Misplaced Trilogy

by Brian Bennett

  "Yeah, but we got a Jigsaw thing go'in on and we're suspendin' our breakup fur a few weeks."

  Everyone chuckled lightly.

  "How about you, Zach?" Trey asked. "You bringing anyone?"

  "No," Zach feigned, sarcastically. "I want to focus on the movie."

  Billy's eyes glared under the bill of his camouflage hat. "You poke fun all ya want, but I've heard this one's better'n the first two combined."

  After listening to Billy's long prediction of the Jigsaw Three plot twist, Trey looked back toward the young students, and once again, Nigel was missing.

  He scanned the room and nearly jumped out of his skin. Nigel stood in the exit doorway, perfectly still, staring directly at him. Slowly, the boy raised two fingers, then disappeared outside.

  Identity

  TREY RELAXED AT the wheel of his pickup truck. Billy's jacked-up Ford still had him blocked in, and the hot-tempered farm boy was nowhere in sight. Amy and Zach waited alongside him in their usual seats. He hadn't told them about Nigel signaling him in the doorway, and after the way they responded earlier that morning, he didn't plan to now either.

  Zach impatiently gazed through the back window. "It's probably unlocked. We could coast it out of the way."

  "What's the rush?" Amy asked. "Got a hot date?"

  Trey chuckled. "It is hump day."

  "Ha ha," Zach said, making himself comfortable. "No rush, I just thought we could give Billy a dose of his own medicine."

  "Yeah, but I don't think he needs any encouragement. My truck's still in one piece."

  Amy eased down to match Zach's slumped posture and tossed her feet up onto the dash, adding to the cluster of matching toe marks on the windshield.

  A moment later, a nearly imperceptible motion caught the corner of Trey's vision. He threw a quick glance to the side and confirmed that Amy had her pinky finger discreetly looped around Zach's little finger. Trey smiled inwardly, surprised he hadn't noticed sooner.

  Motion stirred in the rearview mirror, and Billy's V8 engine rumbled to life.

  "See," said Trey, turning the ignition key. "I knew he wouldn't be long."

  Trey tore through Longwood on his typical route, dropping off Zach and Amy along the way, keeping his knowledge of their little secret to himself until he was sure he was right.

  He was nearly home when flashing bus lights slowed him to a stop. As he sat waiting, the number on the bumper couldn't be ignored. He wondered if bus ten had always been on this route.

  As the school bus pulled away, he saw only two heads on-board with the driver. The one in the rear had to be Randy Dawson from the last farm at the county line. The head barely visible above the very front seat could only be Nigel's; no other kids lived past him on Route 868.

  He followed bus ten as far as his own house and slowed down to turn in the driveway. As the bus gained distance, curiosity overtook him, and he cancelled the turn signal. He eased the pickup to a creep, keeping a constant check in the rearview for approaching traffic. When the bus was merely a speck in the road, he sped up to match its pace.

  Several miles ahead, the yellow flashers lit up, then turned to red.

  "Widow Taylor's?" he muttered.

  He wondered if the old woman had passed away and a new family bought the farm, but surely he would have heard.

  When the lights quit flashing, he pulled a U-turn and headed for home.

  He turned into the gravel driveway that encircled his family's two-story brick farm house. A pair of matching willow trees adorned the front yard, split by a stone sidewalk leading to the front porch. It was a picturesque setting for his father to write his bestselling novels; most of which Trey had never actually got around to reading.

  He lowered out of his truck with the engine still running and slid open the doors of the old carriage house. He backed his spotless truck into the stall and parked next to his father's beat up old Chevy Blazer.

  A few minutes later, he passed his mother on his way through the kitchen. A half-apron was tied around her narrow waist, and her dark hair was pulled up loosely into a clip.

  He stopped and turned back. "Is Mrs. Taylor still alive?"

  She gave him a surprised look. "As far as I know. Why?"

  "Oh, there's a new kid in school, and I think he's living at her farm."

  She shook her head. "No, you must be mistaken. I met Nigel's mother, and she said they live alone."

