The Back Door of Midnight

by Elizabeth Chandler

  I knew of two people angry enough to get into a fight with Uncle Will: Aunt Iris, fearing he was going to put her away, and Audrey Sanchez, believing he was in league with the devil. Elliot Gill had once been very angry, but why would he hurt Uncle Will after so many years? And then there was Carl, who was obviously worried about the police finding out who was at the fire and who seemed a likely candidate for the earlier harassment of Uncle Will. But even if I came up with solid reasons for these suspects to intentionally or accidentally strike the blow that killed Uncle Will, it wouldn’t matter without evidence. The most likely place to find evidence was the site of the murder, which the police didn’t seem to know.

  But maybe I did. Somehow, before I even arrived in Wisteria, I had seen where the car had burned; some part of me had visited the place. In my second O.B.E., I began somewhere else and ended up at the fire site: What if I was seeing the place where my uncle was struck on the head? Maybe in that O.B.E., I made the journey with him from the time of the attack to the disposal of his body. If I saw the actual place where he was killed, would I recognize it the way I had recognized the fire site?

  I pulled into the area at the top of Aunt Iris’s driveway, waited for a car to pass, then made a U-turn on Creek Road. Driving to where it forked off Scarborough, I headed away from town toward the large tulip poplar. A storm was brewing. The sky, which had been sullen all afternoon, was growing darker in the west, and when I got to the landmark, its leaves looked pale against the threatening clouds. I turned onto the road that ran through Tilby’s Dream and drove between fields of soy and corn. Their vibrant green yellowed in the pre-storm light.

  My plan was to check the immediate area, working my way outward from the fire site. I couldn’t remember anything at the actual site that looked like a wall with notches in it, but I remembered how Erika’s clues, her riddles, were metaphors; maybe the images in my O.B.E.s worked in a similar way. Having turned at the “spring flower” in the riddle, I finally spotted the “green tunnel” and parked my car at its entrance.

  I jogged down the dirt road. The old trees and overgrown brush were gloomy, the air oppressive. I was glad to reach the clearing. It was still cordoned off by the yellow police tape. To the left were fields that stretched to the horizon. To the right was a small, uncultivated field hemmed by pine. I walked a ways into the pine trees, perhaps a quarter of a mile, and saw that the wood and its soft floor of needles seemed to go on and on. At that point I stopped. If Uncle Will had been killed here, there would be a limit to how far his body could be easily carried, and the space between the pines was too narrow to drive.

  I returned to the burn site, then headed down the road that ran in the opposite direction from which I had come, walking through an identical avenue of trees and passing through open fields. The route curved until I found myself back on what I thought was Scarborough Road, although far enough from the big poplar that I couldn’t see it. I turned and retraced my steps.

  It occurred to me that, for the murderer, convenience might not have been possible—or even necessary. Given Aunt Iris’s habit of coming and going any time of day or night, and her state of confusion, there would be time to kill Uncle Will and move his body before anyone thought to ask where he was or wonder why she hadn’t reported him missing.

  Since convenience didn’t limit the murderer, the crime could have been done anywhere that Uncle Will might go. Obviously, I needed the help of someone familiar with the town and the area around it, someone who would recognize the images in my O.B.E. and guess the riddle they presented.

  I wanted to trust Zack, but I couldn’t because of his loyalty to Erika. Marcy would be even more familiar with Wisteria and the area around it, but I would have to think of a reason for asking about an image like a notched wall. I could say I had seen the place in one of my mother’s photos and I wondered where it was.

  When I reached the fire site again, I heard a rumble of thunder. In the open country, it seemed to roll and roll, like a bowling ball thrown down an endless lane. I knew underneath trees were dangerous places to hang out in a storm, but despite what they said on the Weather Channel, I wasn’t inclined to seek out a low-lying rut in a field. I crossed the burn site and started through the avenue of trees that led to my car, hoping to beat the storm.

