by Alan Spencer
"Oh shit." Bending down to pick it up, he noted the metal plate over the phone's number keys and the thin slot in the center. The slot reminded him of the hole you'd see for a coin to be inserted into a pay phone. He tossed the phone aside, fearing if he touched the altered device, his hands would become contaminated. "What in the hell is going on here?"
Hannah called out again, more insistent and on the verge of a scream, "Brock, answer me right now! Where are you?"
"I'm right here!" He shouted back, using up what little gall left in him to speak. "I'm right here, Hannah."
She detected his location and began stepping into the house with determination. Ripped from his throat without conceiving the words, he warned her, "Wait in there, Hannah. Do not come in this room. I mean it."
"What's happening in there?"
She was panicked, but so was he, and if he was going to maintain any sense of calm in the next few moments, he had to perform his best version of damage control possible. Stepping into the next room in search of a blanket to cover the corpse with, his blood boiled when he heard her scream again. Too late. She had stepped into the room. Hannah had seen the body. When he re-entered the room, she threw herself against him and unleashed hysterical tears.
Brock hugged her, shielding her face from the corpse and talking low to soothe her. "It's okay. I'll cover it up. You won't have to see it again. I'm sorry you had to see the body. It's okay now. Everything's going to be fine. I'm here."
Mumbling nonsense, the words she said next were lost in a soup of tears. He stroked her head and let her cry while he sized up the rest of the scene for clues. No blood on the walls. No obvious murder weapon. The box carved out of the man's back, it seemed too clean and too perfect. The wound didn't look real. A tool or instrument would create jagged edges, but what knife could cut into bone with such smooth precision?
After Hannah calmed some more, he said, "Stay in the living room. Sit down. I'm going to cover up the body."
Hannah heard him but didn't respond. She simply sat down on the recliner with her head in her hands, sobering up from the cry. Brock wasted no time locating a blanket, but also stealing a moment to himself to figure out their next move.
They had no phone.
There could be another phone in the house that works. You have to keep looking.
Brock couldn't wrap his mind around the metal covering over the phone's number pads. What did it mean? Failing to lock onto any logic to solve the dilemma, Brock moved on to the task at hand. He moved through the kitchen, then into a side room and located a hallway. From there, he entered an empty bedroom. The bed was made and everything looked untouched. He pulled the wool blanket from the top of the bed and folded it into his arms. He knew there was another body in the house. The smell was too strong in the direction he was walking.
Forging on, he kept the blanket in his hands, ready to drape it over another corpse if need be. Brock knocked on the door. "Is anybody in there?"
He expected no answer and didn't receive one. Edging open the door, the pungent scent filtered free. Brock held his breath, and clenching his body, he turned on the light. He gasped, throwing the blanket over the naked woman lumped inside the bathtub. The same shoe box slot was removed from her back. Beads of gel thick blood had crawled down her backside and across her buttocks, staining the flesh. The bathtub was otherwise clean, no other traces of blood or what kind of weapon was used.
Brock threw the door closed. He returned to Hannah, immediately covering the corpse on the floor in the kitchen with a different blanket. With the task out of the way, he noticed Hannah was staring out the nearest window, her fingers bending two blinds back to peek out.
"Do you see anything out there?"
"It's getting dark. I can't see anything."
The wheels in Brock's head turned. "I think we should pick a room in this place and hide out for the night."
"I have a better idea. I'm sure who owned this house has a car. We find the keys and drive out of here. I don't want to be in this town a moment longer than I have to. This place is scaring me."
"Okay, that makes sense. Keys first, and if there's a gun in the house, we take that too." He thought back to the naked woman in the bathroom. "We can search the place out, but be careful going down the hallway. I've covered the other body. It's in the bathroom."
Hannah began searching the kitchen for the keys. Brock joined the search, going down into the basement. He discovered most of the basement space was taken up by a large loom used for sewing rugs and blankets. Through another door, Brock discovered a woodshop with a table saw, drill press, and an entire wall covered by varieties of common tools.
He didn't happen upon any keys, though he located a hunting knife with a five inch blade that was cased in a leather satchel. He looped it in his belt to feel safer.
Returning up the stairs, Hannah called out, "Hey, I found 'em!"
Brock doubled his stride and met up with her in one of the bedrooms. She had located the keys on top of a bureau next to a wallet. He smiled at her and then hugged her. "Good job. Let's get the hell out of here."
They marched out the front door together seeking a match for the keys.
NO WAY OUT
Walking down another cobbled path outside, they reached an open garage. Inside was a Land Rover that was parked among wheel barrows, shovels, bags of mulch, cedar chips, and the necessities to inject new life into a garden. Hannah moved ahead of him, and when she tried the first key in the vehicle, her face locked up in frustration.
"Fucking thing, it's blocked!"
Brock stared at where the car's keyhole used to be. A square of steel covered the slot with a slit in the center centimeters wide, the same that covered the cell phone's keys.
Hannah leaned up against the car, channeling her distress by pounding the hood with her fists. "What do we do now, Brock? We're stuck in the middle of nowhere without a phone and without a way out of here. We're screwed."
