Thunder Falls

by Michael Lilly

  Thunder Falls

  The Darkthorn Series

  Michael Lilly

  Copyright © Michael Lilly 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Vulpine Press in the United Kingdom in 2019

  ISBN 978-1-912701-65-0

  Cover by Claire Wood

  www.vulpine-press.com

  For my siblings: Felice, Joe, Tony, Stephen, David, and Olivia. Lord knows Remy got his sense of humor from you lot.

  Also in The Darkthorn Series:

  Pond Scum

  Roadrunner

  Prologue

  Todd

  “That guy? Came through here a few days ago. Maybe. I think? Can’t be too sure, with all the faces I’ve seen lately. Whaddya need him for? He short you a bill or two on some blow? Ha! Just kidding. But really, I’m not too sure. Looks a bit generic, doesn’t he? Maybe if he were a bit weird-looking, or had a good pair o’ tits. But a guy like that, you can’t really expect me to commit that mug to memory, can you? Ha! Anyway, good luck, pal.”

  “Hun, ya’s lookin’ in the wrong place. Me? I see probly two hundred faces a night, but only half that on Christmas and Easter. Double that on the days after Christmas and Easter, though, ya get me?”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are, coming in here asking questions? I don’t know anything about anybody, ’kay? Get outta here. And you learn your fuckin’ place while you’re at it.”

  “I’m not a snitch, man. Except perhaps to the right buyer. Couple of Benjamins never fail to loosen these lips, if you get me. Hey hey hey, take it easy, man! I haven’t seen your boy, okay? Sheesh.”

  “Wha? Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you were talkin’ to me. Sure haven’t been payin’ much attention lately, but I’ll take a look. Nah, sorry, don’t recognize him. Might wanna try that guy in the corner. Swear to Christ, the guy fuckin’ lives here, just sittin’ and watchin’. Bit of an odd one, though. I wouldn’t make any sudden movements. And maybe try to use small words. Yeah, no problem, guy. Hope you find your fella.”

  “Is he in trouble? I don’t want to get anybody in trouble. Oh, yeah, I recognize him. Seemed like kind of a loner. Came in by himself, just had a coffee, very quiet. Equally polite, though. Said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ just like we were all taught growing up. Seems he’s the only one hasn’t forgotten it though. Y’ever notice that? Oh, right, sorry. He came through a couple of days ago. Friday, maybe? Couldn’t tell ya anything else, though—like I said, he was super quiet, liked to keep to himself. Yeah, sure, I’ll give you a call if I see him again.”

  You won’t see him again, Todd thinks. Remy disappeared almost a month ago, and Todd hit the pavement in search of him the minute he was released from the hospital. Todd had told him to flee, in a cryptic, Todd-esque way that wouldn’t appear suspicious. A lesson he learned about Remy (slowly at first, then rapidly after he left) is that when he wants to be hidden, he will remain hidden.

  One lucky break near the beginning of Todd’s search, in Albuquerque, had spotted Remy as he, a passenger, zoomed up the on-ramp onto the interstate, heading west, toward Arizona. The last time either Todd or Remy took that road, they were together. On the way back, Todd pretended to be asleep; he always liked watching how Remy got at night.

  For a moment, Todd allows himself to pause to reflect on that memory: Remy melting into a mix of rushed awe and nervousness about taking his eyes off the road for half a second to look at the stars.

  So far as he can tell now, however, his lover is an anomaly, a phantom, a master of the art of active elusiveness. The paparazzi would be harder tasked to obtain a hi-res photograph of Remy than of Big Foot these days. The man is good at getting what he wants, and right now what he wants is to be unfindable.

  He wonders whether Remy’s note was sincere. On the night of the events that led to this search, the night Todd was admitted to the hospital, Remy sent their dog, Odin, in to find him. Odin had a note tucked into his collar. It was brief and concise: ‘Message received. Love you.’ Even so, Todd has clung to it ever since, as though enough exposure to it will eventually allow him to divine Remy’s location, complete with active GPS navigation.

