Once Again

by Catherine Wallace Hope

  Today, when Dan finally answered, his hello sounded surprised, excited. “What’s up?” he said.

  “I need a favor.” Zac kept his head and his voice low.

  “Sure,” Dan said. “Everything okay?”

  “Yep,” he said, “but I’m locked in here.”

  “Today’s your day, right? Your sim and everything? How’s that going?”

  “It’s … interesting.” Zac hurried on, “But listen, I got a weird voicemail from Erin.”

  “Oh,” Dan said, his tone one of recognition. The ongoingness of it.

  “Well, actually,” Zac added, “just a voicemail with no content.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell his brother about the date stamp in the log.

  “Uh-huh,” Dan said. “Strange.”

  “I think …” Zac’s voice broke. He wanted to collapse into the arms of the boy his brother had once been and cry the way he had when his bearded dragon died. “Maybe there’s a problem with her phone or something. I don’t know. I would really appreciate it if you could swing by the house and see if … and just say hi. Make sure she’s okay.”

  “No problem,” Dan said. “I can run up there in a bit, after work.”

  “Great.”

  “Around six okay?” His concern softened the timbre of his voice.

  “Six,” Zac said. It would be a long time until then, and he wished he could get some reassurance right now. “Sure. Thanks. Let me know, okay?”

  “Of course,” Dan said. “Anything you need.”

  When Zac hung up, he was powerfully tempted to put his phone in the pocket of his coveralls. He wanted to hold it next to him, but he couldn’t take it back into the Clean Room and violate the sanctum that way. The protocol was to lock it in one of the property lockers in the bank of small doors against the wall. Instead, he left it powered on and stowed it above the lockers, propped up against the wall. Tilting his head to test the sightline, he made sure he could see the phone from his dock when a call lit it up. As he checked, Mark watched from inside the Clean Room, and with a nod he let Zac know he understood.

  After Zac pulled on another set of coveralls, he took his notebook and reentered the Clean Room. Jin arched his eyebrows and shrugged with a shake of the head as if to inquire wordlessly about what was with all of the secret comings and goings. Zac tried to offer a look of reassurance but it seemed to fail, an unconvincing combination of false fortitude and doubt.

  He turned his mind back to the sound of Erin’s voice when he’d last spoken to her. That bell-like quality that meant she understood what he was trying to do. He tried to calm himself, but when he sat down to work, his focus was scattered, his thoughts like arrows fired but then lost.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Day Of: Friday, February 7, 2020 | Chautauqua Park

  Later in the afternoon, Aidon decided it was time to take her where they could have a little face-to-face time. He took Flagstaff west and drove up into the hills and over to the road to the hideout. It wasn’t really a hideout; it was just the mill of the old Three Dog Knight Mine beyond Woods Quarry. According to his uncle, there was still a lawsuit going on from years ago, when fucking inspectors had shut down the mine, but the power was still on to run the venting. Some asshole showed up every now and then to switch it on for a few hours so the whole fucking thing wouldn’t go up in a giant fireball. Aidon stayed in the mill sometimes when he had no place to sleep, if his roommate was being a bitchhole about the money or some other bullshit. Never had brought one of his girlies up here, though. Should have thought of this place a long time ago.

  It was getting late, like 4:00, when he ran his plow up the slope in front of the mill, and once he’d made sure there was no one else around, he parked and gave the windows at the front of the building a look-see. All nice and dark and quiet, so he could be alone with his present.

  When he opened his door, the wind snagged it and yanked it wide, with a blast of snow in his face. He got out and stomped through the snow pile to the passenger side, opened the door, and lifted the duffel with her in it. Light and easy. She slithered some when he threw her over his shoulder, so he smacked her on the ass and said, “Cool it, babe.” And she did. He stuffed the pills in his pocket, grabbed the drinks off the seat, and kicked the door shut with his foot.

  He got his present inside, but it was fucking cold in there. He put her down on the desk and toed the switch on the space heater. After he flipped all the wall switches, he counted only three bulbs that were working. But that was fine, better for the mood.

