Don't Come Home

by Bea Bledsoe

  “Henry, I agree. But…after seeing Dog, after seeing what happened to him…I need to go back to Blackriver. Just once. There are answers there, but if I can’t find them by tonight we’ll drive to the FBI in Denver. I swear it.”How could she explain it, that there was something else pulling her back there, some unspeakable force that told her to return? She had all the information, and now…now she needed to face it; to find the girl in the woods and understand it fully.

  And it could only happen in Blackriver.

  She rested her hand lightly on his arm. “It will probably be the last time I ever see it, and we need to take pictures of how it looks now so that we can make our case to the FBI.”

  Henry thought for a moment and nodded. “And the pictures you took from Dog are the proof we need that the town existed, that there were people there - recently.” Henry’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Okay.” He breathed out. “I just…” Leigh wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing herself against his aching chest. “We can’t keep figuring this out on our own.” He looked up at the sky, so hauntingly stark. “The beauty out here is lonely.” In the distance, a storm passed over Cody, casting Dog and all his demons into shadow. Leigh shivered.

  “Come with me one last time to Blackriver. We’ll leave tonight.”

  As soon as they began the drive, Leigh climbed into the backseat and splayed Dog’s pictures out on the black vinyl. As Henry drove, Leigh stared at the pictures and began putting them in order across the seat. The numbers that Dog had written on the photos made it simple. Some were in simple sequential order, but others had two separate numbers on the top: Julie Gowan had the number 117 above her, but James Gowan, her husband had number 76 above him. She sorted then as best she could, sorting downward until she held number 1 and 2 in her hand: Kristin and Floyd Kassel, a childless couple that lived at the edge of Main Street; the sweet family baked everyone cookies. Dog had said that they were the first. In the picture, the two of them stood together in front of a Yellowstone geyser, their smiles bright. Leigh stared at them for a minute, her finger running over the photo. What had made them first? The first to…die? She grabbed the photo of her parents: numbers 129 and 159. If her theory was correct, her mother had been one of the last three people alive in Blackriver. Maybe she still was. The voice of Leigh’s hope was needlessly cruel.

  Leigh found a small notebook in her purse and listed the names in the best order she could find. When that was finished, she put away the pictures and began looking at the rest of the papers she had grabbed. One was a receipt for some groceries and a bike helmet – useless information, probably pinned up on the wall in a fit of madness - and another was the town council’s note on the closure of the White Devil Mill. She read the entire thing; it was a dire report on the financial impact on the town. Blackriver was broke. The third piece of paper was a scrawled, hand-written notice for a town meeting; there was a nail hole at the top, and Leigh sat forward when she read the date: March eleventh – the same day that Ford had photographed the town standing in a circle. Leigh noted the date in the notebook and circled it. She was pretty sure that whatever had happened to Blackriver happened in the late afternoon that day.

  There were only two pieces of paper left: a large group photo of the townspeople, though it was without dates or markings, and the last one was a piece of paper, folded was inside a blank envelope. She unfolded the official-looking paper, watermarked with a round government seal. She held it up to the light.

  “Henry, have you ever heard of something called the Pathfinder Collective?” She asked. He squinted in the rearview mirror and their eyes met. He really did have such beautiful eyes.

  “No, but it sounds ominous, like a cult.” He paused. “Or like a bunch of people who really like the car model.”

  Leigh looked down, her eyes scanning the letter. “It’s definitely not that. Listen to this: It’s dated May 25th, 2015.” She proceeded to read it aloud, her voice shaking nervously.

  “Dear Mr. Hawdenfir,

  We were delighted to receive your letter and the attached financial impact study. We are pleased to inform you that Blackriver is a finalist for our study about the economic impact of small businesses closing in rural towns. As mentioned in our ads, the study comes with an annual grant for the town, one that provides each family in town with three thousand dollars to offset any expenses it may incur during the study. We have narrowed down the towns to three finalists and will decide upon our choice in the next few weeks. Should your town be chosen, we will immediately send out a representative from Pathfinder Collective to take a census of your town. Please keep the contents of this letter and the purpose of the census confidential, as we want to observe the town in its most natural state. Speaking about it would put your grant at risk.