  Trey was momentarily taken aback by her calling the new boy by name. But she was, after all, on the school board.

  "So," he asked, "is she strange like he is?"

  "Trey!" She wrinkled her face in disappointment. "He's a very bright boy. And his mother is a very sweet person." She paused for a moment. "Very attractive, too."

  "Mom?"

  "I'm just saying."

  He rolled his eyes. "Where are they living then?"

  She gazed upward in thought. "It would be out . . . oh . . . I guess I don't know."

  "And you're sure Mrs. Taylor . . ."

  "I saw her at Speedy Mart this weekend." Her expression turned to concern. "I'll call her if it will make you feel better."

  "No, don't bother. I've got homework," he lied.

  * * *

  Late that night, Trey was determined to be ready for his would-be intruder. He sat at his bedroom desk watching the window and door while hours trudged past.

  Overtaken with boredom, he picked up his acoustic guitar, but before touching a string, he propped it in the corner again, knowing his parents were likely asleep.

  He drummed his fingers on the surface of the desk.

  His father's books caught his attention. He randomly pulled one out of the row and grimaced. He slid it back in and tried another. This one he had started once before, so he opened the cover and leafed to a scrap of paper he had used for a bookmarker. He swung his feet up onto the desk and started reading.

  Several chapters later, he moved to his bed and propped up against the headboard to continue. The story was actually very good. He glanced over to the desk, trying to remember if there was a sequel.

  After finishing the story, he smiled, wondering why he hadn't finished it the first time. He flipped back to the first page and started rereading from the beginning.

  Somewhere around the second chapter, the feeling of being watched crept over him.

  "I wondered when you'd get here." he said, lowering the book.

  The hooded visitor stood motionless and quiet at the foot of his bed.

  Trey strained his eyes, trying to recognize the shadowy face that didn't seem like Nigel's.

  "Why don't you talk to me?" Trey asked. "Who are you?"

  The murky character raised one finger into the air.

  "Three, two, one," Trey chided. "What does that mean?"

  A pair of small hands rose to remove the dark hood and paused hesitantly.

  Slowly, locks of long brown hair tumbled out of the shadows as a teenage girl pulled back the hood. Though the brunette looked very much like Nigel, she was older and noticeably more feminine.

  She smiled warmly at Trey and vanished.

  Trey grunted in aggravation and threw his father's book through the empty space where the intruder had stood moments before.

  Dream

  WHEN TREY WOKE the following morning, his neck was stiff from sleeping most of the night propped against the headboard. His father's book lay open beside him, rather than on the floor across the room.

  "I knew it was all a dream."

  He skimmed a few chapters near the end of the novel and let out a disheartened groan; most of the reading had also been a dream. To equal dismay, the bookmark was only a few chapters beyond where it had been when he moved to bed.

  He thought back to the troubling image of Nigel signaling him from the cafeteria doorway. Two fingers could have easily been a peace sign, an odd coincidence.

  He tossed the book aside and rolled out of bed, ready for a new day.

  With his mind at ease, the school day
went by much smoother than the previous. Nigel didn't flash secret hand signals or leave Coke in his locker. Zach even commented on him being less distracted and more like himself.

  After dropping off Zach and Amy on the way home, Trey cranked up the stereo and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel along with the lively beat.

  As he approached the entrance to his driveway, a nagging question resurfaced that he had yet to explain away. If Nigel was not living with Mrs. Taylor, then who the heck was?

  He tromped the gas pedal and the tiny four-cylinder engine feebly responded. By the time the Taylor farm came into view, the pickup was humming along at nearly eighty. He got on the brakes a short way past the house and came to an aggressive stop. He cut the wheel hard and backed up behind a row of trees that lined Mill Creek. In the thin cover of overgrowth, he slid to the passenger seat and rolled down the window while peering off toward the tiny, neglected farm house. The smell of crude oil wafted into the truck from the nearby pump head.

  Before long, the yellow school bus appeared in the distance. As the bus slowly approached, his heart rate quickened.

  "What am I doing?" he said out loud.

