Centralia

by Mike Dellosso

  But instead of setting aside her personal feelings and resuming their professional collaboration, Amy put a stop to the relationship altogether, publishing the paper under her own name and intimating that Peter’s research was flawed and unusable. Peter lost credibility at the university and nearly lost his job. As a result, hateful words had been spoken and the friendship had shattered.

  “I’m sorry for what happened between us. I don’t know what got into me. I was irrational and did and said some really stupid things.”

  “Well, I can’t argue with you there,” Peter said. “But you already apologized. I remember it well.”

  A month after the blowup, Amy had shown up at the Ryan house with tearful eyes and apologized to Peter. She’d said that if Peter never wanted to speak to her again, she would honor his wish. He didn’t argue and said that was probably for the best.

  And that was it. Though he’d pass her on campus or catch her eye in the science building, he never spoke another word to her until he called her this morning, asking for help.

  Amy hesitated. “I’m not sure I fully meant it then. I was so hurt. So ashamed. So embarrassed. I did what I thought I needed to do to make it all better.”

  “But it never got better. Not really.”

  “No, it didn’t. I wanted so badly to make it all right, to make it as if it had never happened.”

  “But it did happen.”

  “I know.” She wiped a tear from her eye and hooked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “How can I ever make it up to you?”

  “Why do you feel like you need to?”

  Amy lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “It feels like something needs to be done.”

  Peter shifted in his chair, pushed the curtain aside enough to see most of the parking lot. “I think you’re doing it now, being here with me. Being here for me.”

  “Is it enough?”

  He let the curtain fall back in place. “Right now, it’s everything.”

  A moment of silence passed between them until Peter finally said, “You know, I’ve been having this recurring dream.”

  Amy smiled. “What’s the dream?”

  He told her about the house and the open doors that led to rooms full of memories. He also told her about the one room with the locked door, the room he could never gain entrance to no matter how frantically he tried. The room with the shadow, the secret. He failed to tell her, though, that he thought the room likely harbored some evil from his past, some part of his history that his mind had tried to lock away, imprison forever.

  When he was finished, Amy said, “Did you tell your shrink about this?”

  “Yes. I told her.”

  “And what did she say?”

  Peter ran his finger over the table’s top, making concentrically enlarging circles. “She told me I need a key to open it. That the challenge was going to be to find the key.”

  “There’s something important in that room,” Amy said. “Something terrifying and life-changing—you know that, don’t you?”

  Peter thought for a moment. He did know it. He’d been wrestling with just that fact since seeing that menacing shadow darken the light under the door. Again the thought squeezed its way into his mind that whatever was terrifying and life-changing might be a someone rather than a something. But it wasn’t Karen. Maybe Lilly. Maybe God. But if it was God, then Peter had to think that the Almighty didn’t want to be found. “I do. Is that why I can’t open it?”

  “Possibly. You intuit that there’s some horror there and you don’t want to open it. Not really. The key will be a trigger, something that kicks your memory in the seat and tells it to remember at least part of it. Then you’ll have to make a decision on whether you want to find out the rest or not.”

  “So where can I find the trigger?”

  Amy tapped the bedspread. “It could be anywhere. It might be a very common item right under your nose, but until you see it in a certain light or under a certain set of circumstances, you won’t recognize it as such. Or it could be something totally unseen and unknowable until you see it, and then you’ll know. And it doesn’t have to be an object. It might be a word or a sound or a voice. It might be a simple piece of knowledge.”

  “I think my shrink might have some competition,” Peter said.

  Amy grinned. “Well, the competition needs to use the bathroom and wash up.”

  She grabbed the bag of toiletries she’d picked up at the superstore and headed for the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

  Peter parted the curtains covering the front window of the room and surveyed the parking lot. The place was as barren as any uninhabited beach, minus the water and sand. Above the forest across the road, the sun bowed low, almost brushing the treetops, and cast long shadows that stretched nearly to the motel like dark, sinister hands inching closer, bringing with them a touch that would reveal every tenebrous mystery Peter hid. He shuddered and let the curtains fall back into place. As he did, another memory made itself known, but it was brief—like the surfacing of a whale to draw in air before plunging once again to the ocean’s depths—and gone before it had any chance to form fully.

  It consisted wholly of stuttered images and the residue of a seemingly familiar odor. Karen, Lilly, and he returning to a hotel room after a day at the beach. Damp towels, sunburned flesh, sandy flip-flops, and smiles all around. The feeling of the chilly air on his warm skin the moment he unlocked the room’s door and stepped into the air-conditioning. The aroma of chlorine and sunscreen. The sweet music of Lilly’s giggles.

  He tried to hold on to the memory, tried to grasp it and massage something more out of it, some scenario that he could probe. But as quickly as the images had materialized, they vanished, and he was left with nothing more than a feeling, that same feeling of needing to tell Karen something of importance.

  Peter rapped his fingers on the table, drumming an unfamiliar tune from some distant, long-forgotten world. For some reason, like the beckoning of ancient drum telegraphy, the rhythm conjured another image in his mind.

