Thunder Falls

by Michael Lilly

  The journey has been exhausting, tedious, and more guesswork and luck than Todd is ready to admit. But the drive to find Remy never wavered, and though he wouldn’t confess to it, a part of him (the part more inclined to read cheesy romance novels rather than thrillers) believes that the raw strength of their relationship had more of a role in his success than his competence as a detective. After all, you can have the sharpest eye in the world, but if you’re searching the wrong place, your hunt will prove endlessly futile. Indeed, on a not-quite-conscious level, Todd credits his intuiting the correct place to that magical bond (though, again, he would never mention this to anyone, even Remy or, indeed, himself).

  Ghost Fork, then. It certainly has its appeal: small, quiet, isolated. He wonders whether Remy had picked this place before arriving or just hopped out of the car, nodded once in approval, and paid and dismissed the driver. Even beyond its small-town quietness, which brings its own appeal, he notes a certain charm about the place, though he allows for the possibility that this charm is a byproduct of the night, and that when the sun rises in a few hours, the darkness will take the charm with it, leaving behind a mess of buildings and vehicles and potholes rather than a sleepy, dreaming, calm little town. Daytime, Todd notes, has a way of stealing away the magic that always persists through the night. He doesn’t care what time of day it is, though; Todd’s singular goal for the past three weeks has been to find Remy, and now he is on the cusp of doing so.

  The thought has occurred to him, of course, that a person interested in finding Remy would also be apt to follow Todd, as the two are romantically involved. The thought also occurred to him that Remy left in the interests of both his own protection and of Todd’s. Todd would be in danger of adversaries if they suspected that he knew where Remy was, and indeed Remy would be in danger if a person tracking Todd followed him right to Remy.

  It’s for those reasons that Todd switched his phone into airplane mode before he set out. He has had to buy and use physical maps, but he prefers those, anyway. Yes, Remy can disappear with the best of them, but so can Todd. His main concern has been that if someone did manage to pick up their scent, it would smell doubly strong, so to speak. Asking around for either Todd or Remy would yield answers in more cases than if Remy alone had been through, without Todd following. Double the chances of being detected.

  Naturally, if Todd had felt that the initial odds of that happening were even remotely significant, he wouldn’t have chanced it, but as they weren’t, he proceeded. The worry sometimes sneaks into his thoughts, a sticky burr he just can’t shake with satisfactory permanence, but he spends most of his time unhindered by it.

  Now he faces an awkward length of time, too short to spend sleeping in his car (though he feels that he’s too excited to sleep anyway), but too long to sit and watch the night finish out. Remy has an ability to entertain himself for lengths of time with his thoughts alone which, to Todd, would be maddening. Todd has some patience for nothingness, but is more comfortable with a book or something else to do. Without some kind of anchor or hub, his mind operates on a treadmill, with lots of action but no actual movement.

  He recalls that there was a rack of paperbacks in the 24-hour convenience store, but much of his cash has been spent and he decides now that prudence may yet prove beneficial. Besides, they’re probably just shitty love stories anyway, mostly sex and without much actual substance.

  Alas, he eventually decides to nap in his car despite the awkward length of time. After all, he doesn’t have to turn off airplane mode in order to use the alarm functions on his phone. He sets an alarm for seven o’clock, turns the volume to max, tilts the driver seat all the way back, and submits to his exhaustion.

  Remy

  An elevator shaft gapes to my left after I reach the first landing. One of the sliding doors juts out from the right side of the threshold, the other missing completely. I poke my head into the shaft, aiming my flashlight’s beam upward, and see the underside of the carriage a couple of floors up. I withdraw from the shaft quickly, as my mind floods with images of the carriage coming loose and falling down the shaft, decapitating me effortlessly, unceremoniously.

  I do wonder what (or who) may have caused the damage to the doors, but dwelling on that now is a fruitless endeavor, the harvest of a dead orchard.

