He sat up, groaned with pain, his stomach a hive of stinging needles. He pushed the blanket off his rail-thin body, shoved his legs out, let them drop to the floor. His knobby ankles were sore and bruised. His feet tingled against the cold floorboards.
“Mike…” he said, and it came out like a whispered cough. His throat was so dry, his mouth paste, his tongue sandpaper.
He stood. His knees almost buckled but thank God supported him. He shuffled away from the sick bed, toward the strange mirror. He could see himself in its billowing reflection, and in it he’s not sick and old and frail. He’s himself. He’s young and healthy.
Courage building, he took a few more steps, rested his hands against the dresser’s surface. He looked deep into the onyx surface of the mirror. In it, he saw a small, insect-like shape, caught in the syrupy black, being tossed and thrashed about.
Mike!
Paul lifted a hand, reached toward his son’s tiny body being buried by the black waves. His fingers got closer, closer…
“I’m here, Mike,” he said, and realized he was weeping. He’d done so much wrong. He’d been such a goddamned fool! His son is out there! His son needs him! “I’m here, baby boy,” he said, sobbing, and put his fingers into the swirling darkness of the mirror.
He felt no alarm at all as his feet lifted from the ground and his floating body, near horizontal in the air, was pulled gently into the mirror.
Out of the dream world, into the void.
* * *
When Mike could stand the sun no longer, he knelt on the beach to the right of the first step and began digging, with his free hand, underneath a large rock that hung a few inches above the sand. A narrow, shadowy home for crabs when dry, for eels when overcome with seawater. He dug, shoveling the dirt out as best he could, reaching as far as he could, his locked wrist pulling against the taut chain.
After a few minutes, after scooping out water and mud, he could just slide his hips, then head and shoulders, beneath the rock, leaving his legs and extended arm exposed. He breathed deep, then began to pile sand over his legs as best he could, keeping the sun off his painful skin.
The cold damp shade felt good, even if his belly was dipping into a cold pool of water and his elbow was jammed awkwardly against a jagged edge of rock. His face was finally cool, but his eyes were puffy and irritated.
As he laid in the wet sand, he watched the water, wondered how much time he had until it came back for him, if anyone would come before then. Before it was too late.
They have to, he thought.
His mind ran through the possibilities all over again of why he’d been left down here. He wondered if he’d angered Joe at some point. Offended him somehow. But he didn’t think that was it. Joe wasn’t too bright, and he wasn’t all that pleasant at times, but Mike didn’t think him outright cruel. Certainly not murderous. No, Mike thought something else must have happened. He wondered if Joe had gotten hurt somehow. Fallen and hit his head on a rock. Or down the stairs. Or taken away by a stranger in the woods. Perhaps that voice had called him, too. Called his name from the dark part of the trees, called him in, put its cold hands on his head and dragged him away.
Perhaps.
Mike also thought about his dad. Why he hadn’t come looking for him. Had he called the Dentons? Were they even home? Wasn’t he worried?
Mike’s eyes darted up toward the sky. The sun was lowering, ever so slightly, from its zenith. He figured it must be getting very late indeed, prayed that meant someone would find him soon.
A couple bugs buzzed in Mike’s face, and he lazily swiped at the air. Something crawled along his foot, but he didn’t bother to look. He was too tired, too sunburned, too emotionally drained. He just wanted to be rescued. He wanted so badly to go home.
Mike sensed more than saw the woman crouched beside him on the beach, lovingly pouring sand over his aching, exposed legs and feet. She hummed a familiar tune as she worked, covering his toes, his calves, his knees.
She tossed some sand toward his face. She laughed and he smiled. He didn’t look at her, though. That fleshy shadow, that thing that should not be.
He closed his eyes, listened to the rhythm of the water, the humming of the thing hunched in the sand, and let his fraying mind go numb.
* * *
Paul sat up with a scream in his throat. He was breathing hard, rapid breaths; his lungs fluttered, his heart pounded. He looked around the room, but when he stopped the room kept going, spinning with him at the axis.
