation prize. It’s a wife that will bleed for you and allow you to bruise her over your misfortunes and your missed opportunites.
A punching bag.
A shadowboxer as Fiona Apple sang about on the iPod and the portable speakers Morgan had moved from the kitchen into the main room.
The room spun around and Allie knew she’d had enough. The past can do that to you.
“Wow, going old school tonight,” Morgan said walking into the room, not worrying about turning down the volume.
“I remember getting high to this album,” Allie said.
“What? Really? Not you.”
Allie nodded and laughed. “Yeah. I had this stoner boyfriend in high school-he was a mess. But a beautiful mess.”
“You seem to attract those.”
“Yes.”
“I could deal with the beautiful part,” Morgan said sipping her fresh glass of wine. “At least on cold winter nights.”
Memories were like bits of snow and ice pelting the side of the house. So many in bits and pieces. Too many to choose to pick up and study.
Morgan sat down next to her on the couch and sat Indian-style facing Allie.
“I left him,” she told her friend.
“What do you mean?”
Allie heard herself laugh and it sounded a bit mental, a bit delirious. This only made her laugh harder.
“I mean I bashed a champagne bottle over his head and knocked him unconscious and then left. That’s why my suitcase is so packed.”
Morgan still obviously didn’t understand. She was silent, waiting to hear the yeah right just kidding.
“I’m not kidding, Morgan.”
“What happened?”
“Do I need to tell you?”
The flickering light from the fire moved over Morgan’s face. “No but I mean—did something happen that I don’t know about? Something to make you finally--”
“I married him. That’s enough.”
Yes, this was true, but Allie also knew there was something else. The final eye-opening moment. The new low, the hitting rock bottom moment.
“But yeah, there was something,” Allie added. “A week before you invited me to North Carolina.”
There was only the sound of crackling wood and the crinkle of flames in the fireplace. Morgan balled up more on the sofa and waited, watching Allie.
“Things haven’t been good,” Allie said.
“I know that.
5.
"Think anybody will find us?"
Silence and the dark wrapped like blankets around them.
"Nobody's looking."
So confident. So crazy. This guy.
"Think we should go back?"
The moon stood watch, staring without a single blink.
"Never."
He did something crazy. Unheard of. Something more unexpected than them sneaking out and sitting on the hillside overlooking the ocean.
"You're holding my hand."
She could see his smile since the moon was kind enough to shine on them. His gaze seemed to compete with the sight above.
"That's 'cause it fits."
Carefully constructed to connect. Two out of two billion. Hands that suddenly felt like one.
"My father used to hold my hand. But the guys I've known—they skip that whole thing."
Like a rock thrown out to sea that refused to skip but instead stayed waiting on the surface, he simply smiled.
"Don't lump me in with those others. Keep them inside the box. Let me roam free."
The breath of the Pacific let out a beautiful and warm exhale. The endless waters before them were a mirror.
Yet it didn't take much to shatter a mirror. Just a simple rock thrown in the right way at the right time.
God to only be able to step through and patch it all back up . . .
If only she could go back. To keep things there by the ocean, back in her early twenties, back when she was so full of herself. Back when she realized this young man really was the right one.
Instead, Allie had been foolish to believe he'd wait. To think there might be others. To wander off and never come back again.
There were others, indeed. Ones that waited in pitch black rooms with doors that locked. Ones that took her and then wouldn't let her go.
Allie, the adult and not-so-confident version, had grown used to escaping. But it was always with her mind and her heart. She'd go back to the rock looking over such beauty. High enough to take her breath away. She'd go back and find salvation, only for a few moments.
Even now, in the silence of the cabin now, Allie had gone back. Just for a brief moment. Just to remember and try to say goodbye. It never came.
4.
Allie had never taken such delight in personal isolation.
