As soon as they were in the parking lot, Jessica let out a gasp like she had been holding her breath, and hugged John fiercely. He put his arms around her, surprised. “It’ll be all right,” he said, and she pushed him away.
“Will it?” she asked, her eyes bright with tears. “It’s nice to tell that poor woman that Clay will find her son, but, John, you and I both know that when kids go missing in this town … they don’t get found.” John shook his head. He wanted to argue with her, but there was something leaden in the pit of his stomach.
“It doesn’t have to end like that this time,” he said without conviction, and Jessica straightened, wiping her eyes like it was a gesture of defiance.
“It can’t. It can’t end like that again, John. If that little boy is mixed up in all this, we have to find him and bring him home. For Michael.”
John nodded, and before she could answer, she strode to her car and drove away, leaving him alone in the parking lot.
* * *
That night, John had barely stopped in front of Jessica’s building when she came running out. She opened the car door and jumped in with lightning speed. “Go,” she said urgently, and he hit the gas.
“What’s wrong, what happened?” he asked.
“Just drive, hurry.”
“Okay, put on your seat belt!” he scolded as they veered around a corner.
“Sorry! Everything is fine,” she said. “I just don’t like thinking someone could be out there stalking me.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, peering into the rearview mirror. “But it’s dark out; we should be okay.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“So, what do you think?” John said after a moment. “Did you notice anything about the photos?”
“That they’re enough to get a restraining order in most states?” she joked, but there was real anxiety in her voice.
“None of them were of just one of us,” he said. “And none of them were just you and me, or just you and Marla.”
“You mean it’s about Charlie,” Jessica said, understanding immediately.
“Isn’t everything?” John said drily. The words sounded bitter, though he had not meant them to, and he glanced at Jessica, trying to gauge her reaction. She was staring out the window like she hadn’t heard him.
In less than half an hour, they were at the ghost town. John stopped the car beside a wooden sign reading WELCOME TO SILVER REEF, and got out; Jessica followed. It was an odd mix, even in the dark: in the distance they could see the crumbling walls of buildings that would never be restored, and close by were the places rebuilt for tourists: a church, a museum, and a few others John couldn’t make out.
“John, we’re going to get killed out here,” Jessica said, briefly losing her balance on the loose dirt and gravel.
“When exactly did people last live here?” John asked quietly.
“Late eighteen-hundreds I think. Silver mining town, hence the name.”
The town appeared even more abandoned than they were expecting, possibly closed to tourists for the season, but on distant hills there were scattered lights. John turned in a circle, wishing Theodore had been just a little more forthcoming. “What does ‘Shining Star’ mean, anyway?” he muttered to himself. He looked up: the night was clear, and the sky was awash in stars, with no city lights to drown them out.
“It’s beautiful,” Jessica murmured.
“Yeah, but not helpful,” John said, rubbing the back of his neck. He turned around again, and then he saw it. “Shining star,” he said.
“What?” Jessica turned, then squinted and tried to follow his eye line.
A few yards back the way they’d come was a wooden archway leading into a field; at the peak of the arch, was a single silver star.
The field was wide, sloping upward, and at the top of the hill, John could see the outline of a house. It was scarcely visible: had it not been for the guidance of Theodore’s mumbling head, it wouldn’t have stood out from anything else in the canopy of silhouettes. With wordless agreement, they passed under the star, leaving the remains of the town behind them. The black field soon consumed their line of sight in all directions, with only the faint discoloration of a winding gravel path to guide their steps.
As they made their way up the hill, a small, squarish one-story house came into view; there were windows on each outfacing wall, but only one was lit, in the back. They slowed their pace as they reached the front door: there was only one concrete step, unusually high and wide. John reached out a hand to help Jessica up. She didn’t really need it, being five times the athlete that he was, but it still seemed polite. The front door was unwelcoming, the little, lightless lamps almost hidden, offering no help. John looked around for a doorbell and couldn’t find one, so he knocked. There was no sound of movement from inside. Jessica leaned to the side, trying to see through the windows. John had raised his hand to try again when the door creaked open, and a tall, dark-haired woman peered out, staring at them coldly.
“Aunt Jen?” John asked meekly, stepping back instinctively before he could stop himself. He recognized her, but standing face-to-face, he felt almost as though they had come to this house at random. Jen tilted her head, her dark eyes fixing on him.
“I’m someone’s aunt Jen, yes,” she said drily. “But I don’t believe I’m yours.” She stayed where she was, one hand on the doorframe and the other on the knob; she was blocking the entry as if she thought they might try to force their way in.
“I’m a friend of Charlie’s,” John said, and a ghost of an expression flickered on her face.
“And?” she said.
“I’m John. This is Jessica,” he added, realizing she had not yet spoken. Jessica would usually have jumped in as the social director, but she was leaving this to him, looking back nervously as though she suspected someone was creeping through the dark. John glanced back at her, and she gave him a little, encouraging nod to go on. “I’m here because I got a message,” he said. She waited patiently, and John took off his backpack and took Theodore out; Jessica reached forward to take the empty bag, and he held the rabbit’s head up. Jen showed no surprise, only curling her lip slightly.
