Siren

by Tricia Rayburn

  “Hey,” he said, answering the phone. He got up and stood under the narrow window at the top of the far wall. “Caleb?”

  I looked up from Max’s obituary.

  “Caleb, if this is you—don’t hang up. I’m finding better reception.” He motioned for me to follow before disappearing upstairs.

  Never more anxious to get out of a dark basement, I closed the binders, grabbed Simon’s backpack, and ran upstairs. I was halfway across the main floor when I noticed the librarian sitting at the circulation desk and slowed from sprint to speed walk.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to the man before her, “but you’ve already borrowed five books from the library. As soon as you bring one back, you may borrow another.”

  “But … you don’t understand … I need these books. I need these books and the five I already have.”

  “Again, I’m sorry. But you know library policy, Oliver.”

  I stopped short. I hadn’t recognized the voice because I’d never heard it—Oliver never spoke at Betty’s. Everyone attributed his silence to crankiness and the kind of hearing difficulty that can accompany aging—but now he seemed to hear himself and the librarian perfectly.

  Through the front door I could see Simon in the parking lot, still on the phone. Thinking it wouldn’t hurt to give him a few minutes to talk to his brother alone, I darted behind a tall shelf and hurried down the aisle. When I stopped at the other end, Oliver stood only a few feet away. Peering through spaces between books, I could see he wasn’t wearing his hearing aid.

  “Of course I know library policy,” he said. “It hasn’t changed in the seventy years I’ve lived here. But I’m asking you to make an exception.”

  “I made an exception for you once before, and you lost three of the original books and brought back the rest six months late. Plus, if I keep breaking the rules for you, I’ll have to break them for everyone.”

  I ducked slightly when Oliver glanced over both shoulders. “No offense, Miss Mary,” he said, turning back to the librarian, “but just like most days, it seems I’m the only one here. I don’t think anyone else would have to know.”

  “Oliver, please. There are rules—”

  “Have you noticed what’s been happening?” he asked sharply.

  My eyes widened as Mary’s mouth snapped shut.

  “The heavens are attacking.” Oliver rested both hands on the counter and leaned toward her. “People are dying. Those who are still here are panicking. No one knows what’s going on—not the police, not the reporters, and certainly not the weathermen. And no one is looking in the right places.”

  Mary’s expression went from annoyed to nervous to sorry as Oliver placed one shaky hand on top of the small stack of books between them.

  “History repeats itself,” he said. “And in order to find out what’s going on now, someone has to find out what happened in the past. When was the last time you saw the chief of police in the library?”

  “Oliver,” Mary said gently, “the authorities are doing everything they can. It’s very nice of you to want to help—”

  “Not nice,” he snapped. “Necessary. And you’re not helping.”

  I shook my head. Mary was patient, but he’d just pushed her too far.

  “Bring back the other books, Oliver,” she said, turning her attention to the computer before her. “And I’ll be happy to sign these out for you.”

  He stared at her. When she continued to type without another word, he hobbled away from the front desk as fast as his cane would carry him.

  I squatted down and shuffled backward, out of sight. I didn’t want him to see me and know I’d heard any of the exchange. But his bizarre outburst had me curious, so I peered over the top of a row of books to watch him leave.

  He stopped by the entrance. He looked up, toward the ceiling, and slowly tilted his head from one side to the other, like he was listening to something … but the library was silent.

  “Be careful,” he finally said. His voice was so low, I almost didn’t hear him. “Be very careful.”

  I held my breath until the door closed behind him and waited for his car to pass in front of the building before hurrying from the aisle.

  “Welcome to the Winter Harbor Library!” Mary beamed as I approached the circulation desk. “Is there anything I can help you with? Are you in the market for new releases? Literary classics?”

  “Actually,” I said, trying to smile. “I kind of know that guy who was just here.”

  “Oliver?” Mary’s megawatt smile dimmed. “I swear, the man writes a few local history books and thinks he’s forever entitled to every book in the library.”