  But it was too late to sneak away now; the flashing lights were already announcing the stop.

  Even at his range, it was clearly Nigel who stepped off the bus. The boy turned and waved to the driver as the doors drew shut. Nigel stood waiting next to the road as the bus hissed and groaned, slowly pulling away.

  Trey slid back to the driver seat and prepared to casually wave when the bus passed, but the driver looked straight ahead and gave him no notice.

  He turned the key, and loud music blared through the cab, jerking him into a frenzy to spin down the volume. He glanced back to see if Nigel had heard, and surprisingly, the boy was still looking straight ahead across the blacktop.

  Trey took a double-take, and his jaw dropped to his lap. He no longer saw a young boy. The person now standing at the roadside was unmistakably old Mr. Taylor, a man whose funeral Trey had attended no less than five years ago.

  Trey sat mesmerized as farmer Taylor walked through the yard and entered the weathered old barn.

  "I'm going crazy," he mumbled, shifting the truck into gear.

  The pickup slowly crept through the grass toward Route 868. When he checked down the long straightaway for traffic, a car was approaching the Taylor farm with a turn signal flashing. He threw the truck into reverse and spun the wheels back into the tree cover.

  Two men in dark suits got out of a bulky, decades old vehicle and talked to each other over the top of the car. After a while, they sauntered up onto the overgrown front porch and knocked on the door.

  Impatiently, the two men peered through the hazy windows when no one came immediately to the door. One of them opened the screen door and pounded hard on the glass.

  Before long, Widow Taylor appeared in the half-open entrance.

  The men talked for a long time while the old woman stood motionless in her doorway. Eventually, Mrs. Taylor disappeared behind the closed door. One of the men stepped forward and pounded on the window again.

  The elevated voice of one man called out to her through the closed door.

  When the door opened again, the old woman had a phone pressed to her ear. The men took her cue and stepped off the porch and headed to their car, peering inside every house window along the way.

  Mrs. Taylor stood talking on her phone well after the men sped out of her driveway. Trey waited nervously for her to return inside before also pulling away.

  When he was finally home, walking away from the carriage house, Sheriff Smead flew by in his cruiser. The local peacekeeper threw a friendly wave out the window as he passed.

  * * *

  Trey shifted peas around on his dinner plate with a stainless-steel fork. After a while, he looked across the small Formica-top table to his father's questioning brown eyes; he wasn't sure how long his mother had been hovering a basket of rolls toward him.

  "Oh," Trey said, plucking out a warm offering. "Thanks."

  The slightly thicker, pushing-forty version of Trey grinned and returned to sawing away at his heavily charred steak.

  His mother set down the basket and pushed the butter dish toward Trey. "You're being awfully quiet," she said. "Is something bothering you?"

  Trey considered throwing everything out on the table. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't imagine telling his parents he saw Hershel Taylor walk into his barn.

  "No, I'm fine." He bit off a chunk of soft, warm bread.

  She pursed her lips and pulled back the untouched butter. "Are you and Amy getting along?"

  He stopped chewing and questioned her with a furrowed brow.

  "You never bring her to the house anymore," she said.

  He swallowed his bite and smiled. "Amy and I are fine, Mom."

  She nodded and gazed down at his barely touched meal.

  "I'm just not hungry," he said. "Do you mind if I pack this up for later?"

  "I'll box it for you," she said, rising out of her seat.

  His dad reached across the table and forked the steak from Trey's plate. "It's better right off the grill."

  Trey excused himself from the kitchen and escaped to his bedroom, eager for nightfall. As crazy as it seemed, he was certain answers would come in his dreams.

  After hours of pacing his room, he settled into bed earlier than usual, but sleep was elusive. The eerie countdown flashed repeatedly through his mind. Nigel had aged then turned to a girl. Who was next? Mr. Taylor?

  He pinched the skin of his arm to confirm he was still awake. The feel of the pinch made him wonder if he was merely dreaming the sensation.

  Sleep crept upon him unnoticed, and the dark figure's sudden appearance caused him no alarm.

