by Andrew Mayne
“Her mom kicked her out of the house. I’d been in and out of mine. We knew some girls were making money doing stuff. And, well, we liked to party. There’s fuck-all nothing else to do up here. We weren’t like lot lizards or nothing like that.”
I make a mental note to look up “lot lizard” later.
“What about the night she went missing? What was going on then?”
“We were just going to get high. I had a strip of acid. We’d take it in the woods. Most people would be scared shitless. We loved it. You’d be out there on the ground listening to nature, staring at the stars. It was peaceful.”
“Is that what happened that night?”
She stabs out her cigarette and lights another. “That was the fucked-up part. We never even took it. We was walking along out there and we heard a noise. You get wild boar and such. We laughed, pretended it was a monster or something. I took off running. She ran after me, then fell back.
“I went to look for her. I thought she was playing hide-and-seek or something. But she wasn’t. I saw her standing there, like she was listening for something. I was starting to call to her, and then I saw it, past her. I screamed before she did. I thought it was a bear. There was this shadow.” Amber holds up her hands in an arch over her head. “I thought it was a bear on his hind paws. Only he starts moving like a man; then he runs toward Chelsea. She hears me scream; then she screams. Then there was nothing. I couldn’t see her in the shadows. Everything got real quiet.
“Something told me to run like hell. So I did.
“It was following me. I could hear it. Then I heard Chelsea hollering. I think it turned back to finish her. I just kept running.” She swallowed, licked her lips. “I know I shouldn’t have left her behind. She was my best friend.
“I’d parked on the roadside. I got in and just drove as fast as I could, straight to the police station.
“But I didn’t go in right away. I started panicking. Thinking maybe I was high. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. I know that sounds crazy.
“It was stupid of me, but I decided to try to sleep it off. When I woke up, the sun was shining. I was still in my car.
“I went inside the police station and told Charlie’s dad everything I remembered.”
“But they didn’t believe you?”
She shakes her head. “No. They said I was making things up. They said Chelsea’s room was cleaned out. Her car was gone. That doesn’t make any sense.” Her voice gets defiant. “I know she was there that night. I picked her up. We took my car, left hers behind.”
“Is it possible she played a prank on you?”
“I wanted to believe that. But for this long? Ha-ha, Chelsea. Where the fuck are you? Nobody does this for that long.”
“Is there anyone in town that would want to kill her?”
“Chelsea was the nicest person you’d ever meet. But she slept around a lot. Older men, especially. I think a few of them were glad she went away.
“Did anyone kill her? Hell, this is Hudson. Anything is possible. You hear about that Indian family that went missing?”
I remember them from the missing-persons database. “Yeah.”
“What the newspapers don’t say is that they were running their own little meth lab. Without permission. That’s why they disappeared.” She grins knowingly and lowers her voice. “Know who the last two people to see them were? Bower and Jackson.”
“Bower and Jackson?”
“The police officers who got arrested for trafficking crystal. That’s how fucked-up things are around here.”
“Has anyone else ever mentioned something like what you saw the night Chelsea went missing?”
“I talked to some Chippewa guy. He grew up on a res. He said they have lots of stories like that. I don’t believe any of that. What I saw was a man that wanted me to think he was an animal. But I saw him walking, plain as day.” She narrows her eyes. “I thought they caught the bear that killed your girl.”
“They caught a bear. But there’s nothing that ties it to her.”
Amber watches a flock of birds fly overhead. “At least you know she’s gone. You have something to bury. Everyone around here is pretending Chelsea is out there somewhere having a gay old time. But they know. They know Chelsea’s dead. They just don’t care.”
I can feel the sense of loss she’s experiencing. It’s a quiet desperation, like clinging to a rope in a fog.
“Do you remember the spot where she disappeared? Where you saw the man?”
“Round about. I took the police there.”
“Did they find anything?”
“Are you kidding? They spent about ten minutes, then left. They didn’t give a fuck.”
“So it was never made a crime scene?”
“They didn’t make it a crime.” She stabs the air with her finger. “They didn’t care!”
The words come out of my mouth without thinking. “Can you tell me where it happened?”
Before she can answer, I hear the familiar sound of squealing truck tires.
“Shit,” Amber mutters. “My boyfriend is here.”
Here we go again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
BAD PRINCE
I feel my spine stiffen as Devon’s boots stomp across the grass. He comes to a stop over my shoulder, his shadow falling over me.
My right hand grips the can of Mace in my pocket, but my fingers are trembling. I don’t know if I’ll be able to pull it free quickly enough, let alone muster the nerve to squeeze the trigger.
I’m terrified that trying to defend myself will only aggravate him further. Last time he took my money but left me well enough to walk away. Fighting back might put me in the hospital, or worse.
Amber looks over my head at Devon and gives him a little nod. “What’s up.”
“Who’s he?” Devon asks.
My body slackens a little when I realize he hasn’t recognized me under my hat and sunglasses. I keep my head down and avoid looking up at him, lest he see the bruise on my face and recognize his handiwork.