  Lilly is there, her sweet face turned up, her deep-blue eyes penetrating his. She holds his hands. Hers are so soft and tiny, so fragile, as if to squeeze too hard would break them into a million shards of china glass. “Jesus will take care of us, Daddy. Don’t worry, okay?”

  “Jesus will take care of us.” She had such faith; he remembered that. It was unshakable. Faith that could be possessed only by a child who had yet to experience the horror and pain the world had to offer and the doubt that accompanied both. Peter only vaguely remembered having faith like that as a child. But his memories of childhood were spotty at best, and he had no recollection at all of his parents. He knew he was raised in Indiana. North Manchester. But that was it; that was where his knowledge ended and disappeared into a fog of forgetfulness as dense as swamp water. And yet some kind of lighthouse was penetrating the fog, drawing him closer, still faint but seeming just a little brighter all the time. Something he’d once known—or thought he’d known. Something deeply rooted in himself, if only he could access it.

  From behind the closed bathroom door, Amy said, “Oh, great.” She opened the door and poked her head out. “Toilet doesn’t flush.”

  Peter pulled himself from his jaunt into the past. “Did you jiggle the handle?”

  “Of course I did. I live alone. I know how a toilet works. The chain in the tank is broken.”

  Peter pushed back the chair and stood. “I’ll go tell the manager. He may have a spare one or he can take one from another room.”

  “Be careful; that guy gives me the creeps. I wouldn’t be surprised if his name was Norman. Make sure he doesn’t have a kitchen knife behind that counter.”

  Peter laughed. “I’ll be sure to ask him how his mother is doing.”

  Outside the Oceanview, the air was cool and dry, the sky a gradient of blue to black as the sun slid lower on its downward arc, now nearly touching the treetops. Soon the light of day would be a thing of the
past and the sky would become a speckled mantle. Darkness would move in, and shadows would rule the night. Peter would have to keep watch while Amy slept. Lately, shadows had a way of turning into something much more malevolent, and Peter didn’t want any more surprise guests.

  The light in the office was off, which was odd because motels usually expected late-night travelers to pop in unannounced, looking for a place to catch a few winks before heading back onto the road in the morning. The V ANCY light was off as well.

  Peter took off the sunglasses as he approached the office door, only slightly cautious, and tried the knob. It was unlocked. He pushed open the door and, standing in the doorway, said, “Hello? Anyone still here?” In a remote location like this one, a motel with an oceanside theme most likely rarely saw any of those late-night travelers and no doubt was wont to close up shop early. Possibly the manager had stepped out to attend to some plumbing issues in the trucker’s room, or possibly he’d turned in for the night and saw no need to lock the office door. Or he was in another room having a heated debate with the skeletal remains of his mommy.

  But in the back room Peter could see the flicker of a television. He rounded the counter. “Hello?”

  A muffled growl came from the room, then a louder one. Peter began to backpedal as a pudgy bulldog sporting a severe underbite emerged from the room. The dog stopped five feet from him and chuffed. It eyed him with sagging, bloodshot eyes and snorted as if it couldn’t muster the strength for a real bark.

  Peter knocked on the counter. “Hey. Anyone here?”

  The overhead light flicked on and the manager stepped out from the shadows. He stood in the passageway between the front office and the darkened room, the dog at his feet. He had no kitchen knife in either of his hands. “Help you?”

  “Hey, yeah, sorry to bother you. The lights were out and I wasn’t sure if anyone was here or not.”

  The man scratched his head and shifted his focus over Peter’s shoulder to the front of the building. “Uh, I turn them out at ten. I’m the only one here and I need some sleep sometime, you know?”

  Peter checked his watch. “But it’s only eight o’clock.”

  The guy forced a little laugh and nervous smile. “Well, I mean, it’s not like we got a line or anything. On slow days I usually close up early.”

  “Sure, sure. Well, look, the chain in our toilet tank is busted, and it won’t flush. You mind getting us another one?”

  The guy glanced over Peter’s shoulder as if he was waiting for someone else to arrive and join their late-night get-together. He shoved his hands in his pockets, then removed one and ran his fingers through his hair. Furrowing his brow, he said, “The chain?”

  “Yeah, you know, the chain that connects the plunger to the handle.”

  “Oh, the chain. Okay. Um, yeah, okay. I need to find one. If you, uh—” he started for the counter, then backed up—“you know, if you just reach in and lift the plunger, it’ll flush. You don’t really need a chain.”

  “You want us to manually flush the toilet every time we use it?”

  The guy glanced at his watch. “Well, you know, you’re only here for the night. I mean—”

  “We paid for a toilet that works the way it should. Now, do you mind?”

  “Uh . . .” He ran a hand through his hair again. “Do I mind?”

  “Getting a new chain.”

  “Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. Of course. If you just want to head back to the room, I’ll find one and be right there.”

  The guy was acting odd. Too odd. “Sure. Room five, then,” Peter said. “Soon as you get that chain.”

  The bulldog growled and chuffed again, then ran a pink tongue up and over its nose. “Yeah,” the manager said. “Be right there.”

  Peter left the office and hurried back to room five and Amy. He opened the door and quickly shut it behind him, then moved to the front window. To Amy, he said, “Pack the stuff up. We need to get out of here.”

