The Vanishing

by Gary Winston Brown

  Fallon swung around, raised the weapon to his shoulder, and crossed the room in Virgil’s direction. A weakened floorboard sighed underfoot as Virgil pressed his back to the wall. He tried to disappear even further behind the veil of the cloth barricade, couldn’t. As Fallon approached, he fought the urge to panic and react prematurely. Fallon had him dead in his sights. He would pull the trigger and ask questions later, assuming Virgil was still alive to answer them. But Virgil too had questions, many of them, and he wanted answers. He held his breath, waiting to be discovered. He thought of Sky and Blessing, and despite the grimness of his situation, realized he would still be better off alive than dead. His questions would be answered in due course. For now, they would have to wait.

  Another creak.

  This one more noticeable than the last.

  Outside the door.

  Fallon turned his attention away from the rack of fabric bolts and zeroed in on the phantom sound. As the handle turned, a familiar calmness overtook him. He spotted a chair several feet away, moved into position, dropped quickly to one knee, slipped the barrel of the rifle through the chair slats, rested it on the cross-brace, and focused on an imaginary target above the door handle. The intruder could be armed. He turned out the lantern and plunged the room into darkness.

  Center mass, he thought. Never high or low. Without a scope, a headshot is a waste of a perfectly good round. Drop the target on the first shot. The game is about shooting to kill, not to wound.

  His training had been invaluable.

  Finger on the trigger, crouched behind the chair in the room’s blackness, he was all but invisible. The adrenaline rush that came from acknowledging the power he held to steal the last breath of a life he did not know surged through him with such a force it made him shiver. The exquisiteness of the moment captivated him. He balanced the rifle, aligned the sight. His concentration was peaked. He felt as though he was no longer within the confines of the small room but in the middle of an electrical storm, drawing its current into him, harnessing its enormous power to do his bidding, the rifle in his hands the conducting rod.

  The silhouette in the doorway spoke. “Fallon? You in here?”

  Fallon’s finger flew back from the trigger. In the darkness, he withdrew the rifle from the chair slats and stood up.

  Prophet.

  “Why didn’t you stay where you were?” he said curtly. He chose not to share with Prophet just how close he had come to being shot and killed. “I told you I’d be back in a minute.”

  “Do you think you’re talking to a fucking dog?” Prophet yelled. He threw open the door, slammed it against the wall. “I had to find you. We’re out of time. We’ll search the grounds later. The others are assembling for dinner, and if we’re not there on time, they’ll come looking for us. Put away the rifles and meet me in Communion Hall in five minutes.” With an air of disgust, Prophet turned and walked away.

  Fallon stared at the empty doorway, replaying Prophet’s words in his mind. If I hadn’t been watching your back all these years, you’d be a fucking dog all right, he thought. More like somebody’s bitch. Probably fetching slippers right now in the state penitentiary for some nasty piece of work named Butch and getting your ass popped every other day for a pack of smokes and a Coke.

  He picked up the rifles, returned them to the gun rack inside the closet, and emptied his pockets of the shells. Uncomfortable to be unarmed with an intruder lurking on the grounds, he removed a semi-automatic handgun from its hiding place in an old cigar box beside the rifles. He inspected the clip, slipped it back into the weapon, chambered a round, shoved the gun into his waistband, covered it with his shirttail, and closed the closet door.

  As he walked across the room, he stopped once more at the table, kneeled down, and re-examined the sawdust covered area where he had found the droplets of blood. He cupped his hands, scooped up a generous amount of the powdered wood, let it sift through his fingers, then inspected it in the flickering lamplight. A sudden draft blew in through the open door, sending the sawdust swirling about the room in violent wisps like a scirocco racing across a miniature Sahara. He opened his hands and shook the last of the fine particles from his fingers. Several small, dark clumps stuck to his skin. He smoothed his hands together, then exposed them to the light of the lantern. Erratic streaks smeared his palms in a coagulated mosaic and confirmed his suspicions. He pressed his palms together, tested them for the familiar tacky sensation. There it was. In that instant, he decided. After dinner was underway, he would slip out of Communion Hall and search the grounds alone. He knew they would not miss his absence. He preferred it that way. Relationships, other than those born of immediate convenience, only complicated matters. Attachments were for those who needed such crutches, like a blind man’s reliance on his seeing-eye dog.

