Dead Lemons

by Finn Bell

  No more hopes for escape.

  It’s only a matter of time now.

  My car is still up there; the bones, everything.

  I hear the voices recede—they are probably searching the house, then they’ll work their way along the outbuildings.

  “Darrell!” I hear Sean call.

  “Darrell! Come out!” after a few moments.

  “Darrell! Sean says come out!” I hear Sean call out—it strikes me as strange that he would refer to himself like that, but then he is talking to Darrell, and maybe you end up saying things in a strange way to Darrell, like you do when you talk to babies.

  Angry, perverted, homicidal babies like Darrell.

  Then I remember what Darrell said to me that day we met on the wharf when he pushed my head between my legs. “You have to look down, Sean said so.”

  Remembering that makes me angry again—I know what else Darrell has done because Sean said so.

  I have to see them first.

  That’s the only way I’ve got a chance, if I see them before they see me.

  Then I can still maybe get a few shots off.

  This isn’t about survival anymore. I know I’m dead now—and there’s actually a kind of peace to it. But at least if I see them first I can try killing one more.

  “Here!” I hear Archie call, at first thinking that he’s spotted me, then realising that it must be a trick of the wind, as he’s nowhere I can see. The next time he speaks he sounds further away than Sean when he says, “They went this way!”

  “Wait, get the guns first,” Sean replies in a flat tone of voice.

  I realise then that I need a better view.

  I need to get to the top of this climb. That way I can see them coming from further away.

  If I stay here I’m screwed, as I’m pretty sure they would be able to see me from the top of the rocks where Darrell and I went over.

  And of course if they miss me, then they can just follow the bloody trail I conveniently left from Darrell’s chest all the way to where I am now.

  Now, where was I?

  Ah yes. Two thousand one hundred fifteen. Two thousand one hundred fourteen. Two thousand one hundred thirteen . . .

  CHAPTER 21

  March 8, THREE MONTHS AGO . . .

  I swear I can feel the beam of the flashlight burning onto my legs but it’s just my imagination, as I mostly don’t have feeling in my legs anymore. That and the fact that unbelievably, the flashlight continues to play across the room without pause for what feels like ages, then abruptly retreats across the hall to the other bedroom.

  I risk looking back out towards my legs and see then that as a small mercy, they’re still covered in the blankets I pulled down with me to the floor.

  It probably just looks like I didn’t make my bed. One deserted bedroom, one wheelchair and one unmade bed.

  But why not look under the bed?

  Surely they’d know that’s the only place cripple old me could be hiding.

  Unless they’re not looking for me.

  Tai dropped me off around midnight and I didn’t bother turning any lights on for long, and I’ve been away for four days. Everything must look exactly as it did before I arrived. I didn’t even take those cards off my door.

  They didn’t find me because they’re not looking for me.

  Then why are they here?

  I hear a faint shuffling sound and then I hear odd clicking and clinking sounds. They’re opening and closing the cupboard doors in my kitchen and searching around inside.

  They’re here to find something, something, not me.

  Then I hear similar searching start in the living room.

  It’s eerie, all this activity. I know there’s more than one person in here, and they must think it’s just them here and there’s still no talking.

  But intended or not, if they keep searching, they are going to find me.

  I need to get out of here.

  But where to? The back door? With three of them moving around the house with flashlights, I’m not feeling overly optimistic. But then if I stay, I’m certain they’ll find me.

  Then a spark of inspiration hits.

  I’ve got a medical alarm. It’s in my bedside table. My insurance made me get one after the accident. It’s one of those little buttons on a keychain you push in case you have a medical emergency. An alarm goes off somewhere and the ambulance service calls you to check if you’re okay. If you don’t answer your phone, then they come out to your house.

  More than one of them, in a big van with sirens and lights and things, yeah.

  But my elation is short-lived as I realise that there’s no way they’ll get here before the Zoyls find me.