  “Oliver published books about Winter Harbor?” I pictured the illegible scrawls in his notebook at Betty’s. Apparently, his writing wasn’t simply a hobby.

  She opened a drawer, took out four fat volumes, and handed them to me. “I started keeping them up here so he’d stop asking why no one borrowed them.”

  I ran my fingers over the worn brown cover of The Complete History of Winter Harbor … by Oliver Savage. I looked at the stack of books on the counter, wondering why they were so important to Oliver, and whether I really wanted to get involved. “I know you have a five-book policy, but since I don’t have any books out, I thought maybe I could borrow these and share them with him.”

  She blinked. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “I don’t know. He seems kind of lonely, and books appear to make him happy.”

  “Well, letting one person borrow for someone else isn’t exactly library policy either … but it would be nice to have a break from him for a few days.” She looked at me. “You do realize you’ll be completely responsible for these books. If anything should happen to them, you will incur all related fees.”

  “I do. And nothing will happen to them. I promise.”

  “Vanessa Sands,” she read from my card when I found it in the back of my wallet and gave it to her. “Why is that familiar? You’re not a full-timer, are you?”

  “No.” I hoped she wouldn’t try to place me.

  Thankfully, she scanned my card and the books without further question and slid them across the counter. “You can hang on to those for as long as you want,” she said, nodding to The Complete History set I still held.

  I thanked her, took the bag, and dashed out of the library.

  “He’s in Springfield.” Simon was sitting in the front seat of the Subaru with the door open, inspecting a map. “At the Bad Moose Café.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  He folded the map and slid it between the dashboard and windshield. “I don’t know. It was the same weird call—breathing, then a girl saying Caleb’s name and laughing, then nothing. I called the number back as soon as he hung up. He was already gone, but maybe we can catch up with him.”

  “Great. Your car or mine?”

  He looked at me. “Are you sure you want to come?”

  Was I sure? Did that mean he wasn’t sure? Had he decided he had enough to worry about without worrying about me, too?

  “Don’t get me wrong—I’m thrilled if you do. But the last time didn’t exactly go well.” He glanced toward the harbor, a small sliver of which was visible from the parking lot, and then turned back to me. “And I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  When my heart raced now, I knew it wasn’t because I was afraid.

  CHAPTER 13

  “SORRY, FOLKS. I haven’t seen anyone who matches that description.”

  “That’s impossible,” Simon said, opening and holding out his cell phone. “He called from this number less than an hour ago.”

  Ernie, the stout owner of the Bad Moose Café, breathed heavily and wiped his hands on a stained dish towel as he leaned forward. “That’s us.”

  “And you don’t recall anyone asking to use your phone today?”

  “Kid,” Ernie grunted, “look around. Do you think I’d actually forget someone asking to use the phone? That kind of thing makes f
or a big occasion around here.”

  Simon and I glanced around the tiny restaurant. It was empty except for an elderly couple in a corner booth.

  “Be nice, Ernie,” a waitress said, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of half-empty ketchup bottles. “Remember what we talked about? About how one little smile can mean the difference between returners and one-timers?”

  Ernie flashed us a quick, fake smile before throwing the dish towel over one shoulder and disappearing into the kitchen.

  “Pardon him. Ernie still believes that food is the only thing people care about when they go out to eat.” The waitress put down the tray and smiled. “Let’s try that again. Welcome to the Bad Moose Café. I’m Melanie. What can we do for you today?”

  “Melanie,” Simon said, “we’re looking for my brother. He called from here about an hour ago. Do you remember anyone asking to use your phone?”

  She squinted as she considered this. “Nope … but that might be because we weren’t around for him to ask. Ernie’s been engrossed in The Ellen DeGeneres all morning, and my pesky nicotine addiction takes me outside a few times every hour.”

  Hurry, Vanessa….

