House of Echoes: A Novel

by Brendan Duffy

  The creek flowed from the mountains, but even at the height of the melt it was only two feet deep. Rounded stones stuck from its white course like a broken street.

  The trees here had been glazed in a thin coat of ice, which made the stretch more dreamlike than the other places they’d seen. The low winter sun hadn’t picked up much beyond the horizon, but it lit the space like a hall of mirrors.

  Ben put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. Other than helping him down the rope, it might have been the first time he’d touched him since finding that book in his cubby.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie,” he told him.

  “For what?”

  Ben could only shake his head. He didn’t know where to begin.

  He felt cleaved by the guilt of what wild things his imagination had spun about Charlie’s role in all this. In the short hours between finding The Book of Secrets in his son’s cubby and Bub being taken, Ben had wondered if Charlie had burned the shed, killed animals, hurt his dog, or merely been an eager accomplice for the man who wandered their forest. When Hudson attacked Charlie, he must have smelled the man’s scent on him and mistaken the one for the other. Ben was guilty of the same mistake.

  “No matter what happens, we’re going to be okay. I want you to know that.”

  “Okay.”

  But Ben knew there were hard days behind him and worse ahead. He felt this in the pulse of his neck and heard it in the current of the wind.

  41

  Their search proved useless, and Ben wasn’t surprised. For him, useless endeavors had become something of a specialty.

  “What should we do now?” Charlie asked once they’d returned to the Crofts.

  “How about you make sandwiches for the three of us,” Ben said. “I need to make a quick phone call. I won’t be long.”

  Caroline had moved to the third floor. The sounds of splintering wood led him right to her. Fragments of what had been the hardwood floor were heaped along the hallway like drifts of leaves.

  “Where’s Charlie?” she asked when she saw him. She pried an ax head out of the gleaming mahogany.

  “In the kitchen, making food.”

  “I can’t eat, Ben. I just can’t,” she said. Caroline had peeled up a fifteen-foot span of the flooring, exposing a splintered subfloor. She’d spent days testing colors for this floor. They’d spent a week sanding, staining, and waxing it. It had all been undone in a few hours. The hallway was ruined and the ceilings of the floor below would soon follow, and Ben didn’t care.

  “Me neither,” he said.

  Neither of them had found Bub, of course, but Caroline thought she’d traced the sounds to this part of the third floor. She was nearly certain of it. And Ben had his own hunch to follow.

  Ben took the tower stairs to the attic, thinking of the man in the smoke.

  The man was clever. He’d set the elder tree on fire to distract them while he took Bub. They’d found empty jugs of gasoline that he’d taken from the shed. The fire had been ignited by some kind of homemade fuse so that the man would be well away by the time the gas caught. But instead of escaping downslope to the county road once he had Bub, the man had headed for the forest.

  The FBI assumed that the kidnapper had run into the forest in order to confuse his pursuers and then made for the county road or one of the access roads and driven Bub elsewhere. But if the man really lived in the forest, maybe Bub had never left the Drop in the first place. Ben left the chief a voice mail, asking him to call him back so he could share this theory.

  Ben also thought the man must have some kind of connection to the Crofts. He seemed to know the place too well to be a stranger. And from the messages the man had left Charlie alongside the mutilated animals, it seemed clear that he wanted the Tierneys to leave. He could have been the one who’d set fire to the shed back in the summer, to scare them off. He could have mutilated the deer whose head Ben had found just outside the door and left the carcasses of the animals he lived off to rot in the pit in the woods. He might have been the noises in the night and the eyes they felt coming from empty rooms. They might have been living with the man all year without knowing it.

  Ben still had the box from the archives of the Swannhaven Dispatch in the attic. He checked his notes against the newspapers. John Tanner, the boy who had set the fire at the Crofts in 1982, would be in his late forties now. The man in the sketch Charlie had helped with could easily be that age.

