by Dale Bailey
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The Fallen
A Novel
Dale Bailey
For my parents, Frederick and Lavonne Bailey
There were giants in the earth in those days.
—Genesis 6:4
Prelude
Sauls Run
1973
Pain.
Far down under the mountains, the thing shifted in its age-long slumber. Sensations arced along nerves mired in centuries of numbness. Neurons fired. The thing stirred, half aware for the first time in millennia. It sensed its icy subterranean prison; men encamped on the skirts of the mountain, their lives as ephemeral as the lives of insects, and just about as meaningless; and something else, something fatally awry in the complex labyrinth of its own biology. Pain.
The thing thrashed restlessly. Stone crumbled. A blind, burrowing creature raced terrified into the dark.
How long it had lain here, the thing could not guess; it did not count time as men count time. How it had come to be there, it could not say. It remembered almost nothing, knew almost nothing. Just sleep, the long reaches of a sleep that bordered death, and now—in its slow drift toward awareness—its pain.
Below, at the edge of the sleeping town, a doe trotted across the narrow ribbon of pavement called Plug Hollow Road, its hooves ticking in the stillness. It paused and cocked its head at a square green sign:
SAULS RUN
A GOOD PLACE TO RAISE YOUR CHILDREN!
The doe’s nostrils wrinkled as it sampled the air. A moment later it bounded into the underbrush, white tail flashing. The car it had sensed as a rumor of steel and thunder purred out of the curve and braked, slowing as it entered the town.
The man within took a deep breath, feeling calmer. At twenty-four years old, he weighed two hundred eleven pounds, most of it muscle, and stood six-four in his stocking feet. His name—the name he’d been born with—was Delbert Grubb, but his driver’s license and Social Security card read Harold Crawford. As far as Crawford was concerned, Del Grubb, formerly a beat cop for the LAPD, had died in a South Central alley almost a year ago. Crawford could still recollect the tide of rage that had welled up inside him when the perp started lipping off. He could remember the muzzle flash of his revolver in the darkness, the way it had felt to pull the trigger. Something oily and excited had rolled through him as he stood there listening to the guy moan.
“Jesus,” Crawford’s partner had said, and then he called for the meat wagon.
The guy—LeMarius Oxford—had died in transit. Sixteen years old and unarmed—that was the way the papers played it. Crawford figured it might fall out that way. Two years as a cop had shown him how the system could turn on a man; they had also taught him that the wheels of justice grind slowly. He put the time to good use. He spent the next nine months calling in favors on the street. It hadn’t been cheap and it hadn’t been easy, but by the time Crawford left L.A. a week before he came to trial, Del Grubb had effectively ceased to exist. Crawford felt he could live with a new identity easier than he could live behind bars. The California penal system wasn’t known for its kindness to ex-cops.
He’d been driving east for four days by the time he wheeled the car onto a curving road that led north toward the center of town. To his right, a lake lay like a black mirror to the stars; above it, atop an outthrust promontory of rock, an enormous house stood sentinel above the silent streets. Sauls Run looked scrubbed in the pale luminescence of the streetlights. Nothing moved other than his car. To Harold Crawford, fresh from the mean streets of L.A., the town looked almost magically peaceful, a good place to lie low for a day or two, to catch his breath and think about what came next.
It was too late to try to find a hotel, so he pulled the car into a municipal lot bordering a park and shut off the engine. He lay back, aware suddenly of how peaceful his mind had become. Once again, he thought about what had happened in that alley, that tide of rage. It hadn’t been the first time. There had been the time in junior high school, the kid he’d almost beaten to death, and thank God for the sealed records of the juvenile courts or he never would have made it into the police academy. And there had been the girl. Hardly a day passed that Crawford didn’t think about the girl.
Crawford didn’t know how to explain it, but the tide of rage and desire had always been there, an oily undertow hungry to suck him down. For a time, Crawford believed that the death of LeMarius Oxford had sated that hunger. Now he knew better. He had felt that black tide surge through him twice on the cross-country drive—once when a platinum-blond truck-stop waitress shortchanged him outside Vegas, and again when an eighteen-wheeler crept over on him east of Nashville, forcing him to the shoulder of the highway.