  But alas, the now-crumpled piece of paper has yet revealed no such hidden power. Indeed, the only power it has thus far displayed is that of pouring salt in abundance over Todd’s gaping, wounded heart. Even so, as he stands outside of a crowded bar on a warm, mid-September night, he thumbs the note inside his front pocket, his own little worry stone. The smooth wind against his face and the crumpled piece of paper against his thumb give him a small measure of comfort, but it’s fleeting and inflated.

  Remy has been here within the past few days, and that concept steels Todd just a little further.

  He lost Remy’s trail shortly after finding it. Without access to video cameras, he’s had to rely almost exclusively on potential witnesses, and in most cases, he doubts those, anyway; it’s a widely acknowledged phenomenon in law enforcement that witnesses will sometimes (often) invent bits of the story in order to be helpful.

  But a few days later, Todd is floundering, and decides, almost as much on instinct as on logic, to check at a small gas station in Idaho—one they had visited in the middle of their move to Wometzia. He stops mostly to reminisce, but performs his interrogative routine anyway, and as it turns out, the woman at the register, a charming, elderly lady, remembers Remy from just the day before. As usual, Todd is prepared for the recollection to be false, but she mentions that he bought a liter-sized bottle of generic brand water and a bag of Bunch-a-Crunch. Remy's favorite road-trip snack. Todd buys the same thing, thanks the woman, and sets off with a renewed vigor. He’s getting closer. He could feel it before, but feelings are painfully insubstantial without evidence—and now he has a small piece of evidence.

  Really, it’s fortunate for Todd that he has such an intimate connection to Remy; he knows that any other pursuer wouldn’t be having a shred of the success that he himself is. Even so, ‘close’ is only so encouraging; in the dichotomous dynamic of ‘found him’ vs. ‘not found him,’ Todd still has a losing record.

  “Where the fuck are you, babe?” Todd whispers into the clear, starry sky. He yearns in desperation for the stars to connect, forming letters or arrows or something capable of helping him find Remy. But instead, they sit and shine with the committed innocence of a sleeping newborn.

  One

  I can’t sleep. Something about the day seems off, like I forgot to lock the door—even though I did that eight times. The door is definitely locked. Or is it?

  It is.

  My room’s only light, for the moment, stretches in through the doorway; bright, luminous claws distorted by the handful of furniture through which it passes on its way in. I keep meaning to cover the light more fully, but it’s one of those things I don’t think about when it’s convenient to do it. Oh well.

  I roll to my other side and face the window, which is entirely blacked out by way of blackout curtains, the night owl’s gift from the divine. Or from Target.

  In any case, I often have difficulty discerning the time of day; my one-bedroom apartment is part of a complex that lights its hallways for improved security at night. A thoughtful, well-implemented feature, sure, but as I don’t have any clocks that are visible in the dark,
and my phone spends most of its time without a charge, I’m usually unaware of the time without the sun’s approximate but consistent guidance.

  Given that most of my time these days is spent hiding, it only makes sense to leave my dwelling as seldom as possible. I go out for groceries now and then, but mostly I order online. Frankly, it’s incredible what one can manage over the Internet these days. Even so, I can’t hide forever. Well, I could, but I would prefer not to.

  I try not to allow my mind to wander much in this place, but with so much time to myself, it’s quite difficult to manage my thoughts with the necessary vigilance to prevent it, and I thus fantasize, at least once a day, about existing in some timeline that parallels this one only in the areas that foster healthy, growing relationships with Todd and Beth. Perhaps a different upbringing would be nice, but my imagination can’t contort to the appropriate dimensions to create a universe in which my father isn’t an abusive piece of shit.

