Gideon

by Alex Gordon

  “I’ll look at it. Later today.” Lolly held out his hand. “Keys?”

  Lauren hesitated, then handed her keys to him. Yes, she had cleaned up the wire circlets, but she wondered if she had left anything else in the car that might give her away. The book? She felt the heft of it in her handbag. Sensed the weight of a stare, and looked into rheumy eyes, pale blue and rimmed in red.

  “No promises.” Lolly gave her one last searching look, then stuffed her keys in his pocket and started for the door.

  “We’re meeting at the bend in one hour, Lolly,” another of the men called after him.

  Lolly stopped. “I said what I think.” He didn’t turn around, but spoke to the door, his breath leaving a haze of condensation on the window. “It’s time for the sheriff. Better to call them before they come around asking—”

  “Lolly.” The young woman’s voice bit.

  Lolly glanced sidelong at Lauren. “Yeah.” He pushed the door open. “Better keep our mouths shut. ’Cause keeping quiet’s worked so good up to now.” He let the door slam behind him and headed in the direction of the garage.

  Lauren walked to the nearest table and sat. Sensed the men watching her as she unzipped her jacket and opened it without taking it off.

  “You want anything?” The young woman had finished setting out the shakers, and now straightened up behind the counter.

  “Coffee, please.” A sense of dull dread had settled. Numbness, like a weight on the soul. Lauren had felt it as soon as she entered. It reminded her of that hell just three short weeks before, when she sat with her father in the doctor’s office and waited for the final damning diagnosis.

  “We’ve got cold stuff. Doughnuts. Cereal.”

  “No, thanks.” Lauren wrapped her hands around the mug the young woman gave her. Held it under her nose to inhale the warm steam, and coughed as the acrid stench of overcooked brew raked her sinuses. “Did something bad happen today?” She set the mug down, pushed it to the edge of the table.

  The young woman stared, eyes narrowed. Before she could reply, the shadowed man stood and walked around the end of the counter. “Which way did you drive into town, if you don’t mind my asking?” What light there was touched his face, erased the shadow, and rendered him a man Lauren’s age or a little younger, tall and rangy and red-haired. He wore work clothes, weathered jeans and a green-and-black flannel shirt topped with a down vest in an electric shade of orange.

  “West.” Lauren pointed in the direction she had come. “Only sign I saw was a little billboard. ‘Beware the Outsider.’”

  “Sounds like ol’ Tom’s been taking the street signs down and putting up his own,” one of the other men muttered. “Again.”

  “You were on Old Main Road.” The redhead perched on the stool closest to Lauren’s table. “Did you happen to see anyone on the way in?”

  “An old man carrying a toolbox.”

  “That was old Tom. Tom Barton.” The man held out his hand. “I’m Dylan Corey.”

  Lauren hesitated, then shook Corey’s hand. Strong fingers enclosed hers, the palm callused, knuckles scuffed and dotted with scabs. She felt his warmth like the sun through glass, the gentle heat of a banked fire. Then she heard a quiet voice that seemed to emanate from inside her head.

  Your hand is so cold—well, you know what they say.

  Lauren looked up, met eyes the brown side of hazel, deep-set in a long, serious face, and felt the blush rise. Sensed a different sort of heat from across the room, and glanced at the young waitress to find her glaring back, the dish towel she held twisted into a knot.

  “Did you see anyone else?” Corey’s voice came soft, as though they were the only two people in the room.

  “No.” Lauren eased out of his grip. “But I didn’t really look. I was worried about my car.”

  “Did you notice anything strange at all? Anything about the sky or—”

  “Dylan.” The waitress spoke more gently than she had to Lolly, but her tone held the same warning.

  Corey ignored her. “A sense that someone watched you, someone you couldn’t see?”

  “Is someone missing?” Lauren felt the stares of the other men, the young woman’s growing anger. “A child?”

  “No.” Corey moved from the stool to the chair next to hers. “A friend of ours. We’re worried because—”

  “Dylan.”

