by Bryan Davis
An odd darkness turned my attention to the mirror. In the reflection, my shadow grew, lengthening and widening until it shrouded my image in a dark gray cloud. Deeper within the mirror, the lamp’s glow pierced the darkness and cast thin beams onto the trunk. My shirt had vanished.
I turned around. As before, my shirt lay on the real trunk. On this side of the mirror, the light and my shadow stayed normal.
Goose bumps crawling across my skin, I turned and faced the mirror once more. Still cloaked in a gray fog, the trunk, the lamp, the window, and my reflected self were the only visible objects.
Creeeak.
I locked my legs in place and slowly rotated my head toward the real window. The drapes hung motionless, covering the glass. I edged that way. One step. Another. With a wild swipe, I threw the drapes open and looked outside. Nothing. Just a dark, rainy night.
A peal of thunder rumbled, sending a new shiver up my spine. I released the drapes and walked back to the mirror. In the reflection, a hand emerged under the window’s sash, pulling it up — no sharp nails this time, just a normal human hand.
I glanced back and forth, watching the action unfold in the mirror and keeping an eye on the real window, still in full light, still undisturbed. A man in a trench coat crawled through the reflected window, then a woman. The man raised a finger to his lips while helping the woman climb in.
My whole body shook. This couldn’t be a dream. Was the mirror showing a reflection of my thoughts like the museum guy had told Kelly’s father?
The man in the mirror, veiled in shadows, skulked to the trunk and opened it. I tried to peer inside, but I stood too far away to see anything. The woman, also in a trench coat, tiptoed straight toward me, her face becoming clear as she approached, beautiful and serene. My mother.
I gasped and glanced to each side. No one was with me. The woman in the mirror leaned over my reflection’s shoulder and kissed his cheek. A hint of wetness brushed my skin. She grasped my reflection’s hand and blew on his knuckles as her distinctive raven tresses spilled over his wrist.
I lowered my gaze to my real hand. Mom’s were nowhere to be seen, yet somehow her breath caressed my skin, warm and gentle.
In the mirror, a sad smile crossed her face as she slowly turned away. When she joined the man in front of the trunk, their bodies blocked my view. They each pulled something from their trench coats, bent low, and placed the objects in the trunk. Then they turned toward me, allowing a beam from the lamp to illuminate the man’s face.
I swallowed hard and whispered, “Dad.”
He crawled back out the window and helped Mom through again. With a muffled thump, the window closed.
I locked my stare on the mirror. Only my own image, the lamp, and the trunk remained — the open trunk. I swung around. The trunk in the room was closed, my shirt still draping it. I pivoted toward the mirror and took a step in reverse. My reflection stepped backwards. I took another step. My reflection did the same. As I continued to edge back, the Nathan in the mirror closed in on the trunk behind him until his heels touched its base at the same time my own heels touched the real trunk.
Slowly bending my knees, I reached behind my body. My image lowered its hands into the open trunk. I could feel my own hands going inside, moving farther down than the top of the trunk should have allowed.
Were my hands really inside the trunk? I didn’t dare turn to look. The trunk might slam shut and chop my hands off at the wrists.
I pushed down, feeling with my fingers. Each hand grasped an object — a stringed instrument on the left and a strap on the right. I coaxed the objects slowly upward.
Watching my reflection at a distance twice the length of the room, I pulled the objects out of the trunk and set them on the floor. I spun in place. The trunk was still closed with my shirt on top, but now a camera and a violin lay on the floor.
I dropped to my knees and snatched up the camera by its strap. Dad’s Nikon! I set it down and picked up the violin. Mom’s Guaneri!
As I caressed the polished wood, my throat caught. Tears welled. I scrambled for my new violin, snapped the case open, and grabbed the bow. After pushing Mom’s Guaneri under my chin, I rested the bow across the D string, then, with a gentle, reverent stroke, played a long, sweet note.
