by Matt Drabble
She picked up the phone and carefully dialed under the counter. She raised the handset to her ear and waited for the pickup. “Library, far end, computers,” she said succinctly down the line before hanging up. Her smile was cold.
“Look here,” Michael said, pointing Kurt’s attention to the screen. “Does this seem like normal police procedure to you?”
Kurt’s eyes ran over the newspaper reports quickly and efficiently. “Not even close,” he stated. “I’m not exactly a fully trained detective, but even I know that you don’t report gossip as fact to reporters and allow it to be printed.”
“So what do we do now?” Thom asked.
“Well, for starters you’re going home,” Michael said to Thom’s disappointed expression.
“You can’t be serious,” Thom hissed through clenched teeth.
“Deadly,” Michael said, his eyes not flinching. “Look, Thom, whatever is going on here I don’t want you caught in the middle of it.”
“Oh really, you mean like when a teacher tries to jump me and then ends up dead? You mean not in the middle like that?”
Despite Thom’s anger, Michael was still impressed that the young boy kept enough cool to keep his voice low and quiet.
“Look, maybe the kid can help?” Kurt offered. “His mom works for Casper’s realty company, right? I bet that she keeps office files, keys and stuff at home. Whatever is going on around here, you can be damn sure that Casper Christian will be at the bottom of it.”
“A look around Casper’s personals might be just the ticket,” Michael agreed reluctantly. “Alright, Thom. Do you think that you can get hold of a set of keys to Casper’s office?”
“Easily,” Thom smiled.
“Alright then, do it carefully and don’t get caught. Phone me when you’ve got them,” Michael said as he placed a warm hand on Thom’s bony shoulders. “Carefully!” he reiterated sternly.
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Emily hugged Sarah-Jane deeply as they said their goodbyes and she promised to head straight home. Sarah-Jane was anxious to find Samuel as she had not heard from him all day and she said that he was normally a rapacious texter. Their destinations took them in opposite directions and they caught different trams. She watched as Sarah-Jane left her behind at the stop. She knew that SJ was an avid worrier and despite her promise to head home, she actually had another location in mind.
She lifted herself up off of the waiting bench; her increased bulk was becoming more difficult to maneuver effectively. Her worries were growing by the day and she caressed her swell gently; it seemed that perhaps this paradise was not so great after all. She knew that she was late getting to the party, but perhaps it would not be too late. The diary of Jessica Grady had shaken her greatly. Their lives were running along parallel lines and Jessica and her husband had both seemingly disappeared. Same job, same house and, most worryingly, same pregnancy; whatever fate had befallen Jessica, she was determined not to follow on the same path. The Gradys had disappeared without a trace and the best place that she could think of for answers was the one woman that Jessica had suspected - the headmistress, Mrs. Olivia Thirlby. Emily boarded the tram and headed for the school.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
The room was small and windowless; the air was clean and artificially freshened but the smell of citrus hung oppressively on the air, irritating the throat of the watcher. The man sat in a tall-backed and comfortable chair of luxurious leather. The seating was maximized for viewing the huge bank of plasma screens that lined the walls. A long control panel ran the length of the dark oak counter. Lights and buttons blinked in futuristic fashion, dancing with precision and grace.
The man hung up the phone and typed furiously into the keyboard with nimble fingers. The largest screen sat in the middle of the display, orbited by smaller televisions, and displayed the current selection.
He peered forward, not bothering to reach for his glasses which lay discarded in his backpack, for this was the first time on his watch that he had actually been called into action. His heart raced feverishly as he sought to maintain his composure. The thought of reporting in without all of the facts terrified him. Quinn had once reamed him out royally for leaving an empty cup behind and unwashed; he shuddered to think of the consequences for missing crucial details off of a report of this potential magnitude.
The man slapped his head in horror and quickly reached over to press the record button. In his haste he’d almost forgotten; he shuddered again, only more violently. A mistake like that could lead him to having to take the walk out into the woods. His hands felt clammy and his forehead beaded with sweat at the very thought.
He leaned in and hit the un-mute button. He could see the three figures in the library huddled around a table in the computer area. He immediately recognised the writer. He’d tried a couple of his books when he heard that he was moving to town, but hadn’t really been able to connect. He’d watched the home of the writer before; every new town member was immediately put under close surveillance when they first moved in. The broadband installer had gained access to the Torrances’ house and installed a little more than internet access. He also recognised the boy who’d had the run in with the teacher at the school recently. He hadn’t been on duty that day, but someone was, and the system once again had functioned perfectly. The third figure annoyed him and he unconsciously gripped the desk with whitened knuckles. A deputy, no less - the new man, Stillson. He could only guess that Stillson had yet to be inoculated into the program.
His face tightened and his anger rose further when he caught their conversation. He pounded a fist down hard on the desk and violently grabbed the phone. The call was answered immediately as the caller ID notified the recipient just who was calling, and any call from this number was never less than essential. The man gave a brief report, efficiently and succinctly as he’d been trained. He nodded slowly as he listened to the reply and thanked his God that he was not in another man’s shoes today.