  “Dammit, Deena, shut up.” Corey hung his head, scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, but you know Mistress—” He stopped, chewed his lip for a moment. “Miz Waycross told us to do all we could. Leave no stone unturned.” He looked at Lauren, his eyes holding the same pain as Lolly’s, the same bewildered questioning. “Her name’s Connie Petersbury. She’s in her midforties. Short gray hair. About five foot nothing. You probably heard about her brother on the news.”

  The little girl with pigtails. Lauren shook her head, eventually. “I’ve been driving for two days. I haven’t listened to much news.”

  “Well, he—died. He died, and—”

  “He killed Norma and Junior and Ashley and the girls.” One of the other men, a skinny blond in cords and battered leather jacket, swung around on his stool to face them. “He killed them, Dylan. Then he killed himself. Lying about it won’t make it easier to take.”

  “I wasn’t lying, Phil. I just—” Corey sighed. “You didn’t see a woman walking along the road, or wandering through the trees, or anything?”

  Lauren struggled to recall any flicker of color amid the dull gray and brown of winter-bare woods. “No. I’m sorry.”

  “She doesn’t know anything. Leave her be.” Phil rose and walked to the door. He wore cowboy boots, the taps on the soles clicking like snapping fingers, the sound bouncing off the walls. “We need to get back out there. Only got a few hours of daylight left.” He stopped to pay his bill. “You driving, Zeke?”

  “Yeah.” The fourth man slid off his stool, then paused to crack his back before trudging after his companion. He was older than the rest, white-haired and wrinkled, jeans and barn coat patched and shabby. On his way to the door, he looked at Lauren, and his step slowed. “You used to live around here?”

  “No.” Lauren fought the urge to look away as Zeke continued to stare. “First time in Illinois.”

  “I’d ask, ‘Are you sure?’ but I guess you’d know, wouldn’t you?” Zeke gave her a last, probing look, then followed the other man outside.

  Lauren waited for the door to close, for the men to disappear from view. Zeke would have been well into middle age at the time Matthew Mullin left Gideon. He had likely known him. I took after Mom. Everyone said so. Heart-shaped face. Wavy, dark brown hair. Curves instead of angles. No possibility that anyone would recognize her.

  “What are you going to do without your car?” Corey stood. “Do you have any friends you can call?”

  “I was just passing through. Headed to New York.” Her first outright lie. She had to make sure she remembered. “I don’t know anyone local.” Corey’s scent drifted around her, a blue odor like seawater that made her heart flutter. “Are there any motels nearby?”

  “Not for miles. We’re sort of off the beaten track here.” Corey continued to hover, hands drifting in and out of his vest pockets.

  “Cabs? Car rental?”

  “Um, no.”

  “She can’t stay here.” Deena slammed cupboard doors, then pulled on her coat, swearing as an arm got stuck in a sleeve. “I need to lock up so I can go back out and help with the search.”

  Lauren dug her wallet out of her handbag. “I still have to pay for the coffee.”

  “On the house.” Deena walked to the door, pushed it open, and stood waiting. Did everything but check her watch and tap her feet.

  “Deena.” Corey rolled his eyes.

  “She can’t stay here—Johnny’ll kill me.” Deena smirked. “It’s the insurance. No customers allowed in the place without an employee present.”

  “Did you just make that up?” Corey glared at the yo
ung woman, then waved Lauren ahead of him. “Let’s go.”

  The mist had thickened so it fell like rain, whispering through the air, muffling every sound. Lauren wore a hooded sweatshirt under her father’s jacket; she pulled up the hood and zipped the jacket to the neck, but the cold still seeped through. “Is that all you’re going to wear?” She pointed to Corey’s vest.

  “I’ve got a jacket in my truck.” Corey patted the vest as he dug keys out of the pocket. “Hunting season. We all have to wear these this time of year. It’s a sign that we’re not on the menu.”

  “Is your friend wearing one?” Lauren caught the flicker in Corey’s eyes. “Maybe Mr. Loll is right. You should call the sheriff.”

  “Wouldn’t do any good. She’s not officially missing yet. Besides, Miz Waycross says we should keep looking until there’s no place else to look.”

  “You called her ‘Mistress’ before.”