The sound penetrated my body and sent gentle vibrations along my skin. I played another note, then a melody, measures from the Vivaldi duet. Closing my eyes while gasping and crying, my soul drank in the beautiful music. My heart sang, and in my mind, Mom sang with me. I wept for her, for Dad, for myself, and for a life in ruins.
After finishing a crescendo, I let my arms droop and laid the violin gently on the floor. Still kneeling, I picked up the camera again and checked the counter — six pictures left untaken.
I focused the lens, then, with a flick of my finger, turned on the flash. Dad had never upgraded to a modern digital camera. He preferred the quality of film and the nuances of craftsmanship he could add by developing photos himself. I had spent many hours in dark rooms watching him bring negatives to life, even helping him at times and learning the basics of the art.
I caressed the Nikon’s surface, marred by dozens of bumps and dings it had earned through its years. Now it was mine — more valuable than gold.
Aiming the lens at the violin, I pushed the shutter button. The camera flashed and clicked, and the auto-advance motor zipped the film ahead. I rose and looked at the mirror — back to normal, no open window, no weird shadows. The trunk in the reflection sat closed with my shirt on top.
I strode halfway across the room and raised the camera. What would a picture of my reflection look like? I pressed the button. The flash bounced off the mirror and radiated back to the lens, sending an electric jolt through my hands. The camera flew from my grip, but I snagged the strap and swung it back up.
As I looked the camera over, I checked the indicators. The film had advanced, and the flash indicator showed a charge. Everything seemed fine. I draped the strap around my neck and let the camera dangle at my chest. Obviously taking a picture of the mirror wasn’t a great idea.
Laughter filtered through the hall, male and female, then a shushing sound. After grabbing my shirt and throwing it on, I tiptoed to the bedroom door and paused while fastening the buttons under the swaying camera. A light knock sounded from the other side, then a whispered call. “Nathan?”
“Kelly?” I turned the knob and cracked the door open. “What’s up?”
“Are you decent?”
“Yeah, I — ”
“Good.” She pushed the door and squeezed through. Dressed in a long bathrobe and fuzzy socks, she glanced around the room, her voice barely audible. “Who else is in here?”
I whispered in return, “No one else is in here.”
“I was on my way to the bathroom. I heard voices.”
I peeked out the door. “I heard a woman laughing. Could that be it?”
“No.” She pushed the door closed with her back and held the knob. “That’s my dad. He’s … uh … playing cards, I think.”
“Oh … cards.” I furrowed my brow. “Is he playing solitaire?”
She lowered her head and shook it slowly. “He’s not playing cards.” After a few seconds, she lifted her head again. Her blue eyes glistened. “I guess your dad never did stuff like that, did he?”
“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “He had a lot of old-fashioned ideas.”
Kelly’s lips curled downward. She spun to the side and bit one of her knuckles.
My heart sank. What a dumb thing to say. Her father was breaking her heart. I reached for her shoulder but pulled back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”
Her voice cracked. “Yes, you did. And I deserved it.”
I reached again. This time I let my hand settle on her shoulder. She flinched, but only for a second. “How long has your mother been gone?”
“Maybe three months, but they’ve been sleeping apart for years.” She shrugged and force
d a trembling smile. “She just found another guy and took off, like trading in an old car for a new model.”
I pulled my hand away. “And you got left in the backseat?”
“Yeah. Something like that. She said I was more like a son than a daughter, so I’d be better off with Daddy.”
I winced. “That had to hurt.”
“Don’t worry. I’m used to it.” She shook her hair out of her eyes and turned toward me, wiping a tear. “Anyway, I heard other voices. They came from your room.”
“Like I said, no one else is here.” I gestured toward the mirror. “Just me and my reflection.”
“I know what I heard, and it wasn’t your voice. Someone said, ‘Buckingham is as opulent as I imagined,’ but I couldn’t make out the rest.”
“Buckingham? Like Buckingham Palace?”
“I guess so. I’m not the one who said it.”
“Well, I didn’t say anything about Buckingham Palace.” I turned toward the mirror — still normal. “But lots of weird things have been going on.”
