The Fourth Trumpet

by Theresa Jenner Garrido

  And, worse. What Keith would say.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Andrea drove to the Walmart on the edge of town, parked away from the mega-store and switched off the engine. A glance at her watch told her she had at least half an hour to kill. She couldn’t arrive at Keith’s house before seven, had to allow him enough time to get home. She didn’t want anything from the store, wasn’t hungry, couldn’t think of anywhere else to go so remained in her car, turned on the radio and tried to relax.

  Keith had told her he worked at Boeing. Did he? So many things were off-balance in this world. Maybe he had a job somewhere else. She hadn’t thought to ask Carrie when she’d had the chance. Stupid. She certainly wasn’t thinking very clearly. What else was new?

  A quarter after seven, Andrea summoned the last ounce of courage in her, started the car and headed back down the highway on autopilot. She didn’t register anything until she pulled into the new development called The Meadows. It took less than a minute to find his place. Right next-door to Carrie’s. Well, at least something from the dream was right. A nervous glance at the young woman’s house reassured her that the Vanderpelts were safely ensconced inside. At least, Andrea hoped they were. She didn’t think she had the energy to explain what she was doing back in their neighborhood at this hour.

  Staring up at Keith’s front door, Andrea felt a roiling deep in her stomach. “Oh, God. Okay. This is it,” she murmured. “If you’re really up there, help me.”

  She pushed open the car door and swung her legs around but didn’t get out. Chewing on her lower lip, she startled herself when she bit too hard and tasted blood. Damn! Dear, Lord. I shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be here. The roiling deepened. She had to do something before she lost it.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Andrea set her shoulders and climbed the six steps to Keith’s front porch. Although her eyes were riveted on his front door, she noted the rattan chairs, glass-topped table, and the yellow golf ball beside the doormat.

  With another shuddering breath, Andrea lifted her hand and jabbed the doorbell with her right index finger. Then she closed her eyes and willed her stomach to quiet down.

  When she heard footsteps, she almost passed out. Then the door opened and she opened her eyes.

  Keith.

  Exactly how she remembered him. Same craggy face, same blue eyes and crooked mouth.

  “Yes?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. “Can I help you?”

  Andrea, too choked to speak, just stood there, staring at him in wonder, awe, and disbelief.

  “You having trouble? What do you need?” Keith pressed, eyes narrowing with suspicion, concern or just plain annoyance. She couldn’t tell.

  Andrea shook her head. “Nothing.” It came out a whisper.

  Keith frowned. “Are you ill? What is it?”

  “Y-your name is Keith—Keith Reynolds?”

  “Yes. Do I know you? Have we met?”

  “You don’t remember me at all?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” His forehead creased. “Except—jeez. You do sort of look familiar. Were you at the Ramseys’s barbecue last week? You’re not Janelle’s friend from St. Charles, are you? The massage therapist?”

  “No. No. My name is Andrea.”

  “Andrea. Andrea.” He shrugged. “I think—no. Sorry, it’s like trying to see through a veil of gauze or something.” His shoulders lifted and fell again. “Well. If I can’t help you, I’ll go back to my dinner.” He stepped back to close the door.

  Without thinking, Andrea stuck her foot in past the threshold and pushed at the closing door with both hands. “Wait. Please. One more question.”

  “What?” He was getting annoyed.

  “You don’t remember the incredible darkness? The wild things roaming around? Father Joe, Eleazar—Carrie?”

  “Carrie? You mean Carrie Vanderpelt? My next-door neighbor?”

  “Yes! She was pregnant but Rob had disappeared. You helped her. You and I. We…” The enormity of what she was saying washed over her. Andrea cringed with embarrassment and shrank back. “I am so sorry. You must think I’m a total lunatic. Please excuse me for barging in like this. I can’t explain it—not so you could understand, anyway. Thanks for your time. S-sorry.”

  She turned and flew down the steps and into her car. With only a glance at the young man still standing on his porch, Andrea drove quickly away.

  Tears interfering with her ability to see, she once again drove on autopilot. She had no clue where she was going, didn’t recognize landmarks or road signs. She just drove. Somehow she made it home without an accident, parked and climbed out of the car. She knew enough to realize she looked awful, strained, stressed beyond sanity—ready to disintegrate at a moment’s notice.

  Oh, God, what am I going to do? Where can I go? I might as well be dead.

  She stumbled over to the hammock Uncle Mike had strung up between two gnarled oaks and sat down. She couldn’t go in yet. If either Aunt Claire or Uncle Mike saw her, she’d have major explaining to do. She wasn’t a good enough actress to assume a nonchalance she didn’t feel.

  Oh, Keith. Keith. Keith. She repeated his name over and over, like a mantra, a prayer. Keith, I loved you. I loved you. Keith, oh Keith.

  Andrea lifted her feet, swung them around and lay back on the rough canvas of the hammock. Too tired to reach for the rope, tied to a third, smaller tree, used to make the hammock swing, she stared up into the canopy of dark green leaves. Already signs of fall were in the air. Some of the oak leaves had yellow edges. The corn was golden and the fruit trees promised a good harvest.

  Orientation was next week. Next week! Andrea would be going, along with her aunt and uncle. Berry would be heading to Wash U soon. Before they knew it, it would be Halloween. Then Thanksgiving. Christmas. And Andrea wanted nothing more than to curl up into a tight ball and sleep.

  The sun was setting, had already disappeared behind the windbreak planted by her great-grandfather over seventy-five years ago. She’d have to go inside eventually. If someone happened to look out the window and see the Explorer, they’d know she was home and wonder why she hadn’t come into the house.

