Frantic

by Mike Dellosso

  When Harold reappeared, weighed down by all his gear, Marny felt that same burden again, felt the shadow clinging to him, the ominous presence of storm clouds inching closer. And for an instant, the briefest moment on a clock, he wanted to run, just jump in the Buick and tear off, never looking back. He had no idea where he’d go. Not back to Maine, that was for certain. He’d head west, maybe Idaho or Nebraska. Maybe even as far as California, head for warm weather where the sun was bright. He could start over there and maybe lose the curse and its ill-fated shadow for good.

  But one look at Esther and William and he knew he couldn’t go. In spite of his growing sense of hopelessness he had to stay. He couldn’t leave them alone with Harold on the run from their crazed Uncle Gary.

  So when Harold said, “You ready?” Marny looked at Esther and nodded.

  “I think we are,” she said.

  They threw the gear into the back of Harold’s Jeep and climbed in. Esther sat up front with her father, and Marny and William took the backseat.

  Nobody talked much during the trip. Harold commented a couple times about local landmarks and their significance in New England history. He told a story or two about homes he’d visited while on patrol, responding to reports of domestic violence. Esther said little other than to acknowledge that her father was talking. William said nothing.

  Twenty minutes into the trip, in the heart of the Green Mountain National Forest, William, who up until then had been looking out the side window with apparent lack of interest, reached his hand over and found Marny’s. He rubbed the top of it, then wrapped his fingers around Marny’s fingers.

  William turned his head toward Marny and said in a low voice, “Everything will be okay, Marnin. Do you believe that?”

  Marny didn’t say anything. All he could think about was little Sarah Williamson’s perfectly preserved face, frozen in fear.

  Chapter 34

  GARY WAS CONVINCED the voice would never stop now, never give him another moment’s peace.

  He’d lost them. Again.

  The stunt the punk pulled, cutting across lanes and dodging oncoming traffic, was incredible and stupid. He could have gotten them all killed. If his timing had been off even a second, the Buick would be nothing more than a ball of twisted metal. Gary didn’t care about the girl and her gas station friend, though; he only cared about the anointed one. His life was more precious than both of theirs combined, more precious than even Gary’s.

  The voice reminded him of that.

  His life is precious, he is so precious. He is God’s chosen. You must never forget that. Protecting him must be your primary concern, no exceptions. He is more valuable than any other.

  Gary’s usual tendency would have been to hit the steering wheel and curse and do something out of anger and desperation, but this time he controlled himself. He didn’t want to give the voice more of a footing in his mind. The next exit to Route 1 was just a mile up the road. He’d take it and circle back to Condon’s place. It was no use going after the stranger now; he could be anywhere with the boy. This region of the coast of Maine was a spiderweb of back roads, small town avenues, and city streets, and Gary had no idea where they were headed.

  And of course, the voice was there again, reminding him of what he already knew.

  The boy’s life is more precious than your own. You must be willing to lay down your life for his. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. You must protect him fully, even if it requires the giving of your own life.

  “I’m willing,” Gary said. “You don’t know how willing I am.”

  He glanced at the speedometer and lifted his foot from the accelerator, allowing the car to slow. He was doing eighty in a sixty-five. Getting pulled over by a Maine patrolman would only complicate matters. He had to play it safe until he found out where they were headed.

  He found the exit, took the off-ramp, circled around, and got back on I-95 headed north. With nothing but open highway stretched before him, Gary had time to meditate. He thought of his time in seminary, those four years he’d spent studying God’s Word, church history, and theology; four years preparing for a life of service. He’d immersed himself in his learning, intent on satisfying his father and somehow paying penance for his great failure. He was going to be a minister, a preacher of God’s Word, someone others looked up to, admired, honored, respected.

  Seminary proved easy for him. He was a bright and attentive student, focused and determined, but soon after landing his first job as an assistant minister at a small church in rural Ohio the voice began. Within days it had escalated to such a level of near hysteria that Gary could no longer focus on his duties at the church. He became withdrawn, moody, and forgetful. Eventually the elders voted to dismiss him, and he found another position at a country church in northern Texas. But this time he only lasted six months. The next church was no different. The voice had grown too loud, too urgent, for him to ignore. It haunted him every moment of every day, reminding him of the failure he’d been, the tragedy that had happened on his watch. There was no escaping it.

