But the photo wall stops me in my tracks. It always does. Thousands upon thousands of photos are tacked up, each successive layer covering the one before it. If you pried them all off the wall, you’d probably get down to women in corsets and men in top hats frowning in sepia. But all the ones on top are modern, if still in black and white. Couples, groups of old ladies in ridiculous hats, little kids. Every single one of them is smiling or making a silly face. Most people rip off one of their photos for the wall and take the other three on the strip, but some people leave them all. Carly and I always did that, figuring we could walk right in and see them whenever we wanted to.
Along the bottom of the wall, below the photos, handmade fliers with “MISSING” printed across the top show another row of faces, along with dates and information. There was one like that for Carly once, but it only lasted a few days—until they found her body in the storm’s wreckage. Some of the fliers go all the way back to Josephine, and some are more recent. Savannah has never been a safe town, but it’s more dangerous than ever now.
Without thinking about it, I go to the exact place where Carly and I posted our last photos. They’re buried, of course. And thank heavens, because if they were just there, out in the open, I know I wouldn’t be able to control my crying. I put my hand over the spot, imagining those younger, happy versions of us, hugging and sticking out our tongues. That moment will be here forever. But it’s also gone forever.
As I lift up my hand, something catches my eye. There are words written in thick black marker on one of the strips, partially covered by a little girl and boy making piggy faces. I see the letters
CHA
HO
scribbled over a photo.
And for some reason I have to know what that means. My curiosity is back with a vengeance.
I lift up the photo of little kids to reveal the pictures beneath, and my heart stops beating.
The photo strip with the thick black writing has four images. It’s Carly. In each picture she’s screaming. Her eyes are open and as black as death, just like in my dream. In the last one there’s a blurred figure pulling her out of the booth. All I can see is an arm, a flash of dark hair, and a single fox ear.
The words written across the bottom photo in a jerky, messy version of Carly’s handwriting read “Go to Charnel House.”
9
I HAVE NO IDEA HOW I’m standing up. I somehow walk stiffly back to the circus table and sit across from Baker.
“Dovey? Are you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
I stare at him so hard, I’m afraid my eyes are going to fall out of my face and onto the striped tablecloth.
“What if I did?”
He scoots around the U-shaped booth and puts his arm around my shoulders, but it’s not a get-closer-to-your-date hug. It’s someone who knows you better than you thought, trying to keep you from freaking the hell out.
“Tell me,” he says.
I take a deep breath.
“I just saw a picture of Carly.”
He gulps, and his head falls forward, and now I kind of feel like I should be holding him up too.
“It kills, doesn’t it?” he says.
“No, no. I mean, it does. But this is different. It wasn’t from before. It’s from . . . now.”
He raises his head again, and tears glimmer in his eyelashes. He looks at me hard.
“Dovey . . .”
“Please don’t ask me if I’m on my meds,” I say. “Because I know you know I’m not.”
“I know,” he says. “And I thought it was a good thing. But not if you’re hallucinating.”
“Come see for yourself.”
I slide out of the booth, and he follows me. Every step feels like an earthquake, like I’m going to fall down and down into the center of the earth and be swallowed up. I don’t know which I want more—for the pictures to be there and for us both to see them, or for the pictures to not be there and for us to know for sure that I need to get back on my meds and drop this insane find-my-dead-best-friend thing.
Step after step the picture wall gets closer. Ten feet away and I can see the words, but I’m afraid to look back and see if Baker sees it too. I walk right up and put my fingertip next to Carly’s face.
“See?”
Behind me he sighs deeply, like his heart is breaking. He puts his hand on my shoulder. But I don’t mind this time, because the photos are there, and he sees Carly, and I’m not crazy.
And he’ll help me find her. I know he will. Now that he’s seen it, he has to.
Baker pulls me back toward him into a hug, his arms wrapped around my shoulders and his chin over my head. He’s always been taller than me. I lean back a little, glad to have someone with whom I can trust this secret. I feel him inhale like he’s going to talk, but he balks and takes another breath.
