They passed a stretch of sprawling ranches. There were no animals on the fields so late at night, but Kirby’s shimmer pressed against the window, intrigued by something Ellie could not see. Maybe he smelled horses and longhorns sleeping in their stables. Was that why he’d barked earlier?
“In one quarter mile, you will arrive at your destination,” the GPS said. Ellie saw a bubble of light on the horizon.
“That’s it,” she said. “It must be.”
“I’ll try to get closer, but the driveway seems to be gated,” her father replied. Indeed, there was a heavy iron gate blocking the turnoff into the property. From their vantage point along the road, they could now see the fabulously symmetrical Georgian-style brick mansion, complete with marble columns, a half-dozen chimneys, and the kind of green, wooded acreage that belonged in the Pacific Northwest. The lawn was speckled by white polka-dots, the heads of round mushrooms. Didn’t mushrooms usually sprout in moist environments? Exactly how much water did Dr. Allerton waste on his grass every day? Oaks and firs blocked most of the mansion’s side wings; Ellie could not estimate how many rooms it contained, but she wouldn’t be surprised if there were twenty. “Are all doctors that rich?” she asked.
“Animal doctors sure as hell aren’t,” her father sniped. “Christ. Who needs that much house? What a waste.”
The air buzzed. Rumbled. “Dad, I think Kirby is growling. We need to get out of here.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice.” Her father hit the gas and accelerated up the street. Soon, the Allerton mansion was just a faint glow in the rearview mirror. They did not speak again, however, until they merged onto the highway and put several miles between their voices and Willowbee.
“Why did he do it?” Ellie said, softly. “I don’t understand.”
“There won’t be a good reason,” her father said. Sometime during the five-second stakeout, he’d cut the radio. Neither of them felt like turning it back on.
“You believe Allerton is a murderer?” Ellie asked.
“I … believe in you, Ellie, and your dream.”
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll try my best.”
How did Trevor, a public school teacher with drought-tolerant plants in his tiny duplex yard, become involved with Mr. Moneybags in the first place? Their only connection seemed to be a child. During the dream, Trevor said, “Met once before this happened. Parent-teacher conference. Two years ago …”
Ellie blinked back tears, thinking of her cousin’s final words and the way he slipped away like mist.
Trevor taught third grade. That meant the unnamed student would probably be ten or eleven years old now. Did he share the surname Allerton? Possibly. Some research couldn’t be conducted online.
It was customary to bury the dead with their treasured possessions. Ellie hoped that Trevor did not take his teaching materials to the earth. They might be the best initial lead she had.
NINE
TREVOR AND LENORE bought a three-bedroom starter house when Baby Gregory was born. They chose a child-friendly neighborhood with a low speed limit and ample sidewalks. Although everyone kept bars on their windows, the area had almost no violent crime thanks to a vigorous neighborhood-watch program. It also bordered a playground, an elementary school, and a dog park.
Ellie and her father arrived at the house just after 10:00 P.M. They parked on a gravel driveway, unloaded their luggage, and knocked on the door.
“What should I say?” Ellie whispered.
“Say?”
“To Lenore.”
“Offer your condolences.”
“Do they really help?”
“Yes. More than saying nothing.”
Ellie’s mother, Vivian, opened the door. She wore a T-shirt and old, comfortable jeans. “Come in,” Vivian said. “Don’t thump around. The baby is sleeping. So is Lenore. Goodness knows, they both need rest.”
They gathered in the guest room; it was unfurnished except for a cot and queen-sized air mattress on the carpeted floor. Most of the house smelled like a nursery, but the guest room still had its new-house smell: fresh paint and carpet cleaner. Sterile, closer to a hotel room than a home.
“Get ready for bed, Ellie,” her mother said. “You’ll use the cot. It’s memory foam. Fancy stuff.”
Obliging, Ellie brushed her teeth in the half bathroom. After grimacing at a couple painful blemishes along her jawline, she opened the mirrored cabinet, looking for a clear spot to stow her toiletries. There, on the lowest shelf, was a tangle of Trevor’s black hair in the plastic teeth of a comb.
