The Darkest Time of Night

by Jeremy Finley

  “Can I take a selfie with you?” I could hear the teenage boy ask as I ran towards the nearest bathroom.

  I barely made it to the toilet. Very little came up, as I’d eaten almost nothing in the last twenty-four hours. I wished for a heart attack or a stroke—any way I could die at that very moment.

  Instead, I waited till my temperature dropped, sitting on the toilet. I then flushed and went out to wash my face and hands.

  Roxy stood waiting for me. “Lynn, I’m so sorry.”

  I rinsed my shaking hands. “It’s what the text messages and phone calls are about. It’s everywhere now. Everyone has seen it.”

  “I’ll go see about the latest flight back.”

  “No.” I looked up at my haggard face. “Go buy me some sunglasses and a hat.”

  * * *

  The four-wheel-drive Suburban was much too big for the meager clothing and basic toiletries that we carried in plastic bags from the shops in the airport, but when Roxy explained to the rental-car worker where we intended to go and that we needed a Mazda, he arched his eyebrows. “You realize it’s December in Colorado. The mountain towns can easily be snowed in. That car won’t make it.”

  Roxy asked for specific directions to Argentum. I stood behind her wearing dark circular sunglasses and a ridiculous sock hat. “I have to be honest with you, ma’am, I’ve never heard of it, and I’m from the mountains near Pueblo,” the worker said.

  I’d already worn out my phone’s battery trying to find anything on a town named Argentum, but the search engines gave me nothing. Why the town showed up on the old road map but nowhere else was a nagging enigma.

  I showed the guy behind the counter the page from the atlas Steven had given me. He raised his eyebrows.

  “Huh. It would have to be San Juan or Hinsdale County. Pretty isolated. It’s all national forest out there. I wonder if it’s not even a town anymore. That map looks pretty old. Are you sure that’s the right place? Do you plan to take a four-wheeler with you? ’Cause that’s the only way you’re going to get in. We’ve had a break from the snow for the last few days, but a whopper of a storm is coming. You’d have to take 160 and just ask around, as long as it stays open. But any roads leading off it won’t be when the snow starts.”

  Roxy mumbled that she wouldn’t be riding any four-wheeler, but she would be driving. When the worker explained that they only took credit cards, I mentioned how much he looked like my son, who was waiting tables in Fort Collins. I said that I always carry cash so I can tip people who work hard but don’t make a lot of money. He accepted my cash, including the extra twenty dollars I counted out and gave him, and had me fill out paperwork, which I returned filled with blatant lies. I breathed a sigh of relief when we were safely in the SUV and on our way to the interstate.

  From the airport we turned south on I-25. I nervously tapped my phone as it repeatedly dinged. “How easily can they track my cell signal?”

  “Easily, but only if they ask the cops to look for you. And they’re probably getting to that point. Say you’re too upset to process what’s happening and need some time alone.”

  “It just sounds so pathetic. The girls won’t buy me disappearing like this. They know I wouldn’t leave them under any circumstances. Tom won’t believe it either. I have to convince them that I had to leave. No … you convinced me to leave.”

  “I have no problem being the bully.”

  “That’s our story. I wanted to drive to Champaign. But I saw the YouTube video and am terribly embarrassed, and you said the last thing I needed was to show up there and have the attention focus on me. So you’re driving me to a halfway point—let’s say Paducah—and we will head to Champaign as soon as there’s confirmation of anything.”

  Roxy nodded with appreciation.

  “Give me your phone. The text is going to come from you.”

  “Throw in a few F-bombs to make it seem authentic,” she suggested.

  I sent a group text to Tom, Kate, and Stella.

  It only took a minute for Roxy’s phone to ring with my husband’s number displayed in red.

  “You have to answer it.”

  Roxy picked up the phone. “Hi, Tommy. Yes, we’re fine. Yes, she’s fine. She’s right here with me. She’s tired and scared and embarrassed and a little sick to her stomach. We’re in Paducah. It was my call; it’s a good place to wait. No, we’re not going to Little Rock. No, we never went to Little Rock in the first place, but that’s a conversation to have with your wife when she’s feeling up to it.”

