The Light

by D. J. MacHale

I led her through the odd maze toward the house. As I was about to step onto the cement stairs that led to the front door, my eye caught something that stood out amid the clutter. Next to the house were two sawhorses with long wooden planks between them. Lined up on the planks were at least twenty pots of healthy flowers. I didn't know the names of most of them, though I think one was a red geranium. They were brilliant splashes of color that stood out against the rust and decay. It would be easy to think of George O. as a nutcase hermit who lived to collect odds and ends that others threw away. Seeing those flowers made me realize that there was more to him than that. I didn't know if he had a family or kids or anything else, but he had created something beautiful and took the time to make sure it stayed that way. I felt bad for him and bad for the flowers, knowing that in a few days they'd be dead.

  192

  I glanced at Sydney. She was staring at the flowers too. I was glad she didn't make any snide comments. I dug the key out of my pocket, pulled open the rusty screen door, and tried to put it into the lock. It fit. It turned. We had come to the right place. I was about to step in when Sydney grabbed my arm.

  "You don't think Cooper is in here, do you?" she asked.

  I hadn't even thought of the possibility. I was holding on to the hope that Cooper was on his own and safe somewhere. If he was in that nasty old house, well, there was no good scenario there.

  "Nah," I said. I gave her a quick, reassuring smile and stepped into the house.

  The first thing that hit me was the smell. It reminded me of the locker room at school. Most guys didn't bring their gym stuff home to wash very often, so the place always reeked of dry sweat. The only difference with George's place was that there was nobody coming in to swab the floors with disinfectant. Whatever else I could say about George O., one thing was for sure: He was a lousy housekeeper. He definitely spent more time with his flowers than he did with a mop. The cramped home was a mini version of the junkyard outside. There looked to be three rooms. We stepped into what I guessed was the living room. There was a ratty old couch with the stuffing coming out of the arms and a leather recliner chair that I'd bet a nickel wasn't real leather. Both faced a pretty big old-fashioned tube TV that had a bent wire hanger for an antenna. To the right of the front door was a tiny kitchen where you could stand in the middle and reach everything. Far to the left, beyond the living room, I saw a door that probably led to the bedroom.

  It wasn't exactly luxurious, but it wouldn't have been a horrible place to live if not for the fact that almost every square inch was filled with some kind of junk. I'm not talking

  193

  about the typical cheesy stuff that people sometimes have around their house--I'm talking junk. The living room looked more like a workroom than a place to hang out and watch TV. There were old tools scattered across a low table; fishing gear hanging from the walls; and wooden bins full of screws and washers and pieces of machinery that could have gone to anything and probably fit nothing. Glancing into the kitchen, I saw more of the same. Among the few cooking pots and cans of food were more machine parts and tools.

  Sydney said, "Wouldn't it be funny if we went into the bedroom and it was, like . . . really nice?"

  I'm not sure if funny was the right word, but I knew what she meant. Seeing any kind of homey touch in this mess would be totally out of left field.

  She added, "Then again, let's not look in the bathroom. That could be ugly."

  I gingerly stepped into the living room to take it all in.

  "What are we looking for?" she asked.

  "No idea," I said. "I was kind of hoping we'd know it when we saw it."

  "He didn't give you any kind of clue?"

  "All he said was that I'd find answers," I said. "So look for answers."

  "I'm not even sure what the question is," Sydney said. "Unless ..."

  She didn't finish her sentence.

  "Unless what?" I asked.

  "You don't suppose this George character did something to Cooper? I mean, this is right out of some bad movie. You know, strange loner lives in the woods and lures unsuspecting victims into--"

  "I get it," I said, cutting her off. "I don't think it's like that."

  194

  "Because you're an expert on human behavior?"

  "No, I just think George was as much of a victim as Cooper was."

  Sydney looked me right in the eye. "So you think Cooper is a victim."

  "I don't know what to think," I said quickly. "That's why we're here."

  Sydney raised her hands as if to say, "Fine. I'll back off."

  I stood in the center of the living room and did a slow three-sixty to try and see anything that might jump out as being important.

  "What about the jacket?" Sydney offered.

  I nodded and walked toward the bedroom. I didn't see any clothes in the living room and figured that whatever clothes George had would probably be in there. The bedroom door was closed. I didn't like that. I wanted to know exactly what I was headed for. The closer I got, the more nervous I became. I thought about Sydney's concern that George had somehow done something to Coop. With each step I grew more afraid of what I might find in there. It took a lot of willpower to reach for the doorknob. Looking back, I saw that Sydney was hanging back by the front door. Fine. I would have to go in on my own. I twisted the knob and pushed the door open slowly. I actually squinted, just in case there was something horrifying in there. Squinting made me feel as if I had control over how much of it I would see at first. The door was halfway open when . . .

  Crash. Something fell down inside. I jumped back.

  "What was that?" Sydney shouted.

  "I don't know."

  My heart was pounding. I reached back for the door and pushed it farther open.

  Something fell out of the room and hit the floor at my

  195

  feet. I jumped back again, but quickly saw that it was only a gray, wooden board. Nothing sinister at all.

