Christine continued, stammering through her cries, "Michael...he hit head first into the tree...I saw it fucking explode! He lay there for about three minutes before I could even move. I could only stand there and watch him bleed out onto the lawn. I was about to call out for help when some people came out of the house."
"Some people," I repeated, stunned at what I was hearing. "What did they do?"
"They did fucking nothing Michael," she sobbed, eyes glassy, hands trembling. "These people, they looked crazy, mindless, like robots. The expressions on their faces...there was nothing there at all, blank, eyes all glassy, mouths hanging open. There were four of them in total and they never spoke a word, not to me, not to each other. One of them, a man, he had a blanket and he laid it out on the grass next to the man I'd hit. After that, they picked him up, one person holding each limb, and put him on the blanket. He was dead, I'm telling you, Michael. The body was hanging like a pendulum, deadweight. They wrapped the blanket around him and then they picked him up and carried him inside the house, one person on each of the four corners of the blanket. They left the door open and I felt I should go in with them, but I couldn't. I was too scared and they were too fucking spooky the way they were acting, the way they just ignored me, and I didn't want Jessica to see anymore of...of..." She fell into my arms, wailing, at a loss for words.
"Chris...did the cops come?" My heart was pounding, sweat poured from my body like rain. I knew that either answer to this question would assist in explaining the lack of assistance I received here this afternoon.
She nodded a wet 'yes' against my shirt. "There were two cops. That's it. I had to give them a statement. They let me go after that, but the car was totaled, so it got impounded.
Impounded...
"What about emergency teams?"
She shook her head. "No."
"They give you an alcohol test? The cops?"
"No."
I thought about the car, then asked, "How could the car have been totaled if you only hit a man?" Only a man. Jesus. Would I have made such an insensitive comment if my mind wasn't a total mess itself?
She replied with a flurry of cries, and I found the common sense to not concern myself with the car—my means of escape—at the moment. Jessica had begun crying too. She squeezed harder on my leg, then said, "What about Page, Mommy?"
Page...I'd completely forgotten about our pet, justly, so I told myself. "Where's the dog, Chris?"
She pulled her face away from my chest. It was painted deep red, glossy with tears. Her eyes flitted in their sockets. "He bounded from the car and ran away after I opened the door to get out...after I hit the jogger. We called and called for him but he never came back." Given the situation, I would've done the same thing. Run and run and never come back.
"The policeman said he'd watch out for him," Jessica added.
I looked across the expanse of front lawn, all the way to Harlan road and then beyond to the woods across the street. I'd hoped for Page's sudden return, to see our little cocker spaniel charging gleefully out from between a couple of tree-trunks—it would act, at the very least, as a comforting distraction for Jessica. But there was no dog, and I resigned myself to the possibility that we may never see him again.
Feeling closed in, I pulled away from Christine a bit. Despite the terror of her day, and the fact that we had no car, all I cared about was how I could go about convincing my wife that leaving Ashborough, at once, was the right thing to do. Perhaps her experience had triggered some desire to flee this place, just as mine had. I prayed that it did, but somehow, knew that it didn't.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, eyes searching the ground, mind treading waves of anxious thoughts. Death seemed to be a common occurrence here in Ashborough, and I'm not talking death amongst your bad-eating heart-disease groups or tainted drinking-water breast-cancer collectives. No, death here was of the uncommon variety—secretive slayings, shocking accidents, ritualistic butcherings, etcetera, etcetera—all seemingly tolerated and perhaps accepted amongst the local inhabitants. I thought of Phillip and his chronicles of the Isolates, of their legend and the dark lore of their sacrifices. It seemed more believable now that there might actually be some ancient curse on this town, something causing a plentitude of accidental deaths that couldn't be stopped. Plus so much more, I thought, thinking of Christine's tale of the townsfolk coming out to retrieve their dead comrade. Of the cops who let her go after a few general questions. Of the absence of a medical team at the scene of the accident. Yadda fucking yadda.
