by Amy Cross
"I guess I'll be careful," I say, gratefully putting the notebook back into my backpack. I only hope that he's lost interest in Darper Danver now. I'm feeling pretty warm and tired, and I just want to get the hell away from this asshole.
"I'm only gonna say this once," he continues, "but I think it'd be a very good idea if you get the hell out of here and stay away. From the cabin, at least, but maybe even from the whole goddamn town. I can't force you to leave Fort Powell, but I can certainly force you to get out of the cabin. This place is off bounds to you, and you can consider this to be a friendly but firm warning. I'm being very open with you, Ms. Briggs, and I don't want there to be any confusion. If I ever find you up here again, there'll be consequences. Serious consequences. You understand?"
I nod, before zipping my bag closed and hurrying to the door.
"You want to know how I knew I'd find you up here?" he asks. "Motion sensor. I had one installed a couple of years back in the doorway, to make sure no more local kids came up to the place. I've already started the paperwork to get the whole damn thing knocked down, but as I'm sure you can imagine, that kind of thing takes time. Still, I hope you'll accept that this is the very last time you'll ever come to this place. If you try to come anywhere near the cabin again, I'll know about it, and I'll come down on you like a ton of bricks. This is your last chance."
"Yes, Sir," I reply, deciding to be as polite as possible.
"I'd offer you a lift into town," he continues with a shrug, "but I figure you've spent enough time in the back of police cars to last a lifetime. Just make sure you keep away from this place from now on."
"Yes, Sir," I say obediently. "I'll keep well away."
As I walk away from the cabin, I glance over and watch Mulcahy getting into his car. He drives away slowly, the car bumping along the rough road, and finally he accelerates into the distance. I stop dead in my tracks and wait until he's well out of sight, and then I start the long walk back into town. Maybe Mulcahy was right about one thing: maybe coming back to the cabin was a huge mistake. I know what happened up here, and no-one else does; at least, no-one else knows the whole truth. If I want the past to stay buried, maybe I should stop poking at the grave and just pray that Darper Danver is truly gone. Still, I can't help but glance over my shoulder and take one final look at the cabin. Just in case.
Becky Madison
As expected, the Briggs house appears to be totally deserted. I was here at dawn this morning, and I saw Cassie heading out with a backpack over her shoulder. She looked like she was heading off for a good long hike. It was tempting to abandon my original plan and follow her instead, but I figure there'll be plenty of time for a proper confrontation later. For now, with her father out at work and her mother otherwise engaged down at the grocery store as she tries to persuade everyone that she wasn't trying to steal razor blades, I figure the house should be totally empty.
Taking a deep breath, I get out of my car and head across the street. The Briggs house is pretty nondescript and, to be honest, a little rundown. I guess it's hard keeping your place looking nice when you know that everyone else in town wants you to leave. Fuck knows why they decided to stick around, but I suppose it was some bullshit about not being run out of their hometown. They probably figured they deserve to stay in Fort Powell, but the truth is, they'd have been smarted to have left. If they'd just fucked off, maybe I'd have left that little bitch alone.
As I pass the fence that runs past the driveway, I spot some letters carved into the wood. Taking a closer look, I find to my surprise that the named Darper Danver has been carefully scratched into the surface. I reach out and run my fingers across the wood, and for a moment I can't help wondering who the hell this Danver person is and why he or she seems to be so goddamn important.
"Darper Danver," I say under my breath. "Who the fuck are you?"
Figuring that I need to get moving, I hurry to the front door. I'm just about to take the lock-pick from my pocket, but to my surprise I realize that the door isn't locked. I put on a pair of gloves and push the door open, and finally I step into the house. It's been five years since the last time I was here, but nothing seems to have changed at all. The decor, the furniture, the moldy smell... it's all exactly the same as I remember. Fuck, sometimes I joke about people in Fort Powell living stagnant lives, but it's still kinda shocking to find such a perfect example. It's as if these assholes are just waiting for death.
"Hello?" I call out, just in case there might be anyone here.
Silence.
"Figures," I mutter, making my way upstairs.
Frankly, I'm only in this grubby house because I want to get my hands on something I can use as part of my plan to ruin Cassie's life. I head along to her bedroom door and step inside, and sure enough I find myself back in the dingy little hovel that I came to a few times when we were all younger. Once or twice, Ma used to send me to find Bobby and bring him home for dinner, and invariably he'd be here with Cassie and Fisher. I never really understood what they used to get up to, and I always felt as if they clammed up as soon as they knew I was near. I sometimes asked what was going on, and although they were bad liars, they always played innocent. I never really got to the bottom of it all, but I guess it's all just inconsequential and trivial these days.
Pulling a plastic bag from my pocket, I head over to Cassie's desk and find her hairbrush. Sure enough, there are a few hairs and a smattering of dandruff to be found, so I empty these into the bag before putting the hairbrush where I found it. Next, I go to the dirty laundry basket by the door and open the lid, before pulling out some dirty underwear, which I place in another plastic bag. I turn and look across the room, and although I feel as if maybe I should try to find some more 'organic matter' to use for my plan, I figure I've probably got enough to be getting on with. After all, there's no need to go overboard; I can afford to be subtle.