  "It's just a piece of wood," I called back to Sydney.

  I waited a few seconds in case something else might come tumbling out, but nothing happened. I reached forward and pushed the door open the rest of the way. The room was dark ... far too dark for that time of day. My first thought was that the blinds were down and curtains covered the windows, but there was no way that blinds and curtains could make a room so dark. I took a step closer to the doorway and allowed my eyes to adjust. Once I could make out details, I realized why the board had fallen at my feet.

  The bed was empty, with only a threadbare blanket lying in a heap next to a stained pillow. There was a dresser, on top of which was a tray with some plates and silverware that were left over from a meal. Clothes were strewn everywhere. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the contents. What was strange was that the room was boarded up from the inside. Long lengths of wood of all shapes and types looked to have been hammered into the walls on either side of the windows, blocking out the light.

  "You gotta see this," I called to Sydney.

  She came forward cautiously and peered over my shoulder. I picked up the board that had fallen onto the floor. There were several others like it leaning against the wall inside the door.

  "Is this a prison?" she said. "Was he keeping somebody in here?"

  "No," I said. "You don't keep somebody in by hammering boards from the inside." I showed her the board that had fallen. "Looks like he used these to close off the door. He wasn't trying to keep somebody in, he was trying to keep something out."

  196

  "Like what?" Sydney asked.

  "He said he saw things. If he was seeing the same things I am, he might have hidden in here for protection. I'd do the same thing if I thought it would work."

  "Look for the jacket," Sydney said.

  It wasn't as if George O. had an extensive wardrobe, but I no sooner wanted to go through his dirty clothes than I wanted to pick up plutonium. I used the board to dig through what was lying around. Mostly it was jeans and
flannel shirts. George wasn't a fashionable guy. I opened up each of the drawers in his dresser but just saw socks and underwear.

  "Help me flip the mattress," I said.

  Sydney gave me a dirty look but didn't argue. We lifted up the mattress to see that there was nothing under the bed but dust . . . and a hammer and nails. Cooper's jacket was nowhere to be found.

  Sydney picked up the hammer, feeling its weight. "So he barricaded himself in here to hide from whatever, but then pried himself out to tell you that Cooper was on the road and not to listen to anything or to follow. You think he could have been any more mysterious?"

  "Let's check the kitchen," I said.

  On the way out of the bedroom I saw a narrow door to my left. I kicked it open to see the tiny bathroom. Sydney was right. We didn't want to go in there. It wasn't exactly spotless. Still, I stuck my head in long enough to see that there was nothing out of the ordinary, if ordinary was sad and disgusting. I didn't go in. The bacteria could have it.

  The kitchen wasn't much better. The white sink was stained yellow. There wasn't anything in the fridge besides moldy bread, which was just as well because it wasn't working anyway. It looked like George O. ate his meals right out of the can.

  197

  We spent nearly twenty minutes in that sad home, and all we did was confirm that George O. lived like an eccentric slob . . . and boarded himself into his bedroom. We didn't find anything to do with Cooper.

  "Now what?" Sydney asked.

  We had hit a dead end. A creepy, sad dead end. My mind shot forward to what might be next. Dad was coming home in two days. That was good. I would tell him everything and hope he didn't send me to a shrink. At least not right away. We still had to find Cooper.

  "I'm going to ask my dad to come up to the lake," I said. "Maybe then we can tell all three of our parents what's been happening."

  Sydney frowned.

  "I know," I said. "Your parents are having it tough enough as it is, I just think that--"

  Suddenly a bright light hit me in the eye. It was so blinding, I had to put my hand up to block it. At first I figured it was sunlight that had crept through a kitchen window, but neither of the kitchen windows had any sun coming in.

  "Where's that coming from?" Sydney asked.

  We both looked down the length of the trailer to see a pin spot of light coming from the darkness of George O.'s bedroom.

  "The sun must be leaking through cracks in the wood," I offered.

  The light left my eyes. I looked to Sydney and saw her face fall as she looked toward the floor.

  "What's the matter?" I asked.

  "Look!" she exclaimed, pointing down.

  The spot of light that had hit me in the eye was moving. It traveled the length of my body, down my leg, and onto the floor.

  "What the hell?" she exclaimed.

  198

  Whatever it was we were seeing, it wasn't natural. Sunlight didn't move that quickly, or that deliberately.

  "I hope you're seeing this too," I said, my voice shaking.

  "I'm the one who told you!" Sydney answered.

  It wasn't a hallucination. Two separate people were watching a beam of light travel along the threadbare carpet of the mobile home, headed for the bedroom. There was only one thing to do. I took a step to follow it, but Sydney threw her arm out to stop me.

  "Don't!" she warned. "What if it's the grave-guy?"

  "Then it is," I said flatly without taking my eyes off the moving light.

  I pushed past her and slowly followed the light. Sydney ran up behind me. I didn't think she wanted to come, but she wanted to be alone even less. She kept her hands on my back.

  "This isn't happening," she muttered.