  He parted the curtains with his finger just enough to get a good look at the parking lot. Nothing had changed. The truck was still in its place at the far end; the Oceanview Motel sign was still lit. The road was empty. The sun was almost hidden by the trees and the sky was darkening.

  “What’s wrong?” Amy said, stepping out of the bathroom.

  Peter kept his eyes on the parking lot. “The manager. He knows something. Was acting very strange. Nervous.”

  “He’s a strange guy. I thought we’d already settled that.”

  “No. There’s something else going on. He knows something about us.”

  “You think we were on the news?”

  “Possibly. Regardless, we need to get out of here.”

  As Amy packed their belongings back into the bags, the sun continued to dip until it was completely behind the trees and the heavens turned a deep blue. A few stars dotted the sky and the sodium lamps in the parking lot cast tents of light onto the cracked and faded asphalt.

  When Amy had finished, she placed the bags on the bed and said, “Okay, so what now?”

  “Time—” Peter stopped. Three pairs of headlights rounded the bend in the road and approached the eastern end of the parking lot. “Time to go.”

  Before he could shut the curtain, the headlights came nearer and Peter could see the vehicles more clearly. Three black Chevy Tahoes. Tinted windows. No plates. Unmarked. And turning into the Oceanside parking lot.

  Peter and Amy had arrived at the Oceanview less than an hour ago. Even if the manager had called as soon they left the office, it would have given their pursuers barely forty-five minutes to assemble and travel. As he had suspected before and now realized in truth, their response time was incredible.

  But what did the Feds want with him? What had made him such a wanted man?

  Peter quickly surveyed the situation. Three SUVs, but he had no idea how many men per vehicle. Could be upwards of six. Eighteen total. Too many. He’d be severely outmanned and outgunned. He needed to think. The room had only one entrance, the front door. There was a small window in the bathroom but it wasn’t large enough to fit an adult through. They were trapped like mice in a corner with nowhere to hide. And a clowder of tomcats was on the way.

  He had to change the playing field, which at the moment was unfavorably tilted toward the tomcats.

  Turning to Amy, he said, “Get a gun from my stuff and lock yourself in the bathroom. Get in the bathtub and keep your head down. If anyone comes in who isn’t me, shoot.”

  Five rooms lay between theirs and the staircase to the second level, a distance of about sixty feet. He could cover that in a couple seconds. And that’s all the time he had. The last of the SUVs had stopped as soon as it entered the parking lot, blocking any exit by vehicle. The other two were slowly approaching the motel. Peter could feel vigilant eyes behind the tinted glass of the two lead vehicles scanning the area, planning, anticipating.

  Amy hadn’t moved yet. “Go!” Peter said. “Now.”

  He pulled open the door and, as quickly as he would dash across a bed of fiery coals, ran for the staircase, keeping his head down and his eyes straight ahead. The vehicles braked, the tires stuttered on the asphalt, and the doors clicked open. By then, though, he was on the bottom step, throwing himself up the stairs two at a time.

  At the top of the stairs, a breezeway partially concealed by a supporting wall made of cinder block offered some cover. A cylindrical sconce with a yellow bulb was attached to the wall. Peter hit the bulb with the handle of his gun, shattering it and welcoming partial darkness to the breezeway.

  He caught a glimpse of how many men were on the ground below. Eight total, all dressed in black combat gear as if they’d been deployed to take down an international terrorist guilty of murdering thousands. Just like the Feds to overplan. The third SUV, the one that had stopped by the entrance, remained where it was, doors closed, engine idling. A sentinel keeping close watch over the events unfolding.

  One of the men signaled to two others to go into the
room. They knew Amy was still in there. Peter didn’t have long to do what he needed to do. The men wore body armor, so his shots had to be precise.

  Two more men headed for the staircase, while the remaining four crouched by one of the SUVs. Peter’s only tactical advantage was his high position.

  Before the two ascending the stairs reached the landing, Peter rushed down the steps. Rounding the corner at the landing, he found the two men three steps away. By the looks on their faces, it was obvious they weren’t expecting him to run into their line of fire.

  Quicker than their eyes could register his movements in the dimming light, and certainly quicker than they could aim and fire, Peter squeezed off two shots, hitting the lead man in the forehead and the one behind him in the neck. Even before the lead man’s legs could buckle, Peter tackled him and tumbled down the steps.

  At the bottom of the stairs, still clutching the dead gunman’s body close to his and now in full auto mode, Peter rolled and positioned himself so he was protected by the man’s body armor. Without taking time to plan or reason or even aim, he fired twice more, hitting one of the remaining four men square in the face.

  From inside room five, Peter heard a gunshot, then another and another.

  The shots distracted the three remaining men by the SUV long enough that Peter could squeeze off another two rounds, hitting one man with a fatal shot.

  Standing, Peter lifted the dead gunman with him. He wouldn’t be able to hold the guy for long; he was too bulky in his gear and too heavy. In an act of calculated desperation, Peter sidestepped closer to the room, shifting his eyes from the men taking cover behind the SUV to room five’s open door.

  No more gunshots came from inside the room, and he hoped it didn’t mean the worst.