  He sat his pretty up on the desk and tugged the duffel out from under her and off over her head. He smoothed her hair and took a good look at her face. Holy fucking shit, she was beautiful. The most beautiful one yet.

  “Be good, babe,” he told her.

  He started to tug at the top button of her sweater, a little pearly one. Lock the door this time, Aidon. He had to remind himself of some things. He stepped over to the door, spied through the glass to be sure, and clicked the deadbolt.

  When he turned back around, she was trying to sneak out the other door at the back of the room. He barreled across the space and grabbed her just in time. Pulled her hair. He didn’t mean to do that, but she could have gotten away. Clean fucking away. Little bitch. He pulled her arms behind her back and clamped her wrists in his fist, real tight. He knew he had some big double-tie wraps in the truck, cool ones he’d saved because they were like handcuffs.

  He unlocked the door and dragged her out there into the storm. Fuck, what a noise she made. He told her to shut the fuck up and fished around in the back of the cab, with one hand, until he found the tie wraps. Once he got her back inside and got them on her, he held her chin tight and said, “No fucking running.” She was still shaking, and her eyes dripped some, but he could fix that. It was going to be a great night.

  He took a pull off the Jack and it made him feel warm and romantic. He put the bottle to her lips and tipped it up for her, but she coughed it all out like she had fucking pneumonia or something.

  “It’s just a little medicine, sweetheart,” he told her, and he took another pull. He didn’t want to hog it all. “Come on, babe, have a sip.” He held the bottle to her lips, but she squinched her eyes and shook her head no. “It’ll be easier on you,” he said, “if you do what I say.” He jiggled the neck of the bottle between her lips and poured in a good chug.

  She coughed it up again all over her pants.

  “Well, shit,” he said, “I’m not gonna give you any more if you’re gonna waste it.”

  He sat back with the Jack bottle against his belly and told her the story about the time he slurped a fifth of Jack or two and snorted some fucking unreal crystal and drove down to Gunnison for a hunting rally with some buddies of his, and how they stayed out in the blind, slurping for two days, and how he brought down a monarch bull, eight fucking points. Which wasn’t quite true. He kind of admitted that. But he told her what a great time they had. She was a really good listener.

  The bottle was almost half empty by then. He had a nice buzz going, and he thought it would probably be best to get things going soon. She was little and she would probably get tired early. He didn’t want to rush. He wanted it to last and last, this time.

  “Maybe someday,” he said, “we could take a trip to Billings.” He popped an oxy out of the pack, pulled out his Army knife, and crushed the red pill into a Pepto-pink powder. “I got a buddy up there with a cabin right on the river.” He rolled up a dollar bill and railed the first quarter dose. “Have you ever been fishing?”

  She said nothing, but she looked back at him with those beautiful eyes, minky eyelashes, so maybe she needed a second to think about it. The sugary sunrise of the oxy brightened in his head. His whole body rushed with warm goosebumps.

  “I fucking love fishing. I could show you.”

  He sniffed up a second quarter, and within moments, the brightness brimmed golden out beyond his head, smooth and slow and wide. He had a vision
of her swimming along in the calm river, naked, lazy, the pale ripply sun diamonding her ass skin as she frog-kicked her legs open and closed. He could tell everybody she was his niece. He wondered if she would think he was good-looking in his swim trunks. Probably another thing that made him attractive to her was how good he was at conversation. He had tons of good stories. Funny ones.

  He gently snuffled the third quarter, and then he ran his gaze over her. She was glorious. His mind floated on a shimmery lake of warm light, and he felt like a liquid quicksilver man among mud men. He zoomed in on her pretty cloud-colored eyes.

  She said something to him in an airy murmur.

  “What was that?” he said and inched closer.

  She whispered, “Please let me go.”

  He sat back. Disappointing. A little dark spot of pissed off. “You’re gonna have to relax,” he said.

  He offered her the rolled-up bill, but she just looked at it. Of course, stupid. She has no hands. He popped three pills out of the pack. One little piggy, two little piggies, third little piggy is a charm.