  And my phone is in the bowl by the front door. What if they answer it? It would be easy to figure out that I’m still in the house somewhere then.

  And the cottage is just not that big.

  I need more time, I think.

  But there is none, so I quietly retrieve the medical alarm from my bedside table, thinking that if they spot me I’ll immediately press the button and hope madly that I’m still in one piece by the time help arrives.

  There’s no alternative but to try and drag myself out into the hallway and down to the back door.

  I slowly inch out towards my door. At least I’m fairly quiet, and I hope my passage will be covered by the noise they are making themselves.

  My fate pretty much hinges on them not looking in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  I make it all the way out into the hall, which is still thankfully empty. I’m sure any second now one of the Zoyl brothers is going to shine a light down on me.

  I’m almost certain I can hear my own heart racing.

  I feel so ridiculously exposed and helpless now that I’m actually shaking and sweating all over.

  I wish now that I could have thought of something smarter than this.

  It’s when I’m about a pace down the hall that I feel the cold of the breeze, strong against the side of my face, immediately chilling on my sweat-slicked skin.

  Wait.

  I’m face down on the floor and the breeze is coming from right next to me, from underneath the built-in bookcase.

  That’s when my terrified brain throws together a fool’s hope of memories.

  Smugglers Cottage.

  Idiot.

  And finally I remember Ben the real estate agent showing me the hidey hole in the other bedroom and saying there were more all over the place. And Pruitt Bailey showing me a secret compartment in his desk. A desk James Cotter made for him. James re-built this cottage, so maybe he made more of them. I can hear someone in the other bedroom so that’s not an option, and the back door is so far away.

  I know this reasoning is beyond grasping at straws, but I can’t help but reach up to the side of the bookcase.

  It would be somewhere low, had to be.

  And it’s like my brain short circuits on this thinking as I keep pressing halfway between going crazy and praying.

  And on the fourth try, it happens.

  The bookcase swings open with only a slight creak.

  It’s completely dark in there but I don’t even hesitate as I begin to ease myself in.

  I have to find a way to close it behind me, too.

  The cavity behind the bookcase is dusty, full of cobwebs, and narrow, so much so that I have some trouble turning myself over. But I get it done without much noise, holding my breath in case I cough or sneeze.

  I’m almost in, just my feet still sticking out, when it’s all over.

  It just feels so unfair, too—who gets caught when they actually find an honest-to-goodness, real-life secret passage, because even in the poor light I can see it’s not just a hidey hole, it’s a passage, and from somewhere on the other side there’s a faint light.

  I didn’t even hear him approach. Suddenly there’s just a bright flashlight shining right into my face and I hear Darrell say, “Over the hill man,” in his curiously childli
ke voice.

  I brace myself involuntarily, but he doesn’t drag me out by me feet, just repeats the same words, “Over the hill man,” although this time he almost sounds hungry.

  Then the flashlight is abruptly off my face and swinging away as Darrell runs down the hall back towards the kitchen, loudly stomping through the house calling out: “Finders keepers!” like a child calling dibs on the best toy in the sandbox.

  I frantically pull my legs in and feel around for the handle; there has to be a handle to close this.

  I can hear Archie moving towards the hallway as he asks, “What have you found, Darrell?”

  Still nothing! Then my hand finds a short, thick rope and I pull the bookcase closed just as more flashlights round the corner.

  I know I’ve already been spotted, so there’s no real point, but I hold my breath and stay as quiet as possible in any case.

  I didn’t hear a click or anything as I drew the bookcase shut, so I don’t know if it is actually closed. I just hang onto the rope with both hands, sending out prayers to whichever gods may be listening.

  The footsteps come up the hall and stop right next to the bookcase.

  “Over the hill man” Darrell says again, then gives the woodwork of the bookcase a shake. He’s trying to get in.

  “Go around back, I’ll go this way,” I hear Sean say as the bookcase shakes again, and I pray Darrell doesn’t find a way to open this thing.