  Fallon picked up the lantern, walked out of the room, and closed the door behind him. The sooner he joined the others, the faster he could resume the hunt. Perhaps in the interim his quarry would assume he had given up the chase, grow bolder, and inadvertently expose himself. Throughout his life, he enjoyed an unequaled reputation as an excellent tracker of men. It was his God-given gift and one he had learned to use well. His gut was telling him the intruder was an amateur. He would simply give him time to expose himself. In the long run, patience had always proven to be his ally. This thought raised his spirits.

  As he passed the fallen woodpile which had initially piqued his curiosity and rounded the corner of Communion Hall, he thought about the emotional rush he had felt seconds ago and the masterful way in which he had harnessed the energy coursing through his body as he steeled himself for the kill shot.

  He could wait another thirty minutes.

  39

  VIRGIL LISTENED AS Fallon’s footsteps faded away, each creak on the landing at the back of the building more distant than the last. He rolled one of the tall linen bolts aside and slipped out of his hiding place. He was safe once more, yet he could not help but feel strangely exposed, as though his every move was being watched. Had Fallon really given up the search? Perhaps he was waiting around the corner, anticipating the opening of the door, his outstretched arm steadying the handgun he had taken from the closet pressed against the building wall, lining up the kill shot. Am I going to walk into a bullet the minute I step outside? Virgil thought. He dried his damp palms against his shirt and recalled the anger in Prophet’s words before he left and ordered Fallon to meet up with the others for dinner. It was obvious now that Fallon was much more of a concern than he had originally thought him to be. He was willing to challenge Prophet, and that made him dangerous. He had to warn Sky and the others. If he was losing control, he could be capable of anything, including killing Prophet, and anyone else for that matter.

  Virgil cracked open the back door. If Fallon was waiting for him to show himself, there was also the possibility that he might not take the shot at all. The gunfire would draw attention. The others would come running. Fallon knew the consequences that would befall him from such an act if he were to bring violence to them, especially shooting and killing one of their own. He would be ex-communicated. There would be no police investigation, no formal charges. They were a family and took care of their own. Fallon would be dead to them. Not that that mattered much. Most already viewed him as an outcast, an unapproachable personality steeped in mystery, shrouded in secrecy. Every prophet has his Judas, Virgil thought, some deadlier than others. Perhaps the real danger was not in their relationship, but in what might come from the breaking of it.

  A cool mist had swept down from the mountain, bringing with it a moon-silvered fog which swirled at Virgil’s feet as he eased open the door and looked out at the wooden landing. A rusty hinge creaked, startled him. He froze, waited for a bullet to find him. Nothing. To his relief, his body remained intact, the night quiet. Perhaps Fallon had given up the search after all. Still, he needed to know if Fallon was out there, waiting for him, and if he would draw fire the second he stepped outside. H
e needed a diversion. He could ready himself, time his escape, and dash out into the night, cloaked in a blanket of fog. But that would require two able legs to carry him a safe distance away from the building until he could get his bearings and make his way back to his room. The searing pain in his leg reminded him this was not an option. He resigned himself to the fact that the journey back to his room would have to be slow and circuitous considering his impeded mobility. He looked back into the room and spied a discarded chair leg on the floor several feet away. He tested the door to see if the rusty hinge would squeak if challenged by an outside breeze were it left ajar for a few seconds. The door immediately failed the test. But the chair leg had given him an idea. It was a gamble at best, but one he was willing to try. He tried the door again. This time it held in silence. Virgil dropped to his hands and knees and crawled outside. He picked up the chair leg, stood up, leaned against the doorframe, and listened. The sounds of the night had fallen eerily silent. Fallon was not waiting for him after all and had gone to join the others, or he had taken cover and was simply waiting for the right moment to make his presence known, most likely from the business end of his gun.

