by Chris Fabry
Samantha took the brochure and smiled. “Thank you.”
Du’Relle ran up to Miriam at the door, burying his face in her stomach and hugging her tightly. “Thank you for the Chinese, ma’am.”
Miriam walked to her car and stood beside it for a minute, taking in the pain she’d just experienced. She glanced at Treha’s apartment. Since Du’Relle was occupied, she figured she might as well take a quick look.
CHAPTER 28
TREHA WALKED toward the front door, then decided against it. The man would hear the knock and know something was amiss. She moved to the side gate and spoke into the microphone. “I’m going to try something else. Forget the doorbell.”
The home was flanked by a hedge that grew through the wrought-iron fence running the property’s perimeter. The gate at the side was too high to scale, but Treha looked through at the backyard. She pushed on the gate and to her surprise it was ajar. She imagined Devin and Jonah listening, telling her to stop and come back to the car, but she kept walking.
Following a stone walkway, she saw that the backyard was a series of rock gardens and desert plants. In the middle of the oasis was an inground pool, empty except for a spot in the deep end, where sludge and debris had collected.
Behind the pool, away from the house, was a smaller building. A rock path stretched from its front door to the main house’s back porch.
Something clicked on the building and Treha froze, waiting for an alarm or a watchdog. When nothing happened, she walked across the patio to the main house’s back door, passing a grill and a built-in fireplace. She could see into the kitchen, where a light was on over the stove, but the door was locked when she tried it. She moved toward the other side of the house, looking for any movement, passing another door with a shade pulled low. The yard was eerily quiet as if even the birds knew to stay away.
At the far end of the house she found an unshuttered window that looked into a room filled with shelves of books that reached from floor to ceiling. To the right was an area with dusty wineglasses suspended from a rack above a sink. To the left were two overstuffed chairs sitting back-to-back.
A shadow moved near the door. Treha cupped her hand to the window, but the room was empty.
“Can I help you?” someone said, his voice gruff.
She turned slowly and looked into the face of an elderly man with a finely trimmed mustache. His white hair surrounded his face like a mane. He wore a striped shirt and a solid blue tie pulled tight to the collar. The tie was wide at the top and flared at the bottom and she decided it had been in and out of style several times in the man’s life. His skin was blotchy and pale, and there were bags under his eyes. In his hand he held a pistol that, from his swaying arm, looked heavy. His eyes darted as if he was having a hard time focusing.
“It would help me if you put that gun down,” she said.
The man looked down at the gun as if he’d just realized he was holding it. Then he raised it higher, seeming unsure and a little confused.
“You tripped the alarm when you came through the fence.” He checked his watch. “You have perhaps three minutes before security arrives.”
“Three minutes to talk to you?”
“You have three minutes to escape.”
“I don’t want to escape. I came to speak with you.”
Eyebrows raised. “Not to steal my wallet? A painting from my library?”
“I don’t want anything you have.”
Whiskers raised now and an impish grin. He looked her over from head to toe and she could feel his judgment. “Then why would you try to get into my house?”
“I came looking for you, Mr. Davidson.”
He pulled his head back. “How do you know my name?” His eyes were wild again as he glanced at her clothing. “You’re with them, aren’t you? The people with the white coats. You’ve been listening to me.”
“I’m not with anyone in a white coat. And I haven’t been listening.”
His muscles tensed and his movements became jerky. “I won’t let you take me away. Do you understand me?” He held up the gun and she reached out to touch his arm.
“I’m not taking you anywhere, Mr. Davidson.” Her voice was controlled and soothing. “Relax.”
She heard a screech of tires. Davidson turned and waved a hand over his head. “It doesn’t matter now. I hear them. I hope you convince the authorities you just wanted to talk. Good luck.”
Someone called her name from the other side of the fence. Was it Devin? She heard voices of men at the front, followed by the doorbell and the squawk of a radio.
The old man walked toward the small building near the pool, toddling like a child searching for invisible handrails. A man came through the house quickly, heading for the back door. Another came through the side gate in a uniform with a shield on the shirt pocket, keys jangling.
“She’s by the back door,” Davidson yelled over his shoulder. “She didn’t steal anything yet.”
Treha didn’t move as the man at the gate intercepted her and cuffed one hand, then pulled the other behind her and did the same. The other guard took longer, moving through the house and finally exiting. “All clear.”
Treha watched the old man open the door to the small building and turn back to look at her. He stared at her shifting eyes and she tried to reach out to him somehow, with her hands behind her. Finally she whispered, “Dr. Crenshaw sent me.”
“That’s enough, miss,” a guard said, grabbing her wrists. “Explain it to the police.”
She walked stiff-legged to the fence, tugged along by the guard. He pushed instead of pulling at the gate, then realized his mistake.
“What did you say?”
Treha saw Davidson near the edge of the pool, no longer looking for handrails. He didn’t have his gun and his face had softened as if there were questions in his mind.
“We’ve got her now, sir,” a guard said. “We’ll handle it.”
“No, let her go.”
“What? Sir, she was trespassing.”