  I watched as Roxy listened for a while, her face finally wrinkling in annoyance. “Yes, we’ve seen the news. We had no idea we were being recorded in that basement. Lynn’s taking it hard. Real hard. Uh-huh. Yes. Uh-huh. She wanted to come to Champaign this morning, but she doesn’t need to be anywhere where there’s going to be cameras. You tell Anne that her momma is close by and will be there in a heartbeat if you get confirmation— Yes, Tom, I am aware of how far Paducah is from Champaign, you’re going to have to handle this until there comes a point when we need to get there. Uh-huh. She knows it, Tom. She hates to be away from Anne. Listen, I love you like a brother and I hate that this is happening, but you are getting on my nerves so I’m going to go.”

  Roxy hung up and sighed. “He is so used to everyone doing what he says, he can be a real pain.”

  “Did he buy it?”

  “He actually said it was a good idea. He’s used to you handling all the family drama stuff. He knows how to bark orders, not how to calm Anne when she’s upset. So as long as there’s no word on William, and Anne holds it together, we’ll be OK.”

  “What did he say the FBI were doing?”

  Roxy gave me a worried glance. “It’s not pretty. The media is going nuts. That’s why Tom thinks it’s wise you’re staying back for now. They caught the other woman, I can’t remember her name. The one who brought you down to Murfreesboro.”

  “Barbara.”

  “She and Dr. Richards are being kept in complete isolation. His house in Illinois is blocked off with police tape, and the agents are scouring it. They’re giving Tom and Chris and Anne hourly briefings, but they haven’t come up with anything yet, besides the discovery of pajamas. Lynn, if they found what they think are William’s clothes.…”

  “They could be manufacturing all of it. You didn’t ride in the car with the agent. She was very clear about how far they would go.”

  “But why, Lynn? Why do all this? What does the FBI gain? What does anyone gain by framing the wrong guy?”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea. Maybe they look bad because they haven’t found the person responsible? Maybe … they’re covering something up.”

  Roxy gave an exasperated sigh. “OK, sorry for that. But come on—”

  “Let’s not talk about it anymore.” I leaned my head against the strap of the seatbelt while watching the bleak landscape rush by. “Look for Route 50 and take it west.”

  * * *

  We expected the ease of the Smokies. Like many Tennesseans, we’d breezed past the goofy golf courses and Dollywood attractions of Gatlinburg in order to climb through the mountains to get to the Biltmore Estate on the other side. We’d laughed nervously when the air became crisper, and sighed with relief at the decline towards North Carolina, slightly embarrassed that we’d been anxious at all to travel through the mountain range.

  The Rockies, however, were like arrogant giants, towering above in annoyance at the vehicles scurrying up the highways crisscrossing through the peaks, like ants crawling up their pants legs. I’d never seen such white, even having lived through the bitter winters of central Illinois and the occasional whiteouts in Tennessee. But here, everything was blanketed in it: the earth, the mountain peaks, the miles and miles of evergreens scouring the valleys. I was grateful for the sunglasses. If I didn’t have them, even the deep crow’s feet around my eyes would be weary from my squinting.

  The further we drove, the whiter Roxy’s knuckles became as she gr
ipped the steering wheel, asking every five minutes if our exit was coming up. Even as we approached hour five, I didn’t mind the repeated questions. I couldn’t imagine making the harrowing drive alone.

  I looked down at my phone, hovering my thumb back and forth over the voice mail icon. I finally touched it, and a row of messages appeared, most from Tom, several from Stella, and the most recent from Kate, from just a few moments ago. I’ll start with hers and work my way down. I pressed the phone to my ear.

  “Mom. We are all worried sick. Dad just told me that you were in Paducah with Roxy. Please just stay there for now. I’m really worried that you’ll try to find those people. Those … Researchers, or whatever they’re called.

