by Greg Walker
He kissed the top of her head and leaned back into the couch. He heard Mary's breathing slow into a rhythm of sleep and didn't realize he had followed until knocking on the door forced open his eyes. Mary woke too and let him up to answer it. As he turned the knob, for a moment he was sure that Arnie Fisk had followed him here, and his greeting would involve a thick, angry finger stabbed into his sternum, or a right hook. He actually tensed for the blow when Harry smiled, stepped in and gave him a quick almost-hug and a slap on the back.
"Eric. Good to see you, man. Did you get in over your head in the casino in Erie? Looked like you expected a guy with a tire iron."
"Hello, Harry. No...well, it's...will take a little explaining. Come in."
Introductions were made, and Mary got up to soak in the bathtub after they made plans for dinner.
"Now this is a surprise. I assume you two are...?"
"I’m not sure yet. But it looks like it could be heading that way. A surprise to me too, Harry. But there's more."
They sat down, and Eric explained the events since his trip to Lincoln Corners. Harry listened intently, a quality that Eric had always liked in his agent and friend. He never interrupted, and waited for several seconds when Eric had finished speaking to make sure he was through. Harry was forty-five, and had gone to bat for Eric on signing him with complete faith and boundless energy. Eric knew his success depended as much on Harry's efforts as on his own writing. His agent’s hair had gone mostly gray, and the small black glasses he wore always reminded Eric of a little superhero mask, like Robin. He was fit and tall with a handsome face. His reserved demeanor could fool one into thinking him introverted, but in truth he seemed to reserve his energy for what he deemed important; once identifying that target, he flew into action and worked tirelessly until things had been decided, one way or another. More than once, Eric had mentally used the superhero analogy, the quiet alter-ego hiding the super agent, especially when presenting him with the excellent contract for the "Special Dark" series. But whether in business or elsewhere, there was no one he would prefer to watch his back than Harry.
He finished the story, and Harry sat back with a neutral expression, waiting to see if Eric had anything to add.
"I don't know quite what to say, Eric. That's beyond bizarre. What are you going to do?"
"Stay here for a few days, and then head back up there. I've been writing the story, so that's not an issue."
Harry leaned forward, a hurt expression playing on his features. "I don't give a damn about the story, Eric. I'm concerned about you. About being in the middle of all of this. If Fisk didn't like you coming back, how will he react to your presence now? How do you know he didn't kill those kids and his hostility isn't just an act to cover it up. And John Thomas, who I remember very well from Penn State, loved to watch him play. Could feel the hits through the screen. How do you know he's not playing you, setting you up for something? I wouldn't want to be in his sights, bum leg or no. Doesn't seem right to me. Maybe your brother's death and its possible connection to all of this is clouding your judgment."
Eric felt a stab of anger, but let it subside. He knew Harry might be right, that his emotional attachment stood in the way of seeing the larger picture. He knew the news would stun the town. But might it provoke more? Could he possibly be in danger?
"I don't know, Harry. I don't know what to do."
"Well, if my advice means anything to you, I'd stay put. Or go on vacation somewhere. Go see your parents in Prescott. Take Mary to meet them...again…I guess, just say you went to visit Adam's grave, ran into her, and one thing led to another. They don't need to know anything about these kids right now. Hell, take her to Paris. You know you can afford it."
"Yes, I know, thanks to you."
Harry smiled and said, "Well, so can I, thanks to you. I need to keep my cash cow alive, right?"
Eric smiled back, and felt a great burden lift. Harry had a point. It really wasn't his problem. If they caught the man, and if his deeds included Adam's death, then it wouldn't be because Eric Kane had come back to Lincoln Corners. He had paid his dues, was still paying them, would never get to that last stub in that payment book. He truly did feel terrible about how it would affect the people there. But they would have to deal with it. Leaving then hadn't been his choice, and if he had resided there all this time, though improbable even without the murder, it would be his lot, too. He possessed a career that he had worked hard for, and something of a life in Pittsburgh although it lacked any real depth of quality. But that's where Mary came in. She didn't have to go back either. If she still wanted to sell houses, why not here? He hadn't even thought of marriage, but who knew? He did know he wanted to keep her close to him. In the meantime, he could offer her an escape and give their relationship time to grow apart from cursed town of their birth. He did have the money, sitting in a bank account doing little but collecting interest.
He liked the thought of taking her to Arizona to meet his parents. They would love to see her. Although they had only visited Lincoln Corners several times to see Adam's grave over the years, they had dealt with the loss long term better than him. He could see a shadow passing over his mother's face when Mary stepped through the door of their home in Prescott, yet gone before offering a welcoming embrace.
He and Harry discussed the new project, a difficult author that Harry had signed and was now having second thoughts about, and other trivial matters until Mary appeared ready to go to dinner.
