by Mike Duran
“Miss Lane?”
Annie jumped and banged her elbow against the wall. She spun around to see the director padding toward her from the opposite hallway.
“Miss Marshman.” Annie massaged her smarting elbow.
Janice Marshman advanced. Her perfect posture and methodical movements gave her all the allure of a black widow. The silken red hair and thick eyelashes didn’t hurt. She unnerved Annie. If the Stepford Wives ever needed a new model, the director of Marvale Manor could be Robot-in-Chief.
“An evening stroll?” The director’s lips slightly curled at one edge—her signature smile. “A fine night for it.”
“Yes.” Annie adjusted her sweater, acutely aware of the tools underneath her skirt. “It is a fine night.”
“Winter’s coming early.” The director cast a slow, drawn look at her, lashes glinting like flytrap pincers.
“Oh?”
“There’s a chill in the air.”
Annie shifted her weight. Miss Marshman had always been a cool one, hard to read. Efficient to the point of calculation, like a surgeon deciding where to make her first incision. Yet what the director knew about the strange happenings at Marvale remained a mystery.
As Annie debated broaching the subject, the director said, “Coyne—you haven’t seen him, have you?”
“Fergus?” Annie could not conceal her surprise. She thought about the strange documents wedged underneath her mattress and whether or not Fergus Coyne had any connection. “I saw him earlier this afternoon. But …” She shrugged.
The director’s gaze lingered. “Well, then. I’ll keep looking. If you happen to see him, let him know he is wanted. Enjoy your walk, Miss Lane.”
The director resumed her slow, catty gait. But this time she walked into the custodial area and began to descend the steps to the boiler room.
The tension left Annie’s body, and she slumped forward. Only then did she realize how terrified she was of the woman. You can’t find the truth, she’d boldly proclaimed to Tamra, without risking something. And here she was, as frightened as a jackrabbit.
Besides, what was the director doing down in the boiler room?
Annie cleared her throat and, before she realized what she was doing, called, “Miss Marshman?”
The director stopped at the third step and looked up. “Yes?”
Suddenly Annie found herself without words.
“I, uh …” Annie forced down a raspy swallow. She thought about Camp Poverty and the aged blueprints, about Eugenia’s eerie transformation, and about Vera’s son standing pale in the hallway. But all she managed was, “Is, um … everything all right here?”
The director tilted her head. Then she climbed the steps and walked back toward Annie, her black loafers whispering across the floor.
The director stopped directly in front of her. “You have questions.”
Yes. Annie stared into those big gray eyes and flytrap lashes. A lot of questions.
“I am well aware of the state of this facility, Miss Lane.” The director casually folded her hands at her waist. “And the sentiments of Marvale’s employees. However, my primary concern is not to endear myself to those I superintend, but to ensure that the workings of this establishment aspire to our stated values.”
Annie nodded dumbly.
“Whatever questions you have about the state of this facility,” the director continued, “or whatever you may or may not have overheard from others about myself, I assure you I am here to provide our residents with the best of retirement living. Please know that whatever the—” Her eyes disengaged for a brief second. “—whatever circumstances may currently present themselves, I am privy to them and will dispatch of them to the best of my ability. So, to answer your question, no. Everything is not all right. It never is. Which is why I am here.” Then she smiled again and issued a curt nod. “Do enjoy your walk. And … don’t go very far.”
Annie stood speechless. She watched the director glide away, down the stairs into the boiler room, in search of Fergus Coyne and whatever other circumstances might present themselves.
Chapter 19
While her demeanor would not win her a Miss Congeniality nomination, Annie had to admit that Janice Marshman ran a tight ship. The boiler room door thudded below as the director continued her endless inspection. But what did she know about the bizarre goings on?
Annie hurried down the hall into the north courtyard. She stood on the patio terrace, staring into the mountains. Fog coiled in the ravines, and squirrels tittered in a nearby pine. The vapor lamps were already on, casting a soft yellow hue across the rock pathway. Camp Poverty was not far. At least not by Annie’s standards.