  For the record, it was. But I wasn't about to stop and convince her of that. The light brought us to the threshold of the bedroom door. I could see the exact place where it was coming from. There was a crack between two of the parallel boards that George had nailed up over the window. It seemed like there was an intense light shining through from outside. Ordinarily I would say it was the sun, but the sun didn't move like that. I stood in the doorway with Sydney peering over my shoulder. The light had stopped on the floor just inside the doorway.

  "Whatever's doing that," I said, "it wants us in here."

  We stared at the bright spot of light. It didn't move.

  "I want to leave, Marsh," Sydney said nervously.

  The light began moving again, slowly drifting across the floor. I can't speak for Sydney, but I don't think I was breathing. Both of us were locked on to the light, following its journey. The light made it to the base of the opposite wall

  199

  from the window and began climbing. It soon reached the bottom of another series of boards that had been nailed up to cover the other bedroom window. It traveled higher and higher and then suddenly stopped. We stood there, waiting for it to continue.

  "Is that it?" Sydney asked.

  The light had come to rest on a unique piece of wood. Most every board ran all the way from one side of the window to the other. Not this piece. It wasn't long enough. It was wider than the others too. And blue. Where all the other boards were a weathered gray, this board was painted. It wasn't a uniform plank but more of an oddly shaped piece of a jigsaw puzzle with rough, splintered edges. The light came to rest on this unique blue board. Sydney and I watched for a solid minute, but the light didn't move.

  "Yeah?" she said. "And?"

  Something hit the board from the outside, making the wood rattle. Sydney yelped in surprise. Up until that second it had been deathly quiet in that claustrophobic bedroom. The knock wasn't dramatic, but coming as it did, when the two of us were already on edge, was like shooting off a cannon. Whatever hand we were following, it had brought us into that bedroom and to that board specifically. I stepped forward to check it out. Sydney was right behind me. I could hear her breathing hard, trying to suppress a frightened whimper. I wasn't much better off. I was afraid to touch the piece of wood but didn't want it to start banging again. That would have driven me off the deep end. I leaned in closer to the rack of boards, staring at the light, trying to understand what we were seeing. I was a raw nerve. If the board banged again, I would have turned and run for sure.

  As I got closer, I saw that the light was hitting a spot on the blue board that had writing on it. The words were crudely drawn, faded black lettering. It looked like gibberish, until I

  200

  realized that the letters, and therefore the board, were upside down. I tried to imagine what the letters would spell out if they were right side up . . . and gasped.

  "Oh my god."

  "What? What?" Sydney implored.

  ''Galileo."

  "Galileo? Like the astronomer?" she asked.

  "No, like the shuttle craft of the USS Enterprise."

  "You're kidding me, right?" she said coldly. "You're geeking out on me now?"

  "No. The name was my idea, but Cooper went along with it."

  "What are you talking about?"

  I turned to Sydney. "Didn't you know? I painted the letters myself."

  Sydney looked to the piece of wood that was nailed to the window. Skepticism was written all over her face, until she recognized it too. Her expression dropped.

  "It's a piece of our fishing boat," she croaked.

  At that instant the light disappeared. It was as if the message had been delivered and the light was no longer needed. I reached up for the board, wrapped my fingers around one end, and yanked it off the wall. Bright light flooded in, making the sad little room come alive. The piece of wood was no more than two feet long and maybe a foot wide. It was only a partial chunk of the stern. I flipped it upright and examined the lettering.

  "Are you sure?" Sydney asked.

  "Yeah. That's my lettering."

  "So our fishing boat was destroyed and George O. has a piece of it. How is that possible?"

  "I don't know," I said. "But it's all the more reason why we'
ve got to find out if Coop took it out that night."

  "Okay. Sure. How?"

  201

  "I think I know," I said. "But I'm not doing it alone."

  We left George O.'s house quickly, taking the piece of boat with us. Neither of us was sorry to go. We had gotten what we came for. I was sure of that. How George had gotten hold of a piece of the fishing boat was still a mystery, but I was certain that it was what he wanted me to find. It may not have explained what had happened to Cooper, but it got us a step closer. Of course, neither Sydney nor I could explain the mysterious light that led us to the piece. We had searched the room and missed the clue George wanted us to find. The light made sure we went back for a closer look. It was further proof that there were forces at work that weren't normal.

  As we drove back to the Foleys' house, I gave a silent thanks to George for whatever role he had played in getting us to find that piece of boat. I didn't think for a second that George had anything to do with Cooper's disappearance. I can't explain why, but my gut told me that George was being swept up in this craziness as much as anybody else was. He probably found the piece of boat somewhere. Same with Cooper's jacket. Finding them may have sealed his fate. It was a crazy way to think, but rational thinking wasn't getting me anywhere, so why not?

  Much more disturbing was the fact that the Foleys' fishing boat was destroyed. I couldn't think of any good news that could come from that.

  When we got back to the Foleys' cabin, I was happy to see that Mr. and Mrs. Foley weren't there. I still had to go by what George had said. The more people who got involved, the more would be in danger. I didn't want the Foleys involved. At least not yet. It was too late for Sydney and me.

  "Are you going to talk to me now?" Sydney asked impatiently.

  I hadn't said a word the whole drive back. I was too busy running possibilities around in my head.