Switched On: Book Six in The Borrowed World Series

by Franklin Horton

  The deputy looked curiously at Jim, not knowing all that Jim knew about Buddy's past. He didn’t know about Buddy’s daughter overdosing and the piece-of-shit boyfriend that Buddy had burned alive. He didn’t know about Buddy helping Randi seek revenge on the people who had killed her parents. Ford was still a relative stranger to the valley and he didn’t know the secrets yet. He didn’t know where the bodies were, quite literally, buried.

  The remaining three rode together for another two miles, with both the emergency operations center and the Fairlanes' home being in the same general direction. The miles reminded Jim of pictures he'd seen of war-torn Bosnia and Czechoslovakia. Clean, modern buildings reduced to shambles, people living in preindustrial squalor among wrecked and useless technology. It further brought home Buddy’s comments of the previous night, about how restoring order and normality would not be so simple as turning the lights back on.

  Evidence of scavenging was everywhere. Stores had been looted, vacant homes ransacked. People were desperate for anything that might give their family a better chance. Perhaps the biggest change since his last trip through town was the change in weather, which forced people to turn their scavenging efforts toward things that could be burned in their fireplaces or woodstoves. The town pre-dated the nation and even the sacred Colonial era buildings in town had been stripped of trim and clapboards. Doors had been carted off to be split for kindling. Oak mantles and hand-planed maple stairs had been pried loose of the square nails that had so securely retained them for centuries. Even decorative trees growing along Main Street and on the school campuses had been sawn down and hauled off.

  Such desperation would only lead to more death as people attempted to burn fires in unsafe fireplaces that hadn’t been used in decades. When those heating systems fell into disuse, the chimneys were often blocked by birds or squirrel nests. Many residents may not even think to go outside and confirm their chimney was still there. Sometimes when homes were reroofed people knocked the chimneys down to below roof level and roofed over them to save the expense of repairing them.

  People were moving around here in town, whether for social purposes or to scavenge. There were tracks and compressed sled trails. They came to another intersection where a powerless traffic light hung uselessly over an intersection.

  "Where we meeting back up again?" Deputy Ford asked.

  "Let’s just stick to what we told Buddy,” Jim said. “The cemetery is the primary. If that goes south, the intersection near the superstore is the backup."

  “All right. You folks be careful.” The deputy peeled his horse away from the group, plodding on into the deep snow.

  “You be careful out there too,” Jim called after him.

  “He doesn’t seem like the careful type,” Randi remarked.

  “Nope,” Jim agreed. “He doesn’t.”

  THE FAIRLANE HOUSE sat on what used to be a main road leading out of town. When the town grew up, it grew in other directions and that part of town didn’t grow with it. A four-lane highway carried traffic in the opposite direction and the old neighborhood became much quieter, retired like the Fairlanes themselves. Their Victorian was of brick construction, the walls three locally-made bricks thick. The interior walls, joists, and rafters were framed from rough-cut sawmill oak that was now so hard with age a nail could not be driven into it. The steep roof was covered in embossed Victorian steel shingles discolored by rust at their edges.

  The yard was vast and rolling, the house guarded by ancient maples so large that three men could not encircle them with their arms. The trees dropped red and yellow leaves in the fall. Mr. Fairlane had estimated those to be nearly three hundred years old. When Jim was a kid, Mr. Fairlane pointed out all of the history that the trees had been witness to.

  “Daniel Boone could have taken a nap right there,” Charlie had said, pointing toward the base of one of the broad trees. “An Indian brave could have stopped there to eat jerky or have a smoke.”

  Jim studied those trees again, recalling those old days, the way Mr. Fairlane had made history so much more interesting than his teachers at school. He and Randi stopped their horses at the entrance to the property, taking in the scene. There were swinging wrought-iron gates hinged to tall posts of recycled bricks. They were not original to the property but a feature that Charles Fairlane constructed himself in the 1960s. A man in town wanted to get rid of a brick root cellar and offered Charles all of the bricks if he would tear it down. Having more strength and enthusiasm than money, he’d jumped on the project and those bricks now greeted visitors to his home.