Her granddaughter was going to kill her, but Annie had to stay true to the remnant.
Passing through the courtyard, she turned westward and climbed away from the property. She passed a picnic area with tables and a gazebo into an unkempt terrace with a dried fountain before reaching a long rock wall. She was sweating now and bent forward with her hands on her knees to keep from hyperventilating. Either she was getting older or the altitude had thinned.
The grounds shed lay to her left, greeting her with the smell of manure. A sign warned of rugged conditions ahead. Yet Annie Lane had spent her whole life dealing with rugged conditions. She looked down the trail behind her. It disappeared in misty shadow. The chances of anyone following her this far were improbable. However, that thought was not comforting. If something devious was occurring in Marvale, being out here on her own was not exactly in the realm of genius.
As she prepared to continue her hike, someone emerged from behind the shed. Their eyes met simultaneously, and they both lurched to a standstill.
“Stevie!” she gasped, clutching her chest. “You scared me.”
Stevie Veigh, the groundskeeper, stood holding a shovel, one half of his overalls unlatched, revealing a dirty T-shirt underneath. Beneath a thinning mat of hair Stevie’s forehead sparkled with sweat. He stared at her, as if trying to make her appearance register. Then he muttered something apologetic in his nasally voice and leaned the shovel against the shed. The man had a cleft palate and seldom spoke because of it. He seemed to genuinely love being out in the woods and working with the earth. And he was good at what he did. But Stevie was a loner, and everyone knew that. He turned, brushed his hands on his overalls, and wandered back around the shed.
Annie contemplated the encounter for a moment. She had no reason to fear Stevie Veigh, nor was it that unusual for him to be out here. Her being out here was another story.
Brushing aside concerns, Annie trudged upward. From what she understood, this trail meandered through the scrub to the edge of the property, where it met the old mule road. Like most residents she had never been this far. She crossed a wooden bridge beneath which Quartz Creek passed. Some fifty feet ahead she spotted a bundle of rusted wire and barrels stacked near a shed. A breeze swirled brittle leaves past the stone pathway. She hugged the sweater about her neck. The path was becoming less visible, and she debated producing her flashlight. Yet she did not want to be seen. So Annie continued forward, peering into the growing dark.
Just ahead she could make out the stone archway. She trekked under it and spotted a rock chimney amidst huge rambling sycamore branches and a stone wall, half buried, with rusty wrought iron bars over a frosted window. The Camp Poverty ruins. Signs posted reading KEEP OUT rattled in the breeze. Behind her the final vapor lamp glowed like a ghostly orb in the distance.
She did not think she could go much farther. The old ruins hardly evoked a sense of relief.
Annie slogged along the trail until she reached a gated gravel road. At its base lay Camp Poverty. The incline was steep, interlaced with roots and water-torn crevices. Annie wiped sweat from her brow. Was she really up to this? She could break an ankle making the descent, and in the dark the chances of that happening were multiplied. Tamra always said Annie was too impulsive. And standing there on a dirt trail under the shadow of the Sierra
s, all alone, she couldn’t help but think her granddaughter was right.
All that crazy stuff about military experiments and sketches of demented cherubim returned to mind. Perhaps she should just turn the journal over to officials. But why? She possessed no evidence of wrongdoing by anyone. And if people were changing, whatever the cause might be, bringing more of them into the picture would be the last thing to do. She peered at the shadowy ruins, deliberating.
Finally Annie lifted up her skirt, retrieved the flashlight, and turned it on.
Camp Poverty sat in a geological horseshoe, a natural amphitheater hewed by wind and water. She allowed the beam to wander through this eerie hollow. The structure was made of crude stone and mortar and appeared to be nothing more than a large box embedded in the earth. A door sat below ground level in deep shadow.
As she let the flashlight beam wander about the mysterious structure, she noticed a fresh rut at the base of the gate—and footprints, coming and going.
A jay whipped through the trees overhead, sending pine needles showering. She lurched at the sound, dropped the flashlight, and it spiraled down the gravel road until it came to rest at the base of the rock wall.