She wore a pair of jeans and a simple blouse, but Eric thought she looked stunning. Her skin was still pink from the hot water, and he smelled an inviting floral scent as he held the door for her and then locked it. He considered himself a lucky man as he walked down the stairs behind her, realizing with increasing cognizance how hard he was falling for her. He smiled at the word. Lucky. Certainly not a word he usually associated with himself. Maybe never had before. Perhaps his life really had turned a corner.
As they dined at a seafood and steak restaurant, Harry's treat, Eric suggested the trip to see his parents. Mary reacted with reservation, but didn't reject the plan outright. He had hoped for a little more enthusiasm, but it had been a long day and he knew she still struggled with the little corpses unearthed in the woods. So did he, but they were there and he was here. With the distance and some perspective, it could almost seem like an idea for a novel, if he let it, and he encouraged his mind to think in those terms. He thought after visiting his parents, they could go to Las Vegas. He had never been, knew Mary hadn't either, and it would be a great place to see if "lucky" applied to Eric Kane.
"I can't go, Eric. If things were different, if we hadn't found those kids, I would jump at the chance. But I just can't. I have to go back."
Harry had dropped them off at his apartment, and now he sat in his favorite recliner while Mary stood, as though already distancing herself from him, unwilling to allow herself to be comfortable in his home.
"But, why? What good will it do? You're already this upset about it. Going back will certainly make it worse. And I want you with me. Not just because of this, but because I...love you."
He heard the words come out, started to wish he could take them back, but knew they were the right ones. But they hung in the air unanswered. Mary stared at the floor as if she hadn't heard, and he feared he had misjudged her view of their relationship. Lucky Eric Kane. Sure. With his heart beginning to tear, he went into damage control mode, to try and salvage what he could and not let her see how much the rejection meant. He could probably even keep it from himself, just like with Adam, internalize the pain and add a new romance twist to his next book. Demons in love. He would have laughed out loud if Mary hadn't been here in the room.
"Mary, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."
"I love you too, Eric. At least I think I do. At least I feel more you than I ever did with Phil. But right now, there's too much to deal with to try and figure it out."
Her eyes left the floor and found his, and the pain h
e saw banished his own.
"I have to go back because it's my home. Those are my friends, the people I've known my whole life. I can't just leave, no matter how hard it is. And because I won't let some sick bastard have it. It's mine. Ours. If it turns out that this killer is someone I know, I want to look him in the eye, want him to have to look me in the eye. So he understands."
Her words held no condemnation, but he felt it just the same. Not because his parents had left, but because he had this time plotted his own escape. And without warning, her sentiment expressed something that struck a chord from long ago, something sensed by a child without the words to explain or the comprehension to understand. Something from his father that he now understood; a reluctance to leave Lincoln Corners. They had gone at his mother's insistence, in response to her increasingly fervent demands and finally threats. If she had followed through and taken him to Ohio when the house hadn't sold, would his parents' marriage have survived? Would his father have given in to her urgency with the distance between them, and therefore the abatement of the pressure? As he put what he sensed then with Mary's explanation now, they fit together without seam. His father had chosen his wife and surviving son. But he hadn't wanted to abandon the ground, to allow the murderer not only to take his boy but his home as well.
From Eric's research on the Civil War, he became convinced that the South had fielded the better commanders, and if in possession of the same resources as the North, the country would be a much different place, two countries. But with their men and supplies blown away and consumed, what did most of them fight for? For Lee, yes. They loved Robert E. Lee. But more they fought for their homes. Most of them didn't own slaves, and the ideals of the war had long been replaced with its reality of death and blood and shattered limbs, or had never mattered in the first place. And when the logistics said the war had been lost, they fought on, and would have continued if Lee and others hadn't stopped further senseless slaughter. And what about Vietnam? Fifty thousand Americans dead. Millions of Vietnamese. And still they fought. And held out long enough to win. Maybe not a military victory, ultimately, their opponent fractured by civil unrest and a government unwilling to allow its soldiers to finish it. But they won by continuing to fight. For their home.
And what, really, was his home? This apartment in Pittsburgh? No. It had never felt that way. He didn't like the city, just prized its ability to drown out his past. But now, since he had faced his brother's death that purpose had been served. He had thought of Lincoln Corners as home on his first drive up there. Maybe not so far off base.
He didn't think that his father resented his mother for making him leave. In some ways he was sure it brought relief. Just as Mary didn't condemn him now. But they had left together, and his father chose and then didn't look back. He suspected, without any implication from Mary, that if she returned and he stayed, it would be over before it began. Maybe not right away, but when the relationship finally withered and fell away, any analysis would trace it back this moment.
At the base of all of this, beneath the human tendency to look for an easy out and beyond the potential of what he might have with Mary, Eric found that he did want to see it through. See how this all ended up. It had started decades ago, when his brother had been ripped from his life, and how could he walk away from the possible resolution of the single most influencing event in his life? He knew Harry meant well, and there was surely sense in what he said. If Mary weren't here to force reconsideration, he might have followed his advice. And just as surely regretted it later.
