Echoes (Book 1): Echoes

by Caplan, A. M.

  She closed the door against the cold but didn’t lock it, mostly out of petulance, and went into the kitchen.

  The situation hadn’t improved overnight. She turned the radio on, pushed up her shirt sleeves above her elbows, and dug in.

  By the time her ambition started to lose ground against her aches and pains, the room was shining and smelled like soap and pine cleaner. It was nearly back to normal except for the mountain of bagged trash that needed to go out, and the mail pile she was ignoring. The dish rack was loaded with clean dishes and the cork board was empty of clippings and the drawing of Asher, the blank grocery list pad and the calendar turned to the correct page the only things on it.

  She almost didn’t hear the tap on the glass of the back door over the music. Looking out, Hannah opened the door for Asher. She didn’t hesitate, telling herself again that if he meant her harm he’d had plenty of opportunity and she’d be buried in the woods somewhere by now.

  His hands were filled with the pile of faded envelopes and flyers that had been crammed in her mailbox, and she winced at the red past-due stamps that had somehow managed to avoid fading with the paper. He didn’t come inside, just stood, filling up the doorway.

  “Just put it with the rest.” She nodded toward the counter.

  Adding it to the now-neater pile, Asher still had to cram it up under the bottom of the cabinet to keep the pile from avalanching onto the floor. He turned to go.

  “Hungry?” She spoke to his retreating back. The pot of oatmeal simmering on the stove gave a glurp as if on command. He turned back and nodded.

  Her kitchen table had never seemed tiny before he sat at it. Asher just took up more space than most people. Hannah was relieved to find out the oatmeal tasted better than she’d expected, since the main ingredient was imagination. She’d dumped in the rest of the jar of applesauce from the other day and a healthy amount of cinnamon, nutmeg, and anything else from the spice drawer that seemed appealing. After drizzling the oatmeal with homemade maple syrup, she handed him a heavy bowl. She sat down across from him with her own and they ate in silence.

  “Thank you.” He set the spoon down in the empty bowl.

  “Would you like some more?” She filled his bowl a second time without waiting for an answer. She imagined it must take a lot of calories to run a person his size. She poured them each a cup of the coffee that had been brewing while they ate, then Hannah sat back down across from him, feeling oddly out of place in her own kitchen.

  “There is a delivery for you on the front porch. Appears to be from the beverage store.” His voice didn’t necessarily carry any judgment, but she winced. Her recurring delivery of a sad quantity of the Beer Barn’s cheapest wine. She had almost no food, but boxes of crappy merlot showed up on her doorstep like clockwork. There were probably three or four slushy boxes out there at this point.

  Hannah would have poured a glass now if she was alone, and just the thought made her flush with embarrassment. The downhill track that had been her life recently had turned her into a person she wasn’t proud of.

  Asher finished his second helping in silence, then rose to wash his bowl while she stirred her oatmeal into a congealed clump. He balanced the clean bowl carefully on the precarious pile, then drying his hands on the dishtowel, he folded it precisely in half and hung it over the edge of the apron sink.

  For months Hannah had felt like she was stumbling through a dense fog. Today was different, a little less hazy at least, even if still undeniably strange. The efforts of the morning had brought her up some, but stopping reminded her how sore and battered she felt inside and out. She wasn’t surprised. Things were better, but they weren’t just magically perfect, all the problems blown away on the breeze. The thought made her sigh. There were just so many unanswered questions. She put her head down in her hands.

  “What is it?” Asher turned from peering out the window.

  Through her hands she mumbled, “I still don’t understand. I don’t understand any of it.”

  “Why do you have to?” he said. “What made you dwell on it for so long? Accidents happen every day, people die. You could have come to terms with any explanation, whether you had every detail or not. Why did you spend all this time searching the woods for me and staring at the river as though I would be there? Anyone else would have just moved on. You still should.”