The animal must be alive at the time of sacrifice.
Like a badly kept secret, Phillip's statement kept coming back to me. That, and then so much more. I felt strangely haunted by the insinuation lying beneath his words. I remembered how his eyes pinned me at that moment, how they seemed to say, remember what I'm telling you, Michael, because someday it will save your life. The warning came from his lips with forced deliberation as if each word had had a period following it. To. Make. Sure. I. Heard. Everything. Correctly. I recalled the deer in the shed last night, how it could have been put in there for me to presumably find. Then, of Lauren Hunter, how she'd been put to near death then served to me on a concrete platter with all the telltale clues of what to do next. But...I hadn't done what was expected of me. I'd failed the test. The deer died, and Lauren Hunter died. And after death they would serve me no purpose.
(The animal must be alive at the time of sacrifice)
So they were taken away, two opportunities long gone to commit the deed expected of me.
What's next, Michael? Who's next?
Christine picked up Jessica. Both of them had stopped crying and were silently staring at me as though waiting for me to commit some sort of miracle that would make this day start over again.
I said, "The car was really messed up, huh?"
Chris nodded. "The whole front end was crushed in. Both tires on the left side were flat. That must've happened when I ran over the animal."
"Did you see it?" I asked.
"See what?"
"The animal you hit." I thought of the footprints on the walkway, and wondered. Wondered...
She hesitated, then answered, "Not really...just a flash of a small lanky body."
"How fast were you driving, Chris?"
She looked to the ground, then placed Jessica down. "Honey, go inside please."
I thought about stopping her, but said nothing. Jessica slowly paced away, over the walkway then up the porch where she remained, watching us.
I looked at Christine, and was about to explain to her my plans of fleeing Ashborough, when she ripped me a new asshole. "Michael, you listen to me and you listen real good. Your pregnant wife
(my pregnant wife, dear God, had I forgotten that my wife was pregnant?)
gets into a car accident and not once do you ask if I'm all right or if your daughter is all right. No, you just stand there and ask questions about the fucking minivan and whether or not I was doing the speed limit like you're Joe-Fucking-Deputy from the Ashborough police department. I could've been hurt or killed, or worse yet, carried away by one of those fucking zombie weirdos after they climbed out of their tomb to claim their prize cadaver. This has been one hell of a day, Michael, and I'm done with it. If you have any questions about the car, then call the Ellenville body shop. That's where it'll be for the next two weeks."
She stormed away, body stiff and bobbing. Upon reaching the porch she took Jessica by the hand, then turned, looked at me, and proclaimed, "Jess is going to take a bath. After that I'm going to shower, then get into bed. Good night, Michael."
It wasn't even dark yet. "What about dinner?"
"I'm not hungry."
"What about the car, Chris?" I yelled as she went into the house. The screen door slammed and the cowbell on the eave tolled lifelessly. I walked up the front steps and followed her inside. Chris was already halfway up the stairs. Her shoes lay haphazardly on the living room floor like discarded hand puppets. "How
are we supposed to get around with no car?"
She stopped, turned, looked at me. "Obviously, Michael, we don't."
18
Christine did as she'd promised. An hour later she was quietly nestled in bed, probably not sleeping but unapproachable nonetheless. I'd spent the first hour while they were showering peeking out of the windows, looking for Page, looking for golden lights, looking for those responsible in claiming the dead bodies from my property. But I saw nothing. All I captured was a gradual gathering of darkness and a handful of fireflies that taunted me with their blinking taillights.
Surprisingly enough, an appetite grew within me (well, I'd puked up my breakfast and was a tad too distracted for lunch, so it wasn't that much of a surprise). I ate a handful of wheat crackers and a few slices of Muenster cheese—I passed on Christine's leftover meatloaf; the image of meat didn't win over my stomach—drank a cup of tea, then treaded into the office to check for messages. Honestly, given the day's events, I really didn't give a shit about my job and was frankly surprised that I remembered I had any appointments at all. When I got there I found that all three of my afternoon appointments, Virginia Hastings included, had called to cancel. I shuddered as I listened to their voices on the answering machine, thinking with great fear over and over again: conspiracy...paranoia. I had a very strong and intimidating feeling this wouldn't be the last time these two words ruffled my mind.