  Virgil knew he had no options. He had to assume he was still a target.

  He tested the weight of the chair leg, then tossed it with as much strength as he could muster into the heavy fog. He listened as it tumbled end over end across the hard-packed ground. Thump, thump… thump, thump.

  A cricket stirred, then another. Soon the cicadas resumed their melodic chirping. The night had accepted the interruption without concern.

  Virgil steeled himself, peered around the corner, then shuffle-stepped out of the storeroom. He expected Fallon to spring up out of the fog, gun trained on him, delighted in having successfully cornered and trapped his wounded quarry.

  But there was no sign of Fallon.

  Virgil took immediate advantage of the opportunity, stepped off the wooden landing, and moved as quickly as he could across the grounds towards the perimeter of the field. The thick fog minimized his visibility. Needles of pain seized his leg with each step and urged him to stop, but he could not. He had to put as much distance between himself and Fallon as he could. He needed to make it back to his room, his family.

  He had walked this route dozens of times before under better circumstances, his path made clear by the brilliant glow of the moon. Behind him, the voices from Communion Hall faded the further he travelled along the well-trodden path. At last, he arrived at the broken asphalt road which led back to his building. He was not far now. Beyond the remaining several hundred yards of worn tarmac lay safety and security in the form of his wife and child. Virgil stopped for a moment to rest. The pain in his leg was getting worse. He struggled down the road against his body’s objection. Panic-stricken thoughts raced through his mind, challenged his concentration. Perhaps Fallon had known it was him, seen him hiding behind the rolls of fabric when he had knelt down to examine the droplets of blood in the sawdust. Perhaps he was simply waiting for the right opportunity to make him pay for being in the worst place at the worst possible time. Starbursts of pain exploded from his leg. My God, Virgil thought as he winced away the blinding light show. Maybe I’m not the target. That’s why he never shot me when I stepped out of the room. He’s going after my family. He’ll use them to get to me.

  Deep from within, a renewed strength bubbled up and erupted through his body like pent up lava bleeding through a fissure.

  Blessing…

  Virgil picked up his pace and pushed on through the fog-blessed night.

  Sky…

  Fallon would never get the chance to hurt his family. He would kill him first.

  Of that much he was certain.

  40

  DRENCHED IN THE milk-white cast of the halogen security lights, Claire and Martin strolled through the gardens at the back of the estate. The sweet smell of bougainvillea blossoms gave fragrance to the still night air. Claire stopped to appreciate their aromatic gifts, raised a cluster of the brilliantly colored flowers in her hands, breathed in their mellow perfume.

  “The white ones were Melanie’s favorite,” Martin said. “They grew all over the place at our house. Occasionally, I’d take her out back, and we’d pick a gigantic bouquet for Anne.” He laughed. “She was too young to pronounce them by their proper name, so she called them boogums. Every time I go for a walk out here, they remind me of her.”

  He reached out and smoothed the delicate petals Claire held in her hands. “God, I miss that little girl so much.”

  Claire replied with quiet introspection and a smile in her voice “When Amanda and I were young, she would haul me out of bed every Saturday morning to take her to the Hampton Botanical Gardens. By the time I’d showered, she’d already packed our lunches and was ready to go. She looked forward to that trip each weekend like it was the most important thing in the world. Hampton’s collection of plants and flowers was one of the largest I’d ever seen: Orchids, lilies, rhododendron, sunflowers, desert cactus, ferns… you name it. And, of course, many varieties of bougainvillea like you have here: Barbara Karst, California Gold, Mary Palmer’s Enchantment, Orange King, Manila Red. To Amanda, those gardens were like a candy store. It wouldn’t have surprised me if one day she announced she was going to become a botanist. Plants, especially flowers, intrigued her. When she was around them, she was in her element. Her ability to appreciate the beauty in what so many of us take for granted never failed to amaze me. I’ll always remember that about her for as long as I live.”