  His tone was even but not irritated, like the words themselves made her think it should be. It was speculative, even, and it made her wonder. If she kept her temper in check this time, maybe he would let his guard down and some of the truth would slip out on its own. She picked her head up and took a breath. Getting carried away didn’t used to be her at all, and it certainly wasn’t going to get her the answers she needed.

  “You’re right,” she said. “There’s obviously something I’m hung up on. I believed what I saw and I wasn’t able to accept anything else, because I’m stubborn. And yes, people die every day, but not because of me. All I could picture was you rotting in the woods somewhere while your family wondered why you never came home.” Hannah stood up and took her bowl to the sink. “But you’re right. I need to get past it. Coming as close to dying as I did makes that clear.”

  She shuddered at the memory of the crack, the feeling of ice caving beneath her before it all went black. “But I’d like to be able to do it with all the facts, then I can walk away from it, end of story. If not, I guess I’ll figure something out. Thanks again for pulling me out of the water. I’m glad you did, and you can leave here with a clean conscience and my eternal gratitude.”

  He looked at her levelly, smoothed out the already smooth dishtowel, and walked toward the back door. She reached for the knob, disappointed, and started to open the door for him. Then she closed it before he could leave.

  “How did you know I’ve been searching the woods and staring at the river?”

  She took a step sideways and leaned against the closed door, glaring at him, though feeling silly. As if she could stop him if he decided to go. Asher was the size of a bus. He stared past her, out the window over her shoulder.

  “Asher, how do you know what I’ve been doing? Why were you at the grocery store? And you were here when I fired the gun. I know it. Don’t deny it. Have you been following me?”

  He didn’t answer her, instead reaching out toward where her hand rested on the doorknob. She froze, holding her ground, waiting for him to push her aside.

  “It can wait. Right now we need to step calmly away from this door.” Asher turned the lock above the knob with a click. “There is someone watching us from the tree line.”

  11

  She turned her head slowly toward the edge of the woods, but from so far away all Hannah was able to pick out were the shadowy spaces between the thick firs.

  “I don’t see anything,” she murmured. He motioned for her to get back, and she slid behind him.

  “They may know that I saw them, but there is no way to be certain,” Asher said, whispering over his shoulder. “They slipped back into the trees. Where is the shotgun?”

  It was still upstairs. He didn’t wait for her answer.

  “Go get it. Stay clear of the windows. Does the room at the end of the hall lock?”

  “It locks, kind of,” she said to his back.

  “Now, go quickly. Get the gun and lock yourself in. Do not open the door until I come get you. Do not open it for anyone but me. The gun, do you know how to use it?”

  Hannah didn’t bother to respond to that one.

  “Where are you going?” she said. He backed away from the door, shuffling her behind him.

  “I will leave by the front and see if I can discover who is out there. It may simply be the sheriff again, or a neighbor.”

  Hannah didn’t have any neighbors close enough be casually walking by, but it wasn’t unheard of for someone to cut across the back of the property from time to time, taking a shortcut to the logging road.

  “Who else would it be? Why would the . .
.”

  “Go now.” It came out of his mouth as a hiss. The ferocity silenced her and she slipped out of the room, away from the glass panes of the kitchen door. As quietly as possible Hannah went up the stairs and retrieved the shotgun.

  The boards creaked twice as loudly as they usually did, it seemed, as she made her way through the hallway downstairs. Pausing at the linen closet, she dug out a box of shells by touch on the little shelf between two studs. Pocketing them, she crept the rest of the way down the hallway, pausing by the narrow window to look through the space between the curtain and the frame.

  Hannah jumped back, whipping the gun to her shoulder by force of habit as a figure passed by the window. She dropped the barrel and stepped back from the window when she saw it was Asher, crouched low and padding stealthily by. Not hesitating any longer, she scooted past the window and went into the downstairs bedroom, dropping the old-fashioned thumb latch in place and slipping the little pin into the slot above it. Technically it was locked, just not in a way that would do a whole lot of good if someone really wanted to get in.