He put a hand to his face and into his hair. He was soaking wet. His clothes were drenched—he’d sweat right through them. He wiped the syrupy perspiration from his forehead and cheeks, tried to focus his brain, to calm himself.
The nightmare, he thought. Oh god what a nightmare.
He put his feet on the floor and his head in his hands, willed the nausea rising in his throat to abate, to pull back. Retreat, damn you!
He took a deep, steadying breath, found the green digits of the clock:
6:03
“Oh my god,” he groaned, and stood up, too quickly, put a hand back to the mattress to steady himself. Through his drunken, wavering haze he saw the door to the bathroom and stumbled to it, burst through the door and lunged to the toilet where he threw up everything inside him.
He stayed there for five, ten, twenty minutes, lying beside the toilet, legs sprawled in front of him, wet hair stuck to his neck and forehead, vomit-laced drool running down his chin. He retched again, and again.
Finally, as he said apologies to no one and nothing, to the universe, he was able to flush the toilet a final time and stand. He undressed, careful not to look at himself in the mirror.
He needed a shower. And coffee. But first, a shower.
He stepped into the small stall and let the water beat over him, drain the nightmare sweat away. He moaned and used the soap bar vigorously, just wanting to be clean and sober. Desperate to have his mind back.
Six o’clock, he thought. Mike? Where was Mike? Is he…
The dream came back to him in a rush.
There, in the shower, he remembered it all. The sick bed, the black mirror, Mike struggling in the ocean, drowning, calling for him. His wife, back from the dead, pulling them both down, down into the murky depths…
“Oh my god,” he said aloud, turned off the water. He grabbed a towel and hastily dried himself. He’d boil some water, drink a cup of instant coffee. Then drink another. Sober the fuck up. Then, when he was under control, when he could be a dad once more, he would head to the Dentons’, because he was sure that’s where Mike would be. Where he must be. Yeah, yeah, okay, he thought, getting his nerves under control. Just sober up a bit, first. He’ll be there. Playing poker or screwing around with that Joe kid. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.
Paul finished drying himself, found some cargo pants and a black T-shirt, got dressed. By the time he made his way to the kitchen to search for the industrial can of Folgers, he was almost laughing at his own alarm, brought on by bad dreams and a worse hangover.
Two quick cups of coffee, he thought.
Then he would head out to find his son.
* * *
Joe’s mother was still asleep. He sat in a hard plastic chair along the wall, just under a large window that faced west, the hazy ocean visible in the distance, pooling toward the world’s edge.
He stared down at his clenched hands, fingers wrestling in his lap. His guts squirmed with guilt, shame and worry. His father hadn’t seemed to notice, and he was torn as to how to fix this cluster-fuck of a situation. As they sat at his mother’s bedside in the small private room, his father watching the news on the muted television and Joe glancing from the screen of silent news stories to his sleeping mother – her forehead bandaged, her arm in a sling, her leg elevated in a cast – he had wanted to tell him, was so close to confessing what he’d done. But fear always stopped him.
Fear of being in trouble for using his father’s cuffs, which he was strictly f
orbidden to do. He had wanted so badly to impress Mike, who he didn’t think even liked him that much, not really…
Fear of getting in super-deep trouble for what he did to Mike. Maybe getting in real trouble, like with the police. Was it a crime, what he did? He didn’t know.
The fear had worsened when he’d checked the pocket of his shorts for the key, and found a hole in the liner instead. No key. He’d checked every pocket—twice. He’d checked his socks, his shoes, only stopping when his father had given him a wary glance and asked him, sarcastically, if he’d lost his wallet.