  Another small set of stairs leads to what seems to be the entrance to one of the dormitory units. An odd feeling churns inside my chest—one of discomfort, foreboding, of being an intruder, made all the odder considering my hobby of chasing (killing) criminals, often going through their homes beforehand for various intelligence, or to purloin a comb or bloody tissue or something to add to my framework of falsehoods. My work is not honest work, but it is effective work.

  The door to the dorm is solid and wooden and heavy-looking, but without the solemn quality that the metal ones have. The lettering on the door, reminiscent of a spa or a modern dermatologist’s office—professional, bronze, stylish—reads ‘Thunder Valley.’ My stolen key opens the door without hesitation and in I go.

  As I first enter, my mind is assailed by a barrage of thoughts of a thirteen-year-old version of Todd walking its halls. While it was a girls’ facility, I imagine Todd in a facility identical to this one, but two states removed.

  In this broad hallway, the darkness is almost complete, but it extends only about twenty feet ahead of me, at which point I see that some of the night’s weak lunar shine spills into a common area. There’s a doorway on either side of me, each shut by doors fulfilling their decades-long vigils. From what I can tell in the darkness, they’re the same thick, heavy wood as most of the doors here. I suppose that if you’re dealing with a demographic prone to aggressive violence, you can’t skimp on the sturdiness of your building material. Most household doors these days will succumb to a single well-placed kick. Not these ones, though. These ones would hold up to a flurry of them, and I’m sure many of them probably have.

  Signs above the doors label them as Bathroom 1 and Bathroom 2. Further down the hall, two more doors stare at each other in the dusty gloom, identical to the bathroom doors, save for the signs, which reveal that these are Bedroom 1 and Bedroom 2. I move to unlock Bedroom 4, but an intrusive thought gives me pause: that upon opening the door and stepping inside, the east window will be stamped by the inky black silhouette from before.

  “He’s friendly,” I tell myself. I hadn’t intended to say it out loud, but the breadth of my voice hugging the walls seems to shake away a layer or two of the fearsome mystery, filling the daunting void with the familiarity of my own words instead. A shroud of goosebumps envelops me, but this time as a result of empowering (if groundless) boldness rather than fear or the blooming paranoia that has accompanied me on my adventure tonight. Although, I remind myself, it’s not quite paranoia if you’re right, as I’ve turned out to be, at least in some part.

  Having donned my new shield of bravery (or recklessness), I open the door. There is indeed a window on the east wall, but framed within it is nothing but a view of the courtyard, striped by the cast-iron bars on the outer side of the pane. The room is square, perhaps fifteen feet on a side, and contains two bunk beds, still made up with their sheets and comforters, albeit moth-eaten and tattered after all these years. Rather than a closet, the north wall is fitted with an open-faced shelving unit, separated into four columns and made of sturdy wood.

  The silence in this room seems to apply a sort of pressure on its own, like the sheer weight of the atmosphere has doubled. My footfalls on the thin carpet sound crisp and clear, but somehow distant, like I’m listening to a high-definition recording being played back through mediocre speakers.

  The beds are equipped with drawers in their bases—the only thing in the room not readily visible from the doorway. Unsure whether to expect anything, I open one of the drawers. It’s empty, just like the shelves staring at me from the north wall. The other drawers (three more; four in total) offer the same. After a final scan of the room (and a quick
glance down into the still-empty courtyard) I walk out, not bothering to close the door behind me.

  Now I have a decision to make: Indulge my characteristic thoroughness or move on? Without a doubt, I would prefer to stick around and pick apart every small corner of every room and hallway, but already my time is wearing thin. The birds outside have been chirping for some time, and although global warming has fucked up their internal clocks, I sense that sunrise is fast approaching nonetheless. And for me, a person whose primary objective is to be invisible, the fullness of light brought on by daybreak turns into quite the obstacle indeed.

  If I were somewhere like Riverdell, perhaps I might feel okay about chancing the sunlight, but in a town this small, to see an unfamiliar face is a rarity, and anyone who sees me will, thus, most likely remember me. My likeness isn’t memorable—in my own opinion, I look perfectly average, so much so that it’s almost a point of pride—but even so, an eye that catches mine is apt to remember the event, even if not my face. And if I avoid people’s eyes, they’ll remember me all the more clearly.

