Thunder Falls

by Michael Lilly

  However, the thing stopping me is not missing clues, but a festering uncertainty about whether or not I’m mentally and emotionally ready to process whatever I find, if anything at all. I’ve been dabbling, sure, but finding anything big would mean a full-blown commitment to this. I don’t know how long that could take or how much energy, and one of the surviving symptoms of my OCD is that I cannot leave a project unfinished. Beyond that, if my mystery stalker is onto something, the result of my investigation may be that someone—Thad Eboncore—was unjustly locked up and I’d need to find a way to make that right without exposing myself to the public.

  I insert the key into the lock and turn. The click echoes thickly in the entryway. The door swings open with much less noise, and I step inside. I’m pleased to find that my heartbeat and breathing, fickle little bastards lately, are under control.

  If it hadn’t been for the memory of standing outside the door to this unit, I could swear I was walking into Thunder Valley a second time. The same floor serves the same hallway which contains the same doors labeled in the same font.

  Before going into any of the rooms, I walk through to the end of the hall, where it opens into the common area. I suppose the facility would have earned full marks for equality and standard issue; every bit of it, so far as I can remember, matches its counterpart in Thunder Valley, aside from that the hallway extends to the south instead of the north. I redo my familiar sweep—cabinets and cupboards, underneath and inside the couches, any nooks or crannies I can find—and find nothing but the usual abundant dust. I open the door to bedroom two first.

  A chill sweeps into the room alongside me. The room looks the same as the other one, but still manages to feel different. I can’t quite pinpoint the distinction, but it’s undeniable. Todd would be able to find it. God I miss Todd. If he and Beth were here—if we had The Crew back together—I’m sure we’d have this cranked out in no time. With Beth’s unparalleled reasoning, Todd’s attention to detail, and my skills in execution, nothing could stop us.

  However, as these nostalgic sentiments are a detriment to my focus, I must suppress them—for now, at least. Maybe I’ll summon them back when I’m in the mood for a self-indulgent pity party. But now is not that time.

  A few minutes of diligent searching later, I find why the room looks different: the bars in the window are missing. As I look more closely, I find that they weren’t removed cleanly; the brick is torn up and a couple of screws didn’t quite make it out along with the bars, and now dangle awkwardly from the holes that were drilled into the brick for them.

  Like in the other room, the window overlooks the courtyard. Without the bars, it’s actually a strikingly pretty view. So who removed them? And how? Also, when and why? It has to have been done from the outside—these windows don’t even open from the inside, and the pane and its caulking are still intact—but that only brings me back to my one of my prior questions: How?

  I move on from it. I search the beds in detail, pulling off pillows, pillow cases, comforters, blankets, and sheets one at a time for each of the beds in the room.

  After I pull down the mattress of the second bed, I find a tiny lockbox in the corner of the frame, close to where the pillow was before I dissected it.

  The box is wooden and painted over with a fading floral design. The hinges are tarnished and battered, and the wood chipped in several places. The lid slides just the slightest amount due to the poor condition of the hinges, but for the most part, the intact lock holds it steady.

  As much as I want to believe otherwise, I’m certain that the tiny key, still weighing heavily yet snugly in my pocket, will unlock this box. Of course, much of that certainty comes from the similar ornate design between the two, but mostly, that confidence originates from my assumption about my follower: that he’s looking into the same thing I am.

  And, well, I suppose that’s all well and good, but why now? Why is a stranger looking into a decades-old case now, of all times? Of course, it could be a coincidence, or maybe he’s spent this entire time looking into it and I just happened to stumble upon him in the midst of his work. I don’t place much stock in the latter possibility. Or the former, really.

  No, I think that, as seems to have been the case of late, my arrival here has somehow triggered the onset of some series of events that I’ll initially think are independent of me but are actually intricately woven into my life, in ways that cut deep into my past and shape my future. Or something.

  That line of logic opens even more questions, however. I sit on the lower bunk to think, and the mattress issues a sigh that seems, strangely, equal parts muffled and amplified.

  Who could that be, and how could he find me here? Why would someone follow me here and set to work on an old case? How long has he been here? What is his ultimate goal? Is he friendly? And if so, why doesn’t he reveal himself? And if not, what is he waiting for? If he was able to find me here, he almost certainly knows where I live, and has thus had plenty of opportunity to strike or to call in the cavalry, if that is his goal. That he’s friendly is the more likely conclusion, I decide. Even if he were just keeping tabs on me, something would have happened by now if he’s been here long enough to have assembled all of those newspaper clippings and organize them in such a Beth-esque manner.

  Indeed, I think that my new friend is just that. But that takes me back to the question of why he has stayed concealed for so long.

  A couple of other feeble explanation possibilities surface in my mind, but under critical scrutiny, they shrivel and die rather quickly. I’ll have to set that one on the back burner for now.

  The lockbox feels oddly foreign in my hand, like picking up a controller to an unfamiliar game system for the first time. And certainly, I’ve never held it in my hands before, but it has a deeper level of enigma than simple novelty. The air in the room is still, but its chill does not relent.