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Michael got out of the deputy's car and walked up towards his front door, motioning for Kurt to follow him. He could feel the stares of his neighbors behind twitching curtains and their curiosity was palpable. Michael unlocked the large front door and they slipped inside, grateful to be out of sight.
“You want a beer?” Michael asked.
“No thanks, but I’ll take something soft if you’ve got it,” Kurt replied, looking around the plush house that dwarfed his own modest home.
“In here,” Michael motioned towards the kitchen.
“Man, this is some place,” Kurt said in awe. “I thought that my place was something.”
“Ah, it ain’t nothing but bricks and mortar,” Michael said awkwardly with the typical shyness of a Brit.
They walked into the sunny kitchen. Michael’s attention was on their next move and his concern that Emily was not already home. His first instinct was to just pack a bag and leave; they could be gone by morning and not look back. This wasn’t his fight and it didn’t have to be his home, but now there was Thom to consider. Could he really just walk away and leave a young boy behind helpless? Could he face himself in the mirror every morning knowing just who and what he had abandoned? He knew that Thom would keep looking and eventually he knew that Thom would find something; something that would get him hurt or worse. His thoughts were torn when he suddenly realised that they weren’t alone; a very large shadow loomed across the patio doors with menace.
“Sheriff,” Michael said, his mind racing, fighting for an exit.
Sheriff Quinn smiled unpleasantly; his perfect teeth were white and vicious. His uniform was pressed and spotless; his silver badge gleamed beneath the bright sun and his arm moved quickly. The gun was large but still barely registered in his huge paw. The barrel was black and oiled and the grip wooden. The explosion within the confines of the kitchen was monstrous.
Michael closed his eyes and waited for the pain; he stood rock still and feared the oncoming death. His life di
dn’t flash before his eyes and there was only the deep regret that he would never hold his child. The next sound he heard was the heaving falling behind him. He cracked his eyes open and felt his chest. There was no hole and no pain. Confused, he turned around.
Kurt was lying on the floor. His chest was splattered across the wooden surface and Michael went to him. He travelled in slow motion and he knelt, his knees sinking in the red gore. Kurt took his hand weakly. His eyes were puzzled and perplexed. His mouth bubbled with a fine crimson mist as the life ebbed slowly away. Michael spoke without turning back to face the sheriff. “You … you killed him,” he said, incomprehensively.
The sheriff moved into the gap between them. “No,” he said, swinging the handgun and bringing it down hard on Michael’s head rendering him unconscious. “You did.”
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Emily pushed open the school doors after unlocking them with her own key. Due to the weekend there were no classes, but she knew that Mrs. Thirlby would be in attendance as always.
She eased her way down the long darkened corridor. The building seemed infinitely more eerie when empty, and even the cheerful pictures that adorned the walls, etched by young hands and fertile imaginations, seemed creepy in this gloomy light. She walked as slowly and as quietly as she could manage, her hands instinctively cradling her bump. She knew that she should not be here for her child’s sake, but she also knew that she had to - for her child’s sake. She walked on tiptoes to alleviate her early announcement as she approached the headmistress’s office. Beyond the door, she could hear the faint clacking of a typewriter thumping out noisily. For some reason, Mrs. Thirlby favoured using the antiquated machine over a computer and her office was small and removed from the main walkways of the school. Emily paused outside of the frosted glass, finding her courage and steeling her mind. She was not a woman who enjoyed confrontation in any form, but this was necessary; this was her family’s future.
“Come in, Emily, dear,” the voice rang out from within.
Emily reached out and turned the door handle with a shaking hand. She pushed the door open and stepped inside. “I think that it’s time we talked,” she mustered.
“Yes, dear, I think that you’re probably right,” came the reply.
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Michael’s head swam and his vision blurred. He tried to sit up slowly but the dizziness only increased. His memory was confused and spotty; he leant forward and found his legs hanging over a small metallic bed. He looked down and saw that his knees were wet and darkly stained. He touched them, confused, when suddenly the images flooded back through the redness. Kurt, he thought. He saw the body again, now fresh in his mind - the deputy dying before his eyes.
“Well now, look who’s up.” A cheerful voice startled him.
Michael turned to face the low rumbling voice through the bars. The sheriff stood tall and broad, cradling a mug of coffee, his face relaxed and calm, almost pleasant.
“You murdered him,” Michael spat.
“Oh, I’m afraid not,” Quinn leant forward and whispered into the cell. “I fear that was you, Mr. Torrance. You’ve committed quite the crime. The cold-blooded murder of a police officer.” He shook his head theatrically. “I only wish that I was in time to stop you, instead of just subduing you,” he frowned.
“You really think that anyone’s going to believe that?” Michael laughed incredulously. “This isn’t the movies, you dumb hick. I’ll have the best lawyers that money can buy flown in and they’ll tear you apart on the stand.”