Taking another look in Cassie's desk, I find a bunch of old diaries. Flicking through them, I find that some go back as far as seven or eight years, although frustratingly it seems that there's nothing covering the period when Bobby died. Still, it might be a good idea to get an understanding of how the bitch thinks, so I put one of the diaries in my pocket. Taking a quick look around the rest of the room, I'm struck by how ordinary and boring everything seems. I guess I expected a murdering little bitch to have a room filled with dark and freaky things, but if I'm honest, this is pretty similar to how my room looked when I was her age. In her case, however, all this normality is clearly just a mask, designed to hide the evil in her heart.
As I'm about to leave the room, I spot some letters carved into the door-frame. Sure enough, when I look closer, I see that the name Darper Danver has been etched into the wood. Fisher might claim that he's never heard that name before, but I don't believe him. Whatever he, Cassie and Bobby were up to five years ago, this Darper Danver individual seems to have been pretty closely involved.
Heading out of Cassie's bedroom, I start walking downstairs. I've got what I came for, so there's no need to -
"Who are you?" asks a voice suddenly.
Almost jumping out of my skin, I turn to see a guy standing at the top of the stairs, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers and a dirty white t-shirt. He's young, maybe twenty-one at most, and although he's vaguely familiar, I can't quite place him.
"I'm..." I pause. "My name's Becky Madison. I was looking for Cassie. Who are you?"
"Nate," he replies cautiously. "Cassie's brother."
"Brother?" I stare at him, and suddenly I realize that I've been utterly dumb. How could I have forgotten that she had a brother? I mean, I didn't exactly forget that he existed altogether, but it never occurred to me that he'd still be sitting around the house, not at his age. He used to go on and on about soccer, so I guess I just assumed that he'd fucked off away from this crappy town. "Yeah," I say, trying not to raise his suspicions. "Nate. Sure, I remember you. It's me. Remember? Bobby's sister?"
He nods, but he's clearly sti
ll concerned.
"I just wanted to talk to her," I continue. "I poked my head around the door to her room, but there was no sign of her. Sorry, I didn't think anyone else was home."
"I was in my room," he says.
"Clearly," I reply, before noticing the faintest smell of sweet tobacco. "Is that what I think it is?" I ask.
"What?"
"Are you smoking weed?"
He stares at me, clearly unsure about what to say.
"It's okay," I continue with a smile, as I start to realize that this little hiccup in my plan might actually be kinda useful. "I don't give a crap. I was just wondering where you got it from. Smells good, and I don't know anyone who sells around here."
"I do," he says cautiously.
"You think you could hook me up?" I ask.
He pauses. "You want weed? Seriously?"
"I'm not that fucking old," I reply. "Why? Do I look like some dowdy old hag who doesn't like to have a bit of fun?"
He shakes his head.
Smiling, I walk back up the stairs until I'm standing right next to him. "Could you get me some?" I ask. "After the couple of days I've had, I'm really in need of a good smoke. Regular tobacco just isn't cutting it, if you know what I mean." I stare at him. "Do you know what I mean?"
He nods.
"So can you help a girl out? I can't tell you how grateful I'll be."
He sniffs.
"Is that a yes?" I ask.
"Yeah," he says. "I mean, maybe. I mean... Sorry, this is just a bit... Are you sure you want weed? You're not a cop, are you?"
"No," I say with a smile, "I'm not a cop." I pause for a moment. "Here's a plan. If you can score some weed for me, how about we meet later? Maybe somewhere a bit out of the way? I'll totally make it worth your while, and of course, I'll compensate you for your efforts." I smile at him, hoping that he'll get the hint. "Of course," I continue, "it'd be better if you came alone. I mean, that's what I'd prefer. There are just some things that are a lot more fun when you're had a little smoke."
He swallows hard.
"Meet me by the recycling bins at Grover's Park," I continue, figuring that I need to get out of here before the rest of his family shows up. "Eight o'clock, okay? Don't tell anyone, though. In fact, don't even tell Cassie I was here. I'd hate it if she got involved and ruined the whole thing. Just bring yourself, and the best weed you can get your hands on. I'll source something to drink, and we'll smoke together. Would you like that, Nate? Wanna smoke with me?"
He nods.
"Don't worry," I continue. "I know I'm a few years older than you, but we can still have fun. Trust me, when I've had some weed, I get totally relaxed. It really loosens me up, you know? I like exploring things when I've had a smoke. Places, people..." I pause, waiting just long enough for him to get interested. "Well," I add eventually, "I can't even begin to tell you how grateful I'll be if you come through with this. It's been so long since I had a good smoke, I feel like all this fun is just bottled up inside, waiting to blow. Don't worry, though. I won't entirely lose my head. I'm getting excited just thinking about it, though. You'd better not let me down."
"I won't," he says quickly. "I swear, I'll be there."
"Cool," I say, turning and heading back down the stairs. When I get to the front door, I glance back up at him, and it's clear that the idiot is totally hooked. Sure, I don't have model good looks, but I'm not too hard on the eye, and a small-town waster like Nate Briggs obviously doesn't get many offers. "I'm glad I ran into you today," I tell him. "Sometimes I feel as if this town is just full of fucking ancient assholes. It's good to meet someone who's pretty cool. Someone I can really connect to."