The sporty Nissan Altima they'd rented whipped around the curves as they approached the resort. It took another half hour to get from the town of Mars Hill to Wolf Ridge. A twisting road off the highway became more and more tangled the higher they got into the mountains. Allie could count on one hand how many houses they passed. Soon they arrived at a quaint gatehouse with a lane on each side to enter and exit. Morgan told the elderly man moving as slow as turtle the address for where they were staying and what name it was under. He gave them a pass to stick inside their car and then pressed a button to raise the gate. His smiling gaze never left them as they drove off waving at him.
Suddenly there were cabins all around them. The directions Morgan's phone was giving her took them up a paved road, winding of course and feeling like one lane. They soon arrived at the top and drove by a hotel and a large mountain lodge that was a combination pro shop for the golf course and a restaurant for the resort. Half a dozen cars were parked outside even though it was definitely not golf season.
"Think we can pick up some men there?" Morgan joked.
"Yes. As long as we bring walkers," Allie said.
The directions led them to a dirt road that meandered on the other side of the mountain. Down a bit then up again, then turning around and then driving around and up and then back down.
A cold sort of gloom hovered over Allie, and she didn't think it was the temperature.
"Is that thing really working?" Allie asked.
"I hope."
It took them right to a road heading upward at a sharp incline. The house had its number on a wooden sign at the top of its plunging driveway. It was a quaint little cabin with a tin roof and a smiling grin of a front.
"Can I just live here the rest of my life?" Allie asked.
"Maybe we will, don't jinx us," Morgan said, backing up and then slowly heading down the sharp gravel drive.
Once outside, the wind feeling colder than it did at the Asheville airport, Allie followed Morgan as she searched the winding deck that wrapped around three-fourths of the cabin.
"They said it's under a mat that says 'Welcome' but I don't—oh, here."
Morgan looked underneath and then found the plastic bag with the key inside it. She held it up so that Allie could see she'd found it.
"Just like they said," Morgan said.
"Glad they didn't forget."
"Yeah, me too."
The key worked for the front door just right outside the driveway. It creaked open and the musty air inside greeted them with a choke and a cough.
"Smells like my grandparents," Morgan said.
"Smells like freedom," Allie said, walking in and embracing their remoteness.
"It's very quaint," her friend said, walking around and taking it in.
It's very me very now very necessary.
"It's perfect, Morgan."
A smile and a flip of the hair and an assured glance.
"You don't know how happy I am to hear that," Morgan said.
"Me too."
Allie hugged her, then they proceeded to check the rest of the place out. This would make such a beautiful temporary shelter from the storm of the life they'd just left. Temporary being the word. Sooner than later, Bernardo would know and would come to this place. But for now, he wasn't there. For now, maybe, just maybe, Allie could sleep halfway decently.
On a side table near the front door, an elaborate chess board with handcut wooden pieces sat waiting to be used. Allie picked up one of the black pieces and was surprised by how heavy it felt.
"You know how to play?" Allie asked Morgan.
Her friend glanced at the board and then shook her head. "Uh, no. But I'm willing to learn anything with enough alcohol."
Morgan placed the handbag she'd brought in on a table while Allie walked to the back of the small cabin. She glanced outside one of the windows and saw something black streak by.
3. The love she longed for which closed its eyes and opened its heart felt like some kind of hidden cave of gems waiting deep in the Appalachian mountains they drove by. Allie was the passenger and slowly sifted out of her seat into rolling hills smothered with memory.
Allie first fell in love with the film "Charmingstance" five years ago when she saw it on her thirtieth birthday. She had seen it with a man she had dated for a couple of years, and the film strangely signified the end of their relationship. The two of them were all wrong for each other even if the sex was great. Allie had always been in search of this deeper sort of thing and that was the night when she finally figured out that Luke would always be shallow water. The movie put an exclamation point on it, especially when Luke walked out of the theater bewildered and complaining about having wasted the last two hours of his life.
That's what I've done for the last two years of mine, she had thought.