  He told her, “This should make you feel great. Super great.” With tender fingers, he nudged the pills between her lips and tipped the rim of the cherry Coke bottle for her to slurp. She clamped her mouth shut and made him spill some. “Don’t fuck with me!” he shouted. Her shoulders tightened up, and she tensed even more. Fuck. He didn’t mean to yell at her. “Please,” he said, and he gave her his warmest sunbeam-breaking-through-the-clouds smile. “Swallow.” He poured a nice blast of cherry Coke between her lips. And she did swallow like a good girl. “Let me see,” he said. He pulled her chin down and looked for the red pills. There was still one in there, so he gave her another glug and inspected in there again. All gone. “That’s right,” he told her. “Nice and simple.”

  She was only a little wisp of a thing, so he took it easy unbuttoning her sweater. And he slowly and calmly put her over his shoulder to take down her pants. He tugged them to her ankles and then sat her ever so softly back on the top of the desk. After he pulled the pants off over her feet, he peeled off her socks and took a second to admire the glittery purple nail polish on her toenails. Very fancy and elegant. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him so far.

  He poured some cherry Coke into the Jack bottle and sloshed it a bit. He wanted to have sweet breath for her, so he chugged a little and let the foam fizzle around his tongue. He scooted in close and put an arm around her, and he pressed his cheek against her perfect pink skin. The smell of her was like fruity candy. And she felt very warm.

  His eyes not quite able to focus on hers, he said, “Is it too hot in here?” He thought maybe the space heater was up too high, but he felt fine—amazing, in fact.

  A sound startled him. Nearly split him out of his skin. What the fuck? Came from outside. Was somebody out there? He hotfooted it over to the door. Damn, he didn’t have his rifle with him. If he’d known what was going to happen today, he would have brought it, but it was at home. He unlocked the door and jerked it open. He leaned out and searched both ways. The storm was thicker now, the hills blurry, but he could see pretty far. There was nothing moving out there. Maybe snow falling off the roof? He listened for a second. Nada. Relieved, he closed the door hard, gave it an extra push shut, and turned the deadbolt. Gave the knob a tug. It was locked for sure. He was safe.

  He turned and took in another delicious eyeful of his beautiful girlie. She beheld him with the sparkling-wet eyes of love. It was almost embarrassing to see what a crush she had on him. His blood was rushing hard. It was time now. Time to have his present.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  3:32 PM

  Sunday, June 20, 2021 | Three Dog Knight Mining Mill

  Winter returned with a blast of bitterness and high wind, forcing frost into Erin’s eyes. She shivered in the bright, seething chaos of the blizzard, the gray daylight brighter again than it had been before. Still reversed time. But there was no truck—there were no tracks, no prints, not even a hint that Erin or anyone else had already been here. She’d seen the truck—it had been right here. She’d seen Korrie—her baby, alive. But now, nothing. Could her whole plan be ruined? Snowdrifts angled upward, climbing the sides of the building. It could not be true that the right moment had slipped away again. She drove her trembling legs through the deep, cold drifts to the apron of the building and then up to the windows. There were no lights, only the vague shapes of machinery and office equipment in the dimness. No signs of anyone inside.

  She stepped over to the heavy metal door. The frozen knob stung the tender pink skin of her palm. She grabbed hold with both hands and pushed hard. The door swung open, and she staggered into the unlit room.

  In front of her stood the desk Korrie had been sitting on and the chair that man had occupied. They weren’t here. The weight of the emptiness felt crushing. The feeling of having Korrie back in her arms again was now out of reach. The sight of her inquisitive eyes, the sound of her harmonica laugh, the sweet-cream smell of her skin—all beyond Erin’s reach now.

  But I have to have my daughter back, she thought. Never mind the people who had searched for Korrie; the dogs baying; the whole frantic machine of the missing-person protocol put into motion; the fragile little shape draped in paraffin skin on the coroner’s table; the stiff, surreal funeral; the frozen crackling of the brown grass underfoot at Green Mountain; all the months of trying to wake up from real life—all of that could be forgotten if the universe would just give Korrie back to her.