Both times, he had swallowed hard and held on till the tide went out. Del Grubb was dead, he had told himself; he had to build a life for Harold Crawford.
Crawford took a deep breath. He studied the street, the green and rolling park, the hills rising in forested ranks around him. Everything looked serene and perfect, the Hollywood idea of a small town. For the first time Harold Crawford’s internal waters were still. He closed his eyes and slept the sleep of the innocent.
A mile and a half away, in a white ivy-trellised house atop Widow’s Ridge, Lily Sleep drifted heavy-lidded in the nether state between wakefulness and dreams. She listened to the sonorous respiration of her husband, half aware of a stream whispering to itself beyond the open window. She felt a trickle of warmth between her thighs, a reminder of the lovemaking just past.
Not for the first time, she allowed herself to wonder about the man she had taken into her life some eight years past. The Reverend Quincy Sleep. She let the words roll through her mind, recalling how amusing she had found him when they had first met back in Georgia in 1965, right when the Beatles and the sixties—generation of free dope and free love—had just gotten rolling. What a throwback Quincy Sleep had been, heavy muscled and close shaven and almost painfully earnest, puzzling through the mysteries of theology even as other men his age had been dying in Vietnam. And yet sweet somehow, so sweet that he had charmed her.
She could never square the sheer physical ardor of their relationship with her husband’s ascetic discipline. But Quincy Sleep was a man full of contradictions. Shy and soft-spoken in private, he commanded your attention at the pulpit. He allowed himself two fingers of Evan Williams every night in the book-lined study where he wrote his sermons, but she couldn’t remember ever having seen him drunk. He read C. S. Lewis and Einstein, and somehow reconciled his faith and modern science. He didn’t seem to mind that Lily had about as much interest in either one as in the Watergate situation that was lately all she ever seemed to see on television.
Lily had been reluctant to follow him to Sauls Run. Now she couldn’t imagine living in another place. The Run, as she had learned to call it, really was a good place to raise children. Just lately Lily couldn’t seem to think about much else. Henry, their first child, had been a difficult delivery, and Lily had subsequently decided not to have more children, despite Quincy’s wishes to the contrary. But Henry had grown into a sweet, quiet boy of five—too quiet, Lily sometimes thought—and she wondered if a little brother or sister might help to bring him out. She laughed to think that she had arrived at such a place in life; the radical girl she remembered from college, glutted on Simone de Beauvoir and Betty Friedan, seemed to have gotten lost along the way somewhere, and it turned out that Lily didn’t much miss her.
Three months ago she had stopped taking the pill, though she hadn’t told Quincy. She wanted to surprise him when s
he knew for sure. Maybe tonight, she thought, and as she drifted off, she imagined a tiny cluster of cells growing and dividing within her womb.
Sheer curtains billowed like ghosts into the bedroom. Lily Sleep lost herself in dreams.
In Holland House, atop its tongue of rock, Zachary Holland stood by the fanlight windows of the darkened third-floor library and looked out across the black expanse of Stoney Gap Lake at the Run. He watched a lone pair of headlights crawl down High Street and turn into the municipal lot by the park. His head throbbed, as though someone had driven a nail through his temple just above his right eye. He could hear Willa a floor below, cooing at their five-year-old son, Perry, like some kind of goddamned bird. Perry was crying again—Perry was always crying—and Zachary might have wondered if the kid was even really a Holland, if maybe Willa hadn’t been getting a little on the side, except Willa wouldn’t dare. Besides, Perry looked like a Holland. He had that narrow patrician face, the black eyes and hair, the hint of decadent sensuality about the overripe lips. The kid would grow up to be a goddamned lady-killer if he weren’t such a sniveling cunt.
“You just can’t shut that child up, can you?”
