by Rio Youers
Matthew checked his watch. 3:23 P.M. He’d be heading south in little over half an hour, Point Hollow fading to a distant memory (again) and the rest of his life ahead of him. He had promised Mrs. Alexander that he would visit whenever he could, and put some flowers on Bobby’s grave. But those visits would be brief, three hours at the most, twice a year. He thought he could handle that. Just.
He spent the next fifteen minutes talking to Vern, who groaned about the weather between mouthfuls of potato chips. All he said of Bobby was, “He’s riding in the chariot Glory.” Matthew took this as his cue to exit. He started saying his goodbyes, which took longer than expected. Mrs. Alexander wept and thanked him for his support. She hugged him tighter than he thought her capable of, kissed his cheek, and told him to visit again soon.
“You have my word,” he said.
He didn’t take off his jacket or loosen his tie until he was out of the house and strolling toward the rental. He popped the locks, threw his jacket on the back seat, and was just getting behind the wheel when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned, and there was Oliver Wray, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, a knapsack thrown over one shoulder.
“Matthew,” he said. He stepped toward him, noticeably limping.
Matthew’s eyes widened. The sight of Oliver standing in the sunlight with a knapsack on one shoulder hit something inside him. A memory broke, swirling through the strata of years: playing in the sprinkler spray as a boy, his upper body glistening, looking up and seeing. . .
“Oliver,” Matthew said. He tried to develop the memory, but the edges were indistinct.
“Are you heading into town?” Oliver asked.
“I’m going home.”
“But you’ll be going through town, right?”
Matthew shrugged. “I guess.”
“I’m in a hurry.” Oliver pointed at the rental’s passenger seat. “Could I grab a ride?”
“It’s a ten-minute walk,” Matthew said. “Not even.”
Oliver smiled. “If I had ten minutes to spare, I wouldn’t be asking.”
Matthew looked at him. Oliver’s smile was broad and his eyes flashed hopefully. He wasn’t as oppressive as he had appeared at the cemetery, but Matthew had been uncomfortable then, too hot and emotional. Maybe his instinct—that icy feeling inside him, linking Oliver to some repressed memory—had been askew. Then again, Bobby hadn’t liked him. Hadn’t trusted him. I’ve known him all my life, Matty, he’d said. And I’m telling you . . . something isn’t right.
Matthew only saw the smile. It didn’t falter. It was, in fact, warming.
“What do you say?” Oliver asked. He pointed at his right foot. “I stood on a piece of glass earlier this week and cut myself badly. Hurts like hell to walk. You want to help an old friend out?”
“I don’t remember you,” Matthew said distantly. His heart rattled and his breathing was short, as if his lungs were filled with stones, but he could think of no good reason to deny Oliver. His mind offered only that single vague memory: playing in the sprinkler spray, his small body glimmering.
“Please?” Oliver said.
Matthew, who had never been good at saying no, shrugged and indicated the passenger seat with his eyes.
“Great, thanks.” Oliver took off his pack and got in the car. Matthew closed his eyes for a moment, trying to shake the bad feeling. Two minutes into town, he thought. I can do that. He got behind the wheel and started the engine.
“Did you enjoy your stay in Point Hollow?” Oliver asked. “Other than Bobby’s funeral, I mean. That couldn’t have been easy.”
“It’s a beautiful town,” Matthew replied, not really answering the question. He pulled away from Mrs. Alexander’s house, then turned on the radio, hoping Oliver would take the hint; he wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
“It’s a wicked place,” Oliver said.
“What?” Matthew looked at Oliver and frowned.
“I said, it’s a wicked place.”
“That’s what I thought you said.”
“It’s a black cloud that covers sin. It’s cursed.” Oliver pointed out the window. “By the mountain. You remember the mountain, don’t you?”
Matthew gripped the wheel and the bad feeling bloomed. It touched the tips of his fingers, the base of his spine.