“He’s nobody,” Amber replies. “Just an old friend of Chelsea.”
“Friend or customer?” Devon replies with a mocking tone. He walks past me without turning to look. “Make sure he knows your pussy is no longer on Craigslist.”
“Fuck you.” Amber flips him the bird as he steps inside, closing the door behind him.
Amber shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “You probably think I’m a horrible person.”
I keep my voice low, afraid he’ll hear me inside. “Aside from what happened yesterday, I think you’re swell.”
“Yeah, whatever. We only started doing that after a trucker roughed up some girl from Quiet Lake. They fucked his shit up when they got to him.
“Devon was getting pissed when he saw the guys calling me. It was one thing if they were a local, someone we knew who was okay.”
I’m trying to understand the relationship dynamic. “Is Devon your . . .”
“Pimp? Fuck, no. I’m not a fucking whore,” she says sharply.
“I was going to say ‘boyfriend.’”
“Oh. We have an open relationship. Not that it’s any of your business.”
I’m embarrassed by the whole discussion. “I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
“You have a judgmental face.”
“I’m a scientist. I look at everything this way.”
She tilts her head toward the house. “Devon wanted to be a scientist.”
“Really?” I say a little too loudly.
“He loves all that shit. He’s got a Neil deGrasse Tyson T-shirt and everything. We used to get high and watch Bill Nye the Science Guy.”
Out of nowhere, this makes me laugh. My stomach protests in pain, and I try to stop moving.
“Yeah, fucked-up, I know. You ever watch Sesame Street wasted? It’s like it’s made for two-year-olds and stoners.”
“No. I’ve never gotten high all that much. As an undergrad I was on a trip to
the Amazon and a local medicine man gave some of us something that I still can’t identify. We sat around in a circle drinking it, thinking it was a bonding ceremony.
“Turns out they were just messing with the out-of-towners. I sat in a tree for hours convinced I was a spider monkey. When I got back down and explained what I experienced, the medicine man asked me how I was so certain I wasn’t a spider monkey that got high and thinks it’s a scientist.”
Amber taps the side of her nose. “That guy knew what he was talking about. How are you so sure?”
“Sometimes I wonder.”
She leans back and stares at the passing clouds. “Chelsea and I used to have those conversations all the time. We’d wonder if this world was the real one. When we were little girls, we’d always be looking through closets and random doors, hoping we’d find one that led to another place. Like Narnia. Something different.”
She leaves out “someplace better,” but I know what she’s trying to say.
She tugs at a weed. “When we got older and realized that we weren’t going to find that door, we started thinking that world was around us, but we couldn’t see it. I don’t mean like a Doors song or nothing. Just that we get used to calling things by names and thinking about them in a certain way.
“We started making up our own names for stuff. Like the phone was the far talk box. We’d call the TV a magic window. We’d come up with names for people, too. Chief York was the Evil Baron. Charlie was the Bad Prince. We had names for everyone. Reverend Goat, the Red Witch, the Bad Wizard—he was a meth cook.” Her voice drifts. “Anyway. Stupid stuff.”
I feel a connection to this lost girl. “It’s not stupid at all. I teach a whole class on nomenclature. I explain how using different names, but ones that still fit, can give you a different understanding of things.”
“Like how?”
I think for a moment. “Take Hudson Creek. It’s not much of a creek, but the whole town and everything around is in its valley. Actually, it’s kind of a bowl between the mountains. On the other side are a couple of different towns. One is more in the mountains—lots of summer rentals, right? The other seems like a nice enough place. What makes this town different? What name would you give it?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Hell Mouth. This isn’t hell, but the entrance can’t be far. We’re all circling the edge, waiting to fall in.”
“I don’t know about all that, but I’m sure you get more than your share of wicked passing through.” I think of the dark-purple bands MAAT showed me. I wonder what I’d see if I used data from last century. Was Hudson Creek still on the devil’s highway? From what Gus told me, it would seem so.
“Amber, if I give you a map, can you show me where you last saw Chelsea?”
She thinks it over, then shakes her head. “I’m not sure.”
“Could you at least tell me some markers to look for?”
“They’re hard to find.”
I’m frustrated that she’s suddenly become a dead end. Maybe the subject is still too painful.
“How about I show you myself?” she offers.
“You mean, go back there?”
“I’m not scared,” she says defiantly. “If the devil wanted me, he would have come for me when he got Chelsea.”
Amber is a tortured soul, but I admire her bravery.
Going there sounds like a horrible idea, but I agree anyway.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
FIELD TRIP
When I return to Amber’s house later that afternoon, Devon’s truck is still parked in front. So I text her to let her know that I’m here. She texts back, b right there.
I’m not sure what I’m looking for out there. But if the police never did a thorough investigation, who knows what still might be up there? A piece of fabric, a shoe, anything that backs up Amber’s story would help me know if I’m looking in the right direction.
But for what?