Zachary Holland turned to face the other thorn in his side, his father, Jeremiah Holland. The old man leaned heavily on his cane, stout and healthy at ninety, looking maybe seventy and no doubt planning to live until he was a hundred and three. Family lore had it that Titus Holland, who laid the first stone of Holland House half a hundred years before Sauls Run became the county seat in 1923, had lived to one hundred twenty. People had a way of living a long time in the Run, but Zachary privately held that Jeremiah’s longevity was absurdly prolonged. At fifty-seven years old, Zachary should have been running the town, not playing crown prince to his father.
He swallowed the urge to lash out. “He’s afraid of the dark. It’s natural.”
“He’s five years old.”
Zachary shrugged.
“You didn’t let Willa baby him that way, boy might grow up to be something.”
“What do you think I ought to do?”
“You’re the man in the family.”
“Seems to me you never took that attitude with Mother.”
Jeremiah Holland laughed. “Seems to me I never had to.”
Downstairs, Perry let fly with an especially stentorian bellow. Zachary could feel it, like a hammer at his temple, driving the spike of his headache to the core of his brain. He stared out into the night, his hands clenching into white-knuckled fists. It was all he could do some nights not to go downstairs and smack the kid and Willa, too, smack them both until they just shut the fuck up. He had never quite allowed himself to do it. Something—he couldn’t say quite what—always prevented him, but he could feel the impulse trembling at the ends of his fingers. His nerves tingled with it.
“I’m going to bed,” Jeremiah said behind him. “Maybe if that kid ever shuts up, I can get some sleep.”
Zachary stood by the window for a long time after his father left, gazing beyond the ghostly reflection of his face into the night beyond. I hope he never shuts up, he thought. I hope he fucking kills you.
Far down in its mountain prison, the thing drifted into deeper sleep. The blind, burrowing rodent crept closer, its velvet nostrils wrinkling, its whiskers brushing the sides of its tunnel as it descended.
And then another wave of agony rolled over the creature. It thrashed and cried aloud, a forlorn whirlwind of anguish. The blind rodent paused, trembling. Too late, it turned to flee, its narrow tunnel collapsing in a landslide of rubble.
Somewhere in the labyrinthine network of coal mines, a prop snapped like an old man’s bone. The mountain groaned. Dust and sand sifted down around the broken prop, and for a moment the tunnel hovered at the brink of collapse.
Below, in Sauls Run, Harold Crawford stirred in his sleep, dreaming suddenly of the girl he had tried to forget, his cock rigid as an iron pipe.
Atop Widow’s Ridge, a tiny bundle of cells buried deep in Lily Sleep’s body divided frenziedly for half a minute before lapsing once again into dormancy.
And in Holland House, Zachary Holland threw open the bedroom door of his five-year-old son, Perry, and wrested the boy from his wife’s arms. The slap sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. The stricken child’s eyes widened. He swallowed, a scream dying in his throat. The silence was a soothing balm to Zachary Holland’s soul.
Upstairs, old Jeremiah Holland cried out as a blood vessel burst inside his brain and Zachary Holland came into his inheritance at last.
Homecoming
The Present
Chapter 1
Dream labyrinths. Nightmare corridors of sleep.
Henry Sleep fled through darkness, a pulse drumming at his temples. A cramp stitched his side. Breath burned in his lungs. When he paused, his heart hammered at his ribs.
He turned back the way he had come, straining his eyes against the omnipresent black, the old terror on him now—the terror of pursuit and loss, the hollow ache at his core. He lifted the flashlight: darkness, bifurcated by a column of watery radiance. A thousand sparkling dust motes glimmered within it.
He stood very still, hardly daring to move.
His heart beat leadenly. He could hear nothing else, no human voice or footfall, not the stir of pursuit in the fallen reaches of the labyrinth.
That was worse somehow, that silence. Silence could mean anything. Silence could mean pursuit was far away, lost in the twisting corridors. Silence could mean that it was closer than he dared imagine, lurking in the dark. Waiting.