She slid a finger behind the camera strap. “Like taking pictures of your room at midnight?”
“That’s part of it.” I held the camera up. “This is … I mean, was, my dad’s camera. It was in the trunk.”
Her eyes lit up. “The trunk? How’d you get it open?”
“Well … that’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Was anything else in there?”
“Yeah.” I pointed at the violin on the floor. “That was my mom’s.”
Kelly scooted to the trunk and knelt, squinting at its weathered wood. “I still don’t see any seam.”
I crouched next to her and picked up the violin. My thumb brushed across a string and accidentally plucked it.
Kelly rose and sat on the trunk. “Did you say something?”
“No.” I laid the violin down. “I was thinking pretty loud, though.”
“About what?”
“Whether or not to tell you how I got into the trunk.”
Two lines dug into her brow. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Because it was so weird. You’ll think I’m insane.”
“Maybe I will.” A wide grin crossed her face. “Maybe I already do. But either way, you have to tell me. I’m not leaving until you spill it.”
I plopped onto the bed and looked at the mirror, hoping it would play some of its tricks so Kelly wouldn’t be tempted to haul me away in a straightjacket. Yet, the longer I stared, the more normal the mirror seemed. Its images and shadows reflected the room with perfect precision.
A hand waved in front of my eyes. “Earth to Nathan. This is mission control. I’m waiting for transmission.”
Blinking, I shook my head. “Sorry. I spaced out for a minute.”
“No problem.” She stretched her arms and yawned. “Just report your extra-terrestrial findings before I fall asleep.”
“How about a multi-media presentation?” I lifted the camera to my eye and took Kelly’s picture. “I’ll include a photo of a female alien in my report.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
At the Walmart checkout station, I paid for the photo package and stuffed it unopened into my jacket, keeping my promise to Kelly not to peek at the pictures until I got home. The jacket, a leather one borrowed from Tony, complete with a soft inner lining and a Newton High School “Cardinals” logo, felt good on this cool autumn morning, though the sleeves were too long.
Alternately walking and jogging as I carried Tony’s helmet under an arm, I hurried to the parking lot where I had left Kelly’s motorcycle. Finding the store hadn’t been hard — near the Interstate, just as her hastily drawn map had indicated. Since her allergy-induced sneezes kept interrupting her verbal directions, she resorted to drawing the map, then took an antihistamine pill and went back to bed while I finished the roll of film outside.
I slid the helmet over my head, started the engine, and wheeled along the shopping center’s perimeter road, a two-lane strip that ran parallel to the storefront on my right and the main road on my left.
When I reached an intersection, I had to stop for cars entering the shopping complex from my left. At the end of the line, a blue Mustang convertible turned onto the perimeter road and stopped parallel to my bike. The gray-bearded man who had tailed us in Chicago sat behind the wheel and looked straight at me.
I gulped. How did he get out of jail? And why would he come to Iowa? I couldn’t bolt. That would give me away. And now that more cars were driving into the lot, I couldn’t take off. I had to rely on the helmet to keep him from recognizing me.
The Mustang’s window lowered. The driver pulled off a pair of sunglasses and raised his voice to compete with the bike’s engine noise. “Hey, can you help me with something?”
I squeezed the bike’s handlebars, ready to take off. “Maybe. What’s up?”
“I’m looking for my nephew, a boy about your age, a runaway named Nathan. I’m helping my brother search around town.”
“What’s he look like?”
The man squinted, apparently trying to get a closer look at my face. “About five-foot-nine, short dark hair, square jaw. A lot like you.”
His icy stare chilled my heart. He recognized me. I glanced around the parking lot. To the rear, a Walmart tractor-trailer approached, taking up most of the perimeter road.
The man extended a gun out the window and pointed it at me. “Take off the helmet.”
I jerked the bike around and zoomed away in the direction I had come, hugging the right curb. The Mustang roared after me.