“Oh … no. No.” His hair—so much hair—could not remain in the house after Trevor was buried. Too dangerous. He might be drawn, like iron to a magnet, back home.
He would be a terrible thing. Just rage, sorrow, keen intelligence, and vindictiveness. Unlike an animal, he would know that he was dead; the awareness would allow him to fully exploit his supernatural abilities. If Trevor returned, he could tear the neighborhood apart like a hurricane with hatred at its core.
Ellie rummaged through the bathroom cabinets until she found one of Lenore’s empty travel makeup bags. Gingerly, she dropped the comb into the bag and zipped it shut.
In the guest room, Ellie sat on her cot and skimmed the data Jay sent. It fell into three categories:
1) Allerton’s medical accomplishments, including his online patient ratings.
2) Articles about his charitable work.
3) Miscellaneous references to Abe Allerton, predominantly from the Willowbee Times online.
She pulled a spiral notebook from her backpack and thumbed to a blank page.
“What are you doing, Ellie?” her mother asked; her father was already snoring on the air mattress.
“Taking notes.” Ellie glanced at the chest of drawers against the far wall. The makeup bag was tucked in the lowest drawer, hidden under a folded bedsheet. “I found some of his hair,” she said. “What should we do?”
“His … oh.” Vivian held out one hand, fingers flexed slightly. “I’ll take care of it. Thank you.”
“Will you bury it?”
“The less you know, the better.”
Ellie stood, crossed the room, and reached into the lowest drawer; she delicately handed the makeup bag to her mother. Vivian accepted the bag without looking down. As if, much like gazing into the sun, the sight would hurt her. “Alright,” she said. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I want to know all about your dream. By the way?”
“Yes?” Ellie asked.
“Your father told me about the river incident.”
“Pfft. Mom, Jay was the one who climbed the bridge. I tried to stop him.”
“Good to know,” her mother said, and Ellie’s explanation must have sufficed, because Vivian promptly turned off the light.
“Guess I’ll take these notes tomorrow,” Ellie said. “Thaaanks, Mom.”
Settling into post-road-trip exhaustion, a state of aching eyes and muscles, Ellie pulled her cotton bedsheet to her chin. Kirby curled atop the foot of her bed; luckily, as a ghost, he didn’t shed all over and fill the air with allergens. Baby Gregory had sensitive lungs.
Her phone beeped. Another message. Leave it alone, Ellie thought. You can’t jump at every text. But she was curious.
Jay had sent the message. “Abe (blue shirt) with mayor!!! The mayor TATTOOED Abe for charity. It looks awful. XD XD XD.” He accompanied the message with two pictures from an article. The first showed a man’s lower back, which was marked by a shaky signature in black ink, the mayor’s name. The next picture depicted two men standing in a garden. Ellie zoomed into Allerton’s face. Glared at his square jaw, blue eyes, and baseball cap. He had the kind of face that she associated with department-store clothing ads. Conventionally attractive, mature, and forgettable.
That said, his smile gave her chills. It looked genuine. Like he was having fun with a good friend, and it was sick.
“Enjoy it while you can, asshole,” she whispered. “I’ll wipe that smile off your face
.”
Ellie bid Jay goodnight and locked her phone.
Later, as she bobbed on the surface of unconsciousness, a floorboard creaked in the hallway. Ellie snapped awake, listening. She heard muffled footsteps, a door creaking. Lenore probably just needed to use the bathroom.
Ellie’s phone beeped. It had received a text from Lenore. The message read:
AWAKE?
Ellie responded: “Yes. R u ok?”
A moment passed. The floorboard creaked again. Lenore messaged:
COME 2 KITCHEN PLS. ALONE.
After a moment’s hesitation, Ellie slipped off her cot, tiptoed past her snoring parents, and left the guest room. The kitchen was down the hall; light spilled from its entrance. “Hello?” she asked. “I’m here …”
Ellie turned into the kitchen. Fluorescent light assailed her sleep-widened pupils, and she had to squint until they contracted. There, against a counter, leaned Lenore.