Henry drew a slow breath, angling the light into the dark. Walls. Walls of sweating gray stone, rough-hewn and seamed with black; a floor of fallen slate, stitched with rusting track; dank stone above him, reinforced with heavy crossbeams, thick as railroad ties. Dry as year-old kindling, they buckled under the tremendous pressure of rock. Looking at them, he had a sense of the terrific depth of the place, a mile below the daylit surface of the planet, an abyss of night and silence, with only those ancient rotting crossbeams to protect him.
It’s a dream, he told himself. The dream.
The thought calmed him.
Yet the labyrinth had the gritty feel of a real place, a place he knew. And the fear—the fear felt that way too.
He began to climb again, slower now, time plastic, twisting away into a blur of branching passages, that sense of something lost, the terror of pursuit closing on him like a starved rat, gnawing, retreating, lunging at him again. A deep subterranean chill enclosed him. Still he climbed. At the black mouth of every opening, he paused to search the dark interior.
Sounds haunted him. The faraway drip of water, the trickle of dirt and dust, shifting in some hidden place. The groan of crossbeams, bowing beneath their mighty weight of earth.
And something else, almost imperceptible.
He paused, flashed the light into the corridor behind him.
Walking again, faster now, he could hear his heart and breath, blood booming at his temples. But the other sound had grown clearer, too: a distant rustle of pursuit. He pressed on, probing every tunnel with the light, searching—
—my fault, my fault—
—searching.
And still the sound of his pursuer drew closer. Still it gained on him.
He broke into a run, black passages hurtling by him, the search forgotten. The light leaped before him in fitful glimpses of damp stone, the debris-strewn floor. He turned a corner, the flashlight shattering the darkness before him and—
—stopped, breath catching in his throat.
A man stood before him.
A man he knew. Iron hair swept back from a stern face. Searching, thoughtful eyes.
Henry stumbled away, gasping. “Dad?”
Quincy Sleep stepped forward, dressed not in clerical garb but as Henry more often thought of him—in washed-out jeans and leather shoes, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled back to reveal the forearms of a man muscled like a logger. He made
no sound, and when he reached out to touch Henry’s face, Henry felt nothing, or almost nothing—an icy caress from another place, like the chill from a door into February, standing ajar in a distant room.
“Dad?”
“It’s time, Henry,” the apparition said. “Come home.”
And then it was gone.
The silence swelled, burst into a clatter of pursuit. Henry cried aloud. He could hear the thing close behind him, just beyond the last turning of the corridor. He chased the light through glimpses: now the stony ceiling, now the track-scarred floor, now the walls, looming, steep.
And he ran.
He never saw the thing that tripped him—a rock maybe, or a spur of the narrow-gauge track. But suddenly he was flying through the dark, the tiny ember of the flashlight flipping away to shatter somewhere, extinguished. And then the floor rose up to hurl itself against him.
The air burst out of him in a stunned exhalation. For a moment he could think of nothing but the agony of breathing. And then he remembered where he was, the labyrinth of dream.
He heard something close behind him now.
The thunder of onrushing wings.
Henry woke to darkness. For a moment the pulse of those tremendous wings seemed to linger in the air. He sat up, mopping his forehead with the sheet. The efficiency loomed up around him, shadowy and spare, devoid of personality. The rump-sprung sofa, the appliances, the black-and-white television—these had been supplied by the landlord. The books alone were his. Now, staring at them—in stacks on the table by the sofa, on the desk, on the floor by the bed—Henry thought briefly of the impending spring semester, scant days away. At any other moment, he would have felt its weight—grading, conferencing, preparing, the whole weary grind. Now the pressure had faded.
Now he was thinking about the dream.
For a time—how long? a year? more?—he had known peace. The dream had haunted him as a boy—icy terror, zero at the bone, one, two, three nights a week, from the sodden summer when his mother died until he finally fled Sauls Run, eighteen then, longing for peace. The dream had faded. He had gone back to the Run only once in the years since, the summer he had finished his master’s. The dream had been waiting for him, and again he had fled—fled the dream, fled the father he had grown to despise, fled Emily Wood and the town, loving them both and relinquishing them both. He came south, to Ransom College.