So ended one relationship and so began another one. The true word to call it at the start was an obsession, and it was centered solely on this mystical and poetic film made by one Bernardo Donati. This American-born young and quite handsome director who had made a couple of indie films before blasting to stardom with "Charmingstance". Bernardo was the only son of Italian mega-millionaire businessman Antonio Donati and his fashion mogul wife Stella Donati. How Allie could have ever dreamt or conceived of being part of that life still astounded her. But the very film was built on the idea of transforming yourself, of changing the person you saw in the mirror. At her very core, this was what Allie had longed for in her three decades of life. Somehow, it seemed, Bernardo Donati knew how to speak to her heart and soul.
The movie world would end up speaking to that very heart and soul, but the words it would use would be harsh and cruel, and most would come from Sir Donati.
"Hollywood is a place where they'll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul," Marilyn Monroe once said.
Allie knew that now, but had no true idea that could have been the case five years ago. So deluded and foolish and driven simply to try to meet this man. She did. Now she dreaded the day they had met. Now she hated herself for every second afterwards, and how easily she had been sucked up into this scalding vacuum. A dark place where you couldn't breathe and could only hear the noisy engine of another man's nightmares playing themselves out on you. Literally on and over and through you.
"Allie?"
Her day-drifting out the passenger seat window stopped as Allie blinked and looked back over at Morgan. "Yeah?"
"I'm going to stop at the grocery store in Mars Hill."
"That a real name?"
"Yep. Tiny little town, the last one before we get to the resort."
"Do I have to go in?" Allie said with a smile, stretching her arms and legs.
"Didn't sleep well last night, did you?"
"Not exactly."
Morgan flicked her hair like she always did out of habit. It was great when the guys were around because they loved that sort of thing, but Allie simply found it amusing.
"I think you have some big story to tell," Morgan said.
"Maybe," Allie said.
"What would get you to spill the beans? Margaritas or wine?"
"Both," Allie joked. "Actually, your short ribs would make me tell you anything. And then some."
"Ooh," Morgan said with a grin. "Well, I'll have to look up the recipe on my phone, but I think that's possible. With the margaritas and wine, of course."
"Of course."
"You do know I stole that recipe from Tom Colicchio?"
"The Top Chef guy?"
Morgan gave her a nod.
"Haven't watched that show in a while," Allie said.
"I don't think a new season has been on for a couple of years. Just like—just like everything."
The painful truth Allie not only knew but carried scars for. Not emotional scars but the literal kind,
2.
The plane trembled for a moment, shifting up and down as it sorted itself out through the clouds. Allie closed her eyes, unfraid of the turbulence but still terrified of the disorder she'd left behind in New York.
The decision to leave Bernardo had arrived with the invitation from her friend to go on a trip. A simple text arriving a month ago with a one-sentence question that ultimately would change Allie's life.
Want to go to North Carolina with me?
There was something about the straightforwardness of the question that made Allie decide in an instant that she was going to go with Morgan. But not only that, Allie was going to finally leave her husband. This simply felt like the natural thing to do. It was a legitimate offer to get away and Allie took it. But she also took it knowing she wasn't going back. She would stay away. Far, far away.
"You seem nervous," Morgan said in the seat next to her facing the window.
"I'm fine. Just tired."
She hadn't told her friend about everything. Not yet. Allie planned to, especially since reading the texts that Bernardo had been sending to her.
Unfortunately for everybody I didn't kill the bastard.
He didn't know she was still friends with Morgan, but eventually her husband would find out. He would figure out what had happened and where she'd gone. And chances were good that he'd come find her, too. So Morgan needed to know. But later. Not at this moment.
"We'll be there in less than two hours," Morgan said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. "Aren't you glad that it didn't work out with Sterling?"
"I'm not happy for you, but yes, I'm very happy for me that I can accompany you."
"Sterling had wanted something tropical. Probably so he could be around a bunch of women in bikinis. The jerk. I swear. Between you and me, we could write a book on getting the wrong guys."
Allie glanced at her beautiful friend and smiled. "You could write that book. With the emphasis on guys. With a big fat 'S'. I'd just write a book on living with a monster."