“Dovey,” he says softly into my ear.
“I know,” I say with just the tiniest uplift of hope.
“I think you need to go back on your pills.”
I push out of his arms and spin around to face him, my hands already in fists.
“What? Why?”
“Because this isn’t healthy. Seeing things at the Liberty. And now this. This girl looks nothing like Carly. Surely you can see that. She was your best friend. You knew her better than anyone else.”
“Are you joking?” I say, scrutinizing his face. But he’s not. He’s deadly serious. And he’s hurting inside, whether because there’s no hope for Carly or no hope for me, I don’t know.
“I wouldn’t joke about this. I want what’s best for you. And if that means you’re numb, then you have to do that, and I’ll wait a little longer.”
“What are you talking about?” I shout. “Baker, come on! This is Carly. That’s her hair, and that’s the gap between her front teeth, and that’s her favorite jacket. It’s her!”
“I wish it was,” he says, one finger hovering over Carly’s face. “But we both know it’s not.”
I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know what the meds did to me, and I don’t know what I’m doing to myself. But if he knew Carly like I thought he did, if he knew me like I wish he did, he would see what I need him to see no matter what.
“Fine,” I say. “I thought you were on my side. But you’re not.”
He tries to touch me, but I spin away from him and storm out the front door. He calls my name, but I ignore it. I just want to get away from him. And I’m not giving up on Carly. Her face in those photos is so tortured, so dead. If she’s out here, if she’s leaving me clues, I have to find her. But I don’t know what Charnel House is. The words are so familiar, like when a name is stuck on the tip of your tongue or you can’t quite remember the words to a song you’ve known all your life.
It’s dark out now, but I can’t stop walking, can’t stop rolling the pink bead between my fingers to remind me that it’s real. If I keep moving, maybe I won’t have to feel anything. Maybe I’ll see something that will jar my memory. Maybe I’ll see Carly again.
I stick to the nicer streets and neighborhoods as I get as far as possible from Café 616 and Baker. If he’s not going to believe me, I want to do this alone. I stop on a well-lit street where several horse-drawn carriages lit with Christmas lights await rich tourists, and I plunk myself down on a bench. I pull out my phone and search for “Charnel House” and “Charnel House Savannah GA” and “Charnel House Carly Ray,” but nothing comes up.
I hear another horse coming up the street, its shoes clomping against the asphalt. I always felt sorry for the carriage horses when I was a kid, thinking about how awful it would be to stand on the street all day and pull a wagon. Then my dad took me to one of the farms where they live in luxury and retire early, and I started to think that their lot in life wasn’t too horrible. The horse stops in front of me and snorts, and I look up. Just a few feet away, an intelligent brown eye blinks at me. The horse is black and freaking huge. I raise an eyebrow when I see that
the driver has put a jaunty pirate cap on the horse’s head, with holes for his twitching ears.
“Can I help you?” I snap.
“Ye look a mite upset, mistress,” the driver says, and I consider walking in the opposite direction.
This guy takes his costume duties a little too seriously. He’s a big guy in a black tricorn, frilly blouse, and vest, not to mention his buckled shoes, eye patch, and the green-and-red parrot bobbing on his shoulder. He might be crazier than I am. Or maybe, like me, he needs the magic of the stage to face such a dreary reality.
“A mite lost, a bite cost, thar she blows,” the parrot says, dipping his head in a bow, and the pirate throws him a dirty look. I snort and think about walking away before they expect me to pay for the performance. But then I think that if anyone knows this city, it’s a carriage driver.
“Do y’all know where Charnel House is?” I ask.
The parrot squawks and ruffles his feathers, and the horse snorts. The pirate just leans back and narrows his good eye at me, considering.
“Oh, you don’t be wantin’ to go there,” he says. And then he solemnly winks.
I sigh and lean forward, at the end of my rope.
“I do, actually.” The pirate shakes his head, and I add, “Pretty please with grog on top?”