  “Mom, I hate to leave this on a voice message, but you cannot talk to them again. I know some part of you thinks they want to help you; that maybe this Steven Richards wants to help you. He does not. They do not. They are crazy. Steven Richards had maps of our property. The FBI says he hates Dad. Do not speak to these people. Do not promise them anything. We can handle the fallout from the video. We can say you were desperate. No one will judge you. But we have to make sure the story is about William from here on out. If you get in touch with these people again, all the public will ever hear about is how you believe in—I can’t even say it. It’s going to be plastered on every tabloid. It will be the top story on every website. But it’s a twenty-four hour news cycle. The video story will pass as long as you never have anything to do with them again. Please, Mom. Whatever you’ve done, call me. Please, Mom, just call—”

  I hit end and turned off the phone.

  Roxy endured the silence for a few moments. “I keep telling myself, ‘It will be easier going down. It will be easier going down.’ We have to be close now. Tell me again what I’m looking for?”

  “The man at the counter said it is either in San Juan or Hinsdale county—”

  “The least populated counties in Colorado, according to that charming fact from Google. It has the fewest roads, the fewest people. It sounds delightful.”

  “Look, San Juan County. That exit,” I pointed.

  Roxy exhaled loudly as we veered onto an exit ramp and were immediately surrounded by pine trees. The suburban started crunching over hundreds of fallen pinecones. The ramp rambled down to a road without a sign. One way led back onto the highway, the other curved into the trees.

  “When is this snowstorm supposed to start?” she asked.

  “I’m trying not to think about that.”

  “We’re going five miles—tops—and if there’s no sign of where we are, we’re turning around.”

  We surpassed five miles, then ten, then fifteen. I hoped Roxy wasn’t watching the odometer as closely as I was.

  “Thank you, Jesus, there’s a gas station,” she said. “And don’t think I don’t know we’re well past five miles.”

  We parked next to an ancient pump and stepped out to the smell of fried chicken coming from a building covered in badly faded cigarette and beer ads. The smell was both nauseating and comforting, a reminder that the southern favorite was a staple of gas station fryers all over the country.

  “We don’t have much gas,” a man called out, sucking his teeth. “Trucks won’t be coming up for another two weeks.”

  “We’ll take what you’ve got,” I said. “Is this the exit for Argentum?”

  The man leaned on a post. “Never heard of it. I’m not from around here.”

  I once more brought out the old map and approached him. He took a close look and nodded. “Well, how about that.”

  “Any idea where it is?”

  He shook his head.

  “Can you direct me to the next closest town? They might have heard of it.”

  “Only unincorporated towns around here. Little pockets of people. Old mining towns scattered here and there. Impossible to know all the names.”

  “I’m guessing if there’s a gas station here, there must be a town nearby. I didn’t pass any on the way from the interstate. I’m assuming they’re farther up the road?”

  He nodded and again sucked his teeth.

  “All I can get is five dollars out of this,” Roxy said.

  “I told you we were low.”

  “Thanks for your help,” I gave him a small wave.

  “Do you want some chicken for the road?”

  I waved Roxy into the Suburban, knowing if the man made the noise again, there might be a brawl.

  “Better hurry,” he called out. “Feels like a storm’s coming.”

  * * *

  After sixty-five miles of nothing, Roxy started driving at a crawl, looking for any sign of life. We passed no towns, not even a side street. It became abundantly clear why the gas station was low on fuel; there couldn’t be enough people to justify frequent deliveries.

  “Hon, I don’t even want to think about what we’d do if this SUV broke down.”

  “Someone has to be out here. Just a bit more.”

  We both pointed at the same time when the barn and a side road appeared. Hoping a house would be nearby, we turned onto the road, potholes and other precarious dips causing us to bounce in our seats. The closer we got to the barn, the more our hopes teetered. As we pulled up in front, it was clear the wood slats were beyond dilapidated. The doors had long since fallen away, revealing an empty interior.

  I began to suggest we get back on the road when I caught a glimpse of a large letter A painted in faded white on the edge of the barn’s eastern side.

  “Can you drive around there?”