Morgan gave her a sad and sympathetic look, so very familiar this past year. "I'm sorry for bringing that up."
"It's fine. Really."
"You were quiet last night. Do you want to talk about anything?"
Last night I was wondering whether I left my husband for dead.
"Not now. Let's just celebrate getting away to the resort in the mountains."
"You're going to love it," Morgan said. "I promise you. Let's hope for lots of snow."
"Sounds good to me."
She had known Morgan since college, but it had only been since moving back to Manhattan that the two of them had reconnected. Allie still found it hard that her friend had so many guy troubles. Everybody said Morgan resembled Jennifer Aniston, not the young woman on television but the star gracing the movies these days. There was a strength and sophistication about Morgan that Allie felt like she'd never have. People called her friend warm and sexy while using words like elegant and aloof to describe Allie. A few years ago, that would have bothered her, back when she and Bernardo were living in Los Angeles keeping up with that insane lifestyle. Now it didn't matter how someone described her.
Tired and old and scared.
The tired and old parts didn't bother Allie, but the scared part did. She had lived a long time—thirty-plus years—without being scared of anything or anyone. But suddenly fear had deluged her entire existence just like those crippling twin tsunamis last year. Everything changed. Nothing was spared.
The only difference was that Allie could move on from the wreckage and reclaim her courage. This was that moment. Now and tonight and tomorrow and the rest of her life.
Allie glanced back down the aisle and noticed it was empty. She told Morgan she'd be right back, then unbuckled herself and walked to the back of the plane. The glances of several men followed her but she ignored them, mostly because she felt so disheveled.
1
She pressed play on the iPad resting against the dresser and could hear the Bose speakers begin to vibrate. It was the signal for him to come to the bedroom. A sign saying she was dressed up and ready for him to undress her. The door was open and the perfume spilled out into the hallway and the candles were quivering with their deep glow. All for Bernado. Every single thing for Bernado.
Two champagne glasses rested on the nightstand with one of the candles behind it. This was a special touch for a special night in their apartment. Bernardo wasn't much of a champagne kind of man. He collected wines and had his favorites, along with his love of scotch and bourbon. The filled flutes with their slender stems would simply make her man smile. They would be a sign of what he could expect when he entered the room.
Allie Laurent stood in the shadows of the walk-in closet, fully dressed and ready for action. Sometimes he would tell her what outfit he was in the mood for. She certainly had plenty to choose from. Expensive lingerie Bernardo had bought for her over the years, sometimes from stores or designers she had never even heard of. It was one of his favorite hobbies picking them out. Then again, anything to do with Allie happened to be put into his "favorite" category.
The half-empty bottle of high-priced champagne didn't feel too heavy in her hand. She raised it up and took a long sip, nearly finishing it. It would help loosen her up. But she was ready for Bernardo. She'd been ready all day now.
He was taking his time. Probably downstairs enjoying his drink, checking his phone, maybe finishing watching some game. Not that he wasn't in the mood or didn't want her but he could take his time. He'd eventually have what he wanted.
The Norah Jones song from years ago began to play and Allie could only smile. It was Bernardo's playlist. He loved himself some Norah Jones. He'd always told Allie that she looked like Norah, something Allie didn't see but she allowed him to indulge this nice little fantasy. He liked hearing Norah's voice when they were making love, regardless of the song playing. It amped up the story he was letting play out in his mind.
"Sono qui, Allie," Bernardo said loud enough to be heard over Norah's sensual and sad song.
Ah, the Italian coming out.
Yes, Bernardo, you're here.
She moved through the darkness toward the open doorway leading to the glimmer of the bedroom.
"Champagne?" he said with the sound of genuine surprise just beyond her glance. "You're spoiling me."
"I got you something new," Allie said. "Something you'll like."
"Where are you?"
Norah continued to serenade them.
"Close your eyes," Allie said in a wistful tone. "For a moment."