  “Haven’ seen you ’roun’ these parts!”

  “Well that’s a new face!”

  “Well hey, stranger, where ya from?”

  All attention I neither need nor want.

  That said, I don’t know whether I’ll get another opportunity to peruse this time capsule of a facility. I used to be able to rely on the cover of night, instinct, and a not-so-modest degree of prudence, but lately, my life has seemed to be intent (is ‘hell-bent’ too strong a phrase?) on proving to me that, despite my efforts to salvage it, my situation, my circumstances are all as tenuous as a strand of spider silk clinging to a tree branch in a healthy breeze. If the past year of my life is any indication, the course of a day could have me on a plane to South Africa by tomorrow morning. So what, then, are my options for completing my search without making a return trip?

  Not many.

  I could finish my browse, and take the back roads (which, in this town, is a phrase nearly synonymous with bushwhacking) and pray that no one sees me, but that prospect doesn’t inspire any confidence. The only other practical solution I can conjure is to wait for night to fall again. In that case, I’ll easily eat through the supply of snacks I packed along. I amuse myself with a question as to whether there’s enough exploration to be done to keep me busy for that long, but laugh it away; even without a vast, abandoned treatment facility to explore, my mind alone has quite enough twists and wrinkles in it to keep itself busy for a respectable amount of time. With this trove of entertainment to aid it, I could go without so much as a whiff of boredom for well over a week.

  Of course, this place was built as living quarters, but can I content myself with spending a night here? The thought of sleeping in one of these beds makes me shudder, but maybe I could find a way to make them more accommodating. In terms of bodily functions, I’m sure I can find an acceptable place to relieve myself. The idea stews in my mind, occasionally branching into the logistical specifics and potential hazards, but most of the risk is that some other visitor may show up, and based on the thorough untouched-ness of this place beyond the immediately accessible, that risk is not a prevalent one.

  I sift through the pros and cons, cripplingly torn between the two, until the curious, self-indulgent part of my psyche finds its voice. What do you have to lose?

  So I explore with the mindset not only of dissecting the past, but of living in the present, scouting potential resting places, eating places. Not that I expect much, but finding the ideal place here could mean the difference between an acceptable night’s sleep and a lung coated in dust, or between a quick bite and tetanus.

  The other three bedrooms are, for all intents and purposes, identical to the first. No new surprises or nuances there. The common area features three couches that look like they would have been uncomfortable even in their prime. There’s a series of cabinets and a sink on the northern end of the area, with a tiled floor and a window looking out at the cliffs and hills—through another set of rusty iron bars, of course. The cabinets yield nothing of particular interest, although they’re also not empty. One has a scrunchie and a corner torn from a sheet of lined paper, now yellowed by time. I take mental note of the particular, jagged way the tear was done, but only in case I find the paper it came from and it thus becomes relevant.

  There are two doors which lead neither to bathrooms nor to bedrooms. The first opens reluctantly, emitting a loud, pervasive squeak as its hinges flex for the first time in so long. It’s only a supply closet, containing old spray bottles and a broom with a small fraction of its bristles remaining. A dozen rolls of paper towels and at least twice as many rolls of toilet paper sit on a shelf next to a neat stack of facial tissue. A mop bucket sits on the floor with its accompanying mop planted inside, their surfaces crusted together with dried dirt and grime.

  I close the door and move to the other, the last unopened door on this unit. As I fish my key from my jacket pocket, I notice that the blue-black night sky has traded in much of its black for dull gray, and the stars have begun to fade, disappearing before man’s eyes. The birds’ songs continue.