Just as I passed the truck’s front cab, I glanced back. The Mustang closed in. The truck driver suddenly swerved, cutting off my pursuer. A horn squawked, followed by skidding tires. When I whirled around and idled my engine, a loud string of obscenities burned in the air.
With the truck nearly jackknifed between me and the gray-bearded man, the back of the truck driver’s head was in view as he sat in his cab. Seconds later, the Mustang peeled out the main parking lot exit.
I rolled the bike up to the driver’s window. A burly, fifty-something man wearing a Chicago Bears cap stepped out of the cab and crossed his tree-trunk arms over his chest. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah.” I cut the engine and pulled off my helmet. “What did you do to spook him? He had a gun.”
The driver nodded toward his truck. “I had a bigger one.”
“Good thing.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Thanks. I think you saved my life.”
“Want me to call the cops?”
I shook my head. “I’d better just get home. I need to stay under the radar for a while.”
He peeled off his cap and scratched through his graying hair. “Are you in a witness protection program or something?”
“I really shouldn’t be talking about it.” I extended my hand. “Thanks again, Mister …”
“Stoneman.” He shook my hand. “Glad to be of help.”
“Yeah … well … I’d better get going.”
He pressed his cap back on and raised his eyebrows. “You got far to go?”
“A few miles. Not real far, why?”
“Just wondering.”
As Mr. Stoneman shuffled back toward his truck, I restarted the motorcycle, squeezed between the truck and the curb, and cruised to the exit, looking every direction for any sign of the Mustang. Prickles stung the back of my neck. Somehow not knowing where the gray-bearded man lurked was worse than staring down the barrel of his gun.
A loud diesel engine rumbled behind me. When I glanced back, Mr. Stoneman pulled up close and flashed a thumbs-up sign. I cruised toward home. With the comforting sound of the Walmart truck trailing me by a hundred feet or so, I savored the ride. Wind whistled through my helmet, and the musty aroma of damp earth filled my nostrils.
I pressed my hand against my pocket, feeling the photo packet inside. What might be on Dad’s last roll of film? Maybe a keepsake photo of Mom I could frame and hang above the
desk in my new bedroom. Or a clue to why Dr. Simon stole their lives. Or, better yet, some kind of message Dad had intentionally left behind, something that would help solve the mysteries.
As I closed in on the narrow road leading to the house, I peered over my shoulder. Cresting the hill behind me, the truck sent up a plume of black smoke from its vertical exhaust pipe, and its engine clattered. I waved and turned onto the road. A horn tooted in reply, and the big rig accelerated and sped past the intersection.
I skidded to a stop inside the garage and killed the engine. The helmet slid off easily, lubricated by sweat in spite of the cool day. After setting the helmet on a wall shelf, I walked up the step to the inner door and opened it. Although this was my home now, it still felt strange to enter without knocking.
Inside, I found Kelly sitting on a stool at the kitchen bar, a pen and an open notebook in front of her. I withdrew the photo pack, shed the jacket, and hung it over a stool. “Feeling better?”
“Loads.” She tilted her head. “You look kind of sweaty. Already warming up out there?”
“It’s still cool. I had a run-in with a guy who wanted to kill me.”
Her voice spiked. “Kill you? Why?”
“It’s like this …” I gave her a quick blow-by-blow account and added my escape from the same guy back in Chicago.
When I finished, she looked me over as if reevaluating me. “What are you? Some kind of super spy?”
“No, I’m not a spy.”
“Then what? A fugitive? A ninja?”
I laughed. “A ninja would be cool. I know some karate, just enough to defend myself and disappear. I guess that’s like a ninja.”
“Pretty impressive if you ask me.” Kelly closed the notebook and patted a clear spot on the bar. “Let’s have a look at the pictures.”
I opened the envelope and laid out the photos, following the indexed thumbnail guide to make sure they were in chronological order.
“Okay,” I said, pointing at the photo of Mom’s violin, “here’s the first one I took, so all these before the violin are my dad’s, and all these after are mine.” I picked up the one I had taken after the violin. Two shadows filled most of the image, and two red lights shone behind them.