He put his hand to his head and scratched as if he had forgotten something. Then he smiled and turned his hand like a conductor leading an orchestra. “It’s my mind. I’m not thinking clearly, you see. It happens to us old fogies.” He laughed, but it was not a real laugh.
“Sir?” the guard said.
“Leave her. Take those handcuffs off. I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t recognize you.”
“You know her, sir?”
“Yes, yes, just take them off, please. Let her go.”
“What’s her name, sir?”
“Her name?”
“If you know her, you must know her name.”
“Yes, of course. It’s on the tip of my tongue. . . .”
“Treha,” she said.
“That’s it, Treha. Yes. Treha. Now if you’ll take those off, please. Let Treha go.”
The two guards looked at each other, then uncuffed her. Treha glanced at her wrists and rubbed them as the guards lingered.
The old man moved toward her and took her by the arm. “Come inside and we’ll have some tea.” Under his breath he said, “Keep walking. Don’t look at them.”
“Are you sure about this, sir?” one of the guards called after him.
“Thank you for your service, gentlemen! I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
The gate clanged behind them and the man let go of her arm. He walked past the pool and entered the small building, leaving the door open behind him. The ceiling was much lower here than in the main house. There were carpets strewn on the tile in a haphazard way around an easy chair with worn arms. In the corner was a small refrigerator and a kitchenette and Treha noticed a burnt toast smell. Davidson disappeared into the next room as Treha closed the door. He returned with a folding chair, placing it next to the recliner. His gun was in his front pocket, making his pants sag.
“Please, sit. Can I get you something?” His face was softer now, his eyes more inviting.
“I’m fine.”<
br />
He walked to the kitchen and returned with a mug of hot water and a tea bag. “Would you like a slice of lemon? It’s fresh from the tree.”
“That would be fine.”
He sat in the folding chair and exhaled as if he had just run a marathon. “So, Treha, how do you know Dr. Crenshaw?”
She placed the tea bag in the water. “He’s my friend. I worked with him at Desert Gardens.”
“In Scottsdale? Jim lives here?”
She shook her head. “No, in Tucson. But he is in the hospital now.”
The lines in his forehead were suddenly gone. “What’s wrong with him?”
She told him what she knew and the old man’s eyes clouded. He seemed to float in and out of worlds, the real one and his own.
“You said he sent you. What do you mean?”
“He gave me a letter to mail. It was addressed to you.” She pulled the torn envelope out and handed it to him. “I meant to mail it, but it got ripped, and when I read it, I knew I had to speak with—”
Davidson raised a hand to stop her, then put a finger to his lips. He stood and lifted one of the blinds to look out on the lawn.
“What’s wrong?” she said.
He pointed to his ear and mouthed, “They can hear us.”
“Who?” she whispered.
He waved her forward, opened the front door, and walked outside. She followed into the light and he stopped by the empty pool.
“I had to drain this because they put an injection in the chlorine. It wasn’t safe any longer. They’re listening to everything. That’s why I moved to the casita, but I still hear the noise on the phone. I’ve heard the men with their microphones. I saw one of them the other day. Found him by the road in his car. I don’t think they’ve planted devices out here. But I can’t say for sure. Don’t say anything you wouldn’t want them hearing.”
“Who?”
“Phutura. I used to work for them. Now they’ve made me a prisoner in my own home.” He stepped closer. “They’ll come for you next. If they knew you had this information, they would come for you.”
She had seen this look before. The fear and paranoia mixed with a degeneration of the faculties, like gasoline on a fire. Fear eating fear, using itself as an accelerant.
“Treha!” someone said behind them. It was Devin, his head just over the wall on the other side of the house. “Are you all right?”
Davidson reached for his gun. “Who is that?”
“He is with me. His name is Devin. He records the stories—”
“That’s the man in the car. He’s with them. I should have shot him when I first laid eyes on him.” He turned. “And if you’re with him . . .”
He grabbed her by the arm and led her forcefully to the gate. “I should have let the guards take you when I had the chance.”
“Stop; you’re hurting me.”
“I knew it. You’re one of them.”
“I’m not one of anybody,” she shouted. She wrenched free of his grasp and stood still. “I’m trying to find out the truth about my friend. About me. And if you would listen, you might be able to help.”
“The truth? You want to know the truth? They killed him. That’s right—they killed Crenshaw, and if he’s not already dead, he will be. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop asking questions.”
Davidson opened the gate and pushed her through. Devin and Jonah were just arriving on the other side. Jonah pointed a camera at them and Davidson sneered.
“Are you all right?” Devin said.
Treha nodded and looked back at the old man, whose mouth moved in a whisper. “You must leave. It’s begun now and it won’t stop.”
“Mr. Davidson, please talk with me,” Treha said.
He pulled her close and spoke in her ear, his voice sending a shiver through her.
“You have no idea the danger you are in. Leave now. Before it’s too late.”
CHAPTER 29
AS SOON as she stepped inside the apartment, Miriam put a hand over her heart and said aloud, “Oh, Treha.” It was as much a prayer as anything.
