by Leslie Edens
“Are you talking about my dad?” I waved my hand in the blowing air. Glanced over at Cousin Art, who grinned very white teeth at me.
“Able,” said Cousin Art. His voice shook with feeling, and right then, I knew they’d been good friends. “He could be so amazing. So impressive. And he was stubborn as a mule. That’s why they say he’s like Sam. But Able was really funny and terribly curious. An innovator. An explorer. He was like you.”
I sat with my arms crossed. Thought about this.
“He certainly got closer to Sam,” I said. My voice bitter.
Wow. I didn’t realize I felt like this until now.
“Aren’t you close to Sam, too? See what I mean? Able was like you,” said Cousin Art. He nodded at me.
“I guess.” I turned back to the sagebrush that whizzed by outside the window. “I feel like I’ve been on this highway for fifty years. Do you think we’ll get there before they hold a memorial service for us?”
“Don’t think so,” said Cousin Art, and he focused on the road ahead.
The temperature had to be in the eighties—typical New Mexico in May—yet Art didn’t sweat. In fact, he radiated cool. When I accidentally brushed his arm, my skin stung like I’d touched ice. What was with this guy?
Art continued navigating the loopy hairpin turns of old Highway Twenty as it meandered this way and that, dipping through dry arroyos, weaving between sunbaked mesas and stretches of chaparral. Each bend sent me sliding on the waxy seat, almost crashing into Cousin Art.
The next curve loomed like a feature from an Olympic bobsled event. The truck putted along it, me skidding into Art’s padded coat. I held my breath as the icy sting spread. Smashed up against his moth-ball-smelling coat, numb with cold, I felt it. Dead electricity, the stillness. Like I’d felt in the junkyard. Electricity tingled my hands, energy crackled along my spine, and I clenched my fists. I had to contain it! At last, the truck hit a straight section of road, and I scooted away from Art.
My charge died down almost immediately. I shot him a glance. What was it about him? He triggered that ghost feeling, but he was as solid as I was. Although certainly strange.
“Don’t you get hot in all that winter wear?” I asked.
Art jiggled and shook under his wrappings. I recognized laughter. “Sometimes, but it’s best you don’t see my burns. I’m hideous!”
The truck ascended the final rise before the junkyard. Halfway up, the truck’s engine sputtered into silence. Then it knocked thrice and roared back to life. We rolled smoothly over the rise, slid down, and collided with the chain link fence on the other side. The sign, Slade’s Salvage Yard, rocked violently.
“Oh no!” I ducked down in the seat. Maybe Bruce wouldn’t see me.
“It’s fine. Nothing broke,” said Art, still grinning widely.
“Thanks for the ride, I guess,” I said, peering over the dash. Those same ugly piles of junk greeted me, the tires and old car bodies, the teardrop trailer and crashed bus. I creaked the door open with much reluctance.
“For you, any time,” said Art, his voice muffled by the many scarves. “I always loved to drive.”
I fixed my golden eyes on Art and tried to see behind the dark sunglasses. He flashed his toothy smile.
“Oh, and Heather—” His sunglasses met my gaze. “I know what some say, but I don’t blame Able for what happened.”
“Thank you,” I said, shaking Art’s gloved hand. Cold seared my palm. Again, buzzing stirred inside me. I let go. “Uh—what did happen?”
“Destruction. Disappearances. A scattering to the winds. Twenty years ago, the mortal faction of the Coterie was destroyed in this very town, one by one. They called themselves The Four. Your father was their leader. Some say he sealed their doom.” Cousin Art stared straight ahead at the double-wide. He recited woodenly, “Able Despair gave The Four over to the Bellum to protect his own skin.” He shook his head. “I never believed that. Able was a good man. He wouldn’t do that.”
He held his hands out, like he wanted me to reassure him.
“I don’t know what happened. My dad died of cancer,” I said. “I was eight.”
Art laced his fingers together, clucked his tongue at me. “You’re just like him. Tell me, Heather Despair. You wouldn’t do that. Give your friends over to save yourself?”
“No,” I said, my voice shaking. Because, how did I know what I would do?
“Lo sabía,” he said. “And you’re just alike, so I’ll take that as an answer. Able Despair did not betray The Four. He was a good man.”