Brock shook his head. "No we're not."
"What do you mean?"
Brock moved towards the lawn and picked up a brick from a large pile. The owners had been in the process of laying down a new path. Brock heaved it through the driver's side window, the glass shattering instantly upon impact.
Hannah clapped her hands. "Good thinking!"
"Despite my age, I still have moderate brain function."
Brock reached through the window and unlocked the door. Opening it, he grabbed the keys from her hands anxiously. His moment of victory was squelched when the key tinged against steel. "Goddamn-it!"
Hannah examined the keyhole herself. "There's just no way."
"I don't know how to jumpstart a car, but if I did, I have a feeling there would be something preventing me from doing so too."
"None of this makes sense."
"I think we should go inside and get a few locked doors between us and the outside."
"But what are we hiding from? I know there's people out there, but maybe this shit is what's making them carry guns. There's something else happening, and I want to know what it is."
Brock had other questions. "Why is Angel here, of all places? So she sent me a letter, wanting me to get in touch with her. That was days ago. Maybe she was calling out for help."
"Then why didn't she outwardly tell us this was happening? Why did she lead us into this dangerous situation?"
"I have to find Angel either way." Brock was determined to win back his sister, but also to escape Blue Hills with everybody safe. "When we find her, that's the first thing I'll ask her. Just what the hell is going on."
"I don't know who can explain the steel panels over the phones and the keyholes. Angel didn't do any of that. Angel didn't make that man at the mountain climbing store take our fifty cents and run. And she certainly didn't have anything to do with the four who burned up our car. She's in the middle of something weird here, and it's a strange coincidence that while this is going on that she makes contact with you, and then off you go
on a whim to see her. There's something sinister behind what your sister contacting you."
She was scared, he kept telling himself, and she had a right to be bitter and mad at him and his sister. This was surreal, and he couldn't shake the feeling this was still an imaginary occurrence, a bad dream, and someone would pull back the curtain and tell them this was an elaborate magic trick.
The dead bodies aren't a magic trick.
"I admit Angel's reasons for having me come here are suspicious, but I know for certain it isn't her doing these things. We know nothing. We would know more if we were in town, not in these woods."
Hannah turned her head up to the sky, what was dark purple with the sun on the very edge of the horizon ready to kiss the day goodbye. "I guess we're not going anywhere until tomorrow."
"Right," Brock said, taking her by the arm and leading her back into the house. "It's not like we have much choice. The answers aren't here. We calm down, lock ourselves in tight, and try and sleep."
She scoffed at the idea. "I won't sleep in ten years." She turned her nose. "And I can't stand the smell of those bodies."
Brock pointed at the guest house to the right of the garage. It was the size of a large shed. "Then we stay in there."
Hannah sighed. "I guess we have no choice."
THE GUEST HOUSE
The guest house was used for extra storage. Another large sewing loom took up a quarter of the space. After blocking the front and only door with a set of fine oak chairs, they were convinced the barricade was enough protection to flag their attention if anybody tried to break in. The windows were locked and would have to smashed, and that would surely wake them being in such short vicinity of the noise.
Hannah rushed to the phone hanging on the far wall and was once again disappointed there was no access to the digits thanks to the steel covering. She trailed her finger along the center slot. "What's this hole for? I mean, seriously."
Brock turned his head at the phone. "I don't know. And any guess can't be proven right or wrong. I really don't know." He walked towards the corner sofa and entered the small alcove for a kitchen and was startled by the sight. "What in hell is this about?"
Hannah followed him to the kitchen. She saw it too. They both approached it like a fallen meteor that could spread cancer if they came too close. The handle of the refrigerator was bolted down by a strip of steel, making it impossible to open. And there was the thin slit in the middle of the steel square. He imagined the slit where one placed a quarter into a vending machine, but it was longer, and wider, and purposeless.
"First the phones, and now the refrigerator."
Hannah rubbed nervously at her eyes, and then ran her hand through her hair, issuing out a long exaggerated breath. "I can't take anymore of this shit."
Brock agreed. "Let's just sit and relax. There isn't anything we can do until sunup."
He urged her towards the couch with a coaxing arm. Hannah lowered her head into his chest. Brock rocked her softly, easing each scene from the day from her mental slate. He catalogued his thoughts during the quiet time, imagining what they'd be doing tomorrow to get out of Blue Hills.
The main roads aren't safe. Or maybe they are. It could be just those four people we have to worry about. Maybe Michael from the store knew they were coming, or he was with the four, and he later joined them. If the phones aren't working, then I have to locate the actual police station. And I can't leave without seeing Angel. I don't even know if she's here. She didn't say how long she was staying. It's only been a few days since she contacted you. Either way, I have to find the Piedmont Inn. I have a feeling the way things have been going, she's still here. Maybe she knows why things are growing locks on them.
After fifteen minutes, Hannah spoke. She sounded like she was on the verge of sleep. "It's a strange feeling being in someone's house. Using their stuff, making ourselves at home, I feel like I'm intruding. It's interesting."
