by Andrew Pyper
“I had a weird dream last night,” she says.
“So we’re definitely not talking about anything real,” I say, worried she’s forgotten about our agreement not to speak of what she thought she might have seen in the woods.
“A dream, like I said. But so real seeming, you know? Like here I am, awake, and I can still feel it clinging to me.”
“What happened?” Bridge asks.
“There was water,” Franny says, squinting as if pulling her subconscious into clearer focus. “Salt water. I could taste it. Can you taste in a dream? Doesn’t that mean you’re insane or something?”
“That’s if you see colors,” Bridge says.
“Is darkness a color? Because the water I was in was blacker than night. I really didn’t want to go down into it—not just because I was afraid of drowning; I was afraid of the water itself. But I was tired. Like I’d been fighting to stay above the surface for hours before the dream even started. And then comes the weird part. From out of the silence, from out of the ocean—”
“There was music.”
I finish Franny’s sentence without being aware of it.
“That’s not what I was going to call it. But yes,” she says. “How the hell did you know that?”
“Because I had the same dream,” I say. “A version of it, anyway.”
“Me too,” Bridge says.
All of us look at her.
“I could hear it when my head was above water, but it was a lot louder once I went under,” Bridge goes on. “Like horns or something. A bunch of trumpets and tubas tuning up before playing a song. Except the tuning up was the song. It was so beautiful it almost stopped me from being scared. I was so tired of fighting that I just went down. Swallowed up by this sound so big it felt like I wasn’t in water anymore. Just the sound.”
I don’t want to ask this next part. But now that Franny looks at me to do it, I see that it’s up to me.
“What happened then?”
“Nothing,” Bridge says.
“You mean you woke up?”
“I mean nothing. It just ended. What about you?”
The way Franny and I don’t reply to this confirms what we already know. The dream ends with darkness. It ends with the end.
“Mom?” Franny eventually asks. “Any of this ring a bell with you?”
“I don’t remember my dreams,” she says, and while I note that this isn’t precisely an answer, I don’t pursue anything more. It’s the smell of smoke that pulls my attention away. The bacon burning in the pan.
“Hope you like it well done,” I say, happy for the diversion of scooping the hardened rashers out of the pool of spitting fat.
“It’s bacon,” Bridge says, holding her plate out. “How bad can it be?”
12
AFTER BREAKFAST I GO FOR a run. Not the panic-driven dash of last night, but still a near-full pace of the kind I used to be able to maintain for several hours. My hope is I can keep it up for maybe a quarter of that. A fact-finding mission to discover how truly out of shape I’ve let myself become.
I’m only a few minutes along the drive we came in on when I realize I haven’t worn my watch or brought any water with me. I could go back, but I’m feeling strong, flushed with that bloom of optimism that runners in their first mile share with alcoholics downing their first drink.
The day is a classic Pacific Northwest game of bait and switch: the sun promising clear skies ahead before being obscured behind tectonic plates of clouds. Soon, the possibility of rain, implausible minutes ago, becomes a certainty with the first cold drops on my cheeks.
I like it. The air stretching the billows of my lungs, the rivulets of water dripping off my lip and into my mouth. And then, before I feel it coming, I’m bent over with my hands on my knees, wondering if I’m about to puke.
When I stand straight again, I realize two things at the same time. One, I’m dehydrated and farther out than I should be. Two, the estate’s fence is visible a couple hundred yards ahead around the next bend.
I tell myself that, now that I’m here, I might as well walk the rest of the way to the gate while hoping the dizziness sloshing inside my skull eases away. By the time I get there, it’s almost worked.
The fence is higher than I would have guessed. Eighteen feet, maybe more. And I don’t recall the tight bundle of barbed wire at the top. A look along the fence’s length, left and right, shows it going on as far as I can see.
The gate itself is a section the same width as the lane that, when opened, slides along a track in the ground. On the other side is the lockbox that Fogarty mentioned, the one that contains the satellite phone we can use to call for a ride.
To the right of the gate, above a small concrete pad, is what must be the food and supplies delivery system. It’s basically a metal plate that rotates through the fence on this side and the other side. In the space of the opening between the two—a bit more than a square foot—there are wires that hang down like the rubber flaps you pass through in a car wash. In this case the wires are probably electrified. A discouragement against trying to crawl through the opening (even if there’s no body other than a toddler’s that would have a chance of fitting).
Something about being here at the limit of the property, contained within miles of woven steel, reminds me again of the figures Franny and I thought we saw last night. The idea that they are here as well. Inside.
Until now, I’d assumed the fence was meant to protect Belfountain from those who might try to get in. I’d read about people who would illegally clear-cut entire acres of redwoods up here. And that was before the riots and curfews. Now this place would offer more than free wood. It would offer a refuge.
But what if it is the other way around? What if the fence’s height, the razor wire—what if it is meant to keep the ones in the forest inside?