  “I work for her. It’s just a term of respect. Like ma’am.” Corey walked to a dark red pickup with a gold W done in block lettering on the driver’s-side door. “I don’t want you to think—oh, boy—that I’m being forward, or trying to pull something. It’s just—” He paused, his hand on the hood. “My house isn’t too far from here. You’re welcome to wait there until Lolly checks out your car.”

  “I couldn’t.” Lauren looked toward Lolly’s to find the parking lot empty, which meant he had already pulled her car into the garage and departed. Reardon, you genius. Now she was stuck. She should never have given him her keys.

  “I don’t mean this the way it sounds, but where else are you going to go?” Corey pointed toward the desolate main street. “We’re all helping with the search, so all the stores are closed. Lolly’s is locked up. No one’s here, and we can’t have you wandering around by yourself.”

  “Why not.”

  “Because it’s not safe.” Corey unlocked the truck, opened the door, and pulled out his coat. “The woods around here. They’re not safe.” He removed the vest, donned his coat, then dragged the vest back over it.

  “Is that why Tom Barton posts those signs? Because of the danger?”

  “Tom Barton posts those signs because he’s a crazy old man.”

  Lauren paced beside Corey’s truck, shoes crunching on the gravel, as every “Good Samaritan gone bad” story she had ever read surfaced from the depths of memory. I can take care of myself if he tries anything. But she would be in his house. On his turf. At his mercy. “Lolly’s got my keys. My suitcase is locked up.”

  “So it’ll be safe until I bring you back here later.” Corey walked around to the passenger side of the truck and opened the door.

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “You’ll be more of a bother if you’re out wandering around.”

  Lauren met Corey’s gaze. Hunted for any hint of agitation or anger, but sensed only sadness and concern and an undercurrent of fear. Stepped around the truck until she could see the inside of the door, and checked that the old-fashioned crank handles were all still attached and in the right places.

  Corey reached for her as she approached, taking her arm to assist her as she stepped up into the cab. Funny the things that helped you decide. How one touch made you angry and another made you pull away.

  Then there were the touches that you didn’t mind at all.

  “Good.” Corey waited until Lauren buckled her seat belt. “One less thing to think about.” He flashed his first smile and his eyes lit, allowing a glimpse of the man he would be if the worry released its hold.

  Lauren adjusted her heat vent as soon as Corey started the truck, opening it wide and pointing it toward her. The old leather seat crackled as she shifted. Bits of hay lay scattered over the floor mats. A couple of crumpled fast-food sacks.

  She pulled down her visor and checked her face in the mirror. Fear had settled in her bones and she needed sleep and wore no makeup and it all showed. The dark smudges beneath her eyes. The dull skin.

  Then she caught movement, and spotted Deena in the diner parking lot, watching them leave. She leaned against a beat-up blue Escort, arms folded, lips moving and one hand twitching, signing shapes and symbols in the mist.

  Dylan Corey’s house was located a mile or so outside Gideon, on a dirt-and-gravel path just off the Old Main Road. It stood atop a bluff overlooking a bend in the River Ann, a dark brown L-shaped wood frame that followed the curve of the summit’s edge. One wing contained two bedrooms and a bathroom, the other, the kitchen and living room. There was a one-car detached garage, half hidden in the woods, and a ramshackle storage shed next to it.

  “It’s not much.” Corey unlocked the door, then stood aside to let Lauren enter. “The only places worth a damn around here are the big houses in town, and it’ll be a bright day in the wilderness when I can afford one of those.”

  “Is that a local saying?” Lauren walked around the living room, which contained a beaten-up leather couch, a coffee table, a floor lamp, and a line of packing boxes shoved haphazardly against one bare, white wall. “I’ve never heard it before.”

  “Gideon nights can be pretty dark, that’s all. We’re in the middle of nowhere out here.” Corey slipped around her and pushed the boxes farther into the corner. “Sorry about the mess. I just moved in last week and I haven’t had time to unpack everything.” He picked up a T-shirt that lay draped over the arm of the couch. “Mistress Waycross gave me some of her old furniture to tide me over until I can get my own.”