  A second peal of thunder sounded closer, and I broke into a jog. The thunder was followed by silence, a long, ominous quiet. A fluttering of birds broke the spell. Wind gusted and branches tossed. I saw a streak of lightning through the trees on the right. I never saw what was coming from the left.

  I was hit hard from behind and slammed to the ground. The breath was knocked out of me—I couldn’t scream, couldn’t fight back. Facedown in the road, I gasped for air. Branches and shells ground into my skin. My mouth got gritty with sand.

  I tried to pull my knees up under me, tried to get leverage to stand up, but the person holding me down was heavy. I struggled to cover my head with my arms—all I could think of was Uncle Will struck from behind. But the attacker grabbed my hands and pinned my arms to the ground, bending my wrists at odd angles over the ruts in the road. Now I had my breath again, now I screamed, screamed in pain and fear. I got a knee thrust in my back.

  “Listen to me,” a male voice said. “Listen, if you don’t want to get hurt.”

  I continued to struggle and got my hair pulled hard. I howled like a beaten puppy.

  They laughed. There was more than one.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Yes,” I hissed.

  “Stay out of Erika’s business.”

  I strained to pick up my head. “It’s my uncle’s business I care about.”

  My face was pushed back in the dirt.

  “Stay out of it,” said a male voice different from the first. “Your uncle’s dead. Don’t make us stuff you in a trunk.”

  Their laughter was drowned out by a crack of thunder and a sound like wood splitting. The pressure lightened on me for a second, then I was shoved facedown again. It was raining hard even under the trees, turning the road beneath me into a river of grit. I had to shut my eyes to keep out the splashing sand and mud.

  “We’re going to let you go, but don’t move. We’ll be right back on you. Count to a hundred. Do it nice and slow. Don’t get up till you’ve reached the end. Then walk real slow back to your car. Don’t tell the police. Don’t tell anyone. We’ll know. And we won’t be so friendly next time.”

  I was released. As soon as I heard the slap of their racing feet against the road, I lifted my head. I watched the fleeing figures, three of them, until they were erased by rain. I rose shakily to my feet.

  I walked slowly, not because they had told me to, but because I was stunned by the attack. I was shocked at how easy it was to overpower me, how quickly I had found myself facedown on the ground and unable to fight back. I walked in a daze, hardly hearing the storm, and finally climbed into my car, soaked to the bone. Lightning flashed over and over; I sat staring up at it dully, as if I were waiting for a traffic light to change. At last I switched on the ignition and headed to the house.

  When I pulled into Aunt Iris’s driveway, the rain had nearly stopped, but the trees were dripping heavily. My headlights shone like two ghostly beams through the ground mist. I parked and walked toward the front steps. I longed for a shower, not to get rid of the mud, but to clean off the touch of my attackers. I longed for my family.

  “Anna.”

  I jumped a mile.

  “Whoa! It’s just me.”

  Zack was standing under the covered porch, backlit by the hall light. I stopped at the foot of the steps, and he started down them. “We need to talk and—my God, what happened to you?”

  I backed away from him. When he reached toward me, I put up my hands, instinctively shielding my face. He took my wrists, encircling them with his fingers, holding them gently but firmly. “What happened?”

  “I met up with some of your friends.”

  “Not my friends,” he
said.

  “Okay. Erika’s. Three of them.”

  He turned my hands, examining my scraped palms. “Let’s go inside.”

  “I’ll go inside. You go home.”

  “Did they knock you down?” He crouched to check my knees.

  “Obviously.”

  “Did they do anything else?” His voice sounded as thin and tight as mine.

  “Just held me there while they delivered their message.”

  “Which was?”

  “To keep my nose out of Erika’s business.”

  He stood up, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Did they have a weapon?”

  “A knee in my back, and my hair—that made a nice weapon; they kept yanking on it, then pushing my face in the road.” My voice broke.

  “Oh, Anna.”

