by Lisa Unger
On the stage, which was a kind of altar featuring icons from different religions, he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He didn’t care which god answered him. Anyone would do. He prayed.
In the morning, when Mason woke, clothed, lying atop his bed, he could almost believe it had all been a dream. Except that when he reached for his phone, he saw that it was full of the texts and calls from Marla.
He tried to call her, but got only her voice mail.
He showered, cleaned himself up. There was a big knot on the back of his head; his vision was a little blurry. He kept checking his phone. He needed someone to tell him what had really happened last night.
Before the sun had fully risen, there was a loud knock at the door. Urgent. A banging, really.
When he opened it, two cops stood in front of him, looking grim.
“Mason Brandt?” the older one said.
He rubbed at the crown of his head, dread burrowing deep into his gut.
“That’s correct. Can I help?”
“When was the last time you saw Marla Wright?”
7.
Matthew woke to hear voices in the kitchen, carrying through the vent. Samantha, definitely, but who else was here? He climbed out of bed and padded over the cold floor to the window. Avery March’s gleaming black Mercedes sat in the drive.
Shit.
He did not need this right now. The past clawing its way out of the grave. He had enough problems. He cleaned up, dressed quickly to go downstairs.
He walked passed Jewel’s room and peeked inside. Empty. Early for her to be up and around. But maybe that was a good sign. So far her virtual school grades were underwhelming, to say the least—mostly Bs and a pretty low C in algebra. She was smart, test scores high. But she just didn’t care. She skated by, doing the bare minimum. He’d hassle her if he hadn’t been exactly the same way when he was her age. It wasn’t until he’d found his passion for books, for writing and teaching, that he truly engaged with his education. He was hoping that was going to happen for her—sooner rather than later.
He got to the door just in time to hear March say: I think Mason knows what happened to my sister. I think they all do. And it has something to do with this place.
Shit.
True and yet not true.
He pushed through the door, and they both turned to look at him. The look on Samantha’s face made his heart sink. It was like she was seeing him for the first time and wasn’t especially impressed with the man who stood before her. When you’d been married a long time, you knew each other’s thought processes. She was putting pieces together. The missing girl from his childhood. The missing student who’d accused him of misconduct, of violence. In her eyes he saw the shadow of suspicion and, worse than that, fear.
“You’re not going to find the answers you’re looking for here,” he said, letting the door swing closed behind him. He wanted a cup of coffee, but the brew from that ancient pot was eating away the lining of his stomach. He’d skip it.
For a moment no one said anything.
“As I remember it,” he went on, “there were three suspects. There was Mason, who had a known obsession with her, and violent tendencies. And then there was your stepfather, Brad, who had a criminal record, sexual assault, as I recall.”
March nodded. “That’s right.”
“And then there was the stranger that Mason claimed Amelia was with the night she disappeared.”
“A stranger no one else knew, ever saw, or even heard of, including our mother, with whom Amelia was very close.”
March looked over at Samantha, who sat with her back very straight, a frown wrinkling her brow as she stared out the window.
“Does she know?” March asked Matthew.
“Does she know what?” asked Matthew, his voice coming out too sharp. Rude.
“About the Dark Man?” March answered, undaunted by his tone. “Does she know about Havenwood?”
“Who?” asked Samantha. Her voice wobbled a little, and she turned her gaze to him. “Haven-what?”
“There’s nothing to know,” said Matthew. His shoulders were hiked up to his ears. He made a point to relax them. “The Dark Man—that’s just a kids’ game.”
March blew out a breath, leaned back in her chair, and pinned him with her gaze. “It’s more than that. You know it is.”
True and not true.
March offered the short version: that kids in the area at that time were into this idea of the Dark Man, that he would grant their wishes if they did his bidding. Or that they would be rewarded in some way, taken off to his mansion in the woods, where every possible luxury awaited and time stood still. Before Matthew could stop her, she went on to say that there was a dilapidated structure deep on the property, a school for boys that had been shut down decades ago, rotting and long condemned, where kids sneaked out to do whatever it was that kids wanted to do, where it was rumored you could summon the Dark Man.