  We will be in touch soon.

  Dr. Claire Saratoga

  The Pathfinder Collective

  Leigh turned the letter over, noting the same watermark on the back and holding it up in the mirror for Henry to see.

  “It sure looks official.”

  Henry shook his head. “So does our fraternity letter. If any alumni saw the state of the people who put it together, though….” Their eyes met and he smiled. Leigh was amazed that even on this dark day he could find some light. “What I’m saying is that anyone can make official-looking letterhead.”

  Leigh sat back in her seat trying to connect the dots and when she spoke it was careful and collected.

  “Alright. So Dog Hawdenfir writes to this Pathfinder Collective in May 2015 and opens the door for them to come. He thinks that by applying for this grant he’ll get everyone some money in their pocket after the White Devil Mill closed. He sees the town is struggling. He said he was trying to help, but that he brought them, remember? The predators.”

  Henry nodded and his eyes clouded over. “The poor man.”

  Leigh couldn’t think about Dog right now, couldn’t lose focus. “So, Blackriver gets chosen for this ’study.’ Someone from the Pathfinder Collective comes and takes the census. I was there that day – it was in early August, just before I left for Harvard. The rest of the town thinks it’s just a normal government census.” She opened her eyes. “Then we know something happens on March 11th. Something bad. On March 17th, when Ford is flying her drone, she sees Blackriver empty and sees the trucks coming to tear down what’s left.”

  The car slowed down as Henry swerved a little, his voice paranoid.

  “Leigh, do they know about you?” The thought was like a thin knife blade sliding under her fingernail. “The list.” Henry said quietly in the front seat. “Remember the list in White Devil Mill? Your name was the only one not crossed off; it was circled. Someone knows that you made it out.” A cold chill passed through Leigh as she sat back in her seat, shifting again through the papers and the photos. The large group picture of the town caught her eye. It was dated March 1st, when she would have been away at school. A sharp dagger of regret passed through her. Why hadn’t she called them more?

  When she looked back at the picture, she noticed the way the light played over the surface, picking up a clear waxy substance, almost like crayon residue. She held it up to the window. There, in the corner of the picture, someone had circled one of the faces in the group shot but then tried to rub it off. She looked closer. The face was a little blurry, and only a half inch from being out of the picture completely, but it caused Leigh to sit up.

  “Henry!” In an instant she had climbed over the seat into the passenger side, holding the photograph. “I don’t know this person. This is a stranger.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  Leigh pointed again. “I knew every single person in Blackriver.”

  “So, do we have a name?”

  Leigh shook her head. “No. But we have a face.” She peered at the picture. He was young – maybe in his late teens – and wearing a hat. His face was narrow, with wide eyes and a small mouth. Leigh brought the photograph closer before a shiver shot throug
h her; his face was chilling. The absolute confidence of his stare as he stood with his arms around the people of Blackriver was a betrayal of the worst kind. They had cared about this boy. Her fingers traced over the face. Whoever this was, he had brought something terrible to Blackriver.

  He was a person who didn’t belong. So why was everyone in the photo acting like he did?

  18

  It was almost three when Henry carefully navigated the car into Blackriver. When Leigh climbed out, she noted with a heavy heart that if she was just a stranger to this place, all she would see was a beautiful valley. There was no hint that there had ever been a town here, that in among these trees people had loved and lived and lost. Now there was nothing more than blowing grasses and wildflowers under the shadow of the range. Slowly, she raised her phone and began taking pictures of it all. The lens clicked to the north, to the south, and with each picture, her heart grew a little sadder.

  When she turned, she felt Henry’s hand slide over her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry I made you bring me back here.” She said softly.

  “It makes sense.” He answered simply. “Going home always feels like the right thing to do.”

  The wind whipped her long brown hair around her face as she walked toward where the edge of town once sat, and to where Napoleon was peacefully grazing beside a cluster of blue spruce on the side of a hill. She turned back to Henry.

