It took longer to get there than the ten minutes Frank promised, longer than the hour for which Tex had gotten approval, and it was farther away than he’d been led to believe. But he did not back out, did not turn around. He followed Frank through the jungle, into gullies and up hills, down narrow intersecting footpaths that were barely there. Somewhere along the way, they gained a companion, an old Vietnamese man Frank referred to as his “teacher.”
Powell had been right, Tex thought. Frank had gone native.
The little man was the size of a child but wizened beyond belief. Slitted black eyes stared out from between wrinkled folds, and the few teeth visible in his open mouth were black and rotted. He spoke a sort of rudimentary English, Frank spoke the Vietnamese equivalent, and apparently that was enough for them to communicate.
“Where are we going?” Tex asked more than once, and, like a child, “Are we almost there?”
“There” was a place whose location had apparently been forgotten even by the locals, whose name was not even known by the old man, a clearing amongst boulder-sized rocks that was ringed with human rib bones. In the center of the clearing was a small stone structure, housing a single closet-sized room. There were no windows in the structure, but the doorway was open and inside the light of a candle flickered, though Tex couldn’t see how that was possible since there was no one here to tend it and a rather stiff breeze was blowing through the clearing.
If it had been night, he would have turned around then and there. He was not a superstitious person—was no longer even a religious person—but something about this place chilled him to the bone. He didn’t like the circle of human ribs demarcating the circle in the center of the clearing, didn’t like the flickering candle lighting the dark interior of the stone hut. He didn’t even like Frank or that wizened little man.
They were walking slowly now, across the grassy ground, toward the small structure. The Vietnamese man was mumbling something in what sounded like the cadence of a prayer.
“Powell wants to talk to you because he knows things,” Frank said. “He’s seen things.”
“Where is Powell?” Tex asked, though he was sure he already knew the answer.
“He lives there now,” Frank said, nodding toward the open doorway and smiling blissfully.
This close, Powell’s blackening, shriveling head could be seen in a stone alcove in the back wall of the hut, dimly lit by wavering candlelight.
From within the little room came an audible whisper.
“Tex.”
He backed away. He didn’t want to know about this, he decided. He didn’t want any part of it.
“Tex.”
He turned and ran.
“Where are you going?” Frank called after him. “Powell can help us! He can tell us things!”
But Tex was speeding out of the clearing as fast as he could.
****
It was two days before a search party found him.
PART THREE
Daniel
ONE
I didn’t hear from Evan and Owen for nearly a month, and when I did, they didn’t do their usual call-and-set-up-a-meeting routine. They showed up at the real estate office. First thing in the morning. In fact, they were waiting in a car outside when I arrived and hurried over before I could even pull out my key to unlock the door. “News,” Evan announced.
I looked from one to the other. “Good news or bad news?”
“News,” Evan repeated.
We walked inside. My heart was pounding. For the past several weeks, I’d been semi-successful in pushing everything Frank to the side and concentrating on the ordinary business of living, but it all came back in a rush, and I felt the full force of the stress and anxiety that had been with me since Big Bear. I motioned for Evan and Owen to sit down in client chairs as I walked around to the other side of my desk. Evan opened a laptop and put it on the desk in front of me.
“So what have you got?” I asked.
The case laid out by the writers was astonishingly thorough. Those two knew how to do research, and they’d dug up an impressive amount of information involving addresses associated with Frank. There were incidents dating back decades, and Evan pressed a key on his laptop, shifting from screen to screen as he showed me what they’d found.
“There’s bankruptcies, accidents, robberies, miscarriages, suicides, murders. Almost any bad shit you can think of that involves a house has happened to people who’ve hired or bought from Frank.”
“But that’s only the beginning,” Owen added. “It’s the supernatural events that are really impressive.”
I shook my head. “How did you guys find all this?”
“It’s what we do, dude. It’s our job.”
“The thing is…” Owen began.
They looked at each other.
“We have a theory,” Evan offered. “It sounds crazy, I know. And it probably is.”
“And we don’t have the resources to check it out.”
“But there’s been a tremendous increase in psychic activity over the past several decades.”
“Ever since Frank got back from Vietnam.”
Evan shot his partner a look. “I’ll get to that. Let me tell it, will you?” He turned back to me. “There’s been a huge increase. Hence all of the ghost hunting shows. Like ours. But it’s an increase in activity that only seems to be taking place in America. It’s not happening in other countries. So we got to thinking, what if it’s related to Frank? Imagine a map of the United States, with little red dots marking each of the locations where hauntings or psychic experiences occurred. Like I said, we don’t have the resources to prove this, but it’s possible—”
Owen nodded. “More than possible.”