Obsessively, I paraded around the house locking all the doors and windows, checking each one twice just to be sure, and of course glancing outside just in case. While securing Jessica's room—her bed was empty—I recalled her earlier irrational fear of ghosts, which didn't appear so irrational now after all. Had my daughter been privy to something? Should I have heeded her warning? I snuck into my bedroom via the connecting bathroom. The room was dark, the wooden blinds shuttered and closing out the hazy dusklight. I looked down at Christine, her body curled beneath the sheets. Again I thought she might've been faking sleep—Jessica also, who was lying beside her—but I let them be. Careful not to stir the blinds, I turned each window latch before tiptoeing from the room.
I went back downstairs, my plan at the moment to obtain some type of transportation out of Ashborough, if not tonight, then for first thing in the morning.
If we made it through the night...
I closed all the lights in the house except for the three-bulb chandelier over the kitchen table, dimming it so that only the table lay beneath in its soft illumination. I sat down, opened the phonebook and called the only cab company listed, located twelve miles away in Ellenville. The dispatcher, a young-sounding woman who identified herself as Jean, was courteous and polite throughout the conversation until I told her I needed to be picked up in Ashborough, with which she hesitated then replied, "I'm sorry sir, we have only two cars on call tonight and they're both to remain in Ellenville." I pleaded my case but lost. Great.
Rental car companies were non-existent, even in Ellenville. The closest airport was ninety miles south and none of the shuttles offered a pickup service outside of the city's limits. Buses? Yeah right.
My only potential ticket out of town was five minutes down the road.
Phillip Deighton.
The clock struck eight. The tolls, suddenly ominous, seemed to stuff the house. I waited an eternity until they finished, then picked up the phone and dialed Phillip. He answered on the third ring and I could tell that he'd been crying. In the last minute prior to calling I'd planned at least a dozen questions for Phillip, like what he knew about the 'Isolates', who they really were, and if 'they' might be responsible for all the mayhem in my life; like who might've put the deer in my shed—any i-deer, Phillip? Pun intended, and yes, I have my suspicions; how about telling me what really happened to Rosy? Oh, and Phillip, can I borrow your car so I can get the fuck out of this crazy place?
I never got question one out.
"Phillip...?"
More sobbing. Some coughs. It always pained me to hear a grown man cry—as a doctor I'd heard my share—and despite the fact that Phillip seemed to be the keeper of many dark secrets, he was still a friend—the only damn one I had.
"No, it's okay, Michael," he replied. "I'm glad you called."
"What's wrong?"
"It's Rosy..."
"What about her? Is she not feeling well?" Wishful thinking. I figured out what had happened before he told me. Odds-on favorite here in Ashborough.
"She's dead." His voice was dry and mechanical, the tears suddenly cut off. A silence loomed between us...well, not a total silence. Phillip's raspy breathing cut through the phone like static, filtering into my head as though electrically charged.
I broke the hush with, "My God, that's terrible. How did it happen?"
More silence, and I'd hoped that some kind of revelation would overpower his lips. "Michael...we need to talk."
I saw this as an invitation—as well as a kind of cheap, shameful victory. It appeared I was finally going to get some answers even though it took the death of Rosy Deighton to get them, something I—for the moment—didn't really care about. This doctor had become numb to adversity over the past twenty-four hours, and had subsequently fallen into survival mode. It was do or die, and now was the time to do.
"So...let's talk."
"In person...not on the phone."
"I'm not leaving my house, Phil." And I meant it too.
"I'll come to you."
