Andi ran to us as we screeched to a halt and burst from the car. “Tank and Daniel are inside!”
Before I could get to him, Van Epps hurled a gasoline-filled bottle through the front window. An explosion of new flames followed, roiling and engulfing the living room, the walls, the furniture.
I ran and stood between him and the House. “Are you out of your mind? Stop this!”
As if I were not even there, he raged against the burning building. “Come after me, will you? How do you like burning? I’ll send you back where you came from, you filthy—”
He grabbed another bottle and would have filled it, but I blocked the action and the bottle shattered on the street. “A.J., come to your senses! Look at what you’ve become!”
For the first time he looked at me. “Become? Become? This is me, James! I am what I’ve always been, and this”—he indicated his arsenal of gasoline and bottles—“this is survival!”
The ladies were screaming for Tank and Daniel. The House was becoming an inferno, the flames roaring up the sides, black smoke venting out the eaves.
A chair crashed through an upstairs window, followed by a huge, smoking body. Tank! He plunged, rolled down the porch roof, took hold of a trellis as he pitched over the edge, and grabbed the autumn-deadened branches of a vine to break his fall. He landed and collapsed on the lawn, rolling in the grass to extinguish flames that I hoped had not ignited on him. The ladies and I were there instantly, checking him over.
He was blackened by smoke and soot, bleeding from scrapes and cuts, wracked with coughing, fighting for air. Yet still he managed to cry, “Daniel! Daniel!”
Flames were shooting out the window he’d just come through. Daniel. Oh, child! No one could still be alive in there.
Andi shrieked, “Daniel!”
I followed her horrified gaze across the street.
Daniel! There he was, crossing the street, hand in hand with he-whom-we-were-not-to-call-Harvey . . . heading for Van Epps’ front door.
“He made it, he made it!” Brenda shouted to Tank.
Daniel met our eyes, our horror, with a look of such peace, I felt all reason leave me. Child, what are you doing?
Van Epps caught sight of Daniel even as the boy went in his front door. Van Epps abandoned his pyromania and dashed toward his house, bounded up his stairs, burst through the doorway.
No! Oh dear God, no!
Tank was fallen, barely turned from the brink of death. The ladies were tending to him and hadn’t the strength . . .
And for reasons only the heart, not the mind, can know, I ran for that door.
CHAPTER
16
The Monster
I bounded up the stairs two at a time. In one blurred moment I crossed the porch and burst through the front door—
And into a cage with a monster.
Van Epps held Daniel in a desperate grip, and a knife to Daniel’s throat. “Stop right there, James!”
I stopped. I raised my hands. “A.J. This is—you must admit—highly irregular.”
“But you must admit, entirely pragmatic!” His crazed eyes locked on the burning House; the glow of the fire played on his face. “A life for a life. I’m sure the House understands the concept!”
“It would only be another murder!”
“Murder?” He actually laughed. “Am I talking to James McKinney? Since when did murder become more than a social concept? Since when did you decide to be a hero?”
I was struck dumb. What could I say? Where could I go from here?
Van Epps was enjoying the upper hand. “Morris was a drunken, wife-beating wretch and deserved to die anyway. All I did was control the time of death.”
To my own indictment, I understood his reasoning. “Controlling the conditions for observing the phenomena.”
“And it worked: it produced a posthumous sighting and photographs of Clyde Morris; the House appeared again; we got the account from Morris’s widow.”
“So what about Gustav Svensson?”
“A blight on the face of the town! Constantly soiling the tourists’ experience with his foul temperament. Hated! So we needed observable, repeatable results. I took the necessary steps—and we got them.”
I erred in taking a step forward. His knife went anew to Daniel’s throat. “Easy! Easy!”
I took a step back.
The knife stayed right where it was. “So don’t you see, James? Repeatable results mean predictability, and predictability means eventual control. Had we understood the House, we could have controlled it. We could have harnessed it.”
“And turned it aside?”
His glare was condemning. “Exactly.”
I grimaced. A monster being reasonable. Another monster would have accepted his argument. I, at least, saw the logic in it. I felt sick.
“I suppose,” I ventured, “Earthsong was only a complication?”
“She . . . and the kid.” He waved the knife under Daniel’s nose.
“He only delivered the message, A.J. Locking him up didn’t change anything and killing him certainly won’t.”
“His life for mine, James. Behavioral control of that thing over there . . . until it burns to the ground.”
“Not at such a cost! Never.”
As if to confirm my words, there came a rumbling in the floor, in the walls, and then a shaking so severe the furniture danced. We fell. Daniel wriggled free. The noise shook my insides. Dishes, lamps, books showered down, and I felt I was riding the floor, fists clenching wads of carpet, as it heaved and bucked and the room spun about. Where was Daniel?
I saw the knife, fallen from Van Epps’ hand and jittering upon the floor. I knew he would go for it, so I did. We collided in the center of the room, neither of us procuring the knife, both of us reduced to a savage brawl: rolling, kicking, striking—I even bit his hand. The degradation was appalling and my skills as a grappler nonexistent, but there we were, rabid animals in a huge tumbler, trying to kill each other.