She wore jeans and a black sweatshirt with its hood raised. Her long hair, a brown-to-blond ombré with black roots, tumbled over her chest in stringy, tangled waves. Uncombed, unwashed, because who had time to spare as a new mother and widow? Lenore’s face was tilted down, amplifying the shadows beneath her large brown eyes. “When did you arrive, Ellie?” she asked. Her voice sounded raw and deep.
“Hours ago. You were sleeping. I … my condolences. I don’t … don’t know what to say.”
“It’s okay. Come here, honey.” Lenore spread her arms, and Ellie fell into the hug. For a moment, they simply embraced. Lenore felt warm and soft. Comforting. Ellie felt guilty; shouldn’t she be comforting Lenore, instead of the other way around?
That’s when Ellie noticed that something was off. Lenore was the kind of woman who dressed in both fabric and fragrances. Usually, her hugs carried the embrace of gardenias, with a hint of coconut or citrus. That night, instead of her usual gardenias-scented hug, with a hint of coconut or citrus, she smelled like neutral soap, the kind that came in a bar and was advertised as “fresh-scented.”
It was vaguely disconcerting.
“Here,” Lenore said, handing Ellie a velvet-wrapped parcel. “He wanted you to have this.”
Gingerly, Ellie unwrapped Trevor’s Swiss Army knife. “He used to carry this during hikes,” she said. “Every hike. Even little ones in Grandma’s yard. Just in case.” She held it tightly. “I’ll always carry it, too.”
“That’s Trevor,” Lenore said. “Prepared for just about anything. It didn’t help him in the end.”
“I’m sorry,” Ellie said.
Lenore sagged against the kitchen counter, allowing the fake marble block to carry some of her weight. “What now?” she wondered. “How will I do this alone?” She spread her arms wide, as if gesturing to the universe and everything in it.
“You aren’t alone.”
Lenore’s expression softened. “Yeah?”
“I promise,” Ellie said. “If you need anything, just ask.”
For a quiet moment, Lenore stared at the spice rack against the wall, lost in thought. Then, she took Ellie by the hand. “I want to show you something,” Lenore said. Gently, she pulled toward the door that linked the kitchen to the garage.
“Wait, are we going outside?” Ellie asked. “It’s midnight. What about Gregory?”
“Your mother has a baby monitor.” Lenore turned, smiling. It was the littlest, saddest smile Ellie had ever seen. “Are you afraid of the dark, ghost raiser?”
“Sometimes. What do you want to show me?”
“Where it happened.” A bloated tear slipped down Lenore’s left cheek. “Where he died. You need to see.”
“Oh. Hey. We should wait until sunrise, right?” Ellie tried to pull away, but Lenore’s grip tightened.
“It doesn’t make sense. Why would he park in the middle of nowhere? What happened? You need to see the spot. It’s this straight road in the woods. A mile from his usual route. What. Happened. What happened?”
“I don’t know, Lenore.” Ellie shook her head. “But going there in the middle of the night won’t explain anything. Later. I promise.”
“Just … just come with me. Maybe you can … maybe you can bring him back.”
“What? No! I can’t!”
“You said you’d do anything for me!”
“That’s too dangerous, Lenore!” Sharp nails pinched Ellie’s skin.
“Teach me how to do it, then! Please? Ellie … this is agony.”
“It doesn’t work that way. Dogs are different from people, okay? If I tried … I’d only bring back his anger. He’s happy. I promise. When he said goodbye, all his pain went away, and he smiled, and—”
“He said goodbye to you?” Lenore finally released Ellie. “I never had the chance. The last thing I said to him was, ‘Do you want soup for dinner?’ Freaking soup. Just give me one last conversation! I don’t care if he’s angry as long as it’s him!”
Vivian must have heard them arguing, because she darted into the kitchen wearing a bath robe and cotton pajamas. “Ellie, please return to the guest room!” she said. “Lenore, honey, he’s gone …”
Before the situation could get worse, Ellie escaped into the hall. From his nursery, Gregory was crying, his distress a shrill staccato. Her sleepy father was leaning over Gregory’s crib, making soothing sounds. Ellie retreated to the guest room and, alone, shut the door. It was a flimsy barrier against the ruckus.