  Besides, he’s far from the star of such daydreams. I much prefer the ones in which I’m spending a morning with Todd, watching a movie with Beth, and finishing up the evening just being together, without the obligation of active interaction. The fantasies which most grip my mind are the quiet, intimate ones, so easy on the senses that my heart steps up to fill the gap with its own deep ballad. In short, I ache for this to be over, and to be able to reconnect with Todd and resume our lives as good little gay hipsters from the Pacific Northwest.

  Tea and brunch and mediocre music playing in above-mediocre coffee houses. Rain as our anthem and the stars as our backup dancers. Before I met Todd, my life was a log, freshly deposited onto a lake, doomed to become saturated in murky, stinky pond water and sink eventually, entirely without direction or purpose.

  Enter Todd, the gentle, deliberate craftsman who could handle the fragile hunk of wood I didn’t know I was, and build me into a canoe, then with buoyancy, direction, and purpose. Instead of succumbing to the waters around me, he turned me into a vessel that thrived on the water. Suddenly, the possibilities of life unfolded before me, like discovering the secret menu at In-N-Out Burger. The need to explore and experience the world through my new, appreciative eyes was akin to a blind person regaining their sight and indulging an itch to book an immediate flight to Europe to see Le Louvre and the Sistine Chapel.

  I booked that flight, packed my bags, and boarded. I explored Paris and set off toward the mighty iconic museum, but the second I crossed the threshold, my vision went blurry, then faded completely. So to speak.

  Todd as my sight and life as my Louvre, I can certainly remain in the building—loitering, listening to excited footsteps and tours getting started, testing my French against what I overhear from enthusiastic honeymooners. But the true experience, the beauty, the spectacle, will elude me without his influence—his empowering, liberating clarity.

  I get out of bed, trying to coax into existence a will to do anything at all. I shower, shave, and eat a grilled cheese sandwich with a generous amount of Pepper Jack cheese on it. My apartment, though small, seems to host a vast emptiness, as though in an adjacent universe, this same area is occupied by a void, and the barrier between this universe and that one is thinning over time. The table and chairs seem hollow to me, and the counter and cheap appliances seem superficial, like props to be used in the show I’m putting on to try to convince myself that I’m living something of a normal life.

  The thing about such a show, however, is that it lacks in plot, character development (and in my case, characters), and any kind of discernable substance. Mine is a one-man show, written by a depressed monk.

  With reluctance and a sigh, I turn on my phone. I don’t bother with it most of the time, as the only one who contacts me is a mysterious stranger, anonymous and ominous, who seems to be watching (and manipulating?) my every move, despite my recent and extensive efforts to disappear over the past month. Somehow, he’s managed to stay on my trail the whole time. My attempts to lose him have had a similar rate of success to a man trying to shed his own shadow.

  On the bright side, he seems to be on my team. At least, he hasn’t given my location to my predators, constituents in an underground filth-peddling organization that seems to run as wide as it is deep, a concept that unsettles, even—I’ll admit it—frightens me. So far, I’ve managed to elude their gaze, but with so many of their seemingly bloodthirsty minions involved, how long can I actually maintain my invisibility? Every time I step outside, I risk being found. I learned that the hard way—I tried Los Angeles first, in hopes that immersing myself in a dense, diverse population would offer some cover, but when some of that population is hostile, it turns from a refuge to a death trap. My friend, the nameless texter, alerted me to their approach in time for me to make an escape, and a narrow one at that.

  Since then, I’ve been staying at various motels dotting the American Northwest, finally settling into an apartment upon realizing that this hunt may be a long-term thing.

  Of course, I had to find one that would allow me to pay in cash and not have access to a real background check—I have fake documents, but I still would rather people not look into the history of someone who doesn’t exist, and who I’m claiming to be.

  Fortunately, my needs were met as a package. All I had to find was a town small enough that no big realty tycoons would touch it, but big enough to have an apartment building or two and allow me to exist in it without raising eyebrows. In essence, I needed a Riverdell, but with my history there, it would have been quite foolish to go back there, what with people looking to kill me and all.