But the worst fear, the fear that stayed his tongue again and again, was the fear that something bad had happened to Mike. That maybe, while he was locked up on the beach, something really, truly, unthinkably bad had happened to him. He couldn’t imagine what, other than a nasty sunburn, and he was probably nitro-pissed and super hungry, but alive, surely. But what if? What if something, an animal or something, had attacked him and he couldn’t get away? What if a stranger had found him handcuffed there? A bad man. A kidnapper, or a rapist, or a killer! Oh shit, Joe thought in a rush of black acid to the brain, what if he’s hurt? What if Mike—oh god—what if he was dead? And suddenly it came to him, clear as a bell in church: Mike’s corpse, tethered to the stairs, the waves making him float in and out, the cuff clinking every time it held fast against the pull of the ocean…
Joe’s stomach flip-flopped and he groaned, loud enough that his father’s eyes flicked down to him, away from the television.
“Joe? You okay?”
Shit shit shit shit, he thought.
“Yeah,” he said, watched his wringing hands. “Wish mom would wake up.”
He felt his father smile and knew he’d dodged another opportunity to tell the truth. It was almost too easy…
“Give her time. The sleep is good for her.” His father stood, stretched. “Look, I’m going to go find a payphone and make a call. Gotta figure out what’s up with the truck, and I want to check on that other fella, although he seemed okay… after… I don’t want to disturb your mother, so I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. If she wakes up, let her know, okay?”
Joe nodded and tried to smile with reassurance, but his dad wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring at his wife, one hand resting lightly on her foot, watching her sleep. He stayed there another moment, then another, then walked out the door, let it fall closed behind him.
Joe watched that closed door for a moment. It was pale blue. The room felt suctioned with it closed, sealed the wall shut with them inside. Maybe now it was safe. Maybe now he could speak. Joe stood on trembling legs. It was cold in the room and goosebumps had broken out on his arms. He walked to his mother’s bedside, watched her steady breathing. He gently put a hand on her bare forearm, relishing the warmth of her. He was shaking now, the secret swelling inside him like a bubble that would burst him open, sending pieces of him everywhere, obliterating him.
“Mom?” he said, tears spilling down his cheeks. He squeezed her wrist a little, just to see.
She didn’t respond, just kept breathing.
“Mom,” he started again, eyes flicking to the pale blue door, then back to his mother’s face. The only one he could truly trust. “I think,” he let out a shaky breath, gathered his words in a tight bunch, then let it slither out like the slick black secret that it was.
“Mom, I think I killed a boy.”
He nearly screamed when her eyes fluttered open and her head turned to face him.
* * *
The Denton place was bigger than Paul remembered.
He couldn’t control the stab of envy that pierced his gut while standing on the broad wraparound porch, looked up at the multitude of second-story windows, the tall A-frame rooftop.
The Barn, he thought with a grimace, remembering the place’s nickname from one of the dinners they’d shared with the Dentons many years ago, before his wife’s death. Recent invites must have gotten lost with the condolences, he thought, then shook his head, re-focused on the matter at hand, and stepped up to the broad set of oak double doors. He knocked hard, waited, then knocked again. He found a doorbell and pushed it, heard chimes bounce around inside.
He felt better after the shower and the coffee, but the nausea still lurked in the pit of his stomach. His eyes felt heavy, his mind slow. Stupid, he chided himself yet again, ashamed at having gotten so drunk. And before lunch, no less. Quite the class act, Doc, he chided, heaping on the self-abuse.
He banged on the door again, harder this time. Borderline rude. Come on! he thought, as the first tendrils of real worry began to creep up his spine.
Paul had already checked the obvious places. He’d walked the entire beach from their house to the Dentons’, and even past, before coming back. He peeked down into the cove where the boys liked to swim, but saw nothing but sand and clear water, the reddening sun giving the wave-tips a blood-foam sheen.
If he’d have called out, Mike would have easily heard him, as he was lying in the wet sand, his body cooled by the overhanging rock. Or, even more infuriating, had he taken a step or two down the steps, he would have surely noticed the pale hand hanging limp at the bottom—the frail, pink forearm trailing under the rock where the boy lay waiting for help. And had Mike’s legs not been covered with sand—how that was done or by whom is something Paul nor Mike dared overly consider—he might have seen his son’s legs protruding from underneath, toward the water. None of these things, however, did occur. If any one of them had, things would have turned out much differently in the end. As fate, or whatever force that had turned its attention to the Klein family that day, willed it, all Paul saw was an empty cove and an empty beach.