I step closer to the fence. Careful not to touch it in case the whole thing is electrified. Fogarty said we were free to go any time we wanted. If that’s true, how do we get out? There must be something here at the gate. A button or lock. But I can’t find anything.
Nothing other than the gate itself.
To try to move it will require me putting my bare hands on it. I should know better—I’m a physician who’s seen all the ways people can injure themselves by way of dumb decisions—but I tell myself that if I’m quick enough, I can test it with a glancing touch.
I uncurl my fingers held in a fist. Swipe them over the steel.
There’s a jolt. But it’s not electricity. It’s the scratch of the metal’s surface on my skin.
This time I throw both of my hands against the fence. Find the best grip I can through the holes. Pull hard to the right. The gate’s frame shivers. So I yank it to the left. It moans before sliding a few inches out of position. With two more heaves I’ve opened it all the way.
It’s only more forest on the far side. The same million dripping leaves as there are on this one. Yet there’s a line between where I stand and the trees I stare at through the open gate that pulls them into sharper focus. There is more particular, more real, than here.
The instructions are clear.
Fogarty’s voice returns to me so vividly I can imagine him speaking next to me, his polished shoes sinking into the rain-softened mud.
The perimeter of the estate marks the extent to which you may travel.
So here I am. I’ve finally achieved what I never could over all those marathons years ago. I’ve run all the way to the end of the world.
But I won’t step off the edge.
It’s not for the money. And I don’t care what Dad wants us to learn. I’m here for Bridge. For her to discover whatever it is that makes her believe it’s important to stay. For her to be safe.
I take in a full inhalation of air from the other side and hold it as if readying to dive underwater. Pull the gate closed. Walk back toward the lodge before ramping it into a cautious jog.
How far out is here? Other than being tired and
thirsty and nauseated, there’s no measure my mind can latch onto. The sun remains on sabbatical, so it’s hard to say if it’s still morning or if the grayness isn’t the clouds but encroaching dusk.
The idea that I might pass out and not get up becomes more real with every stride. And if I go down, there’s a good chance I’ll lie here soaking wet through the night, a night that can drop twenty degrees between midnight and dawn.
I’d forgotten how, on long runs, thoughts at first multiply and compete for attention before filtering away to a single purpose.
Don’t fall.
Everything reduced to this.
Just. Don’t. Fall.
I figure I’ve got to be close when I hear something running up behind me. A rush of air, followed by the crunch of gravel.
Big. And faster than I am.
I could turn to look, but I know that would probably send me tumbling into the ditch. There’s also the option of striking out into the woods and finding a place to hide. But if I can hear whatever it is, it’s already seen me.
Don’t stop. Don’t fall.
All that’s left is to do what I’m doing.
Except do it faster.
13
A BLAZE OF SOUND. SO loud it turns my muscles rigid, forcing me to hop to the side of the road and close my eyes against contact.
Then my mind recognizes the sound for what it was. A car horn.
One limo and then another roll past. The same models, possibly the very same vehicles, that brought us here. I can’t tell who the passengers are through the tinted windows, but there are the outlines of heads looking at me, the man in the ridiculous neon outfit who doesn’t seem able to breathe properly.
The two cars pick up speed once I’m behind them and disappear around the curve ahead.
Heading toward the lodge. Toward Bridge.
It heaves me forward again. A sensation like a hive of ants released into my ears, carving their way inward.
Two more turns and I see that I was right: I was close. The limos are both parked out front of the lodge, but no one—not the drivers, not Bridge or Franny or Mom—stands outside. I weave toward the limo closest to me and stop when, at the same time, all of the vehicles’ rear doors open.
Four passengers get out. Two from the first limo and two from the second. The former is a set of adult identical twins. Blandly good-looking, slightly overweight. Not dressed exactly the same but close enough to be confusing, their hair home-dyed the color of hay.
The latter are a man and a woman, both looking at me. The woman is dressed in a professional skirt and blouse, her hair an aura of dark curls around her head. The man is a couple inches shorter than me but wider. His body is as purposeful as the woman’s but more muscled than graceful, a guy who spends his gym time grunting with the weights. Yet his face is boyish, open. A wholesome assembly of features that used to be called “all-American.”
Because she happens to be closer, or because she’s been brought up to be polite (or is required to be for the job that bought her the tasteful jacket and skirt she wears), the woman approaches me.
“Sorry we didn’t stop to offer you a lift back there, but our driver—”
“What are you doing here?” I gasp, a string of spit lashing onto the ground before my hand can reach my lip.
“I’m here—we’re all here—to satisfy the legal terms,” she says.
“I don’t understand.”
“Mr. Fogarty explained everything to us.”
“Fogarty? Explained what?”
“You know who Mr. Fogarty is, don’t you? I mean, I’m assuming you’re a member of the staff or a caretaker of some kind?”
“I’m not staff. I’m not the damn caretaker either.”
Her polite smile loosens. She’s found herself standing too close to someone who’s not of his right mind, someone breathing hard and now lurching in a dizzy circle, and she takes a long step back. It makes room for Mr. All-American to step into the space she’s left.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“You’re trespassing.”