“Okay, we actually did get out a map. And we did some rough correlations with what we knew about Frank’s whereabouts in certain years, and, the thing is, there’s been an exponential increase in, if not psychic activity, at least reported sightings that seem to correspond to buildings worked on by our buddy Frank. I’ve never seen anything like it. Never heard of anything like it.”
“An exponential increase,” Owen repeated.
I was doubtful. “All because of Frank?”
Evan nodded. “I know it sounds crazy…”
“It does,” I admitted. “I mean, one guy…?”
“Maybe he’s doing something or is tapping into something that triggers all this. I don’t know. What I do know is that Vietnam seems to be the key. You told us that George and Betsy said Frank was changed when he came back. Yeah, there was something wrong with him even before he went over, but it was after the war that all this started happening around him.”
I nodded.
“Well, we have a lead on that—”
Owen grinned excitedly. “This is pretty impressive.”
“We emailed a guy whose father served with Frank in Vietnam. Back then, he was Frank Watkins—and we think that’s his real name.”
“I think so, too,” I said.
“Anyway, this guy’s dad told him stories about Frank, who was apparently into some sort of local Vietnamese religion.” Evan paused dramatically. “A religion that involved communicating with the spirits of the dead.”
“Unfortunately,” Owen said, “his dad’s dead.”
“But the thread’s not. Right now, we’re trying to track down someone else from that unit, or anyone who can shed some light on his time in Vietnam, which we think was from late 1967 to early 1969.”
“The dates are murky, though,” Owen said. “There seems to be some discrepancies in Frank’s official record.”
“Communicating with the dead?” I said.
“Oh yeah. And the freaky thing is, the dad said it worked. Frank could do it.”
“There are witnesses.”
“Which is why we’
re looking for guys from his unit.”
“What about that town in Texas? Did you find out if he’s there or not?”
They looked at each other.
“What?” I said.
“Frank’s there. The town’s not.”
Before I could ask what that meant, Evan was going to Google Earth and zooming in on an overhead view of what was supposed to be the town of Plutarch. Only there was no town. There was only a single structure.
A house.
I was reminded of the Winchester Mystery House, which I’d seen as a child on a trip with my parents. From above, there was the same sort of random conglomeration—peaked roofs connected to flat roofs, shakes and shingles, tarpaper and skylights—and I realized that Frank had constructed his house from the town, connecting the buildings until they made one enormous edifice.
“Jesus,” I breathed.
“I’d guess he’s somewhere in there,” Owen said drily.
“But that’s the last episode of the show,” Evan said. He saw the expression on my face and immediately backtracked. “What I mean is, we don’t know enough to go after him at this point. It’d be like the last time you saw him. We need more information before we confront him.”
“We can call the cops,” I said.
They both looked disappointed. “Sure,” Evan said. “You can do that.”
I did so. Immediately. In front of them. I took a business card out of my wallet and dialed the number of Detective Yamamoto, the cop I’d spoken to after returning from Frank’s house—
six days
—telling him that Frank’s address had been found. I called the Randall sheriff’s office to tell them the same thing.
Hanging up, I felt vaguely dissatisfied. I realized that I didn’t think the law would be able to capture Frank or stop him. Because even if police officers or sheriff’s deputies were able to take him in, there was no way they were going to address the real problem. They didn’t know about it and wouldn’t believe it if they did. As much as I wished I could step away from this and pass the responsibility on to someone else, Evan and Owen were right. I had to confront Frank myself.
For Billy.
“All right,” I said after putting down the phone. “Tell me what else you found.”
There wasn’t much else, as it turned out, but they were still following up leads, and with the amount of information they’d uncovered already, I was sure there was more to come. I copied what they’d brought on a flash drive so I could look at it more carefully later, and they promised to let me know if they unearthed anything new.
That night, Teri put extra effort into making sure all of the doors and windows were locked before going to bed.
That was odd.
“Did something happen?” I asked.
“Better to be safe than sorry.” She cuddled next to me under the blanket, slipping her hand beneath the elastic waistband of my underwear to hold me.
“Are you sure—” I began.
“Julie called today.”
The erection that had started growing under her fingers reversed itself, shrinking again. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what came next. In fact, I was pretty sure I didn’t.
“Their Frank didn’t show up in court this morning. Now there’s a warrant out for his arrest.”
I pulled back to look her in the face. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Well, you had so much going on with all that stuff those writers gave you—”
“It’s all connected!”
“Is it?” she asked, meeting my gaze.
“Yeah. I mean…maybe.” I shook my head. “Who knows? The point is, if there’s anything about any Frank, you need to let me know.”
I glanced over at the windows she’d just closed and locked. She saw where I was looking. “Okay,” she admitted. “I think it’s connected, too.”