  “Did you happen to see him?” I asked. “He’s sixteen, just under six feet tall, with dark blond hair and brown eyes.”

  “There’s only been one boy in here today besides Ernie and Mr. Mortimer.” She winked at the elderly man in the corner. “Couldn’t say how old he was, but his hair was dark brown—definitely not blond—and kind of messy. At least from what I could see of it, since he wore the hood of his sweatshirt up the whole time.”

  “Did you notice anything else?” I asked.

  “Just that his girlfriend made me feel as pretty as a rock,” she said, heading for the couple with a pot of coffee. “I swear, once my shift’s over I’m renewing my subscription to Jenny Craig, dyeing my hair black, and ordering colored contact lenses.”

  My breath caught. I couldn’t even look at Simon. “What color contact lenses?”

  She gasped and brought one hand to her chest. “Silver.”

  Simon and I stood so close I could feel his entire body tense.

  “And not just, like, dull silverware silver.” She held up a fork from the table. “Pretty silver. Magical silver. The silver of Christmas tinsel.”

  “Did they happen to say where they were going?” Simon asked.

  “They didn’t say a word. He ate, she didn’t, and they were gone when I came back from my second cigarette.”

  “Thank you for your help,” I said, before hurrying after Simon.

  As we got in the car and sped out of the parking lot, I tried to stay calm and keep my head clear. I didn’t know how I was hearing her, and whether I should listen … but Justine had told us to hurry. If I could just stay open, maybe she would tell us which direction to hurry in.

  “She’s not saying anything,” I groaned softly after a few minutes.

  Simon glanced at me. “Who?”

  I stared out the passenger’s-side window, wishing the dark green blur of pine trees flying by would rewind and reverse. I hadn’t meant to refer to Justine out loud; the words were out of my mouth before my brain had even registered them. Would he think I was crazy if I told him? Would he think I was as scientifically impossible as the Winter Harbor storms, or the smiling victims? And wouldn’t he be right if he did?

  “She talks to me,” I said reluctantly.

  He glanced through the windshield, then back at me. “Who?”

  “Justine.” My voice sounded normal, but I knew what I said sounded crazy. “Not all the time. Not even every day. But it started after she died, as soon as I got back to Winter Harbor.”

  The Subaru slowed. “What does she say?”

  I felt like crying when he didn’t automatically make the judgments he would’ve been justified to make. “My name.” Now that it was out there, there was no point in holding back. “And she talks about Caleb.”

  His fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

  “She hasn’t said much, but it’s like she’s trying to guide us to him.”

  “How?”

  “So far she’s said that he has to want to be found, that he does want to be found but can’t see past the light … and that he’s getting tired.”

  “Tired of what?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not always forthcoming. Like now—she said we had to hurry, but she left out why, or where.”

  Simon was silent as he stared straight ahead. I looked out the window, thinking that I better make the most of this trip just in case it was the last we took together.

  “Vanessa—”

  “I know it’s crazy,” I said before he could. “I know it sounds like I’ve lost it, and maybe I have. I mean, most normal people aren’t terrified of the dark and the ocean and heights and flying, and being alone. Some people might be afraid of one thing, but I’m afraid of everything. It’s not normal. I’m not normal. So this—hearing my dead sister talk to me from somewhere above—is probably par for the course. It’s like I’ve maxed out on everything in the world there is to fear and have started making up my own. So now I can start fearing that, too—whatever else my twisted imagination is capable of.”

  These words, like the ones I’d initially spoken about not hearing Justine say anything, were out before I could consider the damage they’d do.

  “Vanessa …,” he said again, his voice softer. “I was going to say that it must be very difficult. To hear her like that, when you miss her so much.”

  Outside, the long line of trees was broken by a gas station, a coffee shop, a post office.

  “And you’re not crazy.”

  We passed the school, a market, a dentist’s office. The buildings grew closer together as we entered downtown Springfield.