  There seemed not to have been any visitors in a long time. Jim studied the immaculate snow between the road and the house. "Looks like no one's been up there."

  “Nope,” Randi agreed.

  "I can smell smoke."

  “I don't see anything coming out of the chimneys," Randi said. “Could be a neighbor.”

  “That doesn’t mean a lot. If she's burning old wood, like furniture and building materials, there might not be any smoke."

  Jim made no effort to venture onto the property, still lost in his reverie of the old home, his memory of the old man.

  “We going to go up there and look or you just going to do this whole thing by ESP? ‘Cause if that’s what you’re going to do, I could have stayed in bed.”

  Jim cut Randi a dirty look. “Lot of memories here and I just ain’t anxious to see the old lady dead. Let’s get it over with.” Jim clucked his mouth and nudged his horse forward.

  “There you go with the negativity again,” Randi said. “Think positive.”

  Jim steered his horse to the unbroken snow of the Fairlanes' gravel drive, trying to remember what lay beneath this snow. Halfway up his horse stumbled. It recovered but Jim, not a confident horseman, was a little shaken. “What the fuck? That a fallen branch?”

  "That ain't a tree branch," Randi said, pointing.

  Jim spun his horse back in that direction and looked at the ground. A waxen face with an ice-encrusted beard stared at him from the snow. His horse had stumbled over a body. “Jesus!”

  "I think there's more," Randi said, pointing at another distant mound partially exposed by the windblown snow.

  Jim hadn’t noticed the bodies. The yard was rippled and banked with windblown snow. He noticed a third body then and had a thought that the Fairlanes’ yard looked like the corpse-strewn slopes of Mount Everest where bodies laid permanently frozen, even being used as navigational markers. “I’m not sure if this is a good sign or not."

  "Maybe it's a sign you best be calling out from that saddle before you get shot out of it," Randi said. “If Mrs. Fairlane is in there, she doesn’t look like much of a negotiator.”

  With that comment, it dawned on Jim that if these men had been shot from the house, he and Randi were now within range. He turned his horse back toward the house and waved an arm over his head. "Mrs. Fairlane! Mrs. Fairlane! Are you home? It's Jim Powell. Don't shoot!"

  Jim turned back to Randi. “Maybe that'll stop her from mowing us down like these poor bastards."

  Randi looked uncertain. “I guess it depends on how long ago you turned into an asshole. If she remembers you as an asshole kid from thirty years ago she might just go ahead and shoot you anyway.”

  “My asshole attitude was a more recent development.”

  “That’s hard to imagine,” Randi said. “You’ve taken so naturally to it.”

  Jim was preparing his retort when the sound of a heavy door bolt carried across the front yard from the house. The door swung open and the twin black orbs of a double barrel shotgun emerged from the gap. In the shadows behind it, Jim thought he saw a pale face hovering over the stock.

  Jim held both hands up and waved toward the house. "My name is Jim Powell! Is that you, Mrs. Fairlane? I’m a friend.”

  There was a reply from the house. It was so faint Jim couldn't understand it, but Rosa Fairlane was always a soft-spoken lady. When he didn’t respond to her words, a wispy han
d extended through the crack of the door and beckoned them forward.

  "I don't know about this," Randi said. “It could be a trap.”

  "It could be her," Jim said uncertainly. "I just can't tell from here. I'll have to get closer. You hang back."

  Randi swung an arm wide in a gesture that said be my guest. Jim nudged his horse forward, turning off the driveway, which continued to the back of the house, and steering his horse directly toward the front door.

  When he got within earshot, he said, "Is that you, Mrs. Fairlane? My name is Jim Powell and I used to know you and your husband when I was a child. I visited you many times when I was a kid. I was just coming by to check on you."

  The gun leveled at his head made him uncomfortable. He could clearly see the pale face of an elderly woman through the crack in the door, a cloud of frizzy, unkempt hair surrounding it. He couldn’t see her eyes but there must have been recognition because the gun lowered. The door swung fully open and a lady wearing a fuzzy blue bathrobe used a walker to shuffle onto the porch. She looked frail as a bird but it was Mrs. Fairlane all right.