  I fish the tiny key from my pocket and admire how closely the loopy handle mimics the floral pattern on the box. I expect to meet a worn-down, tarnish-induced resistance, but the key slides in easily with a satisfying click. A similar one follows when I turn the key, and the lid opens up.

  But there’s nothing inside—at least, not at first. Upon more attentive inspection, however, I find that the bottom is false. I can’t pry it up with my fingers, so I hold the box upside-down. The false bottom, a square of thin wood, falls into my waiting hand, and an off-white, folded slip of paper follows it down.

  Someone went to great lengths to keep that a secret. How the staff never found the box itself is beyond me, but based on what Todd has told me, something like that, especially with its metal parts, would definitely be considered contraband. Perhaps this student had a way of hiding it elsewhere when time came to search the bunks. Or maybe they were just incompetent or lazy staff with no regard for thoroughness.

  Becoming ever more aware of the cold (despite the sun’s steady ascent), I lift the folded piece of paper and unfold it with the careful precision of a neurosurgeon. The creases are worn down almost to the point of breaking simply from being unfolded. When I’ve managed to unfold the note completely (intact, miraculously), I hold it in the brighter area by the window, but still have trouble reading the faded text—it was written in pencil, decades ago. To say that time has had an adverse effect on its legibility would be an understatement.

  But alas, the light of my flashlight, in tandem with that shining in through the window, is enough to make out the short message: “I love you, Dubz. We’ll be together soon.”

  Dubz? Must be referring to the ‘W’ at the beginning of ‘Willa.’ I must admit that I’m a bit deflated at my find. I’m not sure what I was expecting—maybe a telling, hard-hitting, undeniable piece of evidence that would blow the thing wide open.

  I am inclined to think that the note belonged to Willa and, if not, is at least related to this case somehow. Why else would my mystery friend have come and dropped off the key?

  That leads into a bigger question,
one which has been skating around the outskirts of my mind like a spider caught in a tub, now circling the drain before plunging into it: Does this guy ever plan on contacting me? He ushered me into a piece evidence regarding Willa’s death after I discovered his collection of relevant newspaper clippings, but if he ever plans on reaping the benefits from that endeavor, he either has to confront me or steal it from me. I remind myself that neither scenario is outside the realm of possibility.

  Carefully, carefully, I fold the delicate paper back up, following its creases to ensure that I fold it the same way it was done before, tuck it into the lockbox, fit the wooden concealment piece back in, and close the lid, locking it with that same satisfying sound as with which it opened. I wrap the box in several layers of paper towel from my backpack and place it snugly inside.

  An interesting, potentially juicy find, to be sure, but without a bit more context, it’s not all that damning. Maybe it will be more substantial when pieced together with other, more established evidence. But I remind myself, too, that I’m in a uniquely advantageous position in that regard. Sure, people have come through here, but as far as I can tell, none of them were equipped with the necessary knowledge and tools to get into the locked areas. In this moment of reflection, I remember that the window at the back had been smashed in, but the door leading from it remained locked, and everything beyond that has seemed entirely undisturbed. This allows me a much more honest look around than, say, a rogue thrill-seeker looking through the front entrance area.

  For now, though, I’m starting to get tired. It seems to be sometime in the late morning, and if I set aside eight hours for sleep (a sort of joke I play with myself, apparently), that leaves me with three or four hours of exploration time before night falls again. I could probably get away with leaving a bit earlier, but I’ll make that call later on. As for how I’m going to split my time, I think the sooner I get some sleep, the better. That way, I’ll be sharper in my calculations and, should the need for some action arise, I’ll be better prepared for it. Besides, my misadventure in New Mexico last month taught me more than any human should know about sleep deprivation, and since then, I’ve seized any opportunity I’ve gotten to sleep—within healthy parameters, of course.

  With that in mind, I head back out toward the common area. The couch doesn’t seem too dusty, but that might just be a result of my total immersion in and subsequent desensitization to it.

  So I lie down, and my nostrils fill with a concentrated version of that old mustiness, and before I have the time to recoil from it or perhaps adjust to a position in which I’m less prone to it, I find myself relaxing into that position. The room is chilly, emphasized now that I’m stationary, but the old, stiff couch holds my body heat well and I find that I’m actually quite comfortable.

  I lie for quite some time, awake, in that tricky mental limbo between subconscious and conscious. I can feel thoughts, analyses, and speculations struggling against the partition from one direction, while the primal emotions and sensations hammer away at the other. The strange, elusive state I’m in allows me only the briefest view of both, and for a split second, I amuse myself with thoughts about how I so often consider those two planes to be so separate and distinct, a thought which is only amusing because of how entirely it contrasts with reality. Indeed, cognition and emotion are different, but with very few exceptions, the two do not exist independently of each other. Many decisions are solely calculated ones, and many are born exclusively of emotion, passion, the heat of the moment, as they say. But most decisions are rooted and executed in a measured combination of both.

  And as this thought manages to champion the pensive side of this dichotomy, leading it through the barrier, my last act of cognition before drifting off to sleep is to wonder whether these thoughts and ideas will persist once I’ve woken up.

  I fall asleep.