The music was perfect. A sign that this was right, that everything was right, that this was going to be absolutely amazing.
Peering around the doorway to spot the tall, dark and handsome man himself, Allie could see him grinning. Not peeking—no. Sometimes, Bernardo could be a patient man. Like tonight when every single little thing was perfect. He stood there by the bed waiting in his light blue button-down shirt and designer jeans.
Allie breathed in, then turned the corner and rushed over to him and swung the bottle of champagne against his temple as hard as she could. She hoped that it would dig into his skull and his dense head and strike him dead. Or at the very least just knock him out and over and give him a nice bump and scar for the rest of his miserable life.
The blunt sound was followed by a choking gasp and a quick scream as Bernardo went down. He opened his eyes and wobbled his head and looked at her with confusion and alarm. Eyes dazed and widening and then flattening and then widening again.
She struck him again on the side of his head. Harder.
The eyes didn't open again.
A streak of blood spilled over onto the front of his crisp blue shirt.
Allie looked over him for a moment,
8.
The body he was carrying was heavy. The face flopped sideways so he couldn't see it. His arms and legs and back ached and he couldn't breathe in enough air. Each step was impossible. Was there snow on the ground? This alerted Will for the first time that something was off. Not the shape he was carrying but the snow he was trudging through.
Wait a minute.
The figure in his arms suddenly jerked as the coughing began again. This time it was followed by blood. Will felt some of it on his face.
Where is this place?
A stumble, then stopping with knees digging into the cold ground, the body suddenly rolling in front of him. Then he saw them. All of them. All surrounding and engulfing and swallowing him.
The black graves. They were everywhere.
He realized he was searching for one to drop the body in. But where? And who was this person?
The figure lay with its face in the snow. He couldn't make out its form and shape under the heavy winter clothes. Was it Tricia? It was heavy—too heavy to be her. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time he had carried her like this.
He blinked and tried to get a better picture, starting to move to pull the body over and see the dead face. And just as he did---
The high-pitched buzzer beside his bed began to cry out. He quickly turned it off and then slipped out of the bed. His leaking sanity was still dripping all over him.
A quick shower and then he was leaving. Trish didn't get out to say goodbye. There was really no need. He'd left on business trips many times before. She liked her sleep and had said goodbye last night. If she was awake, she might whisper a farewell, but he didn't hear one. He heard the familiar creaks in the floor instead bidding him a Bon Voyage.
Someone else awaited downstairs, however.
A girl much taller than her age, more brighter than the winter weather outside, more joyful than her father could ever remember being.
"You shouldn't be up," he said to Claire.
"You shouldn't be leaving."
It was only five and they had a rule for Claire not to get out of bed before six. But of course, this was an unusual morning in a very unusual last twelve months.
"We talked about this," he said as he felt his daughter wrap herself around him.
Then she began to cry.
Kissing the top of her head felt as natural as breathing, as normal as sipping his morning coffee, as routine as saying goodbye and starting up his SUV to go to work.
This isn't natural or normal or routine.
"Are you going to be okay?" Claire asked, that normally fun-loving, free-for-all face now wrinkled in pain. Not childlike pain but the adult kind.
"I'll be fine. I'm not going to be gone long."
"How long?"
"Not long," he told her.
"But how long?"
"Claire . . ."
Her hug tightened around him. He could hear those soft and low sobs.
"Listen to me. Hey—look at me. Claire--"
Wide eyes glanced up at him. Will wiped the tears and then gave her a confident smile.
"This is a good thing, okay?" he told his eldest daughter. "I'm going to be helping people. Helping to sort through the mess down there. Okay? They just don't have enough people and they desperately need help just to start to rebuild. And that's going to be good for us, too. You know? That means I'll have more money to buy you guys more American Girl dolls."
"We don't have American Girl dolls," Claire corrected.
Yes, of course they didn't. They had the faux kind that Target sold. But the twins certainly didn't know the difference and Claire had never complained once about it.
