Limetown

by Cote Smith

“But what if you could?”

  * * *

  Emile stumbled from the beach in a fog. He needed to talk to someone, someone who could confirm that Oskar Totem’s ideas were absurd. He needed Moyer. Or Tracey. Really, he needed them both. But he found only the former, sitting glumly in the latter’s room.

  “How could you not tell me?” Moyer asked. His eyes were puffy and stung red. “I thought I had more time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s gone, you Yankee imbecile. Can’t you see that?”

  Emile quickly surveyed Tracey’s room, its neatly made army cot, its bare stone walls. The room looked no different from when she was there, which, Emile now realized, probably was the most obvious sign. She never wanted to be there. She was always ready to go.

  “I’m sorry,” Emile said. He sat on the bed and waited for Moyer’s anger to wane. It didn’t, so he changed the subject. “I spoke with Totem.”

  “Great.”

  “He wants to build a city. He wants everyone in it to be like me.”

  Moyer shuddered at the thought.

  “You knew that too.”

  “He told me all about it,” Moyer said. “Vaguely, anyway. He wants to knock down the past to make room for the future. Blah blah blah.”

  Emile pressed his palms against his knees. “I don’t know how it would work exactly. Some sort of new technology, a chip or something. He tried to explain the science.”

  Moyer’s mind moved from disgust to disbelief. “You can’t seriously be considering it.”

  Emile didn’t answer him. He knew what he was supposed to say, but didn’t.

  “My, my,” Moyer said.

  “You work for him. For years you—”

  “No,” Moyer said. “Not anymore. Not if it’s cost me Tracey.” He stood up and paced around the room, stopped in front of the doorway. The light from the hall shrunk his shadow to that of a small child. “How has he helped you, Mr. Haddock? Have you asked yourself that? What has he brought you that didn’t end in misery and pain?”

  Emile stared at his empty hands. He thought about his plan. To break Totem, for what he did to him. To break free. But another part of him whispered That was years ago. He was a different person now. He didn’t say what he hated to admit, that without Totem he never would have met Claire.

  “You know how he sees us,” Moyer said. “We’re mice. That’s all. Mice in a lab, here to help him achieve some greater design. He talks about purpose, eh? That’s our purpose. That’s our role to play.”

  Moyer reached into his breast pocket, retrieved a folded sheet of paper. It was a note from Tracey, which Moyer had already committed to memory, the phrases looping into a mantra.

  “You see this,” he said. “This right here is my last chance.”

  “I know it’s crazy,” Emile said. “But it wouldn’t be for me. I think you understand that.”

  Moyer dabbed his nose with a handkerchief. He blew into it and laughed. “Two fools,” he said. “Two absolute fools.”

  Emile let himself laugh. When the moment passed, he asked Moyer what he would do next.

  Moyer tapped his pocket. “I’m going to do exactly what this note tells me to do. And, I’m going to stay as far away from you and Oskar Totem as humanly possible.”

  “He’s not going to like that,” Emile replied.

  “No. I suppose he won’t.” Moyer lit a cigarette he’d hidden behind his ear. In his mind he said So what if Totem is upset. The old man could bugger off, for all he cared, though he still wouldn’t say any of these things out loud.

  “Is this it?” Moyer said. “I can’t talk you out of it?”

  “I don’t see how.”

  Moyer shook Emile’s hand. He clapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Tracey left you a note too. It was on your bed and now it’s in my back pocket.” He gave a second folded sheet of paper to Emile. Moyer’s mouth twisted in mock-shame. “I was curious.”

  Emile put the note in his pocket. He wouldn’t open it yet. He would wait until he was on a plane, over the ocean somewhere, on his way to taking the next step. Eventually, he would drift off to sleep. Perhaps he would dream.

  When he woke, he would take out the note.

  And maybe he would smile because Tracey started the letter off by calling him a dolt. And maybe the smile wouldn’t fade when he read the rest, line by line, and saw that his note was no different from Moyer’s. Maybe Tracey, in her wisdom, saw that Moyer and Emile suffered from similar afflictions.