It wasn’t just the squalor, the emptiness of the rooms, and the overflowing trash can; it was the darkness and loneliness. Hopelessness, really. That, added with the heat of the room, made the oppression heavy enough to cut with a knife.
She moved to the no-frills refrigerator and opened it, though she didn’t know why. Maybe it felt safe, like she would find something to encourage her inside, but she found it nearly empty, except for some off-brand cheese and butter. The pantry had canned peaches, macaroni, and spaghetti sauce, along with a half-eaten bag of Doritos, but that was it.
“Oh, Treha,” she whispered again.
She flipped on the light and spotted a mesh laundry bag near the front door. Next to it, on the tile, there was sand and a little mud, and Miriam guessed this was where Treha had parked her bike.
Her stomach clenched and she fought the nerves or the Chinese food as she made a quick sweep of the apartment.
A small television sat on a makeshift stand in the living room area with a cover on the floor in front of it. Miriam imagined Treha curled up watching a nature video on PBS, a survival-of-the-fittest scene with wayward wildebeests being chased by lions, her eyes swaying as the predators devoured their meal. Or maybe Treha watched Jeopardy! and got all the answers.
Miriam wanted to go to her car. If she stopped now, she wouldn’t disturb anything, and she wouldn’t need to ask the girl’s forgiveness. She could simply call this a mistake and retreat. But something pulled her further into this strange world.
There was no desk to look through, no filing cabinets, no stacks of newspapers or magazines. In Treha’s bedroom she found a small bookshelf, the pressboard kind you put together with a screwdriver. It was full of paperbacks, and as Miriam knelt to get a better look, she saw they were mostly classics. All worn and dog-eared, marked up. Some of them barely had covers. David Copperfield. Madame Bovary. The Wind in the Willows. The Red Badge of Courage. Moby Dick. Great books with great words strung together in amazing ways, filtered through the mind of a damaged young woman.
The bedroom also had a twin mattress on the floor. No sheet over the mattress, no case on the lone pillow at the head, just a single red cover thrown over it that made it look like Treha slept on top instead of underneath. As Miriam suspected, her closet was equally barren. Treha had one hooded sweatshirt. One pair of sweatpants. And in the corner a pile of socks and underwear that looked like they had been dumped from the laundry bag and left to die.
Miriam made a mental list of things Treha didn’t have. A vacuum. An iron or ironing board. A phone. A computer. Washer and dryer. Alarm clock. If she wanted to load Treha down at Christmas, she could think of a hundred practical gifts. Food to stock her refrigerator. Some shampoo and conditioner. But did Treha really need any of it? She was living as simply as a person could live, not by choice, but because she didn’t know any other way.
And then the questions. Had Treha ever had a boyfriend? Had she ever had a friend, other than someone like Du’Relle and his mother? Did anyone else in her life know about her gift?
Miriam went back to the bookshelf and studied the spines. There was one without a title and when she pulled it out, she realized it was not a book at all but a small photo album. A shudder shot through her and she retreated to the kitchen, where the light was better. She opened to the first page and there was Treha at three or four—the awkward stare, the pointed ears accentuated by the Buster Brown haircut. The casual observer would simply see a child looking for a toy, but Miriam saw more. All the days between this photo and today. And then the ones to come. It was creased down the middle as if it had been tossed away and someone had retrieved it.
She turned the page. Empty. She turned the next one. Empty. She went through the rest of the book, looking for any trace of the girl between that vulnerable age and today, but found nothing. She had seen the Facebook photos of young people obsessed with themselves,
taking pictures with their computers or holding their phones at arm’s length and mugging. There were thousands of pictures chronicling the lives of teenagers and early adults and Treha had one photo of herself.
One photo.
Miriam turned back to the picture, removed it, and flipped it over, hoping beyond hope that there would be something written. A name, an address, a phone number, some clue.
It was blank.
She turned it back over and studied it. The room Treha was in didn’t appear to be a home. The setting was out of place—more like an office. A cubicle desk and chair behind her. A filing cabinet. A calendar on the wall, blurry but distinguishable.
Miriam replaced the book where she’d found it. She looked through drawers in the kitchen and bathroom but other than the dishwasher and refrigerator instruction booklets, there wasn’t so much as a scrap of paper. The utility closet didn’t even hold a broom.
Miriam opened the blinds fully to let in some natural light and knelt in front of the bookshelf again, more comfortable than when she first arrived. It almost felt like she was getting to know Treha better. She scanned the rest of the shelf. Perhaps she had missed something. Some papers shoved between books. A birth certificate. A key to a safety-deposit box or a train station locker that would reveal everything.
She didn’t find any of that. But in opening the books, she did find a clue as to why Treha had so many classics—multiple copies of some. In the front of Jane Eyre, she read, To Connie on your 15th birthday. This book has meant so much to me and I hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I did. Love, Mom.
Almost every copy was inscribed as a gift to someone and then cast off like a bad Christmas sweater. Or perhaps the people had perished long ago and the books had been donated. However they had been jettisoned, the fact that Treha now had them made Miriam think Treha had not only appropriated the stories of people at Desert Gardens; she had also chosen these books, given as gifts by someone else, for her own. The only things she truly owned were these.