Then she heard footsteps—heavy footsteps—barreling down the path toward her.
Annie instinctively spun toward Marvale. She would never make it there in time. Perhaps Stevie was still at the shed. She could cry out for his attention. Whoever was approaching was coming fast. She had to hide. If she was caught out here, at this time, there was no telling what might ensue. The flashlight lay below, casting a long yellow beam across the gnarly terrain.
She had no other choice.
Annie forced the gate open. She squeezed through and inched her way down the steep incline. Before she knew it, she was skidding. Flailing at the air, her foot caught something, and she tumbled forward. Her hands broke the fall but could not prevent her from doing a somersault. Fabric ripped and rocks tumbled as she thudded against the base of the wall.
She bit back a yelp. Pain seared Annie’s lower back, but she didn’t have time to waste. Scrambling to her feet, she stared up at the trail from which she’d fallen. Twilight sky shone through the canopy of trees. She listened. Not only were the footsteps approaching, but a voice now accompanied them.
She grabbed the flashlight, wincing as she rose, and switched it off. Annie stared breathlessly into the dark. Branches crackled as the figure approached. Standing there with only a Swiss Army knife and a flashlight hardly bolstered her confidence. She glanced behind her at the darkened ruins.
Annie heaved herself up on the rock wall, banging her shin in the process, and slung her leg over the other side. She did not have time to negotiate a soft landing or calculate the distance of her fall. Luckily it was minimal. She dropped to the other side, nearly screaming in pain as she did.
Annie pressed her back against the cold stone wall, fighting to contain her breathing. The blackness enclosed her. She listened. Crunching gravel sounded on the trail above her, as did a voice wrought with frenzy.
“—quit before they eat ya!” It was a man’s voice. “—I told ya, didn’t I?”
The voice sounded familiar, and she strained to identify it.
The footsteps slowed then grew silent.
The chirring of crickets filled the quiet.
Annie cupped her hand over her mouth to muffle her panting. An owl hooted somewhere nearby, and the glade seemed to come alive with insect chatter. Had the person left? If not, what was he doing up there?
She sat listening for a moment, but there was no evidence of the stranger.
Annie stood and slowly peeked over the wall.
On the trail directly above her, glistening with sweat, a man stood staring into the foothills.
She dared not move. Who was this person? Where had he come from? And what was he doing out here?
Annie’s pulse thundered through her body. She was sure the man was aware of her, would turn and see her petrified in the dark. Instead he muttered something and plunged back down the trail toward Marvale. As he went, the glow of the vapor lamp revealed the unshaven jaw and untrimmed hair. It was Fergus Coyne.
Annie remained there in Camp Poverty, listening to Fergus’s angry conversation fade into the lull of the foothills. Her shin throbbed, and the pain in her lower back lanced along her side. The chill crept in, and she tightened her sweater around her shoulders.
She sat for a time in that dark wilderness place. Praying, thinking about the immensity of it all. Finally she turned the flashlight on and aimed it at the ruined structure. Camp Poverty. What had gone on in this ancient quarry? What secrets lay beneath the moldering earth? The door’s dull metal had been battered from the inside, and its surface was splattered with brownish liquid. Hanging from the drawn bolt was a shiny padlock, looking very new.
Suddenly, two fiery yellow eyes glinted in the beam.
Annie gasped and pinned herself against the rock wall.
A cat bolted from the shadows, followed by several others. It was Easy’s cat, Jezebel. The felines leapt into the night, mewling out their lonely complaints.
She switched the flashlight off and remained in the dark, listening to the whistle of the breeze through the pines. Feeling the thrum of her heart.
The shadow had returned to Endurance. Something evil was afoot. She was sure of it. All her preparation, all the waiting, had brought her to this moment. Now their only hope was for the prophet to rise again.
But if their hopes were tied to young Zephaniah Walker, then they were in great danger.
Chapter 20
Her eyes were the color of autumn, with freckles to match.
Stop it, you idiot!