Samantha sat listening, her eyes wide, shaking her head slightly the whole time. “That’s crazy,” she said finally, casting an accusing glance at Matthew, then back to Avery.
“There have been a spate of crimes over the period of a decade,” said March. “Two girls lured a younger friend out into the woods by Havenwood and stabbed her. She barely survived. They claimed that the Dark Man told them to do it via dreams and visions.”
She drained her coffee cup before going on. “A twelve-year-old boy murdered a neighbor child, drowning him in the lake behind his own home. Again, this boy claimed to be doing the bidding of the Dark Man. There were some fires, other crimes like stolen cars and break-ins—all the perpetrators claiming to be doing his bidding.”
“Bad kids looking for a reason to be bad,” said Matthew, with a scowl. Samantha had an inherent skepticism about all things supernatural. She was a practical realist, believed in what she could see and touch. But March went on and Samantha looked riveted.
“Mason Brandt claimed that he’d followed Amelia out to Havenwood. That in some kind of ritual, she contacted the Dark Man and told him that she wanted to leave this place and never come back. He claimed there were others there as well. But no one ever came forward.”
“Again,” interjected Matthew, “a convenient story to tell. Mason was a suspect in Amelia’s disappearance. People said they saw him following her home from work at night. She told her mother that he was a creep. That she tried to be nice to him because she felt sorry for him, but then he wouldn’t leave her alone.”
“You said you’ve reached out to Mason. What does he say now?” asked Samantha, totally hooked into the other woman.
“I have. Mason, in all these years, has never changed his story.”
“Where is he?” asked Matthew, curious.
March gave him a nod. “He’s working as a counselor at some spiritual center in the city. He got kicked out of seminary school.”
“Okay,” said Matthew, drawing out the word.
“Your grandfather had been paying his tuition and supporting him.”
“Wait. What?”
That was news to Matthew. After that summer, he’d never talked to Mason again, had tried to forget all about him, that night, and everything that happened afterward. Over the years, Matthew’s contact with his grandfather had dwindled to the occasional phone call, Christmas cards with ten-dollar bills drifting out. He’d been back at Merle House a smattering of times with his parents; there’d always been some huge fight, vows to never return, which eventually they’d kept.
“Mason was a suspect in Amelia’s disappearance, but no charges were ever brought. It was also suspected that he had something to do with his father’s fatal fall off the roof,” Avery said. “Again, never charged.”
Matthew shook his head. He didn’t want to hear about Mason. But Avery went on.
“He was a wreck after that, fell in with the wrong crowd. Got arrested for stealing a car and went to juvie for a while. Afterward, he came back and worked for Old Man M
erle as a caretaker of the house. Merle made him get his high school diploma, sent him to seminary school. When that didn’t work out, the old man helped him pay for community college and get a job. Didn’t you know that?”
Matthew shook his head. “No. Why? I mean, why would my grandfather do all that for Mason?”
March shrugged. “They had a relationship, from what I understand. A friendship. There was some connection there with Mason’s mother. After Mason’s father died, Old Man Merle stepped in to help. Other members of the Brandt family had served as caretakers, housekeepers, gardeners over the years. It wasn’t such a stretch that he should come to work here.”
Matthew knew that, didn’t he? That the Brandts had worked for the Merles for generations? Of course he did. It was just buried deep, like so many of the things he didn’t want to think about.
They all startled as a giant crow landed on the windowsill and peered inside, opening his mouth to release a peal of derisive laughter, muffled by the glass. Matthew moved to shoo the bird away, but he didn’t go, stubbornly holding his perch. God. He was huge.
“There’s a connection between Mason, this place, what happened to Amelia,” said March. “I feel it.”