He throws his head back and laughs, which upsets the parrot, who starts flapping his wings, which makes the horse dance around a little. The carriage creaks, and I step back. I don’t have time for this crap.
“I don’t know where it is,” the pirate says in a more normal voice tinged with a little bit of Southern. “But if you need a ride back to your car, we’d be glad to take you. Maybe even show you the safer sights along the way.”
“Fetch her hither, eat her liver,” the bird squawks.
With a groan the pirate transfers his parrot to a stand in the back of the carriage and mutters, “Never trust a bird. They’re liars.”
The parrot draws himself up tall, ruffles all his feathers, and squawks, “Don’t insult the captain!”
“Thanks, but I’m in a hurry,” I say, backing away. I feel lost and unsteady, but they’re clearly not going to help me and I’m no closer to finding Charnel House, whatever it is. I turn and walk toward my car, feeling like the world is playing an enormous joke on me. I hear a whistle, and bells jingling, and the horse’s hooves clopping away down the street.
“Luck go with ye, wench,” the pirate calls in his original, ridiculous voice. I shake my head and very nearly flick him off over my shoulder.
And then, from farther away, the parrot screams, “Broughton and Bull! Eat till you’re full!”
It echoes down the empty street, and something twists in my memory like a key in a lock.
I now know where I have to go.
Walking fast, I take the safest and best-lit sidewalks to where Broughton Street intersects with Bull Street. This part of town got pummeled by Josephine and hasn’t bounced back like so many other areas have. I haven’t been here in years, not since my dad’s favorite restaurant closed. And I feel completely ridiculous, walking into a dark, dangerous part of a dark, dangerous town, following a parrot’s directions to a place that I’ve never heard of that I found on a note from my dead best friend beside a photo booth. But what choice do I have? Maybe I’m crazy. But if I’m not, Carly needs me, and this is my best clue.
The closer I get to my destination, the worse I feel. I barely ate my lunch, and I didn’t even get a chance to drink my Dr Pepper at 616. My stomach crunches in on itself like an angry walnut, and acid rises in my throat. I feel eyes on me, and I feel exposed, and the air is sharp as a knife. But I’m in this far. I might as well keep going. And the fear is a little thrilling, too, for someone who’s been numb. I feel alive, my nerves buzzing, my eyes bright. And I’m almost there.
I turn the corner from Bull onto Broughton, and all the streetlights are out, save one. It’s tangled up in a dead oak tree that reminds me too much of the ones from the cemetery in last night’s dream. A giant shadow almost engulfs the light and the tree, and I have to look away from the destroyed church that looms over everything, raging against the black sky like a sore, broken tooth. One of the spires and part of the roof are gone, and I remember that it was one of the biggest tragedies of the storm. They said it was almost like Josephine struck there on purpose, collapsing the church in on the people who huddled within.
I shiver and cross the street, venturing into the lone puddle of reddish light, and then I see it. The sign for Charnel House. I can’t believe it’s just an old restaurant and the pirate wouldn’t tell me. Probably gets off on being mysterious, that guy. The front wall is all glass, painted over a dull, matte black that devours the streetlight’s glow. I can’t see anything inside, and there are no hours posted, but the barbecue scent on the breeze is strangely repellent and wonderful at the same time. I push through the tall, green door and into a dimly lit room. It’s so dark that I can’t see the ceiling, and for just a moment I imagine that the room goes on forever and ever, like a cavern into the bowels of the earth.
There’s no one inside except a guy polishing glasses at a bar with his back to me.
“We’re closed,” he says, and it sounds downright unfriendly.
“I’m looking for a friend.”
“Your friend isn’t here. Go home.”
I want nothing more than to flounce right back out the door. Instead I take a deep breath and swallow my fear and pride and march up to the bar. I put my hands on the scarred wood, lean over, and say, “Look, dude. I’m going crazy, and I flushed my meds, and I keep seeing my dead friend, and she told me to go here, and according to the Internet you don’t exist, and a pirate wouldn’t tell me how to get here, but his parrot did, so here I am. So just tell me what the hell is going on, because I’m not leaving until I get answers.”