I was about to disagree, but pleaders can't be picky, and I was teetering on the edge of damnation with my only ray of light dimming very quickly. Phillip was that last bit of hope, and as they once taught me in bible studies many years ago, do as He says and you shall find salvation. Phillip wasn't exactly He, but as far as I was concerned, he might just be the next best thing.
"Okay," I agreed, my voice sounding distant to me. I felt overcome with fear again. Would Phillip Deighton have some answers for me? Would he be the bringer of good news, or the harbinger of iniquity? The uncertainty of his role in my crisis brought to me levels of anxiety on par with the on-hands experience of Lauren Hunter's ruin. I felt no safer letting him into my home. And to think moments earlier I'd found myself wishing for his assistance in fleeing my risks; now it felt as though he would be bringing more of them to me.
I hung up the phone, realizing a half minute later that Phil had already disconnected the line. I thrust myself away from the table, then crossed the living room and went outside onto the porch to wait for him. Darkness had swallowed up the last remnants of the day, a solid layering of gray clouds absorbing any possibility of blue moonlight. I reached back inside and switched on the porch light. By the time Phillip arrived ten minutes later, a cloud of moths was fluttering about it.
As he paced up the driveway I immediately speculated by the pained look on his face that he'd needed to get away from his house; Rosy had died there and this bereaved man's first instinct was to flee the locale of her demise. I also knew that obeying this initial impetus could lead to further digression, hence forcing him to succumb to the harsh ills taunting his mind. Step one, come tell all to Michael. Step two, shake his hand good-bye. Step three, go ménage a trois with twelve inches of bath water and a live radio. Here I come, Rosy, won't be long now. Kind of like that.
He paced up the driveway, eyes darting between me and the gravel meeting his booted footsteps. He wore a pair of denim jeans and a jacket, and a Red Sox baseball cap that sat crookedly upon his head. When he reached the porch he took the cap off and his dark puffy eyes met mine. His face was the color of redwood leaves. He broke down as he paced up the steps, nearly dropping to one knee at the top. I grabbed him by the forearm and led him into one of the rattan chairs, holding on even after he sat down. He shook his head back and forth in obvious denial, running his free hand across his damp brow. "She's suffered so much...and if that wasn't enough for them, they had to take her from me."
"Who, Phil? Who are you talking about?"
"You know who I'm talking about." His
voice was like sandpaper. Broken by sobs. He kept his gaze away from mine.
"The Isolates..."
He nodded, then looked up at me. "You do believe me, don't you Michael?"
I didn't answer him. "What happened to Rosy, Phil?"
He hesitated, then said, "They came in the middle of the night. As usual, I had all the windows and doors locked, but just like last time they found their way into the house. They're no different than rats or cockroaches, Michael. They have no feeling, no sense of compassion, only drive. It's all instinctual. When they want something they just come out and get it and nothing can hold them back, locked doors included."
It was at this moment I remembered the steel doors that Neil Farris had installed in his office, two of them closing out either ends of the hallway. I'd changed them the first week I moved in. All of a sudden, I wished I hadn't.
"And last night," he continued, "they decided to take Rosy. They found a way into the house, don't ask me how, and they snatched her from our bed. Jesus, I didn't even know it'd happened until I awoke in the morning and saw that Rosy was gone."
I rubbed my lips, swallowed something hard and fiery in my throat. Damn it, I believed him. I didn't want to, but I did. Still, I had to come at him with some kind of off-pitch angle, an innocent-until-proven-guilty kind of perspective. "Phil, are you sure she just didn't get up and leave? I mean, how do you know she was actually kidnapped?"
"Kidnapped? Did I say she was kidnapped, Michael? No...they kidnapped her the first time and just look at how they brought her back to me, all chewed up, and there wasn't one doctor at Ellenville Hospital that'd been willing to help her. They knew what they would've been in for if they had. Oh, thank God for Neil Farris, God bless his soul, he took care of my Rosy, although now I wonder now if it'd been all worth it. She suffered like a bastard for the past five years, lived in constant fear. And then Neil, he paid the price."
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