  "Welcome back," Trey said.

  Embarrassment warmed over him; he hoped to see the blue-eyed girl. He tilted forward and strained to make out the shadowy face.

  Unlike the other nights, the visitor held up no fingers and went straight to removing the hood. Whoever was concealed beneath the cover seemed unsure of the outcome and waited reluctantly.

  "It's all right," Trey reassured.

  Slowly, the hood pulled away.

  Trey tensed in his bed. The girl underneath looked very much like she had the night before, yet completely different. Any resemblance to Nigel was completely absent. The brown flowing locks were also gone, replaced by short blonde hair. Her bright blue eyes were the same, only twice or three times a normal size. Her fair skin appeared soft and smooth like a baby. All her features were human yet altered in some fashion to the point of being somehow alien, altered to the point of being disturbing yet somehow beautiful.

  "Who are you?" he whispered.

  "I'm Nigel," she answered.

  Trey was flabbergasted that she actually spoke.

  "You can talk?"

  She nodded.

  "You're . . . female?"

  She smiled and nodded again.

  "Is this what you really look like?"

  "Yes," she said. "I revealed myself slowly to save you the shock."

  Her thin lips moved as she spoke, but her words entered his mind without traveling through the air. The nearly imperceptible difference gave the impression of watching a movie while wearing headphones.

  "Why are you here?" he asked.

  "I need your help."

  "How? What kind of help?"

  "It's too involved for me to explain in your dream. Can you come to me in person tomorrow?"

  He hesitated. With a slow nod, he finally answered, "Yes."

  "Margery Taylor's barn, after school."

  He nodded again.

  She smiled warmly, and her image slowly faded.

  "Wait," he insisted. "Do I have to come alone?"

  After a lengthy pause, her words danced across his mind. "No. We may need your friends."

  "We? You mean like, you and me? Right?"

  No further response came.
/>
  * * *

  "You know how crazy that sounds?" Amy asked, centered between Trey and Zach in the small pickup.

  "Yes," said Trey. "I know. Trust me, I know."

  Zach shook his head in disbelief.

  Trey pleaded with his friends. "You don't have to believe me. Just go with me tonight. If I'm crazy, we'll know it right away."

  "What if you're not crazy?" Amy asked. "Shouldn't we tell someone?"

  "Seriously?" asked Zach.

  She flopped back into her seat and crossed her arms.

  Trey looked to Zach. "How about it then?"

  Zach shook his head vigorously. "There's a big problem."

  Trey and Amy both looked at him expectantly.

  "Jigsaw!" Zach said. "Billy's gonna kill us if we miss it."

  Trey grunted. "I don't give a crap about Jigsaw."

  "Like I do? But Billy won't care if it's a full-blown alien invasion."

  Trey felt a sting at the word alien, but he chose not to defend his . . . friend.

  Amy spoke up. "The first showing isn't till seven. Surely we can be back by then."

  Trey smiled. "So, you'll go?"

  Amy and Zach looked at each other reluctantly and nodded in unison.

  Barn

  TREY WASN’T SURPRISED that Nigel was absent from school that day. He had actually been relieved to see the smart kids filing into the cafeteria without him . . . her.

  But when the school day was over, Billy had added a wrinkle to their plans.

  After waiting fifteen minutes, Billy's unattended Ford was still parked right behind Trey's truck, blocking their exit.

  "I'm gonna move it," said Trey.

  Zach looked again toward the school building. "I think we better wait."

  Trey rolled his eyes and shoved himself out of the truck.

  As he suspected, Billy's door was unlocked. He reached inside and knocked the shifter out of gear. He pushed against the door frame, and after a few shoves, the truck started rolling forward easier than expected. When it was completely out of the way, he hopped in and threw the truck back into gear. In the rearview, he saw Zach's head bobbing above the tailgate. It suddenly made sense why the truck had moved so effortlessly.

  Trey raced back to his pickup and Zach jumped into the seat opposite him, squashing Amy between them in the middle. Trey raked the gears and sped out of the lot before Billy could spot them.