  “Please keep an eye out for sinkholes.”

  Next to the painted A there was an empty space, and following it were a faded G and an E.

  “Pull back a bit,” I said.

  Roxy looped around and then stopped. “Well, shut my mouth.”

  From that view, we could see that a long time ago, someone had painted a single word with a stream flowing underneath. Time had erased two of the letters; now it only read “A GEN UM.”

  “Argentum,” I said softly. The painted stream ended in the tip of an arrow, pointing down the crumbling road.

  Roxy applied the gas. “Well, here we go.”

  We drove down the road, navigating more potholes, a fallen limb, and a perilous rise, finally stopping on a ridge.

  “Well, this is…” Roxy said.

  “Quaint.”

  “I was going more for bleak. Does this town only have one street?”

  “I bet it was a silver-mining town.”

  “It looks like a ghost town.”

  It would have been easy to dismiss the town as abandoned. The road leading into Argentum was ruined from endless cycles of snow and ice eating away at the aging infrastructure. The pine trees cleared enough to reveal a town that had taken on the colors of winter; the wood of the weary buildings was the same shade as the dirt-caked snow that clung like moss on a fallen tree.

  Roxy pulled up to the first structure, a whitewashed building with two strong wooden posts holding up a front porch. A sign read, “The Argentum Inn,” and smoke drifted from the chimney.

  “At least someone is alive in there,” Roxy observed.

  Wincing in the icy wind, we scurried up the front steps and opened the door. The front room was cozy, with overstuffed chairs and a crackling fire. I suddenly felt very tired.

  “Well, hello there,” said a young woman with deep red hair, who came from a back room to sit behind the counter. “I thought I knew everybody in town. I’m Sarah.”

  “Just visiting for the day,” Roxy said.

  “Visiting? I’m not sure we’ve ever had an actual visitor! But you know about the storm, right? Once it hits, we may be shut off from the hard road for a while. I don’t mean to be crass, but are you lost?”

  Roxy shook her head. “We’re two old spinsters who like to visit all the mountain towns. Do you have any vacancies?”

  “When exactly is the storm supposed to hit?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow, the radio says,” she
answered, and then blinked. “Oh, we’re not an inn, despite what the sign reads outside. We’re more of a boarding house for the locals who like having their beds made and not having to shovel steps.”

  “Do you have rooms we can rent for just the night?”

  “Come to think of it, we do. Just one, though. Mr. Peterson died over the summer and no one has claimed the room yet.”

  “Charming. We’ll take it,” Roxy said. “Tell me it has two beds, though.”

  “Sorry. One queen.”

  “That’s fine. So tell me, what do we need to see? And more importantly, where do we eat? Are you a local?”

  “I’ve lived here and there. It won’t take you long to see the town. You may be ready to go home in an hour.”

  * * *

  “All right,” Roxy said as we slid back into the Suburban. “Even if we knocked on every door in this town, we’ll probably be done in twenty minutes.”

  “Sarah said that off Main Street, there are a few more streets.”

  “What’s your plan, Lynnie?” Roxy wiped off her sunglasses with her scarf. “I mean, we are, absolutely, in the middle of nowhere. There are probably two hundred people in this town, tops. I know we’ve talked about this, but why in the world would Dr. Richards tell you this is where William was taken?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked at the empty storefronts in the street that made up the entire downtown.

  “And Lynn, who exactly took him? The government? Homegrown terrorists who hate Tom? Maybe some even more wacked-out version of the Researchers from Illinois? There’s never been a ransom note. No one has ever asked for money in exchange for returning William. Nothing legit has come from the reward. Do you think maybe Steven knew he was about to be arrested and needed to come up with something to try to make you believe he’s not guilty?”

  “All I know is that when I worked for Steven, the word ‘Argentum’ came up more than once. He didn’t even know anything about it—he called it an urban legend about aliens. So for him now to direct me here…”

  “OK. So all you know is that people—who believe in alien abductions—mentioned a theory about something called Argentum, but Dr. Richards had no idea what it was?”