  However, I found another town (thanks to some not-so-subtle hints delivered by my mystery friend) nestled in the green mountains of Wyoming, a charming thing of a city with a population of 3,327 as of the 2015 census. Its foothills overlook the valley, a sea of green and, in mid-September, some of the greens are already being replaced by yellows—autumn is nearly upon us.

  The thunderstorms here, while infrequent (especially when compared to those of New Mexico), are brilliant, rainy spectacles of light and shadow, and the thunder echoes around the valley as a heart-shaking tremor. Of the small measures of reprieve available to me, none has been more powerful, thus far, than a good, mountainous thunderstorm.

  As I watch the animation for the phone’s boot screen, I feel a tinge of anxious anticipation, but it dissolves when I try to inspect the sentiment further. The animation stops and displays my home screen, a photo of Todd sent to me by my secret inquirer to prove to me that he’s okay. That he is (or was, at least) close to Todd is the only solid information I have about him, and my attempts to grill him for any more information ceased three weeks ago when I finally conceded that his will won’t be broken. Of course, I have my suspicions of who it may be, but every time I try to wheedle at a theory, it closes up when I get to the finer details.

  Since then, he has texted me once in a while, but oddly, it’s always small talk, asking about the weather. I almost expect it to be some kind of ruse to trick me into revealing my location with some kind of program designed to pull weather forecasts and use that data to reveal what locations have had matching weather patterns over the designated amount of time. Whether such software actually exists is beyond my knowledge, but the possibility still grips me. My time alone has allowed for quite a lot of speculation about how I may be found.

  Eliciting no surprise, my phone buzzes an incoming text as soon as it connects to the network. Then another.

  The first text was from the same unknown person as before: “Mostly cloudy my ass, I’m getting sunburned, am I right?”

  But the second number is one I don’t recognize, one from a 208 area code. Huh. Idaho.

  I open the text.

  “You’re being played. Get out of there, or they’ll find you before you know it.”

  I received a similar message a month ago: They found you. Run. In that case, I heard thundering footsteps on my apartment building’s stairs within seconds. However, this message was sent almo
st a week ago (Jesus, has my phone really been turned off for that long?) and I’m currently very much not dead, nor do I recall anybody suspicious or out of the ordinary over the past week. I’ve only been out once this week, and that, like most of my trips, was in the middle of the night, so as to garner attention from as few people as possible.

  Not that being seen will immediately damn my chances of surviving here long-term, but it adds a measure of risk to the equation, one which I can’t afford, even in this small of a town. After all, Todd’s and my most recent dwelling, Wometzia, New Mexico, was even less populous than Ghost Fork, and we were sniffed out even there. To be fair, I hadn’t taken any additional measures to preserve my anonymity there, and I even joined up with the tiny law enforcement force in Wometzia shortly after Todd and I moved in.

  My decision to lay roots (however shallow) in Ghost Fork was a rushed one, but so far, it seems to have been the correct choice. Before I took off from Albuquerque, I withdrew quite a large sum of money from an account my mother had set up for me. When Todd and I lived in Riverdell, I refused to use the money with an almost childish defiance; the money, or at least a gross majority of it, came from a child porn ring, one to which my father contributed enthusiastically. He left all of his money to my mother, who reappeared in my life just a few months after I killed him. I kept that detail to myself. He left the house to me, and I listed it as soon as I could get over the idea of any innocent human living in the space where my father molested countless kids—including me. So far, no bites. I’m not mad.

  Even thinking about it now makes my blood boil. On Maylynn Brotcher’s behalf, and on that of Ellen Dodge. On Todd’s behalf. On mine. May was actually Jeremy Keroth’s victim, but he and my father were close friends and partners in their vile business. As I understood it, my father was most commonly the supplier of content, while Keroth used his contacts from his days in Undercover for Portland Metro to distribute it, which yielded quite the handsome profit, apparently.