I only have a few more days before I should head back to Austin. As things are, it’s going to be tight getting everything ready for class. I’m already going to have to beg off a couple of faculty meetings. These are usually pointless anyway, but not being there has political consequences. My contract is up for renewal. It’s best to play nicely.
There’s a knock on my window. I look up from my phone and nearly piss myself. Devon is standing there. He motions for me to roll down my window.
I reach my hand toward the shifter to put the Explorer in drive, but I hesitate when he steps away from the door and holds his hands up.
“I just want to talk to you,” he says.
I fumble for my Mace and hold on to it tightly before cracking the window.
“Amber says you’re going to where she says Chelsea went missing.”
“Yes,” I reply hesitantly. “That’s what I wanted to talk about yesterday.”
“Yeah, yeah. A mix-up.” He rests his hand on the door frame. “I can’t let you take her up there alone. For all I know, you could be a whack job.”
I take off my sunglasses and point to my bruised cheek. “Do I strike you as the violent type?”
“You might be pissed and all. But that was a mistake. That was Charlie’s fault. He thought you were someone else.”
“Who is that?”
“I don’t know. Some guy that likes hitting girls. Fucking you up was wrong, but we never hit any women. Anyhow, I’m coming with you.” He grabs the handle to the back door.
“The fuck you are,” I shoot back, making sure the doors are locked.
Devon walks back to my window. “Listen, I’m sorry about what happened. Here.” He shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out a wad of bills. “Take it back. Charlie’s got the rest.” He feeds the bills through the crack in the window like a vending machine.
I watch the money fall into my lap. When I look up, Amber is walking out of the house in a jacket.
“Is he okay with it?” she asks.
Devon looks at me through the window. “Well?”
This keeps getting worse. “Fine. But you’re sitting up front so I can watch you.” I know that’s something you’re supposed to do, but the idea doesn’t make me feel any safer.
“Sure. Cool.” He goes around the car and gets into the passenger side. Amber climbs into the back behind him.
It’s an awkward drive for the next few minutes. I keep a watch on Devon. Each time he moves, I twitch.
In the rearview mirror, I check to make sure Amber isn’t getting ready to strangle me with piano wire.
Finally Amber speaks. “I had to tell Devon where I was going. He pointed out you could be the guy that got Chelsea. Going off with you alone would be kind of stupid.”
These people are afraid of me?
“Amber is a bit too trusting,” Devon says.
“That would explain you in my life,” she replies.
“Woman, I’m the best thing that happened to you.”
“Oh, lord. If this is the best, I don’t want to go on.” Amber shakes her head and stares out the window.
Devon reaches for the radio, and I shove my hand in my pocket. He notices. “You carrying?”
Carrying? He means a gun. It might be better if they think I’m armed. “I’m always careful.” I add, “I told some friends where I was going to be.”
“We did, too,” Devon replies. “Never know.”
“No, you don’t.” I give him an anxious glance, but he’s staring at the houses as they pass by.
After a few minutes he speaks up. “Amber says you’re a scientist? What kind?”
“I studied biology. But I’m in computer science, too.”
“Cool. Cool. I wanted to be an astrophysicist.”
What a loss to the scientific community.
“I had straight As until my senior year,” Devon explains. “That’s when my mom got sick. I graduated, but barely. I guess I should do some online stuff. I watch the Discovery Channel all the time.”
“High,” Amber says from the back sea
t.
“Carl Sagan got high a lot.”
“He was also Carl Sagan,” I reply, regretting it, but Devon laughs.
“True. True. So, Dawkins or Stephen Jay Gould?”
“You’ve read them?”
“Yeah. The Blind Watchmaker is one of my favorite books ever.”
The debate between Richard Dawkins and Stephen Jay Gould was whether the genes or the whole animal was the principal driving force of evolution. It was actually one of the reasons I got into bioinformatics.
To an amateur scientist, asking where you stood on Dawkins versus Gould was the equivalent of asking who your favorite sports team was.
The debate died down when people began to appreciate the notion that evolution is a very complex process and saying the animal or the gene is the deciding factor is too simple.
“I side with Dawkins,” I reply, so Devon won’t murder me in the woods. “But it’s complicated. One of the things I study is how we define genes. As you know, there’s a biological definition for it as the smallest unit of inheritability. But things are more complex. I tend to think about things in terms of systems or processes. Some systems can be reduced to a few bits of DNA. Others involve entire ecosystems.”
“Where do you draw the line at the organism?”
Apparently, Devon is more intelligent than I realized. Granted, our first meeting wasn’t under the best circumstances.
“I’ve heard it argued that we’re just space suits for mitochondrial DNA,” I reply. “Another thought is that we’re just moving cities of gut bacteria. We carry more bacterial DNA than our own. Not by length, but unit. An alien might not recognize us as what we think we are.”
“I’m not sure I recognize us as us,” says Amber.
“We’re constantly changing.” I point to the darkening sky. “As the seasons change, some of our genes switch on or off. Genetically, we become slightly different organisms. Other things can do that, too.” I don’t think I want to bring up my were-frog research right now. “Nature controls us more than we want to admit.”