  “Don’t speak about her in the past tense, Claire,” Martin said. “She’s not gone. She’s just… missing.”

  “I know. But it’s been so long. So much time has passed. And we still have no idea exactly where she is.”

  “Give Mark and his team time to do their jobs. It’s what they do best. I know it’s hard but try to have a little faith.”

  “I want to have faith, Martin,” Claire replied. “I want to believe you when you tell me they’re as good as you say they are. But tell me something. If they really are that good, why haven’t they found Melanie?”

  Martin turned away. At the end of the yard, beyond the wary gaze of the sentinel towers of security lights, stood a large wooden gazebo. Within it, a low back cedar glider stirred lazily with each random breeze. Martin walked up the stairs and sat in the glider, his back to Claire. He pushed off against the pock-marked floorboards, swung silently in the darkness, stared up at the night sky, and watched as the fingers of a prestigious cloud reached out and pocketed the moon. How befitting, he thought, to observe this moment of celestial sleight of hand. Melanie had disappeared in a similar fashion. There one second and gone the next, right before his eyes. In his mind, the voice of his unseen attacker mocked him. Now you see her… now you don’t! And there’s not a thing you can do about it, Marty boy. Not one damn thing. The contemptuousness in the voice sickened him. Just look at yourself, for God’s sake. LOOK AT YOURSELF! Lying on the ground in a crumpled heap like the pathetic sack of shit you are while we take your wife and little girl away from you. By the time you come around, we’ll be far, far away. Where we’re going, you’ll never think to look for them because you’ll never find them. We’ll see to that. Better to not even try, Marty. And just in case you don’t possess the gray matter to figure it out on your own, remember this. We are their present and their future. So just lay there… lay there and sleep it off...

  Tendrils of silver clouds appeared and gave up the stolen moon.

  Consider yourself nothing but a faded memory, the voice taunted, then drifted away.

  41

  CLAIRE’S WORDS HAD fallen hard on Martin.

  “Oh God, Martin,” she said. “I can’t believe I just said that. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “Please forgive me.”

  “It’s all right,” Martin replied. “Don’t be sorry. I ask myself that same question every day. Sometimes I’m so angered because no one ca
n give me an answer that I want to pull the plug on this whole damn thing, to say to hell with it, and just give up. But then another lead comes in, another case finds the break it needs, and another child goes home to where they belong. It’s like trying to find the cure for cancer. You know it’s out there, that one day you’ll find it. So you keep trying. You learn to take it one day at a time, one lead at a time, because you know that that son or daughter you’re looking for is out there somewhere. No one can hide or be hidden forever. They may elude us, sometimes for an exceptionally long time, but eventually we find them. That’s when I’m reminded it’s all worthwhile. That’s also when the last flicker of hope that I thought had been extinguished forever finds the air it needs to burn again. So, I take a deep breath and I fan that flame for all its worth. I try to make it burn brighter than it did before. Bright enough for Melanie to find her way home to me.”

  Claire sat beside Martin on the glider. “What will happen when you find her? What then?”

  “We’ll get to know one another all over again. We’ll start from scratch, if that’s what it takes.”

  “Aren’t you scared?”

  “Of what?”

  “That Melanie will have forgotten you. These cults can do that. Isn’t that what you said earlier? They force their followers to forget not only who they are but also all that mattered to them in the past.”

  “Yes. But that’s when we draw upon Cynthia and Justin for their expertise. Being professional de-programmers, it’s their job to break down the doctrines and ideologies that have been imposed upon them by the cult and help them regain their focus.”

  “How will it work with Amanda when we find her?” Claire asked. “How will she be de-programmed?”

  “We’ll bring her back here and make her as comfortable as possible,” Martin explained. “Keep in mind she may not be in the most cooperative of moods. It’ll take some time before she settles down enough for us to begin the process. And one particularly important thing. Don’t expect Amanda to be the same person you remember her to be. She won’t revert to her old self overnight.”