"You too," he says, sounding terrified.
"Cool. Grover's Park, recycling bins, eight o'clock. Don't be late."
Once I'm back in my car, I take a deep breath and realize that I might have just struck lucky. My original plan was simply to make Cassie's life hell and then get rid of her permanently, but now it looks like I might be able to have infinitely more fun along the way. Damn it, I never expected that it'd be so much fun to fuck around with these people. Poor little Nate Briggs thinks he's going to have the night of his life, and in a way that's true. It'll certainly be memorable, not only for him, but for his entire family and - if all goes to plan - the whole fucking town.
Echoes of a Distant Voice part II
Cassie Briggs
"So here's how it would work," my mother says enthusiastically, spreading various print-outs across the kitchen table. "The ghost writer, Lenora Mackleberry, would come to Fort Powell for two weeks and work with you every day. It'd be like an interview, and he'd basically be asking you about different things, getting your side of events, and generally trying to understand the feel for how your story needs to be presented."
"Mom," I say with a sigh, "I don't -"
"Just hear me out!" she says firmly, as if she's been anticipating my reaction. "So it'd be a relaxed kind of thing, you see? It wouldn't be like an interrogation at all. And basically what would happen would be that she, with your help, would begin to craft a narrative out of your experiences, and this narrative -"
"Would be a lie," I say, interrupting her.
"It would be a narrative," she replies.
"A lie."
"A narrative," she continues, still sounding enthusiastic. "It'd be your chance to explain what happened, honey. There are people out there who want to know the truth. More importantly, they're willing to pay to know the truth."
"They all think I'm a murderer," I point out.
"They'll still pay. Sure, you can't change their minds, but if that's the case, why not at least make some money out of their spiteful, ill-informed opinions? And besides, you might change a few minds. It's about gradual rehabilitation of your public persona -"
"I don't have a public persona!" I say, shocked at the idea.
"Like it or not," she replies, "people know who you are."
"What happened to your stories?" I ask, keen to change the subject. "Remember those stories you used to write for Nate and me when we were kids? You used to read them to us at bedtime."
"That was just stupid stuff for children," she says dismissively.
"No," I say, "it was good. It was fun. We liked them, and I was thinking, do you still have them somewhere?"
She stares at me for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe. In a box somewhere..."
"Let's go find them," I continue. "Instead of this bullshit ghost writer thing, why don't you try to publish all the stories you wrote?" I wait for her to reply, but she seems momentarily stunned. "Nate and I used to love hearing all the stuff you made up, and I know we grew out of it eventually, but that doesn't mean there aren't other people who'd like to read them. You could get them out there, self-publish them if you have to -"
"Cassie, no!" she replies. "Please, try to be sensible. There's a huge offer on the table from a reputable New York publisher, for a book that's guaranteed to sell, and you want to blow it off and get me to self-publish some old garbage instead?" She stares at me, and it's clear that she's totally horrified by the idea. "Sometimes I wonder about you," she continues eventually. "Do you know what it's like to struggle with money? This deal could save our family, and you're willing to turn it down just because it makes you feel uncomfortable."
"I don't want to -"
"Too bad!" she shouts. "Don't you think we all felt uncomfortable when you were arrested for murdering Bobby Madison? Don't you think we all felt uncomfortable when you refused to tell the police what really happened? Don't you think that maybe, just maybe, you should suck it up and do what's necessary in order to help dig us all out of the hole that you created?"
"I just think your children's stories are really good," I tell her, "and this other idea -"
"You know that Becky Madison's back in town, don't you?"
I pause. "Really?" I ask after a moment.
"She says she's just here to look after her mother, but there's something about
that girl's eyes. She tried to make it look as though I was stealing from the store today. Fortunately, Jim Macken didn't press charges, but I'm banned now. Do you know how that feels? I'm banned from the store, and you can be absolutely certain that people are already gossiping about me." He pauses. "That woman's dangerous," she continues eventually. "I never liked her, and there's something about her that worries me. If we had the money from this publisher, we could move away."
"You want to leave Fort Powell?" I ask. "You want to run away?"
"Yes," she says firmly, with tears in her eyes. "I want to run away. I want to run away and go somewhere new, where people don't know who we are. Maybe I'm weak and cowardly, but it's what I want. This whole family has been miserable for five years, and I can't take it much longer."
I sigh. Maybe she's right. Maybe my determination to be strong and defiant is misplaced.
"Please, Cassie," she whispers, reaching out to hold my hands. "Please. Do this one thing."
"I'll cut you a deal," I say after a moment. "I'll do this book, but on two conditions. First, you also have to dig out your old children's stories so that we can publish them."
"But they're so -"
"This is non-negotiable," I say firmly.
"Fine," she says with a sigh. "What's the other condition?"
"We don't leave Fort Powell," I continue. "Not yet, anyway. We'll get the money, but we'll at least try to stick it out. And if at the end of six months or a year you still want to leave, you can take the money and go with Dad and Nate and start somewhere new, but I'll stay here."