  She regarded him, her eyes narrowed, looking down her nose. "I used to know a Jim Powell but I haven't seen him in decades. Figured he must be dead since he didn’t come visit. Why, out of the blue, would you get the idea that you needed to come check on me? That doesn’t make a bit of sense."

  Jim smiled at the elderly lady. She had to be in her mid-eighties but she was obviously still sharp. "I'm not sure you’d believe me if I told you."

  She huffed at him. "Well, you all come in then. We’re letting the heat out and my feet are getting wet." With that, Mrs. Fairlane turned her walker and shuffled back into the house, closing the door behind her.

  As she went, Jim noticed that she was wearing fuzzy blue house slippers that matched the robe. Jim cracked a grin, then waved Randi forward.

  They tied their reins off to the substantial wrought iron porch rail then clambered up the steps in their heavy snow boots. The porch had not been shoveled but a generous porch roof kept most of the drifting snow a few feet from the door. When they reached that circle of bare porch they stomped off their boots.

  The door in front of them was heavy oak with many layers of crackled white paint. The peeling door had been pushed to but not shut. Jim pushed on the door, the hinges groaning. Just inside the large entry foyer dark stairs climbed to the left. To the right was a hallway that led to French doors, then to a formal parlor. On the floor was a colorful Moroccan rug that was likely a prized possession when it was purchased new. Patches were worn threadbare by a life of foot traffic.

  Jim stopped on the rug and began unlacing his boots.

  "You're really taking your shoes off?" Randi asked.

  Jim nodded.

  "What if we need to bolt out of here in a hurry? You prepared to run for it in your socks?”

  "This is the Fairlane house. You don't enter this house without taking your shoes off."

  Randi rolled her eyes. "Jesus Christ, Jim, when have you ever been sensitive to decorum?"

  Jim looked around, considering. "Probably only here."

  Randi groaned then began unlacing her own boots. "If I have to take off running without my shoes, you’re carrying me. I do not like this."

  Jim ignored the comment. "Mrs. Fairlane is a lady, so be on your best behavior."

  Randi wrinkled her brow and pursed her mouth. "I'm offended by that on so many levels. First off, I'm a lady too, and I don’t see anybody being on their best behavior for me. Second, there’s the implication that I don’t know how to act among civilized folks."

  Jim shrugged and headed down the hall, pushing through the French doors. Warmth and the smell of wood smoke greeted him. The heat was welcome after the cold ride into town. It wasn't uncomfortably hot, like his own house became sometimes, but probably upper sixties. The parlor was empty and Jim moved on through toward the kitchen. This was the source of the heat. He found Rosa Fairlane at an antique wood burning cook stove. She was pouring water from a copper kettle into a teacup. The rich smell of mint hit Jim's nose.

  "I caught a chill out there in that hallway,” Rosa said. “Do either of you care for some mint tea? The water is already hot and I have plenty. It grows along the creek in the backyard, even in winter."

  Jim remembered that creek and the spot where the mint grew. He remembered Mr. Fairlane showing him the dark green leaf, crushing it between his fingers and holding it beneath Jim's nose. He was the first person to ever tell Jim about the variety of useful plants that grew wild in their mountains.

  "I think I will have some,” Jim said. “Randi?"

  Randi had finally gotten her boots unlaced and was just now entering the room. She smiled at Mrs. Fairlane and extended a hand. "I'm Randi. Nice to meet you."

  The frail lady slowly took the proffered hand, not so much shaking as clasping it for a moment. "I'm Rosa Fairlane. I used to know this young man when he was much younger and had better manners."

  Jim immediately understood what she was referring to. When he graduated high school and left the area, he never again stopped back in. He never came to express his condolences to Mrs. Fairlane after her husband Charles passed away. He been by this house hundreds of times while visiting his own parents yet he had never thought to stop. The more time passed, the more awkward it seemed. He was just your average impolite, self-centered young guy. In those days, life was about him.

  "I apologize, Mrs. Fairlane. Honestly, I always thought a lot of your husband but I never knew you as well. I guess I didn't realize my visit would've meant anything to you."