  Lauren set her handbag on the couch, then walked across the room to a set of glass doors that opened onto a deck overlooking the river. “Nice view.” She opened one of the doors, breathed in the chilly damp. Overhead, wet branches shed their drops like a second rain, and the patter of the water hitting the roof combined with the soft roar of the flowing water to compose an all-too-familiar sound track. “It’s so much like home, it’s almost funny.”

  “Where is home?” Corey fidgeted with the T-shirt, folding it over his arm and draping it over his shoulder before finally tossing it into one of the boxes.

  “Seattle.” Lauren closed the door and turned her back on the scenery, pushed thoughts of Katie and Paul and the rest of her friends from her mind. But that left other memories to fill in the gap. Her father’s final days. Dilys’s broken body. And now Connie Petersbury, the little girl grown. Lauren rubbed her eyes, as if that could erase the images. It worked as well as it ever did.

  “Washington? You’ve come just about as far as you possibly can, haven’t you?” Corey joined Lauren at the window. “What’s in New York?”

  “New York?” Lauren stared at Corey until he arched his brow and gave her a questioning half smile. “Oh.” She turned back to the view out the window, knocked her forehead against the glass. She always had been a lousy liar. “Nothing in particular.” She hugged herself, then rubbed her arms. Her whole body felt itchy, as though she wore wool against her bare skin. “I needed to get away, so I just got in the car and headed east.”

  “I know that feeling. Just can’t do anything about it.” Corey stared at nothing. Then his gaze drifted down. “Take a tumble somewhere?”

  Lauren felt the muddy swath across the seat of her pants. It had dried stiff and crumbled to her touch, leaving a coating of dirt on her hand. “I fell in a ditch when I got out of the car to see what the sign said.”

  “Old Tom’s signs.” Corey shook his head. “I’ve seen people stop and take pictures.”

  “He doesn’t like strangers?”

  “He’s an old man. No family. Nothing to do all day but read his book and wallow in his thoughts and prepare for the end times.”

  “His book? Which book is that?”

  Corey didn’t answer. Instead, he looked out toward the river, then glanced at his watch. “I need to get going.” He started toward the door, then stopped, rocking slightly to and fro as if unsure what to do next.

  Lauren walked to the couch and tried perching on the arm, but dried mud flaked off her pants and
powdered across the upholstery. “You’re worried.” She brushed it away, then returned to the window and leaned against the cold glass. “About your friend.”

  “Of course I am.” Corey’s voice came harsh, and he raised a hand in apology. “It gets dark so early in the winter. Things happen in the dark.” Concern clouded his face, etched lines along the sides of his mouth, dulled his eyes. “Do you believe that a place can be bad? That it can be cursed?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Lauren wanted to say more, but she couldn’t let on why she had come to Gideon, that she knew the reason behind the haunted look in Dylan Corey’s eyes.

  “My grandfather used to say that the wilderness was a dark place, so at night the darkness favored them that came from there.” Corey looked past Lauren to the woods beyond. “Even if you stick close, you can’t be sure the person you walked in with will be the same one who walks out.”

  “You make it sound as though the woods are haunted.” Before Lauren could say more, she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Out on the deck, a squirrel had leaped onto a weathered bird feeder, sending it rocking. The thing had been fashioned from a length of metal pipe that hung from a wire, and it swung toward her, low and fast, like an arm emerging from shadow. A hand reaching for her throat. “Haunted.” Her voice cracked. She looked back at Corey to see if he noticed, but found him rummaging through one of the boxes.

  “It’s winter days, that’s all I meant. The dark comes early. Preys on your mind.” Corey straightened, a small nylon pack in hand. “You can make coffee.” He pointed toward the kitchen. “And there’s stuff in the freezer if you get hungry. Microwave. No TV, but the radio still works.”

  “Does it?” Lauren turned, pressed her back to the glass. “My satellite radio gave me trouble on the way in. Then the GPS went out.”

  “Sometimes we have problems out here. One of the joys of being out in the middle of nowhere.” Corey shoved the pack in his vest pocket and walked to the door. “Just please, don’t leave.”

  Lauren followed him. “I’ve worked on search-and-rescue teams before. I could help.”