And so he had moved on.
After leaving the cove, Paul made his way inland, searched up and down the rocky coast, into the high grassy areas, toward the small grove to the southeast. He walked through the dark cluster of trees the boys sometimes played in, yelled out for both, found nothing but a discarded plastic rifle housing a spider.
Finally, frustrated and evermore worried, he came back to where he knew they must be hiding out. The Dentons’, of course. They were probably in the attic destroying entire planets with Joe’s plethora of action figures and spaceship models, something Mike had spared no expense bragging about to Paul.
When no one answered, Paul looked through a few downstairs windows. He walked around to the back of the house, yelled Mike’s name, yelled for Hank, for Joe, for Mariel. For anyone.
Would they have taken him out? To dinner, or a movie? For a trip into town? Paul thought about it as he surveyed the area, came up empty on answers. No, he thought, with stone resolution. No way. Hank would’ve called. And he knew that was right. Hank was a cop, and he was overly-cautious about such things, being so familiar with the rules kids should follow. He would have never taken Mike somewhere without permission. Even had Mike lied about it, which he wouldn’t have—what would be the point?—Hank still would have checked. Same with Mariel. So… what then?
Butterflies chased away the pit of sickness inside him, replaced it wholesale with anxiety and naked fear.
“Shit,” Paul said, and began to jog back to their place, cutting through the woods to do so. The exercise and adrenaline helped, cleared his head, solidified a plan.
He burst through the door of the cabin, leaving it open as he grabbed the phone off the wall. He briefly studied the sticker he’d stuck just beside it, the one outlining Emergency Numbers, over five years ago, prayed they were still accurate.
To his relief, they were.
“Hello,” he said in response to the voice on the other end when someone finally picked up. “My name is Paul Klein.” He swallowed, suddenly desperate for water. He put a hand on the old ceramic countertop to steady himself, closed his eyes and, working past the lump in his throat, managed to say the words no parent should ever have to say.
“I think my son is missing.”
PART FIVE
2ND High Tide
(8pm—midnight, approx.)
The sun is melting, Mike thought as he watched it slowly drop lower and lower through the thick blue syrup of the dusky sky and into the gaping maw of the ocean. A fence of pink cotton candy clouds hovered above the horizon, deepened the rich colors of the setting sun, tugged at its yellow cheeks to create an effect of dissolution, as if the sun were not simply setting, but falling apart, melting into a blurry gaseous soup to be slurped up by the stars, mopped away by the cold dark universe.
He had crawled from under the rock, no longer felt the sting of the sun on his skin, but shivered in the cool dusk, his teeth chattering as he wrapped one arm around his tucked knees, the crusty sand in his shorts irritating, a few small bites on his thigh from some unknown creature lurking with him in the cool shade itching madly, even more so than the sunburn itself.
But he knew none of that mattered, because as he sat on the second step of the stairs his eyes were on the ground beneath his toes, beneath the mesh metal of the first step, where the water had returned, just as it had promised.
The strip of beach was gone. The ocean had come back for Mike, delighted to have found him right where it had left him.
Mike had a feeling that this time there would be no close call, no last gasp of air. He stared at his bound wrist, now raw and bleeding from where the metal of the cuffs had dug deep into his flesh. He gave it a feeble jerk, sucked in a sharp breath. He gently raised the cuff all the way to the top, where the stanchion met the railing it had been stubbornly welded to. He put his other hand on the railing once more and shook it, then shook it again as hard as he could.
He moaned in pain as he yanked weakly at the metal. The cuff bit deeper into his flesh, made him cry out as he pushed and pulled desperately, needing to escape, wanting to live. With a last surge of adrenaline, he punched at the metal with his free hand, sobbing, tears and snot running down his face as his knuckles bloodied themselves smacking again and again into the coarse metal.
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