Will smiled. She just couldn't help being a firstborn.
"Well, whatever they are—they're just as good as American Girl dolls."
"I don't want an American Girl doll," she said, squeezing him again.
For a moment, Will almost lost it.
He had to breathe in and stay strong and not let her see an ounce of fear or hesitation or sadness on his face. He let the hug stay for a while and then faced he...
7.
The evening period between five when he usually got home and eight when all three girls were finally asleep was always the toughest part of the day. Will figured it was because somehow they had a secret stash of Mountain Dew and Ecstasy that they got into right before he got home. Opening the garage door that led to the family room usually brought loud and colorful explosions. Claire would pop up and give him a hug as soon as he stepped through the door, telling him something silly one of the boys did in her second grade class. Emma would wander over to him saying "Daddy!" and hug him and then ask for his phone. Ashley might look at him with her "meh" glance but usually would be focused on one of her dolls.
Dinner was rowdy and the odds were fifty-fifty that all three girls would be sitting at the table with them. With lots of screaming and sometimes crying or whining or laughing or throwing food. It was a little bit of chaos that sometimes calmed down by the time the girls got into their beds. But their moods and energy and willingness to obey were all a bit like the wind outside. You never knew which way it was going to blow and how fierce it might be.
Will's joke to anybody who listened was that the girls often led him to drink. After the recent incident and the subsequent talk with Tricia, Will had realized that it wasn't such a funny thing after all. There was always a little bit of truth in every joke, right? It was only recently that Will had discovered his means of surviving those dinnertime hours and trying to relax was by getting the wine to do it for him. This realization didn't change any habits, however. He'd get around to that whenever life slowed down.
"Daddy!"
It didn't matter who was screaming because they were all screaming for him at different times. Will was watching the news and waiting to tell his wife the news, but he knew it had to be in those eighteen seconds between the time the girls went to bed and the moment Tricia started to drift asleep. She'd get comfortable on the loveseat watching a cooking or a fashion reality show. The loveseat was only large enough for two, so their female Shih Tzu was the only one to share the love.
"Daddy come downstairs!"
Bedtime was close and he couldn't wait. To get this stuff—this awful adult life-is-hard sort of junk--off his chest. Then he could check it off and start making plans.
A couple of blinks and a couple of glasses of wine and the little girls were asleep. Or in the words of singer/songwriter Leonard Cohen:
Hallelujah.
The time ticked down now before he lost his wife.
"Hey, so I spoke with Victoria today."
This got Tricia's attention since they both knew what that might mean. There was no resting on her side, nor was there any channel-surfing.
"What about?"
He gave a look that he knew told her everything. Her body seemed to deflate for a moment, her head tilting and her eyes focusing closely on him. She suddenly had a familiar look on her face, too. The are you kidding me look.
"They're canceling the book," Will said without any emotion.
The emotion came from her as they spoke about the realities of everything for several minutes. He didn't expect Tricia or anybody else outside of the publishing world to understand the realities involved inside it. He understood her anger and confusion and simply tried to stay calm and collected. Those two words didn't describe him, not deep down, but right now his anger and frustration wouldn't help the situation.
Exasperation. They'd crossed that border a couple of years ago. This was a new one entirely. Desperation? Desolation?
It all depends on the context.
In the context of this room, the one with the juice-box stained carpet and the sofas hiding Cheerios and Cheez-Its, then it definitely could be put into the emergency category. But in the blinding light of the rest of the world, one that kept cracking apart like poorly made peanut brittle,
Adulthood was like having a bank account that changed every single second of every day. Sometimes you'd check and find twice as much as you expected. Then the next moment you looked in the account you'd discover it was overdrawn.
For calls like this, he needed his second office. That was his SUV, which for now he hadn't started to save gas.
Arcade Fire didn't help his mood, but it sorta summed up a little bit of everything as it played in his car on the drive to the office.
A week earlier, before he even knew he would be leaving to head down to the South, Will had dreamt about the graveyard again.