“Ah, maybe so, Mr. Big shot. Only something tells me that this’ll never come to trial.” He smiled menacingly. “In fact, you look positively suicidal to me, Mr. Torrance.”
“Who the fuck is going to believe that? I’d love to see Dr Creed signing off on that little medical marvel.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that the town is currently seeking a new town physician. It would appear that Dr Creed just isn’t going to work out. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if he isn’t already gone. Just upped and disappeared into the night.”
Michael sat back with the worst feeling crawling in his guts. “You killed Samuel,” he stated rhetorically.
“Why, Mr. Torrance, that’s a terrible accusation,” the sheriff said, walking away laughing quietly to himself.
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“Why don’t you have a seat, Mrs. Torrance,” the headmistress said, pointing to the chair opposite.
Emily eased herself down with as much dignity as she could muster, her eyes darting around the small office. Thirlby sat behind a metallic desk. Her furniture all seemed oddly matched and without coordination. The shelving was plastic and the chairs were metal. The flooring - which was a lovely hardwood everywhere else in the school - was covered with a thick carpet. A metal cabinet stood behind the desk; the door was slightly ajar and Emily’s eyes caught on a green crusted puddle that had spilled out onto the carpet. The headmistress’s eyes followed Emily’s to the green stain. She reached behind and pushed the door quickly shut, but not before Emily saw the spray paint cans.
“I want to know what’s going on in this town, Mrs. Thirlby,” Emily announced primly. “I also want to know just what the hell happened to Jessica Grady.” She leant forward, “And her baby.”
Emily was prepared for indignation, denial, anger, accusations; what she wasn’t prepared for was when the stone face of the headmistress broke into sorrowful sobs that seemed to wrench from her very soul. She could only watch as the ramrod woman opposite her broke down until her cheeks were soaked with tears.
“Oh, that poor child,” Olivia wept. “That poor family. I tried, I really tried Emily, you have to believe me, but there’s only so much one person can do in this town.”
“Wait a minute,” Emily snapped. “The graffiti sprayed across town, the ‘Wake Up signs’, that was you?” she said, skeptically thinking of the paint cans hidden in the cabinet behind the sobbing headmistress. She had a hard job picturing the elderly widow creeping around like a hooded teen, tagging the pristine town walls.
Olivia nodded. “Yes,” she admitted. “It was all I could think of.”
“WAKE UP… what does that even mean?” Emily asked.
“I was just trying to get the town to look around them. Too much goes on here under the radar. I firmly believe that most people in town are good, decent people, Emily; they just tend not to ask too many questions. There’s a state of fog that settles over us here; the sun shines and investments grow - people get fat and lazy like cats on the asphalt.”
“So what is happening here? What about Jessica?”
“Oh Jess,” Olivia began to softly weep again. “She was such a sweet girl, so happy and full of life. When she got pregnant I think that she was probably the happiest girl in the whole wide world. I knew that they were watching her, so I tried to make her leave. I tried to make things unpleasant for her here so that she would just go before it was too late, but she wouldn’t,” Olivia said with tearful respect. “She was too stubborn for that, but I couldn’t tell her; she wouldn’t have listened, nobody would have.”
“Listen to what? Who was watching her?”
“It’s all so confusing, Emily. After all these years, I don’t even remember what’s truth and what’s myth anymore.”
“How many years?” Emily asked suspiciously.
“How old would you say I am, Emily? And don’t pander to a woman’s vanity.”
Emily studied the headmistress; her hair was streaked with silver, her face was lined and creased if not wholly wrinkled, and her frame was healthy and lean. “I don’t know, maybe fifty three, fifty five, something around there.”
“You’re very kind,” Olivia said gratefully, “but you’re a little out. I’m ninety eight years old.”
Emily paused as she processed, trying to decide if the woman sat opposite her was mad or actually pushing a hundred years old. She opened her mouth to speak, before finding that she had nothing to say. Her lips clamped together and plo
pped like a goldfish’s.
“Don’t look too bad, do I?” Olivia said sadly. Her voice was heavy with weariness.
“Is everyone…?” Emily left the question hanging.
“No, not everyone. Some folks here are as old as me, a few are older and others moved into town like you and your husband.”
“How is this possible?”
“The town is old, but the woods are older - older than perhaps time itself. Ever since Eden was founded, we have been isolated from the outside world. Only every now and then are newcomers selected and invited in. The Woodland Festival is an annual event that is somehow linked to the prosperity here as far as I can tell.”
“What is it?”
The town partakes in an ancient tradition. On the surface it is just a fun carnival; the town celebrates the founding of Eden, just like a kind of Fourth of July. But that’s just the window dressing; over the years I’ve often suspected that there is another, more private, tradition that takes place away from prying eyes. Although I’ve never been able to establish just what, and people in town just don’t care to ask or even think.”