  Stop wasting time.

  Follow the future you can’t live without.

  She’s waiting for you.

  Moyer walked Emile to the van. “Fare thee well, Mr. Haddock. May we both find what we’re looking for.”

  And then Emile was on a plane, over the ocean, on his way.

  * * *

  The house was as he remembered it. It was always as he remembered it. Even in the dark, he could trace its watchful eye. He saw its ghosts. Here was Jacob, sitting on the porch after a long day working a job that was only a job to him, nothing more. Claire joined him outside, Lia in her arms. She set Lia down to play in the front yard before sitting on the porch next to Jacob. He draped an arm over her shoulder. Together they watched their serious daughter engage fireflies in a very important conversation.

  But they weren’t there anymore. They were in their new house, the home they had made without him. He found their address in the phone book, where anyone could see it. They weren’t trying to hide.

  Emile waited, until it was late enough that Jacob would have gone to bed. A light remained on in the kitchen, and Emile pictured Claire inside, reading for class, studying. He knocked lightly on the door and receded into the empty street, ready to run away, if his brother opened the door. But it was Claire who answered. He watched her face carefully as he emerged from the shadows, the range of her expressions. Alarm to recognition, familiarity to worry. She left the porch light off, as if she knew better.

  “Emile, my god,” Claire said. She closed the storm door behind her and went to him. “What are you doing here?”

  He wasn’t prepared to answer. He thought he was. After some time, he managed to speak. He didn’t use the word he should have, but he said everything else. “There’s an opportunity here,” he told her. “For a new life. For all of us to get closer.”

  Claire stared at him, confused. Emile was confused too. The voice was his, but the thoughts belonged to someone else.

  “Don’t you want something better than this?” The words weren’t right. “It doesn’t have a name,” he said. “Not yet. But it could be anything we want it to be.” He told her what he’d envisioned. The houses. The movie theater. The downtown.

  “Sounds like a nice little bubble,” Claire said. “You hate bubbles.”

  “You’re not listening,” Emile said. “I decide everything. What it looks like, who lives there. Do you understand? I’ve already talked to Max. He says—”

  “Max? Finlayson?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the first person you pick?”

  “No,” Emile said. “Not the first.”

  Claire looked away. “Max will only cause trouble.” She searched his face, to see how it had changed. Emile did the same. Her face had aged too, a few more lines around her dark eyes, but Emile saw her as he’d always seen her. As he would always see her. “This is absurd,” she said. “Every time I see you . . .” She didn’t finish the thought. She turned toward the house, where Jacob slept. Emile could feel him inside now, the steady whir of his mind. “What about your brother?”

  “What about him.”

  “He’s her father.”

  “He wouldn’t be happy there,” Emile said. “This is a place for those of us who are special.”

  Claire’s face registered a small shock, a flinch that shifted to disappointment. She took a step back and pulled her sweater tighter around her, as if she suddenly remembered the cold.

 
“He worries about you,” she said.

  “He’s good at worrying.”

  “You should talk to him.”

  “And say what? Thanks for stealing my life?”

  He backed away. His eyes began to burn.

  “Emile.”

  “Why not?” he asked. His voice rose to the attic but he didn’t care. “Don’t I deserve it? Doesn’t it make as much sense as anything else?”

  Claire stepped off the porch. She touched Emile’s shoulder. It wasn’t what he wanted.

  “I know about your dreams,” he said. “Totem told me.”

  “Totem?” She released him. “That’s who—”

  “He can help you. We can help you.”

  Inside the house another light came on. Jacob called for Alison.

  “Go,” Claire said.

  “Your dreams—”

  “Now.”

  “—like your mother.”

  “I know!” Claire hissed. “Okay? I know exactly what’s in store for me.”

  “Then come with me. I can protect you.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not about you!” Claire shouted, loud enough to catch Jacob’s attention inside. “It’s not about me or you or Jacob. It’s about her. She may have a role to play someday, but for as long as I can, I want to keep her out of it.”