I stumbled, confused, into the double-wide. How could I know what my father had done? I’d only learned of the Coterie today, and I’d never heard of this Four, ever. And now apparently, we were the “New Four.” Me, Lily, Trenton, and Oskar. I sat down heavily on the couch where Sam used to sleep. I let out a huge breath.
A pounding from the hallway, and Bruce stomped into the living room.
“You’re back. You weren’t on the bus,” he said, glowering. That same frozen glare, like this morning.
“I got a ride from a friend,” I said. What could I say? A secret society of spiritualists saved me from attack and then we had a séance over tea? Yeah, that would go over real well.
“What friend?” He squinted at me.
“What, I can’t have a friend?” I said, slightly hysterical.
Because it was true. Who did I know that could drive me home? All my friends were sophomores.
“Give me his name,” said Bruce. He leaned over me, scowling.
What was I going to say, Cousin Art? Lily’s weirdo cousin—Bruce would never understand. I fumbled for something to tell him.
“Oskar Chandler,” I said. It just slipped out. Oh no.
Bruce stood stiff, like he was stricken.
“Oskar Chandler,” he intoned.
Why, why did I tell him it was Oskar? This was bound to lead to nothing but trouble.
“Knew it was a boyfriend. You’re grounded, hear me? I know that Oskar. Mr. Slick, rolling around town in an expensive car. Think he’s Prince Charming, going to take you to the castle? Think again.” Bruce growled.
“I don’t think—what?” He had me so confused. “Oskar’s a friend.”
Prince Charming? Please!
Okay, maybe I did briefly think Oskar might carry me away. But now I knew, if anyone was being carried away to the castle, it was Trenton. I didn’t want to out Oskar, tell Bruce that he was gay.
“Grounded. And you can move your stuff out to the small trailer to think about it. Since you seem to like it out there.” Bruce pointed at my bedroom, first door on the right. “Get going.”
“What?” I sat stunned.
Bruce’s face worked with rage. “Get. Your stuff. And move. To the small trailer!” he roared.
“Okay, okay!” I ducked around him, into my bedroom, and gathered what I could. Clothes, water bottles, a few books. A sack of stale dog food for Sybil.
I put it all in a black garbage bag and hauled it to the back door. I hesitated to exit, though. Thinking of those two who attacked me in town.
Sybil stuck her head out of my backpack and whined. I think she smelled the dog food.
“And take that flea-bitten dog with you!” Bruce yelled at top volume. “I told you, I never want it in the house!”
I bolted from the back door, giving him one last glare over my shoulder. I’d rather be out here anyway than in the house with him. I threw the stuff in the trailer, then poured some food out for Sybil. She dug into it. I poured water into an old hubcap for her. Poor thing was thirsty; she kept drinking and drinking.
“Oh, Sybil. What are we going to do? We have to get out of here. But the Coterie says we have to stay.” I lay back on the creaky little cot. Closed my eyes. I’d just rest for a second . . .
Chapter Nine
The Secret of the Old School Bus
I awoke in darkness, the flimsy cot of the teardrop trailer creaking beneath me. Home, I guess, for now.<
br />
By the glow of twilight, the outline of the old school bus loomed through the overhead window. Sybil huddled close and warm. She was happy to have me around, anyway. I scratched the soft fluff behind her ears.
From the double-wide came the smash of shattered glass. Urgent, arguing voices heightened in pitch, Bruce and Shirleen. They must have stepped near an open window, because they came through as clearly as one of Sam’s messages.
“That kid is weird, Shirleen. Weird like her father. You always said something was wrong with him.” That was Bruce.
Shirleen’s voice spoke low. I held my breath to hear.
“She’s only a kid,” said my mom. “It’s not the kids’ fault.” Her voice—did it shake?
“Sam can take care of himself, Shirleen. Heck, I was on my own at his age. And you know how those two—when they got together—” He stuttered off. I could hear him gulping his beer, even from the teardrop. “While Heather’s living under my roof, she’ll live by my rules. She’s gonna cause trouble, she can just stay out there.” He blustered on, but I’d caught the wobble of fear in his voice.
“I’ll talk to her,” said Shirleen.