“I’m not . . . I don’t . . .” He turned onto Grace Road. Everything seemed far away and bleak. Except for Oliver, who swelled in the passenger seat, too big, too real.
“Must be nice to forget,” he said. “Heavenly, even. But all I hear is the mountain.” He thumped the side of his head. Hard. His knuckles popped. “Night and day. Constantly.”
Matthew stood on the brake and pulled over. The tires locked, screeched, hit the curb.
“I think you should get out.”
Oliver’s smile dropped. His upper lip flared. His eyes, too. Wide and wild, like a cat about to pounce.
“Do you remember me, Matthew?”
“Get out of the car.”
Oliver unzipped his knapsack and reached inside.
“You don’t remember anything?”
“No,” Matthew said, but it was coming back to him—drips of memory, all so cold, so dark. A strained breath escaped him. He gripped the wheel with pale hands, thinking that, any moment now, he would wake up screaming.
“I didn’t think so,” Oliver said. His voice had changed, too. It was deeper, creakier. “If you remembered anything, you wouldn’t have come back to Point Hollow, and you certainly wouldn’t have given me a ride.”
His eyes flashed cold colours as he pulled a pistol from his knapsack. Its fat barrel caught a bead of light. He pressed it to the centre of Matthew’s forehead.
“I think you should keep driving.”
Oh Jesus . . . oh Jesus Christ.
Matthew started to cry. He turned back to the road and felt the muzzle slide around to his temple.
Jesus please . . . Jesus . . .
“Drive.”
Matthew took his foot—it felt like it weighed a hundred pounds—from the brake and the car crept forward. Onto the accelerator, pulling away from the curb, all so slowly. Tears streamed down his cheeks, dripped onto his shirt and tie.
“Turn left on Blue Jay,” Oliver instructed. “Don’t go down Main.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Treasure hunting,” Oliver said, and laughed. A dry, breaking-wood sound.
Matthew turned onto Blue Jay Avenue, a residential street, quiet at any time of the day. He hoped he’d see someone walking their dog, or collecting their mail—someone who would notice him driving at gunpoint and run to call the police. But Blue Jay was sleepy-still. Lush trees and empty sidewalks. Not that he believed anybody in this freakshow town would offer help. They’d probably dash inside and draw the blinds. What had Oliver said? It’s a black cloud that covers sin.
He was on his own.
A little faster now. The speedometer hovered at twenty miles per hour. Matthew considered flooring it and steering them both into the nearest tree.
His vision blurred. He blinked. Tears ran and dripped and ran again.
“Don’t even think about doing anything stupid,” Oliver said, as if he could read Matthew’s mind. “This .45 is quicker than any decision you can make.”
“I just want to go home.” The pressure of the muzzle was like the world, balanced on a thimble.
“It wanted you all along, Matthew. All these years.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What I should have done in 1984.” Oliver used his free hand to wipe his eyes. Even he was crying. “No mistakes this time. I’m going to feed you to that goddamn mountain.”
Chapter Thirteen
Oliver directed Matthew through backstreets, out of town, and down a narrow track north of Tall Pine Way. Branches scraped
the paintwork, brushed across the windshield. The car juddered over uneven ground and Matthew held his breath, praying the gun wouldn’t accidentally go off and paint the driver’s side window with his brains.
“You can lower the gun,” he said. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“No mistakes,” Oliver said. The gun stayed where it was.
A little farther down the track and Oliver told him to stop. Pine trees blocked the sunlight. Gloomy inside the car, but stifling hot. The radio still played. Three Dog Night singing “Joy to the World.” A ridiculously happy song. Matthew wanted to snatch the pistol from Oliver’s grasp and blow the goddamn radio out of the dashboard. The second bullet he’d use on his captor. He didn’t think he’d have any trouble pulling the trigger.
“Shut off the ignition,” Oliver said.
Matthew did. The retained power kept the radio playing. Oliver punched the button and there was silence.
“Now hand me the keys.”
Matthew did.