  Jacob was at the door, looking out into the dark, but Emile no longer cared if he was seen. “From me, you mean.”

  “I don’t know what you think Totem can do, but he can’t help you. He only cares about himself.”

  Emile stepped closer to the door. He waited for his brother to see him. He wanted it. To see the shock and fear, the jealousy. And it was there, wide-eyed and wonderful, but only for a moment. Something else leaped into Jacob’s chest. A warmth. “What are you doing?” Lia asked, looking up at her father. When Jacob didn’t answer, she followed his gaze out the storm door window, toward Emile. Emile felt the tears on his cheeks before he realized he was crying. He wiped his eyes so he could see more clearly.

  “Who is that?” Lia said.

  And it would have been easy then for Jacob to say nothing. To pull Lia from the door and say that he was no one. But he didn’t. He took Lia’s hand and pressed it to the storm door glass, so that Emile could do the same. Emile heard the wave rushing across his brother’s mind. “That’s your uncle, Lia. That’s my brother, Emile.”

  And then they were gone. Jacob gave Emile a half-smile and sent Lia back to bed. The light went dark and the door closed, but Emile kept his hand on the glass, desperate to hold on to what was already gone.

  * * *

  Lia would find him eventually, when she was ready. And when that time came he liked to imagine the breadcrumbs would be waiting. Claire would see to it. He saw Lia picking them up and following them into the forest. The note he wrote, the belongings he left behind. Because there was no escaping. That much was certain. When the world is set to change, you can try to hide, but no matter where you go, it’s still under your feet. Build a new town, full of everything you love. Pull the chair closer to the fire. Don’t make them in your image. Make them in your mind. Make them hear what you hear, feel what you feel. Who will refuse you then? Who will turn down your hand when they’re drowning in the ocean, overcome by the towering, suffocating, relentless waves?

  And if it all burns to the ground, let it. You’ll run. You’re good at running. Pretending you don’t need anyone else. They’ll try to catch you, but you’ll hear them coming. You always hear them coming. You won’t fight your gift. You’ll surrender to it. You’ll hear more now, so much more than before, so clearly. You’ll feel the waves beneath the waves.

  When she wants answers, when her mother has pointed her this way, out of regret and guilt, you will show her. You will walk her through town. Take her to the facility. Lead her down the stairs the way they led you. Keep the glow in front, so she doesn’t see the fear that will come flooding back. The way it will come back to you when you first arrive, when they give you a tour and you know immediately that you’ve made a mistake. Because even though the facility and shops are different, and every inch is by your design, the heart of the place beats the same. The walls will thrum with the echoes of the past. High school. The hotel. Menninger. Will they see you sweat? Will they feel your pulse quicken? They will try to comfort you, these people you know. (You chose them, remember?) They will remind you that you are special; that you are the man everyone is here for. Don’t worry, they will say. You can stop all of this at any time. But will it be true? Maybe in the beginning, before the breakthrough. Before the tech and the control and the Reverend and the pig and Max and Deirdre and Oskar and the fire and the girl and—

  No.

  You will show her the room where they will experiment on you. Where they’ll shave your head, wire your skull. You’ll think of her then. How could you not?

  Lines will race up and down a sheet of paper as with a lie detector. The peaks are your emotions, they will tell you. The valleys your resistance. How fascinating, they will say. They look like waves.

  You will not run your hand over your scalp.

  You will not reach out to hers, searching for the scars from when she tried to be like you.

  You will not go in the room with her.

  They will be on their way.

  You will tell her that.

  You will not tell her who. You will tell her it’s not safe. That she needs to run. There’s a back way out. Find it. Find the woods, find your car. Find your way home. Find your mother. Tell her you know that her mother isn’t well. Ignore her when she asks how you know that. You’ve done the math, but don’t show your work. You’ll tell her it will only get worse. That her mother will need her. And that the best thing she can do is be there for her mother, the way you couldn’t be there for yours, the way no one will be there for you. Forget about this place, you’ll tell her. Push it out of your mind and live your life. She’ll say she can’t and you’ll know she’s telling the truth. But you will tell her to try, for as long as she can. No one knows you’ve been here. No one knows your uncle. No one knows what you can do.