  Andrea released a sigh that started from her toes and rose up to her throat. No use prolonging the inevitable. If her aunt and uncle questioned her, she’d just say she had a headache and came home. On second thought, that would only bring on an avalanche of problems about her little accident. No, if they threw questions at her, she’d say her friend called it an early night on account of a headache.

  Neither Aunt Claire nor Uncle Mike said a thing. They were engrossed in their favorite TV program and merely waved when she poked her head in the room to say goodnight. She didn’t see Berry at all and didn’t knock on his door. Ten minutes later, Andrea was in bed, lights off, willing her mind to cease its chaotic whirling.

  She needed to think—to understand. But she had to calm down first. Relax. Reason.

  Keith hadn’t recognized her. Keith didn’t know her at all. He didn’t register even a spark of curiosity. Keith didn’t love her with a fervor that made an ache so deep she could hardly bear it.

  Andrea slept for four hours. The last thing she remembered was glancing, bleary-eyed, at the digital clock beside her bed and noting the time: 2:11. She must have fallen asleep soon after that, but she woke up again at 6:53. Disgusted, she threw back the covers, rolled out of bed, dressed, then went downstairs. She felt like stale bread.

  Uncle Mike was just pushing up from the table. “Well, g’morning.”

  “Good morning.” Andrea tried to keep her tone upbeat. “Berry up yet?”

  “Up and at ’em. Going into town for new tires for the truck then off to Matty’s to hash out how they’re getting their stuff over to th’ university.”

  “Oh, yeah. They’re getting an apartment this year, aren’t they.”

  Aunt Claire sniffed. “Along with that rascal, Dan Walner and David Owens. Don’t know why they just can’t stay in the dorm
.”

  Andrea rolled her eyes. “Probably will get more studying done in an apartment than in the dorm.”

  “Humpf, we’ll see, we’ll see.” Aunt Claire scooped out a mound of raw dough and placed it on a floured cloth. Taking the rolling pin, she attacked the ball with a vengeance.

  “Looks like you’re planning to bake some pies,” Andrea murmured, pouring a cup of coffee. “Anything you want me to do?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes there is. Could you go pick me some apples? Fill that basket under the butcher block. A little early, maybe, but I tasted one and they’re nice enough for pies. Tart and juicy.”

  Uncle Mike chuckled. “Well, ladies, I’m outa here. Jake and I are going t’ tinker with his lawn mower. Told him I could make her good as new so he’s taken me up on it. See you two gals later.”

  “Don’t be all day, Michael George Gardner,” his wife frowned. “Plenty of broken-down things around here, too, you know.”

  “Don’t worry, woman. I’ll be home in time to taste one of those pies you’re baking.”

  “Humpf.”

  Andrea smiled at their half-hearted bickering and drained her coffee mug. Grabbing two oatmeal cookies from the jar, and the basket from under the butcher block, she left her aunt and uncle bantering back and forth and went outside.

  The early morning air felt cool, tasted and smelled cool. Her shoes were wet with dew as she walked through the grass to the apple tree. Autumn was playing peek-a-boo with summer. They’d be carving pumpkins before she knew it.

  Setting the basket on the ground, Andrea snatched one apple after another from the lower branches and tossed them into the basket. It became real work when she had to stand on tiptoes to reach those higher up. When the basket was more than halfway full, she flopped down on the hammock for a minute. She had to rest her arm and relax her sore neck.

  Lying back, her eyes wandered from the leafy ceiling that protected the hammock from a glaring afternoon sun, to the Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign nailed above the garage doors, to the clothesline behind the apple tree. Then she looked toward Kellermann’s pasture.

  And saw the impossible.

  Struggling to sit up and almost losing her balance in the rocking hammock, Andrea blinked several times.

  She wasn’t hallucinating.

  “No,” she breathed. “It can’t be. It can’t be. Not again.”

  The sky! The gray-white sky in the east—a sky that should be stained a bright pink with a rising sun—was slowly filling with what looked like black liquid. She didn’t know any other way to describe it. It was as if a giant oil spill was leaking into the sky, staining the white clouds, greasy black.

  Andrea brought both hands up to her mouth and moaned. Her brain urged her into the house to warn the others, but her legs refused to respond. Paralyzed, she remained in the hammock and watched the horrific reprisal of an unbelievable nightmare.

  A sudden squealing of tires broke the spell. She turned with a jolt toward the driveway. An unfamiliar car pulled to an abrupt stop beside the garage and the driver’s door burst open. A figure scrambled out.

  “Keith?” Andrea gasped. “Keith?” She sprang from the hammock, tripped over her basket of apples and landed hard. Before she could move or catch her breath, strong arms were pulling her into a fierce embrace. She looked up into Keith’s piercing blue eyes and sighed.

  “Oh, Andrea, Andrea,” he choked.

  “Keith?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “You remembered.”

  ABOUT AUTHOR THERESA JENNER GARRIDO

  Born and raised in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, Theresa graduated from the University of Washington, taught middle school for over twenty-five years, then retired early so she could devote more time to writing. She has traveled extensively and, besides Washington State, has made her home in Missouri, Georgia, North Carolina and South Carolina, where she currently resides with her retired engineer husband and rescue dog, Molly.

  Books by Theresa: Shade and Shadow, Centauri Serenade, Wind Whisperer, Mirror Image, The Chinese Chest, For Crying Out Loud, Don’t Rock the Boat, By Any Other Name, The Fourth Trumpet, Astral Alliances, and Swamp Secrets