  “I’m going to say goodbye.” She whispered, and then began retracing the steps she had taken since childhood. Here by this tree, she scraped her knee bare on a tree stump. Here she first rode Napoleon. Here she lay under gold aspens and dreamed of a life in a city, bursting with people who knew interesting things.

  Napoleon was just ahead of her now, and she reached out a hand, a nicker soft on her lips. She leaned against his warm side, feeling each deep breath come in sync with her own. He would be okay, she knew, out here in the wild. Finally, she ruffled his mane.

  “I’ll see you around, boy.” She said, stepping backwards. She raised the camera, trying to capture him perfectly when she heard the crack in the woods. She looked down at the camera.

  There was a face staring back at her.

  Leigh instantly dropped the phone, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up as she ducked behind Napoleon for cover. The horse jerked his head in alarm. Someone was here. Moving slowly, Leigh peeked over the horse. The face was gone, but the woods became swallowing about twenty feet in. She could feel her, though, a lurking presence that was just out of reach.

  For a few terrifying seconds, she didn’t even bother to breathe, but eventually Napoleon grew bored and bent his head, more interested in grazing then in the danger at hand. Leigh crept forward, her mouth open to shout to Henry, but then she heard a sound she never expected to hear out here in the woods: the sound of someone crying. The anguished cries of pain stopped her short as she tiptoed through the trees. Was she going insane? But no, the noise continued and so she followed behind, pitiful sobs pulling her toward the edge of the woods.

  “Hello?” She called. The sniffling stopped. “Hello?” She repeated. There was a pause and then the quick shuffling of feet.

  “Hey! Wait!” Leigh was running after her now. Sunlight filtered through the trees as she flew past them. She stumbled on some roots, her eyes focused ahead of her instead of on the ground, making her clumsy. Ahead of her, she could see a blurred shape darting through the pines, could hear the short breaths as the girl – it was a girl, yes – ran ahead of her.

  “Stop!” Leigh cried. “I’m here to help you!” She tried to pick up speed, but the girl was faster.

  “I’m trying to find out what happened here! My name is Leigh Montgomery…”

  The girl had reached the cusp of the ridge, and Leigh knew that beyond it lay a maze of thick pines. If she went past that mark, she would never find her. Not only that, but if Leigh went any further, she might not be able to find her way back in the dark. She stopped running and bent at the waist, hope draining out of her.

  “Please.” She pleaded into the wind. There was a moment of silence, followed by the telltale crack of footsteps over branches.

  The girl was coming back.

  Her steps were slow and calculated, toes pressing into the black soil as she came. Like a wounded animal, she faltered toward Leigh. The girl was young: maybe sixteen at the most. Her hair was the color of honeycomb, gold kissed with red in a wild tangle at the top of her head. She wore a tattered light blue dress over a ripped pair of jeans with an open yellow sweater over all of it. Everything she wore was splattered with mud and fraying at the seams. She was painfully thin.

  “Who are you?” Leigh asked, her heart was pounding in her ears as the girl stepped closer. The girl said something, but her words were ripped away by the wind hurtling through the basin. She raised her head, and when their eyes met, and Leigh found herself staring at the unnatural blue-grey of the girl’s irises, ringed with dark brown. I know you, she thought suddenly, surprisingly. I know you. Oh my God.

  Like a flood the memories assaulted her: Leigh remembered young Winnie Kassel with tiny red pigtails running down the street in front of her house, laughing as chased after some pheasants. Then, years later: Winnie, riding her yellow bicycle past Leigh’s house as she read a Sweet Valley mystery on the porch swing. Finally, Winnie as a newly young woman, riding a white mare down the street, looking healthy and happy. Leigh had waved at her, but Winnie had not seen. Relief swept through her. Leigh knew Winnie Kassel from Blackriver. And she was alive, she was here. A survivor. Leigh wasn’t alone.