  Rosa shuffled to an ornate china cabinet and removed two fine porcelain cups with saucers. She placed them on the counter and dropped a pinch of mint leaves in each, then poured hot water over top of them. She turned to Jim, her heavily lidded eyes sagging. “You’ll have to carry your own cup and join me at the table. I'm too shaky these days to carry much."

  Before Jim could offer to take hers, Rosa made her way to the table, her teacup in one hand, the other resting on the counter for support. Already chastised, Jim rushed to the table to help Mrs. Fairlane with her seat. When she sat down, he helped her scoot up to the table, then he returned for his own cup.

  "As I said, I didn't realize my visit would've meant that much to you. I am truly sorry if I offended you. Your husband was one of my favorite people during my childhood."

  Rosa Fairlane gave a barely perceptible shrug. She spoke slowly, like someone who might have had a stroke at some point in the past. If that were the case, it would explain the difficulty she had with walking. "It's not entirely your fault. Matters of decorum are certainly different these days and I don’t suppose we’ll ever return to the polite society we once had. Why, when Charles and I began courting, he had to come to my parents’ house and ask permission to even speak to me. I remember it like it was yesterday. He showed up on horseback in fancy riding breeches with shiny brown boots. He sat in the parlor and had coffee with my parents. I wasn't even allowed to come into the room that first time. It was just them getting to know him before they would even grant permission for matters to go to the next step. I think that went on for a year before I was ever alone with him for even for a moment."

  "Where did you meet your husband?" Randi asked.

  Mrs. Fairlane turned stiffly to Randi. "Why, in church."

  She said it as if it was the only place that anyone ever met, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  Jim cleared his throat. “Well, again, I apologize if I did anything to offend you or hurt your feelings. That was certainly not intentional."

  Rosa dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “It's not you. It's the world. And if you’re going to start apologizing for the world, where does it end?"

  The conversation fell silent when Jim had no answer for that, no response for the sincere question in Rosa’s clear brown eyes. Looking out the wide kitchen windows at the snow-covered yard, Jim recalled the bodies.


  "There were dead men in the driveway. Do you know anything about that?"

  “I didn't know for certain they were dead but I'm glad to hear it since I went to all the trouble of shooting them. They tried to break into my house. It was dark and I wasn’t certain I hit them."

  "Oh, you hit them all right," Randi said. "They’re dead as fish sticks."

  Rosa gave a little nod and smiled, pleased with herself. Perhaps she was relieved to know she’d resolved the situation and those men would not be coming back.

  "How are you getting by?" Jim asked.

  Rosa took a delicate sip of her tea and replaced the cup on its saucer. "I think not too bad considering the condition of things. This is much more like the world I was born into. This old house of ours is perhaps better outfitted than most to live without the modern conveniences."

  "It's quite warm," Randi said. "It feels nice. Are you getting enough to eat?"

  "At my age, eating is not the treat it once was. Feeding my family was a treat. I always enjoyed that. Feeding myself is just a chore, but it's one that thus far I've been able to accomplish. I raise as big a garden as I can manage each year. I have a lot of canning put back. I’ve also been drinking quite a bit of Jell-O."

  "Jell-O?" Jim asked.

  Rosa nodded, her chin trembling slightly as she waited for her eyes to focus on him. “Served as a hot beverage, it seems to have some nutritional value."

  "And that's all you've had?" Randi asked.

  Mrs. Fairlane glowered at Randi disapprovingly. "Is that all? I think I've done quite nicely for myself, young lady. I'm eighty-four years old. I think I’ve done better than most people. I've been able to eat every time I’ve been hungry and I'm not certain every family out there could say that."

  "You have a point. I'm sorry if I offended you," Randi said. “I was just concerned.”

  "Look, I know it probably seems strange us just showing up out of the blue,” Jim said. “The truth is I've been so absorbed in this disaster that I haven't really thought about anything or anybody outside of my own immediate family. I know that sounds selfish but that’s just the way it is. But this morning I was examining an Indian relic that your husband gave to me. Crazy or not, I felt him asking me to come check on you and that's why I'm here. Is there anything we can do for you?"