“You’re reaching,” said Matthew.
“And you’re willfully blind. Always have been.”
It wasn’t March who spoke; it was Samantha. He turned from the crow to look at his wife. And Matthew realized something he had been trying to ignore. His wife had lost her faith in him, and she was slipping away fast. Maybe she was already gone.
“Maybe it’s time to connect with all these people,” said Samantha. “Claire, Ian, and Mason. They can come here and each tell what they remember. Maybe they have a piece of the puzzle; maybe they don’t. But at least Avery can be certain she has the whole truth. And then we can all move on.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Matthew.
“I don’t think it is,” said Samantha, with a stubborn squaring of her shoulders. “There’s plenty of room.”
There was that feeling again, that vertiginous tilt he felt when things he’d tried to control spun away, took on a life of their own. He tried so hard to keep things where they belonged. But it was as if something was working against him, mocking his efforts.
“Maybe if nothing else, it will be healing,” Samantha went on. “For Avery, for Merle House. I mean, maybe that’s why we can’t sell it. Because there’s unfinished business here that needs to be resolved.”
She had no idea.
8.
The room was gray, and the light hanging over the table between Mason and the two detectives was unpleasantly bright. More light washed in from the opaque and gated window. The chair beneath him was metal, the edge of the seat digging painfully into his ass. Bony ass, his father used to call him. He tried to relax, shift back off the edge. But the chair was clearly designed to make a person as uncomfortable as possible.
“Let’s go over it again, okay, Pastor Mason?”
The tall one was Bennett; he had a boyish face and sandy curls. The slim one was Smith, a slim, elegant man with high cheekbones and a shaved head. Bennett did the talking. Smith did the hard staring.
Mason ran down the details again, badly needing a cigarette and a cup of coffee, head pounding. How Marla stayed after group, told Mason that she thought her boyfriend was stalking her, how he’d run her home. He told them about the calls in the night, how he’d gone out to try to find her but found an empty house and left.
Part of the truth, not the whole truth. Luckily the lump was on the back of his head, not visible.
Why not tell the police that those little punks had hit him over the head with something, tied him up, and wanted him to tell them about the Dark Man? Because it sounded crazy. Made up. And, the way things were with Mason and his dreams and the Dark Man, who even knew if it was true? The Dark Man was always playing tricks on Mason; that was what happened when you made a deal with him and then didn’t keep up your end of the bargain.
“When I dropped her off,” he said, “I saw someone in the trees by her property.”
“Can you describe him?” asked Bennett. He seemed earnest.
“It was just . . . a shadow.”
“You didn’t go back?” Now quizzical.
“I couldn’t be sure.”
“You saw someone. A shadow. Or you couldn’t be sure what you saw?” Smith’s voice was flat, disbelieving.
“Look,” said Mason, rubbing at his thighs. He leaned forward. “I was a little nervous. The kid needed a lift, but it was just a shade inappropriate. So I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible.”
Bennett nodded, seemed to understand.
“I texted her mother, who was held up at work. Let her know that I’d dropped Marla off.”
“Did she respond?”
“No.”
“According to Marla’s father, his wife left him a couple of weeks back, left them both.”
“Marla didn’t mention it.”
“What did you two talk about? Group ended at four. You said you dropped Marla around six. So you were together for about two hours.”
“Her boyfriend. She’d broken up with him but said she thought he was stalking her.”
“Stalking.”
“Not in a dangerous way, according to Marla. Like just texting a lot.”
“Stalking is stalking,” said Smith. “Texting is texting. Very different.”
“I’m using her language. Look, is she . . . okay?”
He’d asked this several times, on the way over, since they’d been in the room, but they’d declined to answer him.
There was a folder on the table in front of them. Bennett flipped open the cover, and there was Marla. Mason covered his eyes before he saw too much—the bluish white of her skin, the blood at her throat, the staring eyes.
“Oh God,” he whispered, the air leaving him. “Please, no.”