He understood that he shared more than facets of his father's appearance. Shared his spirit too, and if he could call and speak of this to only his father, he knew he would approve. He remembered Pastor Burroughs' words on truth. That true things were hard. He took one last desiring look at his plans to flee and dismissed them. Amen.
"...need to rent a car tomorrow. Eric?"
"I'm sorry, Mary, was just thinking. No, you don't need to rent a car. I'm going back. But let's just give it a day or more. Can you do that?"
She paused, starting straight ahead, and then slowly nodded yes. "I can do that. I'm glad Eric. I would face it alone, but I'd rather have you there with me. But are you sure? After Adam. I know it's got to be hard for you."
He stood up and crossed the small distance between them that a moment before had been a chasm and put his arms around her. She hugged him back, without any reservation, and he began to understand a little bit more what home felt like.
"Yes, it might be hard. But for Adam, that's exactly why I have to do it. And for you."
Mary had gone to bed about an hour before. With the blanket and pillow situated on the couch, he knew that if he went back to the bedroom, she would welcome him. As much as he wanted to do that, Eric remained in the living room. He didn't want their first time to be the result of external forces putting pressure on them, the words they had said to each other, their judgment impaired as a result and clarity coming too late. First, there were the murders and what they meant and what they connected to and what they might reveal.
But it didn't make it easy. To distract himself, he pulled up the story and read the last chapter. And began to write.
The boy, standing next to Sean in the cabin - if standing described floating in the air above the floor and apart from the walls - looked the same as in the field, dressed in clothes from a Revolutionary War painting in a history book. Fascinated, he forgot about the man until he roared again. The cabin shook so hard Sean thought for sure it would fall apart. And then it would be over.
"I gave you a chance, Sean. Ask Silas what I can do. He knows. And if he's forgotten, he'll remember very soon."
Then silence. A bird, from far away but a bird, sang a short, sweet song. Sean wept to hear it, a commonplace noise taken for granted in his previous life, now as wondrous as an oasis in the desert. He waited for another, holding his breath, but the silence closed in again, wrapping around and through the woods, as it had the town. But he had heard it, the song still sounding in his head.
He turned his attention to the ghost. The boy's eyes were wide open, his jaw slack, as if he himself had just seen a ghost. It almost made Sean giggle to think of it, surprised at this lightness of mood. And then the boy spoke, in two drawn out syllables rising into a question at the end.
"Si-las?"
"Is that your name? Silas?" Sean asked.
"I...yes. Yes it is. My name is...Silas. He took...everything that I was. You have to stop him, Sean.”
"How can I stop him? He killed everyone Silas. My mom and dad and my brother Jake. My friend Randy. Everyone." Sean fought to keep the tears from spilling.
"Yes. That's what he does. My mother and father as well. My sister was only two years old."
Sean thought he might feel more like a boy again, being with another, but he realized that although Silas appeared as a boy, his voice and bearing were not. If the clothes indicated colonial times, then probably this spirit was over two-hundred years old.
Silas said, “He can't come in here, but he might find another way to get to us. Maybe not to you, but possibly to me. I might know how to send him away. It might even destroy him, if that can be done. But I think he can at least be undone. And all of us might be freed."
"Why can't he come into the cabin?"
"He can't come in here, because it was built by children, with innocence and especially with hope. Not only yours, but the others', too. It was in your sweat, your blood when you scraped your hand or pricked a finger on a splinter, the oils of your skin when you touched the pieces used to assemble it. It soaked into the wood where it now resides. It used to reside in you as well, in all of us, but he drove it out and feeds on the fear and despair that remain. But he can't drive it out of something that cannot feel, so you're safe for now, as long as you stay inside."
Sean felt a tremendous relief and sense of triumph at this declaration, but then he wondered what he would eat and drink, and his heart fell. A tempo
rary solution against the inevitable, at best.
As if reading his thoughts, Silas continued, "But you can't stay in here. If you did, long enough, he might leave for a while. But he would come back. Because the fear of him would live in you forever, and he would know. It draws him. It's what drew him in the first place. And he would never allow you to get away."
"But then where can I go? He wouldn't let me leave before. I tried." Sean hated the whine in his voice, like a little kid. The realization of his responsibility for bringing the man struck like a hammer blow. He killed his mom and dad, and Jake, and Randy, the policeman and everyone else.
"You have to find the body, and bring it back here. I don't know if it will be enough, because it's never been done. But it might."
"What body? Do you mean a dead body? He has them all." Sean was confused, and angry. Silas wasn't making sense. He now thought of the demented faces on many of the other children. Maybe Silas was no different, just appeared that way.