  I stiffened and took a step back. Zack was her friend, just like they were her friends.

  “Where did it happen?”

  “Near the fire site. On the dirt road.”

  “I’ll drive you to a doctor.”

  “I don’t need one.”

  “You should be checked out,” he insisted, and took a step closer.

  I turned sideways. “I’m just a little rattled.”

  He laid his hand on my back. As gentle as it was, I winced.

  He winced too. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Anna, I am so sorry.”

  “Go home . . . please. I just need . . . a few minutes by myself.” That line had worked the last time.

  “Not this time,” he said.

  I had no energy left to argue. I turned toward the kitchen entrance, and he followed me. The weather and the trees made it seem like twilight. He searched for the wall switch and flicked it on. “Your aunt’s car is gone,” he observed. “I guess she’s out.”

  “She wanders off at different times. I don’t know where.”

  “Maybe you should put on some dry clothes. I’ll help you upstairs.”

  “No.” I lowered myself onto a wooden chair very gingerly.

  “Could you have broken any bones?”

  “Everything moves. I’m just bruised.”

  He nodded, then began searching the kitchen cabinets. I watched without asking what he was looking for. I felt as if one huge sob was building in my heart.

  Returning with a bowl of water and several soft cloths, he pulled a chair close to mine and began to clean the cuts on my arms. I sat still, watching his hands, the way I used to watch my mother’s when I’d had a bad day at dodgeball.

  “Did you see the guys who did this to you?”

  I shook my head. “Just the backs of them when they were running away. They warned me not to go to the police. They said not to tell anyone. I guess that would include you. They said they would know if I told and they wouldn’t be as friendly next time.”

  I stared at his neck rather than his face and saw him swallow hard. He stood up, brought back fresh water, lukewarm, and gently washed my forehead and cheeks. He knelt on the floor in front of me and examined my knees. “Looks as if you went down on your right one,” he said, wetting a clean cloth and touching it lightly to a large brush burn. I stiffened my leg, fighting the instinct to yank it away. He glanced up. “I’m going to pinch your calf. Just a few pinches, okay?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had a guy goose me on the calf,” I replied, trying to joke my way out of the pain.

  He did what he said, cleaning the cut and pinching at the same time. “This is how my dad used to do it when I’d come home banged up. The theory is that the pinch sends signals to the brain that help drown out the pain signals from the wound. I thought it was worth a try.”

  Zack finished cleaning the other leg, then sat back on his heels. “How do you feel?”

  “Okay.”

  “Is there a first-aid kit around, something with an antibiotic ointment?”

  “I have a kit in the back of my car. I’ll get it later.”

  “I’ll get it for you,” he said.

  “I’m not helpless.” I sounded angry.

  There was a moment of tense silence, then he tapped me on the foot. “If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that you are not helpless.” He rose and rinsed out the rags, washed out the bowl with soap and water, and laid everything on the drain board.

  “Why did you go back to the fire site?” he asked when he was done.

  “I was looking for the place where my uncle was murdered.”

  “The police must have already searched the area,” he replied. “The farm is large, with acres of it leased out to other growers, but I’m sure it’s been searched thoroughly. When a body is found, everyone starts looking.”

  “Have you ever seen a place that has a wall with notches along the top, like the wall of a castle? There’s a door in the wall or some way to get through. There are pathways and a statue of a rabbit. Have you ever seen anything like that? Outside of Disney World,” I added, aware of how silly it sounded.

  Zack shook his head no, then looked at me thoughtfully. “But you have. You see things the way a psychic does.”

  “At night, when I sleep”—I hesitated, but he’d already figured out that something strange was going on inside my head—“I have these things called O.B.E.s, out-of-body experiences.”

  Zack sat on the kitchen chair next to mine. “You mean like people who are resuscitated? The ones who say they have floated outside their bodies and watched a medical staff working on them?”