  “In fact, I think you’re—”

  “Simon.” I twisted in my seat and craned my neck to look behind us. “Turn around.”

  “What?” A sharp edge replaced the softness in his voice. “Did you see him?”

  “No.” I turned to him and could already feel the headache starting. “But we just passed a red Mini Cooper.”

  He swerved onto the shoulder and made a wide U-turn so fast the tires squealed across the road.

  “There.” I pointed to the car. It sat on the side of the road, nowhere near any of the surrounding businesses.

  He slammed on the brakes, skidded onto the shoulder, and threw the car into park.

  “Are you sure it’s hers?” he asked as we sprinted across the street. “It looks abandoned.”

  He was right; the car was parked haphazardly, its nose tucked in the woods and its back end sticking out on the small strip of grass between the trees and the road. If I hadn’t been staring out the window, we would’ve driven right by.

  “I’m sure.” The pain in my head grew stronger with each step.

  We stopped by the car and peered in the windows. The interior was immaculate, except for the passenger seat, which was filled with clothes, makeup, and empty water bottles. A crystal perfume bottle hung from the rearview mirror. An atlas opened to the state of Maine sat on the dashboard.

  I lingered by the passenger’s-side door as Simon started into the woods. I closed my eyes and pictured Justine. I saw her blue eyes, her smile, her hair. I tried to hear her voice, willed it to sound from somewhere outside my head so that we could either follow its instructions or the direction it seemed to come from.

  But she was silent. The only sounds were of birds singing, cars passing, Simon crunching through leaves and sticks … and the drumming in my head. It banged louder, faster, as I headed into the woods.

  “This is ridiculous,” Simon said ten minutes later. “There’s no trail. How do we even know they’re in here? We’re walking in circles, and they could already be gone.”

  I stopped. “Simon.”

  He looked at me, then followed my gaze to the dead tree standing a few yards away. A victim of age, disease, fire, or some combinatio
n, it looked like a skeleton rising from the leaves. And hanging from one long, gray, leafless limb was a hooded maroon sweatshirt.

  Reaching the tree, Simon lifted one sleeve and turned it toward me so that I could see the Bates logo.

  “The leaves are flattened,” he said, looking down and away from the tree’s narrow trunk. “They kept going.”

  He started jogging, and I hurried after him, terrified and relieved when I had to press both hands to my forehead against the searing pain. As we ran, Simon glanced behind him every now and then to make sure I was okay. Soon the pain was so powerful I could barely see past the bright white dots distorting my vision, but I assured him I was fine.

  Until she laughed.

  I dropped to my knees, my chest pressing against the tops of my legs. I closed my eyes and grabbed at the ground, my fingers digging through leaves and into the cold dirt. I’d never heard Zara laugh, and the sound was like nothing I’d heard before. It was like one long high note hitting a glass prism and shattering into a million high notes—some short, some long, some loud, some soft—that shot out into the atmosphere at different angles until they completely drowned out all other noise.

  It was also like a grenade detonated in my skull.

  I kept my head lowered and focused on breathing. She didn’t laugh again, and after a few minutes the pain dulled enough that I was able to open my eyes.

  “Simon,” I whispered. He stood a few feet away, staring into a cluster of trees. When he didn’t hear me, I lifted my torso and crawled toward him. “Simon.”

  My nervousness gave way to alarm. Whatever he saw through the trees was so bad he hadn’t noticed I was no longer behind him. I climbed to my feet and shuffled as quickly and quietly as I could. He didn’t turn around once—not even when I stood next to him.

  I stepped closer and peered through the trees.

  Zara. She wore a short white skirt that lifted away from her legs in the breeze, and a fitted white tank top. Her feet were bare. The outfit was so unlike the tight black skirt, black tube top, and stilettos I’d seen her in that day at her house, I was almost relieved. Serial killers didn’t wear all white the day they decided to off their next victim, did they?