Somehow Van Epps got hold of me from behind, and as he compressed my throat and I fought for my life, an infinitesimal part of my awareness took note of four facts: the room had changed, my friends were shouting and pounding on the front door, Daniel stood safely in a corner, watching, and . . . Daniel was also watching someone else, his eyes expectant.
Suddenly, Van Epps let out an oof, released me, and I tottered forward, turning in time to see him slam against the wall. That I would have such strength surprised me.
The advantage, however, was now his. He had the knife again and charged like a raging bull. I may have ducked when he thrust the knife. I only remember tumbling onto the couch while he went flying over it and then let out a cry.
I leaped from the couch, eyes everywhere, not seeing him—
A groan came from the archway between the living and dining rooms. The couch blocked my view, but as I rounded it I found my adversary fallen, a pool of crimson spreading beneath him, the knife up to the hilt between his ribs.
Only then, as I gasped for breath, did I realize the tumult and quaking had ceased. Only then did I recognize the dining room with its eight place settings and high-backed chairs. I was standing in the House. Except for the disarray Van Epps and I had caused, no harm was done, and not the slightest scent of smoke remained.
As if by the House’s will, the front lock released, the door burst open, and in spilled Tank, Andi, and Brenda. Tank was scorched and tattered, but ready to . . . well, I suppose I beat him to it.
Aghast, they took in the scene, from Daniel safe in the corner to the upset furniture to the body of Van Epps, unquestionably dead. Brenda stared in recognition at the pool of blood on the floor, then at me.
“Duly noted,” I replied.
“You’re bleeding!” Andi cried.
Oh. A cut on my hand. Nothing deep or serious, but sufficiently dramatic. Even so, something else warranted my attention: an awareness, an urgency. “Get Daniel out of here.”
“But—”
“Tank, if you would, please.”
Tank hurried over and scooped Daniel up.
I could not say how I knew, and there wasn’t time to sort it out. “It isn’t over. Get out. Now.”
Oh, the cacophony of voices, the static!
“What?”
“What are you talking about?”
“How do you know?”
“I just do, for God’s sake . . . pardon the term!” The House shook, a familiar sensation. “Go!”
I shoved and herded them, surprised at my strength, ashamed of my manners, and got them through the door. The latch fell into place and I caught my breath.
The quiet brought no comfort; a lull before a storm. Once again, I was afraid.
I felt a chill behind me and turned.
There stood Van Epps, ghostly white, eyes pasty, blood streaking his clothes, the knife in his hand.
CHAPTER
17
A Hero
The knife came down. I dodged it. Van Epps lunged for me; I leaped, tumbled over the back of the couch, got to my feet, and ran across the room—where he met me, plunging the knife again. I dodged again, and must have struck him with an elbow—he took a blow, jerking sideways, off balance. I put out my foot to kick him but missed; he fell anyway. When he came at me again I had a lamp in my hands, but didn’t have to swing it. Inches from me, his body and face flattened as if he’d struck a thick pane of glass between us. He fell back and nearly tripped over something.
It was his own body, dead on the floor, the knife protruding.
From his guttural gasp and the way he wilted, I had a fair idea the fight was over. He teetered there, gawking, horror stretching his veiny face, a ghostly copy of himself, complete with a bloodstained knife. He dropped the knife—it dissolved before touching the floor—looked at me, looked at himself . . . then around the room.
His silence spoke though he could not. No arguments remained, no rationales. I could see he knew.
The House had him.
And as quick as that thought, three guests appeared, seated at the dining table: Clyde Morris, hunched and worn, resigned to his fate; Gustav Svensson, bitterness tightening his face, eyes glaring; Earthsong, her beauty fading even as she sat there, her eyes showing the wounds of betrayal.
I could not, I dared not move or speak. I could only hope, foolishly, that they could not see me, that I wasn’t really standing in the same room, the same House, with the man now facing his accusers.
Van Epps and I had long assured and supported each other in our opinions. We had mocked those who believed in a God and any day of reckoning. In anger, in bitterness, I had killed God long ago and ever after wished Him dead. Though all appearances suggested it was Van Epps on trial, was I not partly responsible for his being there?
Clyde Morris seemed interested only in Van Epps as he produced a pillow—Van Epps’ instrument of murder—and laid it on the table.
Gustav Svensson followed, producing a bloodstained rock.
Earthsong, saddened, produced the syringe used to kill her and set it beside the pillow and the rock.
Van Epps didn’t speak. What was there to say?
A door in the hall answered, its hinges creaking, and immediately a wind moved through the House, swaying and jangling the chandelier, rustling the curtains. Van Epps’ eyes rolled toward the hallway as if he knew what the sound was. The three accusers simply turned their heads; they already knew what it was.
True to the widow Morris’s account, a powerful body of air hit me in the back and sent me reeling in the direction of the hall. Van Epps, caught in the same rush of air, stumbled and staggered ahead of me, arms fighting off flying newspapers, serviettes, doilies, a tablecloth, any and all things the wind could carry. I grasped a dining room chair but it only came with me. I could hear Van Epps screaming over the gale.