"Interesting?"
"Yeah, it's interesting." Brock knew she was speaking for the sake of speaking, to alleviate the tension in her body that was slowly unwinding itself. "I wonder what it'd be like under different circumstances to crash someone's house. A better house. If they had good liquor, or a hot tub, or what about a sauna? That'd be nice."
A laugh escaped him, alien sounding. "What if that was our honeymoon? Breaking into vacated houses and enjoying their amenities, I mean. You would save money on expenses. We could hit twelve different houses before the honeymoon was up."
"You wouldn't have to make the bed."
"Or pay for room service."
"I want to use one of those showers that have four different heads spraying you from up top and from the sides. It'd be lavish."
"Could you imagine finding someone in your apartment doing that? If it was your sister's place, she'd kick the shit out of them."
"Hah," a snort. "She beat the shit out of you, didn't she? I still picture her scissor-kicking and upper-cutting you. It's funny."
"I'm laughing so hard." Brock rubbed his belly where the bruises continued to throb. Thanks to the extreme events of the day, he hadn't thought about his recent pummeling. "You have a prize fighter for a sister."
"Too bad she's not here to make us feel safer."
"I don't make you feel safer?"
"I mean strength in numbers" She turned serious. "I feel so far away from everything being here. I'm so scared we could end up dead because of something nobody will ever understand."
"That won't happen." The last thing they needed to talk about was dying. "Why don't we try and rest? Close your eyes and relax. We'll get up early in the morning and start following a main road, and we'll be real careful. If anybody's coming, we'll hide. It's that simple."
Brock wasn't sure what Hannah thought about what he said, but she was quiet for the rest of the night. It wasn't long before they closed their weary eyes and hid into a safe hideaway slumber.
READING OF THE WILL
Willy Hawker was sitting in a Blue Hills historic spot called "The Noleman House." H. P. Noleman was one of many slave owners who willingly sold off his plantations when the Emancipation Proclamation was signed into law. H. P. Noleman was famous for his uncharacteristic change of heart from slave owner to emancipation enforcer. The house was now a place for tourists to visit. The story was nice and everything, but Willy Hawker kept wondering why the hell he was called out from his home a five hour's drive away to this place to receive his inheritance. Stranger still, why was he receiving an inheritance from a man who had been dead for the better part of fifteen years?
Willy was sandwiched in the single row of chairs between distant relatives he vaguely recognized. There was John and Tammy Kippwell (Tammy's maiden name was Hawker), a middle aged set of snobs who were rich from John's corporate law practice and Tammy's modeling career. They were both slender, well groomed, and sucked-cheeked type of people. They also looked like they had sweated in a car for too long in each other's company and were ready to get the formality of their presence here out of the way. His aunt and uncle on his father's side, Wilma and Harris Hawker, were well into their seventies and sat quietly to themselves. Brandy and Jake Hawker were second cousins to Willy's family, both being farmers in Iowa and owning two dairy farms. Four other people with Hawker blood sat in the row, but Willy hadn't met them before today.
Nobody talked to one another, though Willy tried to chat with Tammy Kipwell who sucked in her cheeks even harder and gave him two piercing eyes that insisted he need not try any form of conversation with her. This was about money, not about remembering Tim Hawker, Willy's uncle who had died fifteen years ago in a tragic house fire.
Tim Hawker had died in that fire while saving Willy when he was only seven years old. Remembering the fire at his uncle's house, Willy's scar tissue along his back and neck seemed to hum. He had been sent to the emergency room with those minor burns, while his uncle died in the emergency room. Some said Tim couldn't find his way out of the basement once he got Willy to
the upstairs floor. Others said the staircase collapsed right after he saved Willy, and Tim burned to death in the basement. Either way, his uncle died a horrible death. Willy heard many versions of the same story, but they each had the same ending.
Death.
Uncle Hawker was Willy's favorite uncle, as far as his kid mind could remember. Tim was a country man with country sensibilities, but he had an imagination like no other and hands that could build things to exact his imagination. The toys and machines that man built and kept in his basement, Tim had chills remembering them. He loved those toys.
His relatives had no bond with Tim Hawker. They were here to collect money, and it must've been serious money for John and Tammy Kipwell to attend the reading of the will.
The last friend of Tim Hawker had just entered the room and sat right next to Willy. He wore a gray suit top, blue jeans, and a checkered red and white button up shirt. Include the white hair and rough beard, the package said he wasn't a stuck up snob, but a real down to earth person.
"Put 'er there, pal. The name's Tally. My friends call me Tally, so you can call me Tally."
"No problem, Tally." Willy accepted the man's firm one pump shake. "What brings you here? Are you a family friend? I don't believe we've met before now."
"Oh no, we wouldn't have met. Me and Timothy go way back. High school, that far back. And you, how do you know Timothy?"
"I'm his nephew."
"So you lived around here around the time he passed on?"
You mean around the time he burned in a house and died saving me? Yeah, I lived around here. The words slipped out of him. "He saved me from his house when it was burning down, yes."