  My life, up until about a year ago, was very measured. Figuratively in most cases, but still literally in many. And even as I plunged myself into the events that catalyzed this seemingly endless chain reaction, I took steps that were measured and calculated. My damning mistake was to underestimate Keroth. But all it takes is for one variable to be misvalued to fuck up entire equations.

  That being the case, my life since then has been anything but measurable and calculated. It’s been a dizzying flurry of hiding and evading, picking fights from the shadows, getting shot at, doing some shooting of my own, and various messages—cryptic, threatening, and endearing. But even so, never before have I been quite as disoriented as I am now, waking up with my nose (and mouth, it seems) full of dust. It takes longer than ever for me to blink my mind into focus. The room comes into view, but everything seems foreign and comes together at odd angles. It’s still blurry from my slumber and a tricky evening hue lends its colors all over the spectrum. The ordeal seems to last several minutes, but in reality, it probably only takes a few seconds for me to float back into mental clarity.

  On the last of those seconds, a flood of memories rushes in, one full of sneaking and lockpicking and perusing. Last night, this seemed like quite a thrill. Right now, however, the prospect of rising from my horizontal haven to do anything is less than attractive.

  Eventually, a sense of urgency prods at me hard enough to overcome my apathy, and I sit up in preparation to leave my little patch of warmth. The room has heated up considerably, but it still takes a colossal amount of willpower to push myself forward.

  Onward. I have more to explore. Briefly, I go to the window to see if I can get a better idea of what time it is. The sun still has some time before it hits the western mountains, but I did sleep for longer than I anticipated. That itself is a relief, but it may bite me in the ass if I find much more interesting content during the second half of my excursion. And while the adventurous part of me hopes for just that, the rest of me longs for the quiet, safe, dark solitude of my apartment.

  In that small moment, a more vocal part of me awakens—one that went to sleep not hours ago, but weeks ago. This is a part of me that got buried after I parted ways with Todd. And the function of this part, simply put, is to appreciate. To act as an audience to the natural spectacles of the world and the less natural spectacles of mankind. To indulge in the beauty of everywhere and to gawk at the marvels of life.

  That part didn’t see much use growing up, but as I got into college and began to explore who I really am, that section awoke with the mighty hunger of a grizzly coming out of hibernation. As such, I immersed myself in movies, music, video games, and books. Of course, we were allowed books growing up (they aren’t in the least noisy), but with my newfound love for art, I was able to appreciate them in a new light, an enlightening luminescence that seemed to reveal to me previously unseen secrets as though translating them from some lost language written in the stars.

  I was able to empathize with the characters, immerse myself in the plots, and connect my senses to the settings laid out by the pages. Finally, the ideas and dynamics involved in the pages offered me something beautiful. Something beyond the intricate patterns of the words: story.

  That understanding, vague and rogue and wondrous and fascinating all at once.

  Then that part thrived, on and on until about a month ago. It was shut off as a side effect, a precautionary measure, like how one shuts off a water main in order to prevent leaking and flooding from broken pipes farther up the line.

  It was dangerous, a detriment to my efficacy, an indirect hurdle between me and my goal of self-preservation. And now, that newly awoken chunk of me has a request to make: Let’s go outside, so we can watch night fall. Just like old times. Let me watch the sunset.

  This thought ushers me into action at last.

  For now, I’m willing to oblige. My imprudence seems to be reprimanded almost immediately, however, as when I stand to go outside, I hear voices. They’re distant, almost faint enough for me to miss them, but as I train my ears upon them, I become more and more aware of the risk I was about to take. The v
oices belong to a minimum of two males, as distinctly as I can hear.

  Their tones are without passion; they could be discussing the weather, or the freshly begun school year. In any case, I’m too far removed to discern any specific words or phrases, and in reality, I’m not sure whether I want to close that distance. If they move close enough to me that I worry about being discovered, I will then occupy myself with the particulars of their intentions, but as it seems that nobody else has managed to explore this area before me (and as I have closed all of the relevant doors behind me), I have confidence that my identity and even my very presence here shall go undiscovered. Still, my sudden and thirsty impulse to go outside is, for the moment, quelled, and I thus resolve to continue my search of the school for the time being.

  Party poopers.

  When I approach the door, I wipe away a thin film of tears. Perhaps my water main has been opened back up. I must will it closed, though, lest I be caught in a vortex of emotion at a fatally inopportune time. Indeed, this flood is inevitable, but what I can control is when to indulge it, and now is not that time.

  What I can see of the sunset is beautiful and brilliant, the birds chirp merrily and the wind is low, but something in the air buzzes with the sensation of imminent bad news, like a phone call or knock at the door at two in the morning.

  I can’t afford to dwell on that, however. I tack that in with the other exploding sentiments threatening to turn me into a blubbering mess and, with tremendous effort, summon my mental spotlight (thoughtlight?) to the present—not only the now, but the here. The gentle stillness of the room, my self-inflicted adventure, and the pregnant potential of breaking open a case widely assumed resolved decades ago. And while I am able to refocus myself and steer my actions toward my end goal, my mind is still aflutter with the case, with building a present out of the past.