How could anybody expect Ellie to sleep while the bereaved mother and child wept outside her door? Their voices seeped through the walls. The house vibrated with grief.
The guest room window overlooked a fenced-in backyard. Ellie opened the window, slid aside the security bars, and climbed outside. Her movement activated a motion-sensitive light on the back porch wall. Against the house, white lawn chairs surrounded a plastic picnic table. Desert flowers grew in planters along the yard’s edge.
She reclined on one of the lawn chairs, closed her eyes, and pulled the trilobite from her pocket, rolling it in her hand. By now, Ellie could mentally visualize its hammer-shaped head, spiny and ridged thorax, and the raised axial lobe that ran down its body. How did it spend its final days? As an arthropod, a scavenger, it probably fed on bacteria and organic scraps. Scuttling across the sea floor, glutting itself before larger predators descended.
It died peacefully, Ellie decided. Just slipped away, settled in the sediment, its body buried and transformed into stone over geologic time. In the underworld, the place of dreams, it continued scuttling, for what else could a trilobite do? She reached out, parting the ghost of an ancient sea. Come back. Wake up.
Ellie felt a tickle on her arm. An animal crawling from her elbow to her shoulder. She opened her eyes and glimpsed a flash of shiny exoskeleton. An impression of the trilobite’s ghost. However, it had been dreaming so long, its drowsiness lingered. The trilobite shimmered, faded, and slipped back to the underworld.
But for a moment, she’d brushed a little soul that had lived on Earth five hundred million years ago. What else could she accomplish?
“She’s asleep,” Vivian said. “You can come inside.”
Ellie turned; she’d been so preoccupied by the trilobite, she had not heard the back door open. “Not yet. I’m having a trilobite party, Mom.”
Vivian sat in the chair beside Ellie. “Sometimes, people lash out when they’re in pain. Because they don’t know what else they can do.”
“I know. Want to see my friend?” She passed the fossil to her mother. Vivian held the trilobite into the porch light.
“Millions of years,” Ellie said. “I can’t get over that. How can anything exist more than a few millennia without getting bored?”
“Trilobites are easy to entertain,” Vivian said. “I guess.”
“What about more complex things? Like Grandma’s mammoth. Does she ever seem … bored? Like a caged tiger pacing back and forth in the zoo?”
“Not that I’ve noticed. Boredom is for the living.” She frowned with her fo
rehead, eyebrows crinkling. “That doesn’t mean other emotions disappear. The mammoth can get upset. I’ve seen her lash out.”
A mournful cry lifted from the park nearby. It was high-pitched and trembled with canid vibrato. Ellie waited for more howls to join the first; that’s what packs did. They sang together to communicate and commiserate.
But the coyote in the park was alone. After a minute, its voice faded, swallowed by the chirps of midsummer bugs.
“Did Six-Great ever wake up prehistoric animals?” she asked.
“I haven’t heard any story about it,” Vivian said, “but she definitely knew about them.”
“Yeah?”
“Actually, it’s a funny story.”
Ellie leaned forward, propping her chin on her hands. “Go ooooon.”
“This chasm appeared in the middle of the wilderness. And by appeared, I mean … overnight, a hole opened in the earth, and it had no bottom. At least, none anyone could see. When the news reached your six-great-grandmother, she said, ‘I need to investigate. It may be dangerous.’
“‘Okay. Sure,’ her husband said. ‘I’ll go, too.’ He knew that he could not convince Six-Great to stay away from danger. She was stubborn and very concerned about the safety of other people, even strangers. One of her flaws, in my opinion. It made her impulsive. Usually, Six-Great didn’t use horses during her journeys because they were frightened by her ghost pack. But she made an exception that time because it was a quick trip. Plus, her husband was a skilled rider. One of the best, actually.
“The chasm was in a region that had many known caves. People avoided them, for the most part. They were filled with guano and the bones of ancient mammals. Poor, magnificent animals that died in darkness, often after a debilitating fall. In death, their bones served as warnings. Stay away. These caves are dangerous.
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