He wept right there in front of the two men, the sobs coming up from his center and racking his body. Bennett handed him a tissue. The two men sat silent until he had dried up; when he looked at them again, they were both gazing awkwardly in opposite directions.
“What happened to her?” he managed.
“She was attacked, tortured, and murdered,” said Bennett softly.
“Who? Who did this?”
Bennett blinked and Mason went deeply cold inside. Not again.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mr. Brandt. Who killed this young woman? Do you have something you want to tell us?”
“I want my lawyer.”
“That’s really not necessary at this stage.” Bennett again, easy, leaning back in his chair, palms coming up.
Mason had been down this road before. He was an easy mark for these guys, with his history, his access to Marla, all the texts from her phone to his, the fact that he answered her in the night. They’d hang him because they could. Because it was just too easy.
“My attorney’s name is Benjamin Ward,” said Mason. “Please contact him immediately. I won’t speak to you again unless he’s present.”
Benjamin Ward. He hadn’t talked to the Merle family attorney in years. Then, a couple of months ago, Ward had called to say that Old Man Merle had passed, and the monthly payouts would stop because the estate was in probate and there was a mountain of debt.
“What about the house?” Mason had asked.
“The oldest grandson, Matthew, was the one to inherit. He’ll be moving his family in until it’s ready to sell.”
“Really?”
He couldn’t imagine Matthew coming back to Merle House; things must be pretty bad if he’d decided to do that. Had he read something in social media—lost his job, accusations of misconduct, wife ill? He couldn’t remember. He tried not to think about Matthew and Merle House.
He heard the Dark Man’s words again: The bill is due.
It was a couple of hours before Benjamin Ward arrived, wizened and bent, in a suit that clearly cost
more than Mason made in a month. The old man carried a twisted and highly polished wooden cane that had the head of a dragon. Small in stature but with an undeniably commanding aura, he changed the tenor and pitch of the situation with Bennett and Smith. After another round of questioning that yielded nothing, they reluctantly let Mason go and asked him to be easy to find; Mason left the station in the back of Ward’s chauffeur-driven town car with the lawyer beside him.
“What have you gotten yourself into this time, son?” Ward asked in the quiet of the luxury vehicle.
“Nothing. I never touched her.”
Mr. Ward had been present for another similar declaration, and it echoed on the air between them. Everyone thought that sixteen-year-old Mason had done something to Amelia. His father had been a monster; Mason had hurt people before, acting out in uncontrollable rages since early childhood. He’d been seen following Amelia home at night.
“Mr. Merle always believed in you, Mason. He’d be sorry to see you in trouble again.”
“I know,” said Mason miserably. “I’m sorry too.”
“I was thinking that this might be a good time to come home.”
“Home?” Mason did not have a home. He was an orphan. His parents were dead. The town where he grew up rejected and feared him. He was homeless in the truest sense, within.
“The house,” said Ward. “It needs repair, and the Merle family—I’m not sure they’re quite up to the task. The tradesmen in the area, they won’t set foot near the place. So many rumors about the place, all the times Justice didn’t pay his bills. You know that.”
Mason shook his head, though he always felt a tug to Merle House. His family, in fact, was tied to that land, that property. Men from both sides of the family had been the groundskeeper there for generations. His grandfather on his mother’s side, her brother Mason’s uncle, his father’s cousin. Even now Peter Grann, a second cousin on his father’s side, held the post, last Mason had heard.
“What about Peter?”
“Peter is proving unreliable,” Ward said vaguely.
Mason sometimes dreamed of its long, thickly carpeted hallways, the rambling grounds, the neglected and overgrown walled garden, the warmth of Old Man Merle’s study with the crackling fire, the shelves and shelves of books. His time there had been the only peaceful period of his life. Old Man Merle was mentor and friend, as well as employer, when Mason, too, had helped with the house in the strange years before he’d gone to seminary school.