Just ahead of me, the three accusers, Morris, Svensson, and Earthsong, walked into the hallway even as their images dissolved into particles like sand before the wind. The doorway—yes, the House’s precise copy of Van Epps’ basement door—stood gaping, the glow of a furnace pulsating upon the opposite wall. Like specks of dust drawn into a vacuum, what was left of the three shot through.
Van Epps dropped to the floor, grabbed for the carpet, a server, a hutch, to no avail as the wind carried him—and me—toward that door. I could feel the heat.
It was not a thought, for there wasn’t time. It was a knowledge: I’d been on trial with Van Epps. Hope as I might, argue as I might, the House was good with its promise: it knew all about me.
Van Epps blurred through the door with a shriek. The rectangular frame of fire filled my vision, I flew helplessly, headlong—
My body slammed against an unseen barrier stretched across the door, and I hung there, a gale force pulling my arms, legs, and hair into the throat of a flaming, roaring tunnel. Far ahead of me, Van Epps, a rag doll in silhouette, tumbled, kicked, screamed, shrank into oblivion.
How might I escape? How? I looked away from the fiery maw that would swallow me, desperate to know my situation. What held me here? How might I work my way to safety?
Only in that tiny and panicked measure of time did I realize my body had come up against another—I felt the shape of a powerful chest against mine and, on further groping for escape, I discerned what could have been huge arms. I looked up.
I saw the glow of the fire on the lintel of the door, the wall, and the ceiling above, but somehow, in the light of the flames and the shadows cast, I saw the outline of a face: the shape of a jaw, a brow, the crown of a head. Although I could not see the eyes plainly, I could feel them watching me. I looked where I knew them to be, and . . .
I could not plead. No words would come.
The huge arm to my left reached out; the door swung shut with a clamorous bang!
And I came to my senses on the floor, my body in a heap against the basement door in the home of the late A.J. Van Epps. His body still lay where it fell, a dim and crumpled shadow against the sweep of red and blue lights that came through the front windows.
CHAPTER
18
Reflection
The fire crew grumbled a little, trying to understand why they’d been called to a fire when now, search as they might, there was none to be found. There wasn’t even a burning House to be found, only an old field with a long defunct chicken coop. I think some of them knew, but they weren’t going to say anything.
The police had plenty to do, stretching their yellow ribbon around Van Epps’ home and beginning the long process of piecing together his death, his basement prison, the prisoner, and three murders. According to their instructions, I waited with my friends on the front steps, shakily sipping from a cup of water. Along with our debriefing each other, we discussed lodging; getting everything explained was going to take a while.
Faithful Andi reported, “The phone number on Daniel’s shirt got me the Norquist Center for Behavioral Health—it’s a home for the insane. They’ve been looking for Daniel. Daniel’s uncle and aunt came to take him for a few days but never brought him back, and as it turns out, they weren’t his real uncle and aunt.”
I nodded, theorizing. “Our charming couple from that Institute, no doubt. Van Epps had friends he wouldn’t talk about—friends wanting ‘power.’”
Brenda draped a blanket over my shoulders. “I’ll bet they were tracking little Daniel the same as they were tracking me and Tank for our ‘special gifts.’”
“And brought him here to help them . . . what? Make contact with the House? Well, what he provided was not to Van Epps’ liking.”
“Hey,” said Tank, “it was God talking. You want to hear from God, you better be ready for the truth.”
God. So many issues there. Such a long history. Such a long, long journey back should I even desire to make it. I didn’t care to rebut Tank’s faith, not today. I only asked him, for the record, “Did you really see heaven?”
Tank grinned. “Jesus was there. It co
uldn’t have been anything else.” Then with a sober, thoughtful air he added, “The House only tells the truth. For some it’s good news; for others . . .”
Brenda put an arm around Daniel and drew him close. “I’ll tell you something. Daniel’s not insane. He’s like anybody else folks don’t understand.”
I reached and touched the boy’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re all right, son.” Then I added with a wink, “That’s quite a protector you have.”
Daniel replied, “Yes, sir,” and smiled up at his invisible friend.
“So what do you suppose, Daniel? You heard the House’s message. You wrote it on the wall. Did the House take Dr. Van Epps because he killed those people and almost killed you?”
“No, sir.”
We waited for more.
“The House took him because he was the kind of person who would.”
I could still see myself hanging in that doorway. There, but for the grace of God . . .
“It could have been me,” I whispered.
I saw the same look I’d seen in Daniel’s eyes the last time he said it: “Not yet.”
Contents
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2
3
4
5
6
7
8
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10
11
12
13
Epilogue
CHAPTER
1
I was sitting on the edge of my grandparents’ deck, bare legs swinging in the sun, when Abby trotted out of the house and sat beside me. “Abs!” I slipped my arm around her back and gave her a hug; she returned my affection by licking my cheek. “Stop that, silly. You know I’m ticklish.”
As if she understood, Abby straightened and joined me in staring at the sea oats and the white sandy beaches of the Gulf of Mexico. We had sat in this same spot hundreds of times in our growing-up years . . . me, the geeky high-schooler, and Abby, the ungainly Labrador pup. Somehow we had both outgrown our awkwardness.
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