  What will happen if I stay? she’ll say. What will happen if someone finds out?

  You will tell her they can’t. They must not. You will not tell her why. You will not tell her about Moyer. Why he will die. Your friend. That it will be because of you. That he’ll go looking and they’ll kill him because he’ll know where to look. Poor Tracey. You will not tell her that they’ve been strangely patient since then, perhaps not wanting to stick their necks out too far until the world has forgotten. Until this place becomes a Roanoke or a Jonestown, a weird mystery, fun to whisper, easy to forget. But they will not wait forever. It is only a matter of time until someone more ruthless will take charge. Someone who will see her as bait, maybe. And that’s why you’ll be there. That’s why you’ll watch her.

  They will enter the facility.

  You will shut the door. You might tell her that you’ll never see her again. That’s okay to say. But you will not tell her that you love her. That you’ll always love her. That one of the best things you ever did in your life was leave her and her mother. That the only thing better than leaving was staying away.

  They will be a floor above you.

  She will be afraid. She will want to know why you’re doing this. She’ll put her hand to the glass and the past will burst out of its coffin. You’ll see her at her home, her new home, at the door, leaning against her father, and you’ll want to tell her. What you should have said back then. That when you saw her standing there, your biggest worry was that you wouldn’t be able to read her. That she would be like her mother or, worse, like you. But when she looked at you, you felt the wave immediately. It was small, coasted just below her consciousness. She probably wasn’t even aware of it. And you wouldn’t have felt it before, when you were weaker. But you felt it then, didn’t you? The thought, the memory. The two of
you lying down at the park, staring at the clouds and talking dreams. You like to think it’s one of the best memories of her short life. That your time together mattered. Matters. Will matter. You’ll feel that flicker of recognition, even now, staring at her, but it will fade away, and you know it will not come back. Not unless you tell her. So tell her. Remember.

  But you will not tell her.

  You will kick the past back into its grave.

  You will lock the door.

  You will tell her to run.

  You will take the danger with you.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  COTE

  Thank you to my agent, Claudia Ballard, the dream maker. To Eve Attermann, the matchmaker. To Emily Graff—editor, inspirer, beacon of positivity. To Tracey Lien, for answering all my Australia questions. Thanks to Zack Akers and Skip Bronkie, for inviting me into the wonderful world they created. And to Nicole, the most generous and supportive person I know.

  ZACK

  Thank you to everyone who came together to make this book happen: Eve Attermann for her foresight in teaming us up with Cote Smith, Cote for being a genius who makes our story infinitely better, and Emily Graff for her wisdom in guiding this novel to what it is now. To my brothers, Nathan and Nicholas, who helped shape my taste early in life, and who continue to make me feel like my brain isn’t a complete anomaly. To Dad, who taught me how to be a compassionate and thoughtful man in this world, and who has done more to evangelize Limetown to people who hate computers than anyone else. To my wife and my rock, Bethany Reis, who—among countless other systems of support—literally paid the bills while I chased this crazy idea and never, ever questioned why. To the rest of my family (including the Reis family) and friends, whose love is the best source of renewable energy and gets me through.

  Finally, to Mom, who is directly responsible for anything good about me, including daydreaming and never being afraid to fail.

  SKIP

  Thank you to Eve Attermann, the entire WME team, and Dean Bahat, who all believed in us well before we did. Thank you to Emily Graff and everybody at Simon & Schuster. It is a privilege to have worked with you, to be published by you. Thank you to my family, Mom, Dad, Anne, David & Eva, and all of my dear friends who listened to the rambling mystery of Limetown long before it was real. While too many to name, thank you to everyone who has touched Limetown, in any form, over the years. This story is richer because of you. To Cote. It’s hackneyed, but very true: our friendship has been the greatest outcome of this Limetown hullabaloo. Finally, to Tracey. Every day I try to make you proud.