“Do you have a cell phone?”
“No,” Matthew lied.
“You’re telling me you’re the only person in North America who doesn’t own a cell phone?”
“Left it at home,” Matthew said. He felt the shape of it in his front pocket, and wondered if Oliver had noticed it, too. He had to play out the lie, though. “My entire office is on that phone. I wanted to get away from everything, so didn’t bring it with me.”
“Okay,” Oliver said, pressing the muzzle even harder against Matthew’s temple. “When we get out of the car, I’m going to check your pockets. If I find a cell phone, I’m going to shoot you in the shoulder. So I’ll ask one more time . . . do you have a cell phone?”
Matthew looked at Oliver. The muzzle dragged around to his forehead, leaving a trail of grazed skin. He sobbed, his shoulders trembling. He reached into his pocket and handed Oliver his cell phone.
“You’re not a very good liar,” Oliver said.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Matthew said.
“It’s not me, Matthew. It was never me.”
“Please . . .”
“Listen carefully.” Oliver put the keys and phone in the glovebox, then tapped the barrel against Matthew’s forehead. “We’re going to get out of the car at the same time. Move slowly, and remember that this gun is going to be aimed at you the whole time. Before closing the door, I want you to hit the lock button. Do you understand?”
Matthew nodded.
“Let’s go.”
But Matthew didn’t move. He reached for air, his chest trembling. One hand remained locked to the steering wheel, as if it were the only thing of any substance in the world. The only thing worth holding on to. More tears tracked down his face.
“Now, Matthew.”
“Please, don’t do—”
More pressure with the gun and Oliver growled impatiently. Matthew moaned and opened the door. Branches pushed against it and he had to squeeze through a gap not much wider than his body. Oliver was getting out on his side, his free hand grabbing the knapsack, sliding it onto his shoulder. He bumped the door closed with his hip, sighting Matthew down the barrel of the gun. Matthew closed the door and looked at Oliver over the roof.
“The lock button,” Oliver said.
“I forgot.” Matthew opened the door, hit the button, closed the door. After a few seconds the locks engaged. The horn blipped, stirring something in the woods. It took flight urgently, and Matthew felt a wave of envy. What he’d give to be taking to the open sky, nothing but free. But that wasn’t going to happen. Oliver would shoot him in the back if he tried to run, and now his keys and cell phone were locked in the car. He really was on his own now.
Oliver jerked the gun, indicating that Matthew move to the front of the car. He did, stumbling, having to duck the sprawled boughs of a pine, feeling the needles scrape along the back of his neck. Oliver stepped toward him and pointed the gun at his face.
“Empty your pockets. Front and back.”
Matthew took his wallet from his back pocket and gave it to Oliver. He pulled out the lining of his other pockets to prove that they were empty.
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay.” Oliver tossed the wallet into the woods behind him and used the pistol, again, to indicate direction. “Let’s walk.”
———
They walked east through the forest, Matthew three or four steps ahead of Oliver. He considered making a break for it. Oliver was limping, and there might be enough tree cover to keep him from getting off a clean shot. The possibility of escape was there, but it was thin. Could he risk it? This was Oliver’s territory, after all. He knew the lay of the land, and no matter how badly he was limping, that didn’t make the .45 any slower.
Matthew kept walking. It was the best way to stay alive. I’m going to feed you to that goddamn mountain. He had no idea what that meant, but Oliver’s state of mind was clearly damaged. This was not the time for recklessness. He would wait it out, see what Oliver intended, and take his chances when he had no other choice.
The mountain’s grey face appeared between the trees. Memories tumbled, colours bleeding. Matthew’s anxiety kept them from being fully realized. If they got through he would have more to be terrified of. He could only deal with one thing at a time.
“What are you going to do to me, Oliver?”
“Just keep walking.”