  “According to the books I’ve been reading, some people have O.B.E.s even when they’re not dying. Last Wednesday night, I thought that I was dreaming about a fire. Kids were there. I heard them laughing and throwing bottles. Then there were sirens and everyone ran. I heard my uncle’s voice calling to me, telling me to be careful. A few days later, when I came to Wisteria, I found out he was dead and his body had been burned in a fire that same night. When I went to the site, it was the same place I had seen while sleeping. The night I heard you and Erika talking about me, I was in bed, but somehow, I was there at the fire site, too.”

  Zack’s only response was to blink.

  “I’ve had three O.B.E.s, each time visiting the fire site. But during the last two, I started out in a different place, the one with the wall and the rabbit, and I’m wondering if that is where my uncle started—if somehow I’ve connected with him and am visiting the place where he was murdered.”

  “Have you said anything to the sheriff?”

  “No. He’d probably think I’m just a crazy O’Neill. I want to try to find the place first. Do you know anything about—”

  I was about to mention Audrey’s husband when two cats raced past us and hurled themselves against the screen door.

  Zack spun around. “What was that?”

  “Aunt Iris is coming,” I said, getting up to let out the cats.

  “How do you know?”

  “I don’t; the cats do. They line up on Uncle Will’s truck and wait for her. I don’t want to tell her what has happened—there’s no telling how she’ll construe it in her head. I’m going to run upstairs and figure out some explanation for my scrapes. You had better go now.”

  Zack peered through the screen door at the cats. “Unbelievable! It’s as if they are waiting for a performance.”

  “Stay clear of the driveway,” I advised. “She stops for nothing but the house.”

  He reached for the door handle, then turned back. “After Iris gets inside, lock all your doors.”

  I didn’t argue that securing this place was impossible.

  “Is your cell phone charged?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Keep it on.” He looked around, found a pen, and wrote his number on a paper napkin. “Write down yours.”

  I did so quickly. I was dangerously close to tears again.

  “Anna?” He rested his hands on my shoulders.

  I couldn’t look at him.

  “Anna, you can trust me.”

  I bit my lip to keep it from trembling.


  “You can trust me,” he repeated. “But I can see you don’t.” He turned and left.

  I hurried upstairs. The truth was, it was myself I couldn’t trust, my eyes from betraying my heart.

  nineteen

  I DIDN’T STOP in my room, but headed straight to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, stepping out of a steamy shower, I found ointment and a box of adhesive bandages in the bathroom cabinet. I took care of my cuts, then checked out a row of prescription bottles belonging to Aunt Iris. All of them contained the same prescription and were filled nearly to the top. The dates of all but one were expired; she had missed an awful lot of doses.

  I wrapped myself in a towel and peeked out the door. Aunt Iris’s door was closed, with a bar of light shining beneath it. Balling up my muddy clothes, I tiptoed down the hall, waiting until I was in Uncle Will’s room to call good night to her. As soon as I entered my attic space, I shut the door behind me.

  It took a minute to find the knob of the small lamp next to my bed. I turned it on, then took a step back. Stones had been placed on my bed, smooth stones painted with black Xs or crosses. They were laid in rows, in the same pattern as those placed on Uncle Will’s “grave.”

  Was this a warning—what happened to William can happen to you?

  I found myself reluctant to touch them. They’re just painted rocks, I told myself; their power exists only in the mind of the one who attributes it to them: Audrey. What a stupid prank! Having regained my common sense, I reached for a stone on the pillow. She was afraid of me—that’s all that this meant. She saw me as another O’Neill, a psychic, a tool of the devil. This was her way of “keeping” me in my place, a safe distance from her.

  But if that was her intention, why not put the stones along the gate between the two properties? This arrangement seemed more personal. My bed resembled, a little too closely, a long, narrow grave. How far would Audrey go to make herself safe from the O’Neills? And what was she really afraid of—a family of “evil psychics” or people who might figure out she had killed my mother? Was she the one who had searched the house last night?