Zeph snapped the sheets back, slung his legs over the bed, and ran his fingers through his hair. He would never sleep; in fact, he wondered if his world would ever be the same. The girl had brought something more with her than just a cute tomboy swagger. Tamra Lane had delivered the one thing he most dreaded.
He switched on the lamp next to his bed, and his thoughts went to the girl’s note: Mystery Spots and Magic Landscapes. He’d rehearsed that title in his head a thousand times over. There was no denying it—the insanity was beginning again. What a fool to think he could run from it. Even Robinson Crusoe was found out.
The shade on his bedroom window flapped, drawing his attention. In the distance a dog barked. Zeph listened. Normally he found solace in the night sounds, deriving strange comfort from the midnight hours. People recovered strength now, prepared to meet the waking world. However, Zeph liked the night because he could be alone; the prying eyes, the whispers, the taunts were all retired. Tonight the barking dog tugged at the tethers of his rational mind.
Something was happening in his world, a string of events far beyond his comprehension. In the morgue lay something of another order, a second self. A darker self. Where it had come from, he couldn’t say. What it wanted, he didn’t know. If that weren’t enough, along with the eerie duplicate came a message. And now a messenger.
He left his bedroom, followed the hall into the kitchen, and went to the back door. It was not locked. Zeph never locked it. Psychopaths and thieves were big city problems. Here in Endurance people slept with their doors open and talked to strangers. There was no reason to wonder what went on next door. But after today Endurance seemed … different. And the unlocked back door seemed unnervingly inviting.
He opened the door and peered through the screen. The barking had stopped, replaced by the throaty croaking of toads. The land lay still. He pushed the screen open and stood in the doorway, looking out.
His property stretched toward the foothills. It was more than enough for his needs. The faint cadence of Carson Creek lapped at the evening’s stillness. Just past the copse of trees, the mountains rose black, speckled with lights from ranches and homes.
He turned on the light and stepped softly onto the porch. Its wooden planks creaked under his weight. The empty easel sat nearby, and next to it, a
rocking chair. This was his favorite spot for painting. For reading. For pondering the shambles of his existence.
Zeph descended the porch steps.
The house sat on a raised foundation. Below the back porch was a screened-in access panel, which Zeph went to and unlocked. Removing the screen, he got on his hands and knees and peered into the pitch black of the crawlspace.
It was there, just as he’d left it.
He sat on his haunches, breathing the cool night air.
You can’t hide forever, Mila had said.
Zeph drew a deep breath, reached under the porch, and dragged out the wooden crate. It contained a jewelry box, several letters, a monogrammed Bible, and other assorted items, each one evoking a different memory. He’d never had the guts to throw them away. Stashing them underneath the house seemed like the next best option.
Brushing aside cobwebs and insect husks, he removed a framed picture and wiped the glassy surface. Angling it toward the porch light, Zeph stared at the image of him and his mother. She wore her long-sleeved church dress, cheeks blushed and rosy, eyes as deep as water wells. Her hand rested on young Zephaniah’s shoulder. He was in his suit, hair slicked into a pristine wave, his face as fair and unblemished as an infant’s. With one hand the young boy gripped the Bible, and with the other he pointed toward the camera in judgmental fervor, a pubescent Billy Graham.
They had called young Zephaniah Walker the Prophet of the Plains.
He stared numbly at the picture. At one time, it would have produced rage inside him. Now he wondered where that innocent little boy had gone.
Returning the picture to the crate, he rummaged through the contents until he found the object he sought. Zeph removed it and brushed the dust off. He held the book out, and its gilded title glistened in the light.
Mystery Spots and Magic Landscapes.
It was a testament to his conflict that he kept this junk. He should have burned it long ago.
A distant keening rose. Zeph straightened, and goose bumps rippled across his forearms. He’d spent plenty of time on the back porch listening, drawing peace from the stillness of nature. He knew the sounds of the coyote, the black bear, and the marmot. This eerie wail was none of those. Zeph gazed into the pitch-black foothills. Again the cry sounded, shrill and inhuman. A bark that morphed into a lonesome bay.