  He glanced through the newspapers again to confirm that Tanner had been sent to the Lockwood Institute in 1983, after spending some time in a juvenile detention center. Ben called Lockwood and was told that Tanner had been released last year and sent to an assisted-living facility.

  Ben took down the number for that facility and was about to call when the faint ring of the front bell sounded through the attic floor.

  He ran to the foyer and saw Charlie talking to Chief Stanton in front of the open door.

  “Anything?” Ben asked.

  The chief shook his head.

  “Charlie, wait for me to answer the door, okay?” Ben said.

  “But I know him.”

  “Just do it for me, okay?”

  “Okay, Dad,” Charlie said. “I made peanut butter sandwiches for us.”

  “Thank you.”

  “He’s a good boy,” the chief said after Charlie had left the room. His voice splintered in his throat. The man looked worse than he had the day before. Ben guessed that he hadn’t slept or eaten since the day of the dinner party, either. “I was already headed here when I got your voice mail. Mary sent me up with one of her casseroles.” He handed Ben a bag heavy with Tupperware.

  “Nice of her,” Ben said.

  “And Caroline?” the chief asked.

  “She’s holding up,” Ben said. The ax blows from the third floor were barely audible from here.

  “Good. You’re not on your own with this, Ben.” The chief rested a hand on his shoulder. “The whole village is behind you. The biddies too old to search have been holding prayers at the church since yesterday. In today’s service we talked about nothing but you folks. Now, what did you call to tell me?”

  “I got something more out of Charlie. He just needed to find a way to tell me.”

  Ben told the chief about Charlie’s previous encounters with the man.

  “I’ve been asking myself why the man would go deeper into the forest after taking Bub. Why he spent so much time at the Crofts through the summer and fall. I think we’re dealing with someone who exists in a world in which the Crofts is the center,” Ben said. “How much do you know about John Tanner?”

  The chief looked at him with an expression as close to astonishment as his ashen features could muster.

  “What is it?” Ben asked.

  “JoJo’s all I’ve been thinking of since I saw that sketch yesterday,” the chief said.

  —

  “How well did you know him?” Ben asked. He and the chief were halfway to the far end of the lake, to Charlie’s blind. The chief told Ben that he’d called Lockwood yesterday and gotten the same information Ben had learned today. He’d also checked in with the assisted-living facility. They told him that John Tanner had been in residence there for two months when he disappeared, in the middle of December of last year. They hadn’t heard from him since.

  “He was a year ahead of me in school,” the chief said. “That was before they closed it down and started busing the kids to North Hampstead.”

  “So you knew the Swann brothers, too.”

  “In this small a village, all of us know one another. Have since we were in diapers.”

  “But Tanner was a foster kid, wasn’t he?”

  “But he was from Swannhaven. The Swann sisters took him in when his parents passed.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Called him JoJo. Big guy. Was always big. Could have made a go of football if he knew which end of the field to run for.”

  “Not too bright?”

  “We d
idn’t have names for all the problems kids have now. But the boy wasn’t right. Never was. You only had to look in his eyes to know something inside him had gone all wrong.”

  “Why do you think he set the fire?”

  “Lots of theories on that one. Could have been that the other kids were teasing him and he was acting out. Could have been that he wanted some attention. Could have been that he just got it into his mind that he wanted to see something burn.”

  “Should we tell the FBI, too?” Ben asked.

  “We can. But, to put all the cards on the table, I don’t think they sent their best and brightest to work this one.”

  “Really?” Ben had thought they were sharp enough.

  “When they’re good, they’re the best, but they’re stretched like everyone else these days. If it is JoJo, well, we know these mountains as well as he does. The feds know it, too. That’s why they left it to us to search the woods. Those FBI agents can send out their APBs and Amber Alerts and keep tabs on the staties, but send them trudging through these woods in this snow and they’ll just ruin their shoes.”