The double-wide door creaked open, and Shirleen’s steps clomped across the porch and whispered over the sand lot. A soft knock on my door. I lay still, my thoughts tangled and black, until she called my name. I relented and opened the door.
There stood my mother, tired and small and old, hair uncombed, T-shirt stained. Unhappy creases between her eyes, around her mouth. I didn’t remember her having those.
I stared gold fire. She winced and studied the corner, where my cast-off clothes and empty water bottles had piled up.
“I heard what you and Bruce said. That I’m weird.” I glared.
Her face lowered into the shadows. “I know you’re upset about Sam.” Her features breached the light, and she locked eyes with me for a flicker of a second.
Her attempt at compassion only made anger burn in my gut. “Oh, like you care! You just don’t want Bruce to get in trouble!” I shouted.
“Heather. Try to understand. He’s not like your dad was. This weird stuff you and your brother do, it’s not easy to live with,” she said.
“No! He’s not like Dad. Dad never called us weird. Dad let me sleep in the house!” I fumed while Shirleen hunched, hand raised as if warding me off.
“It is his house, Heather,” she whispered.
“Mom, he kicked Sam out!” I shouted. Shirleen’s cringe awoke me to the hot tingle of my hands, the electricity snapping down my spine. No, no, no. I took a deep breath and let the energy calm down. Spoke softly. “Do you know what happened? Is Sam okay?”
I waited. She studied sand underfoot.
“Mom, I’m worried about you, too,” I said. “All you and Bruce do is fight. I feel sorry for you, having to put up with Bruce.” Probably shouldn’t have stuck my tongue out, like the name left a bad taste.
Shirleen’s spine straightened. She scowled, deepening those creases. “You feel sorry for me? We wouldn’t fight if it weren’t for you and Sam. If you can’t respect Bruce, he’s right to send you out here.”
Salt stung behind my eyes. I blinked, fighting tears. “What about loving your kids?” I said.
Shirleen turned away, crossing her arms. “You and Sam blew out every light bulb in the house and Sam tried to attack Bruce in the dark!”
My eyes lowered to trace the shadows that crisscrossed the trailer floor. “I blew out the bulbs. Sam didn’t do anything. I would have known, because—”
Shirleen snorted. “Because? Because you read each other’s minds. This is how it began with Able, too. You’re messing with dangerous things you don’t understand.”
Indignation flamed a crackle in my hands. “At least Dad would have known what to do. He would have taught us!” I said.
Her voice was grating and ugly. “Your father had no idea what to do! He never knew his parents, and nobody taught him. He made most of it up. It’s no wonder he got himself killed by the age of forty! That should teach you something—stop this crazy paranormal nonsense before it kills you, too!”
“Wait, what? Dad died of cancer,” I said. I pressed my hands to my forehead to dispel the spinning sensation.
Shirleen backed up, her voice rasping hate. “Some people have to learn the hard way. Your father would not stop messing with the supernatural. One night, he came back all burned and withered. Told me he’d been attacked by an evil spirit. I took him to the hospital. The burns healed, but they diagnosed a type of cancer no one had ever seen before. You think that’s a coincidence?”
Dazed, I leaned against the trailer wall. I stared at Shirleen’s grim mouth, so certain, so condemning. “Came back from where?” I whispered. That place called—and something deep within me tore loose and answered.
But Shirleen’s spine stiffened, and the question fell frozen to the sand. “It’s better you don’t know. Stop this, Heather. Before you get killed, like Able.” She shook her head low at me. “I agree with Bruce. You’ve got to stay out here. We don’t want to get killed, neither.”
Torn, I gazed up and away, past Shirleen, where the high desert sky flung diamonds. On and on, forever and ever. The junkyard trailers and trash flattened to unreal cardboard beneath the space of that endless night sky. A tingle tripped my bones. That place he came back from. It was somewhere beyond, like that night sky. Somewhere curses could happen, but also wondrous things.
I pulled my gaze from overhead, unfamiliar strength surging. “I’m not stopping. Never! I’m going to finish what Dad started.”
Shirleen bared exasperated palms. “Just like Able. You’ll have to learn the hard way.” She strode off, abandoning me to my fate, I guess.
My newfound strength evaporated and I panicked. “Mom, wait! Maybe we could move out, find Sam, be a family again! Like when Dad was alive? We don’t have to stay here!”