  Then I remember the medical alarm on its cord around my neck and quickly press the button.

  Okay, now I just have to wait; wait and hope they don’t find a way in.

  “Come out! Come out! Wherever you are!” Darrell says in an excited voice from outside the bookcase as he pulls on it again, like we’re just playing.

  Clearly somebody found the time between killing kids to learn his nursery rhymes.

  Then I hear him grunt and hear the wood of the bookcase beginning to creak alarmingly all around me as Darrell must be putting in more effort. I do my best to pull back on the rope in the hope that this will maybe help it stay closed.

  Then I hear a shuffling noise from quite close to me and I hear Archie say from the side and below me, “I can’t see the trapdoor.” Damn. He’s under the house.

  It’s like Black Albie said, the Zoyls always were clever.

  And I should have thought of it before; that’s the whole point of secret passageways. They have a “from” and a “to.” They have more than one door. There’s me fighting Darrell to keep this one closed and then, somewhere, there’s the second one, which the other brothers are trying to find.

  “Step away, Darrell,” I hear Sean say.

  “Mine, Sean. I said, Sean. Finders keepers, I said. I want to!” Darrell says as he continues to pull at the bookcase, his voice becoming almost pleading.

  “Yes, it’s your turn, Darrell,” Sean says in a calming tone, “but only when we get there. Now step away.”

  “Red time,” says Darrell happily, then loudly sucks in air through his teeth.

  There’s no way I want to know what “red time” means.

  I hear some shuffling in the hallway and then everything falls silent.

  I almost let myself hope that they’ve given up and left when I hear a faint tap-tap against the bookcase, then again tap-tap, tap-tap. Each time it’s coming from a slightly different place.

  “See, Darrell, just like this, all the way around,” Sean says in a calm, clear voice.

  Like he’s patiently teaching Darrell a new trick.

  He must know I can hear him. He’s going to find the way in.

  That’s when my phone rings, jarringly loud. I’d actually forgotten about it already.

  This makes the tapping pause.

  Yeah, you bastards. I think. Your turn to be surprised.

  It keeps ringing for what seems like a long time, and there’s no other sounds while it’s going.

  I’m waiting for it, I know it is coming.

  And then finally, when the ringing stops, a loud voice says, “Hello, Mr Bell, are you there? Do you have an emergency? Hello, Mr Bell? We will dispatch emergency services straight away. Help is on the way.” Then the phone message beeps and the call disconnects.

  We wheelchair folk like to use the speaker phone setting, that way you can talk with the phone in your lap and still have both hands free to work the wheelchair.

  The scary part is, I don’t hear anything else.

  No more tapping, no footsteps, no shuffling, no words, just nothing.

  It’s so quiet that I’m sure they haven’t left at all.

  They must all just be out there waiting for me.

  I don’t know how long it takes. It feels like a long time until I hear a car pull up and then the loud knocking on the front door.

  “Emergency Services! Mr Bell! Mr Bell, can you hear me!” I hear a new voice call out.

  I’m about to yell out when a suspicious thought kicks in and I think—what if this is just the Zoyls trying to trick me?

  But then I hear a second voice calling out and this voice is female, and I know this voice, it’s Patricia. “Finn, are you in there? Finn!”

  So I ease my cramped-shut hands from the rope and call back, “Here, I’m h—” then burst into a choking bout of coughing from all the dust in here.

  “Don’t be alarmed, we’re coming in!” I hear the male voice call out before I hear the front door crash open and them rushing in.

  I follow the rope up to where it’s mounted and find a peg that I pull, neatly spilling myself out onto the floor just as Patricia and the other paramedic move into the hallway.

  “Hi, Patricia,” I say in a calm tone from the floor, trying not to let my voice waver too much, and a stray thought makes me think that from down here she looks even taller, but still quite pretty, even in that ambulance uniform.