They emerged from the forest and started across a field where the grass grew wild and butterflies flickered between flowers. Matthew glanced over his shoulder. Oliver limped but held the gun steady. Behind him, clustered in a pocket of summer haze, Point Hollow shimmered blindly. Ahead, the mountain soared.
Matthew walked toward it, crying and small, like a child.
They came to the spring moments later.
———
As the water flowed from the mountain, cold and clear, so the memories flowed through Matthew’s mind. Standing at the edge of the spring, looking across at the gloomy sprawl of spruce and fir, was like stepping into the past—a psychological jolt that brought everything back. The recollection was too powerful to contain.
He covered his eyes and fell to his knees.
“Get up,” Oliver said.
He didn’t move. His body wasn’t his own. It had become a vessel, filling with memories, twisted into a new shape. The world blew away like a sheet of newspaper in the wind. Nothing was.
“I said get up.” But Oliver had faded. The gun, too. Only the memories had substance. Their bones clicked and clattered, and a fragment of Matthew’s mind understood that the darkness inside him—the nights he had woken up screaming, the terrible things he had imagined doing to Kirsty—stemmed from what had happened with Oliver in the summer of 1984.
Abraham’s Faith . . . the skeletons . . .
The mountain always gets what it wants.
The darkness had broken him. Infected him.
He wasn’t going back.
Oliver fired the gun. A mad sound, echoing in Matthew’s skull. He flipped onto his back and almost fell in the spring. Oliver stood with the gun pointed at the sky, but levelled it at Matthew. His finger flexed against the trigger.
“The next bullet will be between your eyes.”
“Do it,” Matthew said.
“Get up.”
“I’m not following you. Not again.”
“I’ll kill you right here, right now.”
“That’s the only way you’ll get me up to that mountain.”
Oliver fired a second shot, then a third. Matthew flinched—felt the bullets tear past both sides of his face. An aching breath escaped him and he wondered if anybody in town had heard the shots. Would they come? Would they help? He imagined the echoes carrying through Main Street, making the windows tremble . . . and then the blinds being
pulled, covering sin.
The ringing in his head faded. He screamed again.
“Don’t make me do it.” Oliver’s finger tightened on the trigger.
Matthew closed his eyes. Skeletons filled his mind. He got ready to die.
“You son of a bitch.” Oliver limped toward him. He raised his arm and brought it down in a hard arc, cracking the base of the pistol’s grip against Matthew’s head. His glasses were knocked crooked, hanging off one ear. Blood streamed from his hairline, down his forehead, into his wide eyes.
“No,” Matthew said, and then everything went grey.
Chapter Fourteen
With the mountain thundering, Oliver lifted Matthew onto his shoulders (still raw with sunburn) and limped across the spring. Slow going, and hard. Once on the other side, he dropped Matthew and had to rest, drawing grateful breaths, splashing his face with cold water.
There was still so far to go.
Abraham’s Faith blared. A barrage of insane sound. Oliver howled in reply and collapsed next to Matthew, where he stayed until his breathing and heartbeat regulated. But the mountain didn’t let up. A million drums. Ten thousand cannons. Leander Bird displayed his fishhook grin amid the shapes in his mind. So close, he said to Oliver. He beckoned with black-fire hands. So close now.
Oliver got to his feet and soaked his upper body with chilled water. He could have all the rest he wanted when the job was done. He could rest in perpetual silence.
Matthew groaned, spluttered, but didn’t wake. His glasses had fallen off. His face was a red mask. Oliver put the .45 in the knapsack, strapped it to his back, and hoisted Matthew onto his shoulders. Bent double under the load, he limped through the forest. He had hoped to reach the other side before resting, but couldn’t; his body was drained, his injured foot throbbing, sending a fierce ache all the way up his leg. He rested twice. The first time for twenty minutes, his hands clamped to his head, trying to suppress the mountain’s voice. The second time he settled against a tree and fell asleep—not for long, but he woke with a start, cursing his stupidity. What if Matthew had woken and crawled away? What if he’d grabbed the .45 from the knapsack?