“Hello, Theodore,” she said calmly. “You’ve seen better days, haven’t you?”
John smiled reflexively, then hardened his features.
“Shining Star, Silver Reef,” John said, but Jen didn’t react. “I have to say, this is a strange place to call home,” he said, though what he wanted to say was, You owe us an explanation.
“A message.” She looked at Theodore’s head, then looked accusingly over her shoulder, though all that was visible behind her was a dark hallway.
“Did you want us to come here? I don’t understand,” John pressed.
“Why don’t you come inside,” Jen said, stepping back, then closing the door with haste as soon as they were inside. The house was spare: the furniture was dark and plain, and there was little of it. The walls were thick with layered wallpapers, rich with vintage designs from decades past, but there was nothing hanging on them, though John saw nail holes and marks where decorations had once been. Jen ushered them through a living room with only two chairs and an end table, into a small room almost entirely filled by a square, black-stained dinner table. There were four matching chairs, and Jen pulled out the one closest to the door, then sat down.
“Please,” she said, gesturing to the other chairs. John and Jessica made their way around the table to face her, as she stared into the middle distance.
“So, is this where Charlie grew up?” Jessica asked awkwardly as she sat down.
“No.”
“So, then you moved here recently?” John asked suspiciously, refusing to believe someone would select this house by choice.
“How is Charlie?” Jen said slowly. “Did she know about the message as well?” Jen made a discreet glance at the window behind them, then focused back on John.
“No,” John said plainly. Jen nodded; she
was still staring into space, and he had a sudden but profound impression that there was something in the room that only she could see.
“We want to help Charlie. Is there anything going on that we need to know about?” Jessica asked, and Jen snapped to attention.
“Charlie is my concern. She’s my responsibility.” Jen spoke with an air of pure self-assurance, and something in it must have struck Jessica: she straightened, lifting her chin to match Jen’s posture.
“Charlie’s our friend, she’s our concern, too,” Jessica said.
There was silence, and John flicked his eyes back and forth between the two women, waiting. A long moment passed, the two of them staring at each other, immobile, and John realized he was holding his breath.
“Jen,” he said, plunging in. “A friend gave us pictures someone had been taking of Charlie, and of us.” He unzipped his backpack, and that noise snapped Jessica and Jen out of their staring contest. He pulled the pictures Clay had given them out of their envelope, leaving the film, and placed them in front of Jen on the table. “If you want to take responsibility for Charlie, look at these and tell me if they mean anything to you.”
She began going through the stack, peering intently at each photo, then putting each aside, making a second, neat pile of discards. “Why don’t you ask your detective friend what they mean?” she asked.
“Because last night our detective friend was nearly murdered,” John said. Jen didn’t respond, and continued her methodical progress through the pictures. When she had gone through all the pictures, she looked up at John. Her expression had softened slightly; the hostility had given way to something else, a discomfort, and fear.
“Is this all?” she asked. “Is there anything else?” She cleared her throat.
“He said something before he lost consciousness.”
“And what was that?”
John looked to Jessica briefly, then back to Jen. “‘It has to have a range. It has to have a maximum range.’” He looked at her expectantly, but she showed no sign of recognition.
“I don’t know what that means,” she said. She put her chin in her hand, staring down again at the first picture in the stack, then she shook her head. “I know you mean well.” She leaned back in the wooden chair, looking from John to Jessica and back again. “I should tell you to go away, to forget her. All these years …” She trailed off, then gave each of them a piercing look. “Secrets petrify you. You harden yourself against the world to keep them safe, and the longer you keep them, the harder you become. Then one day you look in the mirror, and you realize you’ve turned to stone.” She smiled sadly. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not going to tell us anything? We’re here to help. We’re Charlie’s friends!” Jessica insisted.
“If I didn’t plan on telling you anything I wouldn’t have anything to be sorry about,” Jen said, her mouth almost forming a smile. John collected the photos to put back in his bag.
“If you have something to tell us—do it now, or we’re leaving. I may not know much, but I know that girl isn’t Charlie, or she is under some kind of influence.” He waited for a response, but none came. “She isn’t herself,” he added, sounding more desperate than before. Jen looked up at them: her rigid face had broken, tears were in her eyes.
A knock came from the front door, and even Jen startled. She looked to the door, then back to John and Jessica. Her face was grave. “That way,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, pointing down a narrow hallway. “Close the door behind you.” The knock came again; John touched Jessica’s arm and nodded, and they got up from the table, careful not to let the chairs make noise as they dragged across the floor.
The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the room they had just left, and John kept a hand on the wall for balance. After a second his eyes adjusted, and he could see an open door at the end of the hall.
“John, come on,” Jessica whispered, grabbing his arm briefly as she brushed past him and hurried into the room.
“Yeah,” he said, and stopped moving as his fingers touched the frame of a door.
“John!” Jessica hissed. John tried the door. It opened easily; he peered in, and recoiled.
Someone’s in there!
“John!” Jessica whispered urgently as the knock at the door came again. John didn’t move.