  “Oh my God.” Leigh fell to her knees and opened her arms, her mind spinning, struggling to grasp reality. “Winnie!” Gratefulness poured out from chest. I’m not alone. We’re not alone.

  “Leigh?” Winnie’s voice was desperate as she stepped close, and then, after a long pause, she rushed toward her and buried herself in Leigh’s arms with a sob. She smelled of the woods: a pungent kick of sweat, pine needles, and the sweet brush of sage. Leigh hugged her tightly as the girl’s frail body shook in her arms, her heart beating like a hummingbird. She cradled Winnie’s cold cheeks in her hands and looked at her lightly freckled face, rubbed raw and red from the elements.

  “How? How are you here, Winnie? How are you still alive?” The girl’s pink lips, dried and cracked opened faintly.

  “I ran. I hid.” She whispered, her voice quiet. “In the mill.”

  The mill. That made sense: the home made in the barrel; the sweater, the cans of food, the strange markings on the wall. Winnie’s tiny body gave a shiver as Leigh kept a grasp on her arm. A thousand questions ran through Leigh’s mind, and she was desperate to demand to know what had happened here, but she knew that Winnie’s needs were more immediate. She needed food, water, clothing, and warmth. Leigh opened her palm to Winnie.

  “I have a friend with me, here in Blackriver. His name is Henry, and he’s very kind. Together we’ll take care of you, I promise. Over there, we have a car. There’s food in it, and I have clothing you can wear.” At that, Winnie jerked away from Leigh, wrapping her arms around herself. Leigh knew she had to be careful; Winnie was no doubt dealing with a major trauma here, and Leigh knew that one wrong move and she would likely bolt. She couldn’t risk the same thing that had happened to Dog. Winnie couldn’t get scared, couldn’t lose control. Leigh lowered her voice.

  “Winnie. I’ll stay with you the whole time, and when you are comfortable you can tell us what happened. You’ll be safe.”

  Winnie Kassel’s blue eyes clouded over. “Tell who?”

  “Just us, me and Henry. For now.” She took the girl’s sharp shoulders in her hands. “I promise. Right now, it’s just us.”

  Winnie pointed a shaking finger over Leigh’s shoulder down where Blackriver had once been.

  “That’s where it happened.” A sob fell from her lips. “That’s where I saw them all die.”

  The words blew over her like an avalanche. Leigh tumbled in them
, her life and hope blown apart into a thousand shards.

  “They’re dead?” She managed. “My parents? You’re sure?”

  Winnie looked beyond Leigh, her eyes motionless. Finally, she nodded.

  “Yes…they’re all dead.” She looked sympathetically at Leigh. “I’m sorry.” Every hope in her blew apart. Leigh slowly walked a few feet away from Winnie before raising her hands to cover the scream. It was what she had suspected, but to hear it confirmed…. Leigh heard the rustling of aspen branches overhead and imagined the ghosts of her parents passing through her. Then she leaned her head up against the clean white bark and bent over, taking deep breaths.

  My parents are dead. I am an orphan.

  “I’m sorry.” She sputtered. “I just need…a minute.” She felt like she couldn’t quite connect her feelings with her words.

  After a minute, she felt a small hand take ahold of her arm. She raised it to see Winnie standing in front of her, her eyes full of remorse. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I haven’t been around people in…a while.”

  “You have nothing to apologize for.” Leigh stood up and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I knew it in my heart already.”

  Winnie looked at the ground, her hands awkwardly twisting together. “I’m not always sure how to be around people anyways. That’s what my Ma always said.”

  There was strangeness to her; something Leigh couldn’t quite put her finger on. Perhaps it was the way sentences lilted up at the end, like every sentence was a question, or perhaps it was the way that she stood as if she was about to fall over. Her heart ached as she stared at the poor girl, left alone to fend for herself. What had she seen? What had she had to do to survive? Leigh swore to herself that whatever happened, she would make sure Winnie was cared for, not just because it was the right thing to do, but also because Winnie was her witness. The only witness.

  “I’m okay, but we should head down the slope into town.” Leigh assured.