Shirleen turned, her profile stark against the silver-studded sky. “We live here now. Your father isn’t coming back. Those days are over.”
“Mom—please,” I said.
“Good night, Heather.” She shuffled off, went inside. The porch light flickered on, droning with yellow vengeance. The big yard light flared to life, adding its insect whine. The discordant noise felt like a heavy wall between us.
I slammed the teardrop door. I blinked away a few tears, but hot anger absorbed the rest. “She won’t talk about it, fine. You’ll talk to me, won’t you, Sybil?”
The tiny dog sprawled asleep.
“Who am I going to talk to? Anybody else out there?” I listened. Beyond the double-wide’s circle of light, thick quiet enshrouded. Quiet as a graveyard.
—Sam. Can’t you answer me? I’m coming to find you.
Still nothing from Sam. Not since he disappeared. So perhaps . . . no. I didn’t even want to think that.
But the thought revolved, turned sides to glitter and fascinate, and then returned, like a faraway-tossed gem that fell to earth. When I could no longer contact my father, it meant . . . surely Sam could not be gone in that way. Not dead.
I peered out the eye-shaped window, where phantasm shadows wreathed the yard light’s yellow circle. I hadn’t seen Sam in the flesh since the previous night. No idea whether he’d left in one piece. There were a thousand places a person could hide a body in this old junkyard.
Stop. Don’t think like that.
But there had been a night when Bruce’d had a few too many, and he’d tried to scare me with a story about a body hidden in the junkyard. Now it rang true. All this junk, so far out in the desert—who would ever notice?
It all played out in vivid color, like a movie in my head. Early morning crimson light, and Bruce came sniffing around the teardrop door. Sam—a notoriously early riser—burst out. Bruce shoved, Sam pushed, fists raised and swung. Down in the sand, arms, legs thrashing, Sam on top held Bruce down. Bruce, sunk in sand, reached out for a dark cloud. A gun? A knife? A lead pipe, a nasty piece of reb
ar, even a railroad spike. I shuddered, gazing at the upward-twisting, blackened piles of junk. Anything around here would do. The whole place bristled with possible murder weapons.
So, Bruce knocked Sam with a—let’s say a railroad spike. But he hit too hard, or maybe he meant to hit too hard. Then panic. Sam’s body dragged, trailing down sand paths. Was he dead or alive when Bruce hid him deep in his acres of hoard?
Sam’s mangled corpse, buried somewhere in all this junk. I could see it so clearly, his head twisted back, blood in his hair, fingers outstretched, beckoning. I shivered. Maybe Sam sent this vision, contacting me from Cuidad del Muerto, from beyond the dead!
I started up, a buzz of agitation—that feeling of dead electricity—icing my veins. I stepped outside the teardrop trailer. Eyes closed, I felt for the thread of ice that reeled me in like a spider’s dragline. I followed after the sensation. I hardly knew where I staggered. When I saw starry explosions pluming behind my eyelids, I opened my eyes. Directly before me loomed the door of the old school bus.
I froze, and the world around me also stopped and drew in breath. Together we awaited in silence. When the moaning hit my ears, I felt not surprise, but relief.
“Sam!” I shouted, launching for the bus door. It creaked open on its own. I jumped back, fear prickling my neck, my heart pounding in my throat. I tried to call out, but only a strangled croak emerged. I stretched forth my shaking hand—touched the bus door.
CREEE-AK!
The sound could have shattered the bus windows. My heart almost matched it for noise. I crept up the stairwell, my hands spitting blue sparks. A wave of that weird, still energy jolted through me as I passed the driver’s seat.
Again, the moan sounded, deep bellows, not much like Sam at all. The hairs on my neck rose as blue sparks enlaced my arms and wing-lit my shoulders. Something was very off—but I couldn’t shake the vision of Sam killed.
“Sam?” My voice stuck in my throat. I looked over rows of bus seats, lined up like headstones. My heart thudded hard, and I gasped. The misty shape, white and pale—empty eye sockets, grinning squares of teeth, the white globe of a skull. An exposed ribcage, long bleached bones—a skeleton. Large as life before me, sitting on the bus seat. And it moaned.