  “It’s in here,” Ben said, ducking into the trees. He followed Charlie’s and his footsteps to the rope ladder. When he found it, he handed it to the chief. Ben waited as the man lifted himself up to the platform. After a few moments the chief had his feet back on the ground. He’d seemed exhausted on the walk over, and the climb had winded him.

  “What do you think?”

  “Charlie built this himself?” the chief asked.

  “Yeah, he loves it out here, the animals and trees and everything. He’s sort of obsessed.”

  “He ever mention anything strange about the Drop? Or about the village?” the chief asked. They started to walk back to the Crofts.

  “Well, I thought him having clandestine contact with a large man dressed in animal skins was pretty strange.” Ben sensed that the chief was watching him closely. “If it was JoJo, what do you think he meant by carving run into the tree?” he asked.

  “Sounds like he’s taunting Charlie.”

  “Or could it be a warning?” Ben asked. “The man in the smoke kept telling Charlie to leave, then said he was going to die. But what if it wasn’t a threat but a warning? As if he thought it wasn’t safe here.”

  “Sounds to me that he wanted you folks out so that he could have the Crofts to himself.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said. “I guess it could mean anything.” They began to work their way out from the trees. “But it’s not safe for Charlie here. My brother’s coming up to take him back to the city.”

  “When’s he coming?”

  “Hoping to get here tomorrow.”

  “Charlie would be just as safe at our place. There’s plenty of room, and it’d give us the chance to repay your hospitality.”

  “Thanks, but a change of scenery would be good for him right now.”

  “Not sure that teaching a boy to up and run when things start getting hard is a good lesson,” the chief said.

  Ben had to look at him to realize that he was serious.

  “It’s not safe for him here,” Ben repeated. He wondered if he’d offended the chief by declining his offer to take Charlie in, but he couldn’t possibly generate the energy to care about the man’s feelings.

  “You know best,” the chief said. But Ben could hear the clench of the man’s jaw in every word.

  “The FBI is operating as if this is a conventional kidnapping, right?” Ben said. “But if it’s JoJo, we don’t understand his motives. What does that mean for us? What should we do differently?”

  “We’re gonna try our best to find the baby, Ben. But not every story can have a happy ending,” the chief said. “You gotta prepare yourself for that. It’s a hard life up here for most folks in the village, always has been. And you’re one of us again. But hard things happen to good people because the Lord knows they can take it.”

  “What are you talking about?” It sounded like something straight from one of the village church’s dour sermons.

  “It’s life and death, Ben. Does it get any bigger than that? Man does what he can, but in the end, it’s not our will that matters any.”

  “Chief, you need to get some rest,” Ben said.

  They were still a long way from the Crofts, and Ben began to pick up the pace.

  42

  The Crofts was cold and filled with sounds. Charlie imagined each creak as a footstep; every howl as a scream. He didn’t want to be here anymore.

  Dad had gone outside with the chief. While they were out there, Charlie helped Mom by breaking holes in the walls of the third-floor bedrooms so that they could hear Bub better. Charlie didn’t know why the man would put Bub in the wall, but Mom was sure he was here, and Charlie did what she said, like a good son. If he’d been a better son—if he’d been a better brother—Bub would be playing in the kitchen right now instead of being stuck in the walls or cold in the snow.

  Mom had used an ax to open a tear in the hallway at about Bub’s height. When she called into the walls, she and Charlie were quiet so they could hear Bub answer.

  Charlie had given Mom the sandwich he’d made for her, but she took only a bite. She looked as tired and hungry as Dad did, but she didn’t stop or slow. She attacked the walls and the floors like an opossum caught in a trap. It was scary, but Charlie thought it was good, too. If he was ever taken like Bub, he would want Mom and Dad to look just as hard. He thought Bub and he must be very lucky to have a mom and dad like this.

  “Did you hear that?” Mom asked, turning to him. This time he had heard something, a bang that came up from their feet. Mom got a crowbar to pry loose the planks that were where the floor had been. At first she had been tearing at the walls and floors with her hands, but Dad had brought her gloves, an ax, a crowbar, and a big hammer. Still, Charlie could see red where the blood from her hands had soaked through.