  Trying to be quiet, Hannah set the shotgun down and tipped up the bench that sat at the foot of the bed, turning it sideways and jamming it between the heavy footboard and the door. With the reassuring weight of the shotgun back in her hands, she dropped open the barrels and checked the load. The smell of spent gunpowder drifted upward when she ejected the empty casings and she remembered the last time she’d fired it. After pushing a fresh shell into each chamber, she closed the breech with a soft click.

  She slid down into the space between the nightstand and the far wall, out of sight of the window. A crow called just outside and made her jump, and she jerked the barrel up. Probably a good time to put the safety on—firing a gun at her own doorway twice in one week was a little much, even for her.

  Settling back down, gun across her knees, Hannah looked around the room. She hadn’t been in it more than a handful of times since her uncle passed away. It hadn’t changed since then. Aside from a thin layer of dust, it was the same as he’d always kept it, much the same as he’d kept his room in all the homes they’d lived in over the years. The bed was made with military precision and the nightstand was bare except for a book he’d never gotten to finish, a piece of paper sticking out halfway through to mark the page. There were hundreds more books on the shelves, each one lined up exactly with its neighbor, organized by size and color in an attempt to impose order on the crazy variety of titles. Each one Hannah had read at some point; Pyle’s Robin Hood and The Prince. Two fat volumes of Norse mythology, The Libertine, and Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. Dracula and The Transit of Venus. Countless others, the most eclectic of collections, with classics touching books still on the best-seller list. Fiction, history, autobiography, true crime, and horror, together taking up a full wall of the room.

  There weren’t many other personal items, besides a few drawings she’d made him as a child and cringe-worthy graduation pictures, Hannah looking awkward and uncomfortable in a polyester gown and mortarboard. The only other picture was of her mother and her aunt, identical and lovely, with dark eyes and black hair. They beamed happily, arms wrapped around each other in their matching dresses. That was everything in the room, except another door, the one to his closet, still filled with his evenly hung clothing, the row of clean shoes lined up underneath. Hannah wished her uncle was here now.

  There was a shuffling in the hallway and Hannah pulled the gun off her lap, pointing it at the door. She heard it again and pushed down the little lever that controlled the safety, a little shake in her finger.

  “You can come out now.” There was a quiet tap on the door. She lost hold of the gun for a second, catching it before it fell. It took her a moment to un-wedge the bench from beneath the doorknob.

  “There is no one out there now,” Asher said, “but someone definitely has been. I found footprints, several sets of them maybe, running all along the trees and back into the forest. Some are fresh, the others I cannot tell.”

  It sounded so ominous coming out of his mouth. It could very well have been a hiker or an out-of-season hunter looking to fill their freezer. But all this tip-toeing around and his obvious concern made her uneasy.

  “Who would it be, unless it’s a hunter or something? Unless this is about you.” She took a step backward. “Is this about you? Did someone follow you here. Are you in danger?” Her eyes widened. “Wait, am I in danger?”

  Asher eyed the gun as it crept upward while she was talking. She dropped the barrel slightly but didn’t drop the subject. Hannah didn’t really know anything about him, other than he wasn’t currently as dead as she’d previously thought and was the size of a small truck.

  “Asher…who do you think is out there?”

  “It may not be anything,” he said. “There may be an entirely innocent explanation. But it is also possible I may have brought danger to you. The figure in the woods, they were too far away for me to see clearly, so at present I am not certain.”

  She thought about waving him out the door with the double barrels. Hannah knew almost nothing about him, and very little of what she did know made sense. For all she knew he was in some sort of trouble and someone dangerous had followed him to her home. Maybe it was time for him to go. Or for her to go to the authorities. As badly as she wanted answers, getting them wasn’t going to be worth much if she was dead.