  The desk, the chair, and the equipment at the other end of the room were all covered with dust. Crushed beer cans and empty liquor bottles spilled from a knocked-over trash can. They, too, were mossed a dusty gray.

  She went to the back of the room, to the door of that vestibule. The small room that had sparked to combustion a few minutes ago was untouched now too. She crossed it to the outer door, pushed hard until it opened, and leaned out into the churning wind. The stretch of snow around the building was unmarked.

  She shut the door and closed her eyes. Korrie had been right here in this place. But now no one had been here. She must be too early now. Her phone read 3:35. Where did he have Korrie now? How could Erin find her as she herself was slipping farther into earlier hours of this day? What could she do? She had to come up with another idea.

  “Think, Erin, think it out,” she said aloud. She turned to the front room of the mill. What did she know about this phenomenon? So little. Only scraps she remembered of the details Zac had spoken about. She and Zac had different kinds of intellect. He was a planner, a man who projected himself into the territory ahead and created strategies. She was a perceiver. She observed the landscape as it unfolded; and as it presented itself, she responded—improvisation. It was the same way she cooked: following her intuition. It was the way she’d raised Korrie: finding her way by instinct. Except for once.

  Erin’s mind did not retain the physics formulae Zac talked about, but she did remember things that had a story. Months after everything that happened, Zac had told her about a dream he’d had while he was in flight back from India on the day of Korrie’s abduction.

  In the dream, he was in a restaurant with the team from Hingoli. Some of the Indigo physicists were joking with Zac about his being afraid to fly.

  Zac said, “I’m not afraid to fly. Why do you say that?”

  One of the scientists said something like “When the god of birds, Garuda, flaps his wings, he can stop the spinning of heaven, earth, and hell.” But he was irreverent and entirely secular, and he was mocking Zac somehow.

  Then, in the dream, Zac was aboard the plane home, and a shadow crossed outside his tiny window. He glanced out beyond the wing of the plane and saw a murmuration of starlings, a giant swarm of tiny black birds wheeling in the immaculate sky above the clouds, the shape of the flock taking on the movement of waves in water, then morphing into a jellyfish, a swan, a skull, a heart. But as he watched the acrobatics of the shape, it cohered into the
sphere of a black hole. From the plane, he could zoom in and see that the birds were very old, weary, and tattered, and then suddenly young and sleek, then skeletal, then liquid, then carbon.

  What it meant, he’d told Erin, was that matter didn’t matter. “In the shape of time,” he’d said, “it’s the interactions between memory and the force of disorder that create what time is for us.”

  The dream had eventually changed the direction of his research, pushed him toward black holes and white holes, where he could search for the deep reality of time.

  Erin tried to find something in that dream that would help her now. The intervals were getting shorter. She looked back out the windows and watched the storm tangle in the wind beyond the glass. Though she didn’t have the background to understand what was going on around her—the knowledge Zac had—she did have memories. She was made of memories.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Three Days After The Day Of: Monday, February 10, 2020 | Boulder Police Department, Public Safety Center

  Tom Drake was resettling into the L-shape of his desk and monitors. When he’d returned from his leave, it felt as if he’d been gone for years, as if his time on the force was in another life, but it had been only a short leave of absence, really. And now he was back, and he clung to the feeling of absolution he’d been granted. He sympathized with the way everyone was reacting to him—as if they hardly knew him now. Even Nate, his once best friend, spoke to him as if they didn’t have years of history together. It would take more time, Tom supposed, to regain his faith. But the most important thing was to be able to manage the work. To be worthy of the endeavor. To be a competent vessel on this pure white day.

  He aimed his mind at his monitors. He was logged in, and Vigilant was running the plate of a truck. Once the search-and-rescue dogs had alerted at the rear door of the school building, the unit had requested all of the surveillance. Then, after the recovery of the child’s remains, Tom had requested to be assigned to her case, and today Supe had finally given him the task, and he’d started inspecting the video images. It was this truck that stood out.