It took only a second for him to register that the figure in the closet was not a person. It was about his height, with a roughly human shape, but it resembled nothing that had ever been alive. John stepped closer and took his keys from his pocket. He switched on the keyring penlight, and swept it up and down quickly. His heart stopped. It was a skeleton, metal and naked wires, encased in nothing. Its arms hung at its sides, and its head was bowed, exposing its open skull, the circuits silent and lightless. Its face was bare and metal.
“John!” Jessica was standing behind the door at the end of the hall, holding it open just a crack as she waited for him. John closed the closet door, blinded again in the darkness, and walked toward the sound of her voice like a beacon. His steps took ages, the air like molasses, as the thing in the closet echoed in his mind like a gunshot, drowning out everything else.
In a daze, John reached the end of the hall as Jessica beckoned frantically. She grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, carefully closing the door behind him.
“What’s wrong with you? John, what was in that closet?” she whispered, still holding on to his arm, her nails digging in, bringing him closer to reality.
“It was …” He swallowed. It was holding a knife. “It was the machine Charlie’s father built to kill himself,” he said hoarsely. Jessica’s eyes widened, and she stared at him like he was a ghost.
The knock came again, much louder, and they both jumped. This time they could hear Jen’s footsteps walking toward the sound. Jessica bent and pressed her ear to the keyhole. “Do you see anything?” John whispered. The front door creaked as it opened.
“Charlie,” John could hear Jen say. “What a nice surprise.” Jessica twisted around in her crouched posture.
“Charlie’s here?” she said, scarcely whispering, and John shrugged.
“Aunt Jen, it’s so wonderful to see you again,” Charlie’s voice came through faintly, but clear. Jessica stayed where she was, listening for more, but John was restless, and he looked around the room.
They were in a bedroom—at least, there was a bed—but it was mostly filled with cardboard boxes and old-fashioned wooden trunks. John stumbled around them for a moment, then froze, looking as though something had just occurred to him. He knelt quietly and opened one of the chests, moving slowly to make no sound.
“John, what are you doing?” Jessica whispered angrily.
“Something isn’t right here,” John breathed, glancing at the door. “Come on, this might be our only chance to find out what she’s up to.” John shuffled through some of the papers in the first chest, then closed the lid and flipped up the top of a nearby cardboard box: It was filled with computer parts and mechanisms he didn’t recognize. A second and third held massive tangles of electric cable. “This looks like stuff I’d expect to find in Charlie’s room,” he murmured to himself.
“Shhh!” Jessica hissed, pressing her ear back against the door to the hall.
“What’s going on out there?” John said under his breath. “I can barely hear anything.”
Jessica shook her head.
“Let me know if you hear someone coming.” John moved to a large green chest, the paint almost entirely worn off. There was no lock. John knelt beside it, found the handle, and heaved it open, then shuddered, falling back and pushing himself away.
“Jessica,” he gasped, moving back to the chest and leaning over it.
“Shhhh!” Jessica hissed from the door, listening intently.
“Jessica.”
“What, John? I’m trying to listen.”
“It’s … it’s Charlie,” he said hoarsely. “In the chest.”
“Wha
t?” Jessica whispered. She turned around in annoyance, her face falling. She dropped to her knees and crawled to the chest, where John had gone back to looking down at what lay inside. Charlie was curled up in the fetal position; she looked like she was sleeping, with a pillow under her head and blankets surrounding her. Her brown hair was a mess; her face was round; and she was wearing light gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt, both too large for her. John stared, his heart pounding so hard he could hear nothing but the rush of his own blood, not daring to hope, until: she took a breath, and then another. She’s alive. John reached down into the trunk and touched her cheek: it was too cool. His mind snapped out of its first shock. We have to get her out of here; she’s sick. He stood and reached awkwardly into the trunk, then gently, cautiously, lifted her out. He looked down at her in his arms, astonished, all his thoughts wordless, except, Charlie.
* * *
Don’t let me go—let go of me, what’s happening? Someone touched her cheek, a brief, startling spot of warmth. It was gone just as quickly, leaving her colder than before. Come back, she tried to say, but she could not remember how to make the words come out.
“Charlie.” That’s my name, someone is saying my name. Charlie tried to open her eyes. I know that voice. Someone’s arms reached down under her, lifting her from the cramped, dark place she’d been so long that memories of somewhere else seemed like dreams. She still couldn’t open her eyes. A woman said something. I know them. She couldn’t remember their names.
The first voice came again, it was a man’s voice, and she felt its reverberation as he pulled her against his chest, holding her like a child. Warmth radiated from him; he was solid and alive. Even standing still, he was filled with movement: She could hear his heartbeat, just beside her ear. I am alive. He said something else, and the rumble of it shook her whole body; the woman answered, and then she was jostled painfully. We’re going somewhere. She still couldn’t open her eyes.
“It’s gonna be okay, Charlie,” he whispered, and the sleeping world began to pull her down again. I want to stay! She began to panic, then as she slipped into unconsciousness again, she grabbed hold of the last words he’d said. It’s gonna be okay.
The Fourth Closet Page 8