I held her close. It made no rational sense, and I had no idea how it was possible, but I knew it was true. We both did.
I slept only fitfully that night.
And there were dreams.
****
I followed up with the police the next day since they hadn’t bothered to call me back. According to Yamamoto, Orange County had coordinated with local law enforcement in Texas in an effort to pick Frank up for questioning—only he hadn’t been at the address I’d given. Nothing had. There was no gigantic house where the town of Plutarch used to be, only open desert. Yamamoto sounded pissed. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, but it’s a crime to—”
“I’m not playing any game!” I insisted. “That’s Frank’s address.”
“There is no such address.”
“It used to be a town, an entire town, the town where Frank grew up, only now he’s made it into one big house, connecting all the buildings—”
“Do you think this is funny?”
“I’m not joking!” I told him.
“Then there’s something wrong with you.”
“It’s on Google!” I said. “I saw it!”
“There’s nothing there. The police went out—”
“There’s a satellite photo!”
“If there is, it’s a mistake, a glitch.”
I hung up on him, angry and frustrated. I stared at the blank black screen of my phone. There was no way I was going to convince Yamamoto or anyone else in officialdom about the crazy truth that was Frank. I should have known that from the beginning. Hell, the only people helping me out on this were two writers for a basic cable TV series about ghost hunting who were hoping to turn Frank’s story into a show of their own.
That ought to have told me something.
I was so upset I was shaking. It felt as though I was trapped in one of those maddening dreams where it was impossible to move forward and everything I did set me back.
Not knowing what to do, I contacted Mark, figuring he’d want to hear what we’d discovered. I called him rather than emailing him, knowing he’d want to talk about it, but he was at work, so I got his voicemail. I left a message, however, and he called back within ten minutes.
“That was quick,” I said. “I hope you’re on break and not blowing off some poor guy who’s had knee surgery and needs to learn to walk again.”
“It’s fine,” he assured me. “What’s up? You have news about Frank?”
“That I do.” I gave him a quick rundown of what Evan and Owen had dug up. “I can send it to you if you want.”
“Definitely.” Mark was silent for a moment. “So what now? I assume you told the cops where he is. Are they going to arrest him?”
“It’s not as simple as that.” I sighed. “The cops here contacted the police or sheriff or whoever out in Texas, and they went out to where Frank’s house is—but they said there’s nothing there. Only there is. You can even download a satellite image of it. Like I said, he took over a whole town. Turned it into one gigantic house. Except somehow the law can’t find it.”
“So you’re going to go see him yourself.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I guess so. Yeah.” I hadn’t admitted it even to myself, but it was true.
“I’m coming with you.”
That was a bolt from the blue. Although I probably shouldn’t have been surprised. It would have been more surprising had Mark not wanted to come. His family had been damaged by Frank almost as badly as mine had, and I knew he was looking for closure.
“When are we going?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I have to work some things out. I need to…prepare.”
“What are we going to do when we see him?” Mark asked, and I could hear in his tone of voice what he wanted to do.
“I don’t know,” I said again, and we both let the words hang there.
“Call me when you’re ready,” he s
aid finally. “And keep me up on anything new.”
“I will,” I promised.
On the way home from work, I drove to the cemetery in Anaheim where my parents and my brother were buried.
I could not remember the last time I’d gone there. I’d never been the type of person to bring flowers or talk to a burial plot. Billy and my parents were never far from my thoughts, but seeing their graves depressed me, and, as far as I was concerned, the only things in the ground were their lifeless bodies. I was only going now to see if my mom’s gravesite had been disturbed. Frank’s taunting had been in the back of my mind ever since I’d left Nevada—
Your mama’s bones are in my home. I dug them up. In the dead of night.
—and I wanted to make sure he hadn’t been telling the truth.
To my relief, there was no indication that her body had been exhumed. The grass atop all three graves was not only intact but thick and had obviously been growing for a long time. There was no difference in the level of earth over the three graves, or between them and the adjoining plots.
I knelt down, touching the engraved letters on my father’s stone, looking at the dates that measured the length of his life. I was almost as old as he had been when he’d died in the car crash, I realized.
I touched Billy’s stone. If he were still alive, he’d be as old as my parents had been when he died.
I could barely bring myself to look at my mom’s grave. I had known her the longest, known her the best, and her loss seemed fresher to me.
There were tears in my eyes, and I turned away, heading back to my car, feeling heavy and hurt and alone.
****
Evan and Owen called again the next day. I was prepping a house for sale—adding a couple of new throw rugs to the bathrooms, putting some flowers in a vase on the kitchen counter, placing some upscale magazines on top of the living room coffee table for display—but I stopped what I was doing and sat down on the sofa to talk when I found out Evan was on the line.
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