  The key I took from that first office has served me faithfully and fully until now, but this time it doesn’t even fit inside the lock. Frustrated, I drop the key back into my pocket and pull out my lock picks, entertaining an odd sentimental attachment to them for a moment before putting them to use. From the assortment of picks, I select a sturdy, slightly curved pick and a tension lever. A half-second of ire sets in as my pick sticks fast. I’m about to switch and try another pick when the first pin slides into place. After that first pin, the other three follow suit without a fight, and I’m rewarded after a few seconds, with the satisfying grind of the tension lever turning the tumbler. The door pops open and swings, much more quietly than the last one, out toward me.

  In some situations, the satisfaction of picking the lock successfully is more rewarding than what lies beyond the door, a concept exemplified by the rusty old water heater occupying this small closet. Deflated, I close the door and head toward the unit’s entrance, back through the hall of doors.

  After prolonged, meticulous thought, the entry hallway is less frightening than it was before. It helps, too, that daylight continues to push its way into the sky, casting dim light into the corners of the room where busy shadows conspired just half an hour ago.

  Continuing on toward the next unit, I open a door on my way there to find a sort of break room, with a small case of lockers, a board of hooks for hanging coats and jackets, two cheap tables in the center of the room, and counters and cabinets lining the walls. An old microwave still sits in the corner, plugged in to a powerless outlet. A coffee maker is not one of this room’s amenities, but there is a hot water dispenser, complemented by various packets of tea, cider, and hot chocolate sitting tidily in a wire rack to its side. Flimsy plastic chairs with metal wire frames line the table in a disorderly way that suggests that the last time they were touched was when the break room’s last loungers stood up to depart for what they didn’t know was the final time.

  A refrigerator bulks in one corner, to the left of the door upon entering. Out of fear alone, I don’t open it; God only knows what sort of horror may have mutated from a forgotten bologna sandwich or tuna casserole after all this time. The stench would surely call forth what little I’ve eaten recently, as well. The same fear inhibits me from opening the freezer door up above. No sir, vomit is not on the agenda for today.

  The cabinets mostly contain what one might expect: disposable dishes and plasticware, straws, napkins, and what is, in my opinion, quite an excessive amount of paper towels. I suppose paper products were never scarce around here. I grab a roll of them and shove it into my backpack, but there’s little enough room remaining that the top of the roll sticks out like a standpipe. For a brief second, it almost looks like an extreme-looking bong, and I amuse myself with the image of the most dedicated stoner trying to use it as such. />
  I find nothing else in the break room and move on, back out into the towering entryway. By now, the sun’s rays punch neat, glowing beams into the hall like great golden skewers. I continue along the pathway, which hugs the wall around toward the next staircase.

  Nine

  Todd

  Finally, Todd locates the building—he’s sure of it this time. He’s still tired as hell, but more alert despite his exhaustion. They’re finally going to be reunited. And Remy sure is good at vanishing. Never before has he had so much trouble tracking someone down—a significant feat, given his past as a detective. Anyone else would have been thrown off the scent several states ago. But he knows all of Remy’s tricks, habits, and preferences. At every turn, Remy was able to host an imaginary conversation with Remy, and surely, had the conversations taken place in reality, they would have been damn near word-for-word identical to Todd’s imaginary ones.

  And as Remy was so careful not to be followed, Todd had to take similar precautions to preserve his anonymity and not leave a trace, lest he open a path leading to both him and Remy. No, Todd couldn’t have that. Not after everything that transpired in Wometzia. All Todd wants now is to live in peace with his love. And if he has to choose between love and inner peace, well, peace be damned. He will wait here for as long as necessary. He will have his reunion. With eyes on Remy’s front entrance, he makes himself comfortable. But as it turns out, he’s too comfortable; now, he drifts into a reluctant slumber. He only has time for a What if I miss him? to surface in panic before he’s out entirely. His mind and heart disagree on the importance of this union, apparently. He sleeps soundly.

  Remy

  My heart beats intensely as I stare at the door. Thunder Springs is stamped across its surface. This is where Willa lived and died. The potent mystery of it all reminds me of one of those ‘Escape the Haunted Opera’ sorts of computer games, where you have to piece together clue after clue to advance, clicking every object at random and hoping that one of them turns out to be a piece of the puzzle.