  With a small step, she moved toward the door, wondering if he would move aside. The way he filled the entire doorframe, there was no way past him.

  He put up a hand, stopping her. “I know what you are thinking. If I was certain you would be safe I would leave right now. But as I have gone to some lengths to make sure you are alive, I intend to stay for now and see that you remain that way. I think it is safer for you to stay inside the house right now.”

  The way he was staring down at her was intense, and his hand had reached out to completely encircle her forearm, but for some reason Hannah didn’t fear him, as stupid as that probably was. There might be something to fear, but somehow she knew it wasn’t in the room.

  On the other hand, she wasn’t a total idiot.

  “Why should I trust you? I don’t believe any of what you’ve told me so far is true. You can stay, for now, but we’re going to lock up this house, and then we’re going to sit down and you’re going to enlighten me as to what the hell is going on. Then maybe we can find out who the people creeping around my backyard might be.” She tried to look bold and defiant. “And I’m not letting go of this gun.”

  Hannah might have been able to sell it if she hadn’t wobbled a little bit trying to hold the shotgun up with one arm. If he thought of commenting, he had the sense to hold his tongue and simply nodded. She dropped her twitching arm with relief. “Okay then,” she said. “And make some coffee. I think we’re gonna need it.”

  Maybe it was overkill, but they erred on the side of caution. The house was now as secure as it was capable of being, which was to say it would keep a mildly motivated intruder out a little bit longer than someone who had a real mind to get in. It was an old, cobbled-together farmhouse, but they did the best they could, shooting the deadbolts and locking the windows, covering them against prying eyes. While the coffee brewed, Hannah propped empty cans with a handful of change in them on top of the windows. It was a little much, but it wouldn’t take a genius to jimmy one of the old-fashioned locks, and it would give them some notice if anyone tried to slip inside. Finally, Asher wedged chairs under the knobs of the front and back doors.

  Avoiding the kitchen with all its windows and glass-paned door, they sat with their coffee in the tiny, never-used dining room. It was another late addition to the house, a tacked-on rectangle of a room with only one small, high window. Hannah had intended to turn it into an office but never got around to it, preferring to work at the kitchen table in its sunny little nook.

  Hannah sipped the strong and scalding coffee appreciatively. She was running on fumes, her en
ergy fading fast, but she was unwilling to concede defeat until she got a little more information. Besides, she was a jittery jangle of nerves, so as badly as she needed it, sleep was probably a pipe dream.

  When Asher didn’t speak immediately, she settled for examining him from across the dining table where he was sitting straight and upright, staring off into space, still as a statue. He seemed to do that a lot.

  In the low light his eyes looked darker, almost completely gray, the blue lost in the dimness. His nose, she decided upon seeing it in profile, was rather attractive and perfectly straight. The hands enveloping the coffee mug were sprinkled with pale, fine hairs up to where they disappeared into the frayed cuffs of the shirt.

  He looked, catching her staring. Hannah put down her coffee and stretched, trying to look nonchalant, her shoulders creaking with the effort.

  “You’re still here,” she said. “Explain.”

  Asher twisted the heavy stoneware mug around and around, studying the organic swirl in the glaze as it turned.

  “Please understand.” He stopped and set the mug down, turning to face her. His gaze was unnerving, but she made an effort to not look away. As the short staring match went on, she wondered what he saw, or what he was trying to decide.

  “Fine,” he said. It was a defeated fine. “I woke up lying on a road. I opened my eyes and stood up, and the first thing I saw was headlights. I do not remember being struck, but I remember hearing your voice. I felt your hands against my face, and the blood running down my neck. Then it became incredibly cold, and everything went black.”

  Yes, well, she was there for that part.

  “Okay, so you just woke up there, and then I ran you over with my car?” Hannah raised an eyebrow. “But how did you get there? And where did you go after? You were really hurt, so how did you even move? Oh, and where the hell were your clothes?”

  He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair, standing the front of it up.