  Then the idiot part of my brain adds, “You look nice,” into the awkward silence.

  So now I’m that strange guy making small talk on the floor, in pyjamas, covered in dirt, who just fell out of the wall.

  From the look on Patricia’s face, I can see this is going to take some explaining.

  * * *

  It’s my third time going through that explanation, and I can see it’s not going down well.

  First time was for Patricia and the other paramedic. It turns out Patricia does some night shifts for the local ambulance service charity—she also informs me that I’m no worse for wear. Then again for the police, who are now still dusting for fingerprints and taking pictures of everything.

  And then lastly for Tai and Pruitt Bailey, who arrive at the same time, which is not bad speed for word to get out, as dawn is only just breaking now.

  I’m so tired I’m not even going to bother trying to figure out who told whom. At least I’ve got people who actually show up—I couldn’t say that even a year ago.

  Tai listens to the story without a word, then just nods and says, “Right, you’re not staying here no more, bro. I’m gonna go pack you a bag.” Then rolls off towards my bedroom.

  I’m about to protest when Pruitt lays a restraining hand on my shoulder.

  “Just let him, Finn. Have the good grace to accept help when people need to give it,” he says quietly when Tai is out of earshot.

  “Are you here professionally?” I ask him.

  Pruitt shifts position on the chair, absentmindedly patting his coat pocket, probably looking for his cigarettes before answering.

  “No, Finn, but I can’t help feeling somewhat involved in all this. I actually came to see if you’re okay,” Pruitt replies, then adds in an almost annoyed tone, “but it’s also more than that. It’s against my better judgment. Starting up with all this again. But when I heard what they did tonight, and this so soon after what happened to the cats, I have to know. What did you find, Finn?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Think about it, Finn. They came here looking for something. This is the second time they’ve come here. You don’t
even know if they weren’t in here before. You’ve got them worried, lad. You found out something, something they don’t want you to know. Or you found something; what is it?” he asks again.

  “I . . . I don’t know, Pruitt. I’d actually taken your advice. After we spoke the last time I put this all behind me. I haven’t found anything new. I’ve not even given it a further thought. I wasn’t even here for the last week almost,” I reply.

  I was actually busy having a real life for a change.

  “Finn, this is important. You must have found something. The Zoyls, you should have seen them back then, so calm, even when they were arrested. Even when I tried to interview them. And that Sean, still just a teenager and not even a crack, no single misstep. No gaps or flaws in their story. They were so sure of themselves. Nothing got them rattled. But now, decades later you show up. You’ve only been here for a few months and you barely know the story and they do all this. They’re threatened, because you found something,” Pruitt finishes.

  “But I don’t know what I know,” I reply, racking my brain. “You know everything I know, probably more, Pruitt.”

  Pruitt frowns contemplatively while he scratches his beard then asks, “Then maybe they just think you found something. What have you been doing, who have you been talking to?” he asks.

  So together we go over the past months again, but there’s nothing in it that we can see as pointing to anything. In the end, I’ve spoken to less people than Pruitt himself, and I’ve done so decades after the fact. In fact, we both have to admit that my greatest source of information has been Pruitt himself.

  But I reckon he’s right.

  It’s after the police have left, again saying that a detective will be in touch, that Tai, Pruitt, and myself are parked out on my porch in the early morning sun.

  Tai and I are nursing coffees and Pruitt takes the opportunity to smoke when I say, “It’s not what I know, but what I found.”

  Catching both their expectant looks I quickly add, “I mean, what they think I found. See, I don’t think they were here looking for me. If that were the case, they would have come to my room first off and checked under the bed when they found it empty. And like I told the police, I’m sure I heard them searching my cupboards in the kitchen and the drawers in my desk in the living room. And I was away for a while. It’s probably not usual for people to come back at midnight. I think they thought the house was empty. They weren’t looking for me. They were looking for something. Something they think I have,” I finish.