  “Any luck?” Dad asked from the stairs. The bang had just been Dad, coming upstairs from the kitchen.

  Still, Mom pried at the floor. “I think we’re getting somewhere,” she said. Sweat speckled her lip and breath rushed from her mouth as if she’d been running.

  “Good,” Dad said. He was still in his coat. Inside his coat, Charlie knew, he was thin and cold. He carried mugs that clattered in his shaking hands. Tea for Mom, coffee for himself, cocoa for Charlie.

  “The chief’s leading the villagers on a search of the south woods again,” he said. He put Mom’s tea down where the floor used to be and put his hand on her head. “I’m going to warm up in the attic before I head out again.”

  “The chief?” Mom said. “What about the FBI? Shouldn’t they be in charge?”

  “I think they’re chasing other leads,” Dad said.

  “Can I go with you to the attic, Dad?” Charlie asked.

  “Be my little listener while you’re up there,” Mom said. “There isn’t as much insulation, so you might hear something.”

  “We’ll both listen real hard, Cee,” Dad said. “We promise.”

  Mom smiled at him almost as if none of the bad things had happened.

  When Dad and he reached the tower stairs, they heard a shriek of wood as Mom tore out another chunk of the floor. She was hurting the house, and this seemed like a good thing.

  “The villagers are searching the woods,” Dad said again when they were on the stairs. He pointed out the window where they could see rows of cars parked along the gravel drive. Flakes of snow hit the glass without making a sound. Charlie noticed little figures walking in a long line through the forest. It was strange to see people among the skeletons of the trees. Something about it didn’t seem right, but Charlie knew they were trying to find Bub.

  “Does the chief know the man?” Charlie asked when they got to the attic. Dad’s walk with the chief had not lasted long, but Charlie thought something had happened.

  “If the man is who we think he is. The chief recognized him from your sketch, and I remembered reading about him.” Dad flic
ked on a space heater and shuddered when the orange glow lit his face. “He used to live at the Crofts, but he started a fire. It was a long time ago, but people got hurt. We think he might be sick. He might be angry at us for living here.”

  “I didn’t think he was angry,” Charlie said. “He seemed sad.” He had been thinking about this a lot. Over and over, he’d tried to remember the man’s face. Charlie was still afraid, but he wasn’t sure anymore if the man was what frightened him.

  “You don’t have to worry about him. He’s not going to get you,” Dad said. “He’s not going to get you.” He said it again as he rubbed his hands in front of the heater. “He’s not going to get you.”

  Charlie saw that Dad hadn’t shaved, and he brushed his hand against his cheek. The bristles were sharp and his hand came away wet from the places they’d thawed. Dad didn’t move when Charlie touched him, but he stopped saying the same thing over and over.

  “He wouldn’t hurt me,” Charlie said. “I don’t think he’d hurt Bub, either.” If the man had wanted to hurt him, he could have at any time.

  “But he took him,” Dad said, turning to Charlie. “He stole him from us.”

  “I don’t know why he did that,” Charlie said. “But maybe he’s not bad.”

  “Charlie, people can’t take children away from their families. That’s what bad people do.” Dad was starting to sound more like he was supposed to, and that was good.

  “Maybe he had a reason.”

  “No reason could be good enough. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “He shouldn’t have taken Bub,” Charlie said. This was true. Bub belonged safe at home. But maybe doing something bad didn’t always mean that you were bad. There was an old couch by Dad’s desk, and Charlie lay down on it. He had to think more about this.

  “Are you tired?” Dad said. “You can go to bed if you want.”

  “I don’t want to sleep. I feel…” He did not know how to tell him. Feelings moved inside him, and they came together in ways that made him forget their names. Feelings that came from what had happened and what had yet to happen. “Like when the phone rang that night when Mom was sick and Grams was in the hospital,” Charlie said.