He freezes. His blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail under a bowler hat, and I have to wonder if he and the pirate are buddies, since they seem to shop at the same place.
“Please,” I add.
The guy turns around, and he glares at me with beautiful ice-blue eyes. I meet his stare head-on. He’s not going to cow me that way, no matter how hot he is. In between my mama and Carly, I have learned how to return a glare with interest.
“Go home,” he says again.
“I can’t do that,” I say back through gritted teeth.
His mouth twists up, and he scans the room and leans close.
“Look,” he says. “You’re not supposed to be here, and I’m not supposed to talk to you. If you’re smart, you’ll leave and just forget all about it.”
“That’s not going to happen.” I sit on one of the creepy bar stools, which is made to look like a wooden skeleton hand. It’s hard to get comfortable, but I don’t squirm. “I’m not leaving until you tell me something, because you look like you know things. And you haven’t called the cops on me yet.”
The other half of his mouth quirks up, and he sets down the glass he’s been polishing.
“Look, babe. It’s your funeral. Don’t say I didn’t try. Let me pour you a drink. You look like a Shirley Temple girl.”
“With extra cherries,” I add.
He turns to mix the drink, and I spin on the stool, taking in the room. It’s empty of people but filled with long tables that remind me of coffins, draped in white tablecloths. The only light comes from wall sconces made to look like flames. It must be a specialty historical-type place, or maybe they focus on the bar and it doesn’t get going until late at night. Still, it’s weird not to see a single waitress or a hostess in a hoopskirt. And the place is eerily familiar.
Just as my eyes reach the front door, it starts to swing open. For a reason that I can’t comprehend, I’m scared, and I press back against the bar like there’s some safety in the heavy wood.
But it’s just Baker. And he’s panting.
“Sweet baby Jesus, Dovey. What the hell are you doing?” He rushes in, and the door slams behi
nd him with a boom.
“What am I doing? What are you doing?” I shoot back.
His eyes are wide and frantic, his hands are shaking, and his face is covered with sweat despite the cold. And his navy-blue peacoat is gone.
“I followed you,” he says, like it’s obvious. “After that whole Carly thing at 616, I was worried you might get in trouble. And who’s this guy?” He glowers at the gorgeous bartender, who gives him a bemused nod.
“Where’s your coat?” I ask.
“Oh. I got mugged.” He flips out the empty pockets of his jeans and paces, angry and amped up and unable to hold still. “While you were talking to the crazy pirate. Couple of bums took my coat and money and phone, just a block away from where you were chatting it up. It was awesome. Not that you effing noticed. And no, I’m totally not freaking out, because getting mugged is perfectly normal for me.”
“Jesus, dude. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
Baker runs his hands through his hair and rolls up the sleeves of his flannel. His face is red, his pupils bare pinpoints. He can’t stop shaking. “They didn’t even have a gun—just waved a pocketknife at me. But I didn’t want to lose you, so I threw my stuff on the ground and ran.”
“I’m sorry. I mean, thank you. But I’m fine. Really. Do we need to call your mom? Can you go back and get your stuff?”
He waves it away. “They needed it more than I do. And my folks don’t need anything else to worry about. I’m just glad you’re okay. But seriously. What is this place? It’s creepy with a capital K. No offense.” This last he says to the guy in the bowler hat.
“None taken,” the bartender says with a wide, slow smile. “You look like you need a drink.”
Baker tugs on his empty pockets. “Just got mugged.”
“It’s on the house.”
Baker sits on the stool next to mine, and I spin back around to face the bar. There’s a Shirley Temple waiting there, the bright pink liquid fizzing deliciously. Something tugs at my mind, something familiar, but I ignore it. I slide three cherries off a plastic sword and eat them one by one, then take a long slurp that burns down my throat to settle in my belly. A smile spreads over my face, and I start to relax. I really did need a drink.
Servants of the Storm Page 7