“Really?”
“Yes. So unless you can tell me what the—”
His hands come up. So fast I only realize he’s holding me back from coming closer after I press my weight against his palms. A defense of the woman behind him that proves the connection between them.
“Easy now. I don’t know who you are,” he says without threat, his eyes twinkly with what may be amusement. “There’s no problem here. We just have to sort this out, okay?”
The wooziness instantly worsens, graduating into head spins that jolt my vision left to right and back again, over and over. Yet I manage to ask the man what I should have asked at the beginning.
“Who are you?”
“Jerry Quinlan. Raymond Quinlan was my father. What about you?”
He doesn’t push me. He doesn’t have to. He just brings his hands down, and it’s not only his face that’s spinning, it’s the well-dressed woman, the dyed-hair twins. Mom and Franny and Bridge rush out of the lodge, all of them shrinking into a pinhole of light I try to hold on to, but when they’re gone, there’s only darkness.
14
THEY’RE STANDING AROUND ME. NONE of them close except for bridge, wringing out a cloth from a bowl of ice water and folding it onto my brow.
“Hey,” I croak.
She offers me a coffee mug of orange juice. “You need some sugar.”
I drink it down and within seconds I’m feeling halfway human again.
“Welcome back. You passed out,” the guy who’d introduced himself as Jerry Quinlan says. He stands the farthest away, silhouetted against the great room’s windows. “I carried you in.”
I scan the faces of the others. There’s the brown-eyed woman who’s come to stand behind Bridge, the paunchy twins, along with Franny and Mom between the sofa and the raised dining area, standing close together as if for warmth.
“We haven’t really talked about anything yet,” the woman says. “I guess we were waiting for you to come around.”
“That’s very kind,” I say, intending a bite of sarcasm; but it eludes me, so it comes out sounding prim instead. “Maybe I can start?”
“Sure.”
“Who are you people?”
“My name is Lauren. That’s my brother Jerry,” she says, pointing at the man by the window, then switches to the twins. “And these are my other brothers, Ezra and Elias.”
“You’re related.”
“That’s how brothers and sisters work.”
“But outside your brother Jerry told me his surname too.”
“Quinlan.”
“Quinlan,” I say immediately after she does.
“That’s right. We’re Ray Quinlan’s children. This was his property, and the directions of his will brought us here.”
Mom pulls away from Franny and comes to sit on the edge of the sofa next to me, drawing Bridge protectively against her legs.
“Is your mother with you?” she asks Lauren.
“Our mother passed away two years ago.”
“I see.”
“And you? May I ask—”
“Eleanor.”
“Eleanor,” Lauren repeats, her face brightening as she makes a connection in her mind. “Yes! I think I get it now.”
“I’m sorry?”
“My father’s secretary. Eleanor. He mentioned you sometimes. You’re here as part of the division of the estate as well?”
Lauren smiles at my mother with kindly certainty, the look of someone who’s unknotted a shoelace for a child. But the smile doesn’t last long. It’s the twisting of my mother’s face that does it. I’m sure it’s heading in the direction of the wailing sobs I’ve been expecting since we first got here, but it comes out in wracking laughter instead.
“His secretary? That’s what he called me?”
Jerry comes to stand directly over Mom, over the three of us on the sofa. Close enough for us to read the sympathetic settin
g of his face.
“Forgive me, Eleanor,” he says. “But if you weren’t his secretary, who are you?”
My mother assesses the man standing over her as if for the first time. The kind of nice, clean-cut boy she’d call a “nice, clean-cut boy” and chastise Franny for failing to have found. But instead of being charmed, she hardens. Not from anything she detects in him, but who he represents, the evidence of the deception she’s been victim to that he asserts just by standing in front of her.
“I’m Eleanor Quinlan. Raymond Quinlan’s wife.”
Jerry pauses. Then, as if internally deciding on a program and waiting for the software to boot up inside him, he softens. Shows us his solid, milk-hardened teeth, and brings his hands together in a single clap.
“That is something!” He lets out a whoop. “That is most definitely something!”
“Hold on,” one of the twins says. It’s the first one Lauren pointed at, which would make him Ezra.
“You’re his family?” the other twin, Elias, says.
“His second family, it appears. Or his first, and you’re his second, depending where you start counting,” Mom says, once more suppressing a fit of giggles that’s more disturbing to me than anything else going on at the moment.
“So you and you and you,” Ezra says, pointing at Bridge, then me, then Franny. “You’re our half sisters and half brother?”
“It would follow,” Mom says.
This appears to be all the twins need to know for now, the two of them retreating to murmur between themselves. I can’t hear what they say but I lip-read it as numbers. Calculating what our existence means to their diminished cut of the pie.
Franny comes to sit on the arm of the sofa as if to complete the arrangement of the four of us for a family portrait.
“Lauren? Do you mind if I ask you a question?” she asks. “Do you have any children?”