  Thinking he was going insane, Gary fled the ministry and the voice. He wandered the country for several years, skipping from town to town, finding work in diners and fields, making his way across the states. But the voice was always there, taunting, belligerent, giving him not even a moment’s reprieve. He knew now that the voice was not only hounding him, but it was also redirecting him, guiding him into a new ministry, a new calling—one of much more importance.

  Finally he’d landed in Maine. He could go no farther east. He thought about heading north to Canada, getting out of the country altogether, but then he met someone who miraculously silenced the voice in his head.

  What he didn’t know at the time was that the cessation of the voice was only a temporary pardon. It would return, and when it did, the message it would bring would alter the course of his life as nothing else could.

  Gary massaged the steering wheel. He mourned for the life he’d lost, the mistakes he’d made. He was a failure of the worst kind, and here, now, he was still trying to prove himself, still trying to make things right.

  The only redeeming aspect of his life was the boy. The anointed one gave Gary purpose. Without the boy he was nothing, had no reason to continue living.

  He had to find the boy, he had to retrieve the lost sheep, and he wouldn’t stop looking until the day he dropped over dead.

  At Condon’s house Gary walked in like he owned the place. At once he noticed the computer. He clicked the mouse, bringing the screen to life, and saw a Google map. They were headed to Massachusetts for help. To the home of Harold Rose.

  The voice did not like that.

  You must protect the anointed one. You must give all to see that he is kept from harm. No evil should befall him. He is in your care; he is your responsibility.

  Gary jotted down the address on a piece of note paper, folded it neatly, and placed it in his pocket. He had to obey the voice and go to Massachusetts.

  Chapter 35

  THE JEEP TRAIL working its way up to Harold Rose’s cabin was as windy and torturous as any amusement park roller coaster.

  The vehicle bounced and banged and jolted and jerked for a good three miles before slowing on a level tract and finally grinding to a halt in a patch of loose dirt.

  Harold shut off the engine, but Marny saw no cabin. An eel of uneasiness squirmed in his stomach.

  “We hike from here,” Harold said.

  They exited the Jeep and stood in silence as Harold unpacked the gear. They were surrounded by towering oaks, birches, and maples, all in full leaf and forming a perfect canopy seventy, eighty feet above. Around them, squirrels chattered and chipmunks grunted. Cicada buzzed and birds whistled their summer melodies. There was no sign of civilization whatsoever. If there ever was a hinterland, this was it, and it made Marny anxious.

  “Hey, you gonna help or what?” Harold pointed at the cooler.

  “Uh, yeah, sure.” Harold
was an intimidating man, but Marny had learned long ago in his dealings with Karl not to let intimidation rule the day. “Wait.” His hand hovered over the handle of the cooler. “How do we know we can trust you?”

  Harold narrowed his eyes and pushed out his chest, a move Karl had mastered and used daily. “You don’t. But the way I see it, it’s me or you’re on your own. You choose.” He picked up both duffel bags and his rifle case and started walking away. “You want to come with me, this is the way. ’Bout a half-mile hike. No one’s forcing you to.”

  Marny looked at Esther, seeking direction. He was willing to do whatever she wanted, but he hoped like crazy that she would choose to hike back down that mountain and find another way to confront Gary.

  When Harold had hiked a good fifty feet ahead, Esther shrugged and said, “He’s our only hope, Marny. You know that.”

  And as much as Marny didn’t trust him, he did know it. It was nice to think they could confront Gary on their own, but he knew it would be futile, a death wish even. Gary had already proven himself a formidable foe, but there was something else about him, something evil and otherworldly. What drove him was not of this realm; that was becoming more and more apparent. At the thought of that, the hair on Marny’s neck bristled, and he once again had the ominous feeling that something was approaching, a storm of some sort, dark, baleful, relentless. Whether it was Gary himself or whatever malevolent force drove him Marny couldn’t tell, but it was closing in fast.

  Marny nodded, forced a weak smile, and picked up the cooler.

  The trail up the mountain was steep and rugged, not well-traveled. Surprisingly, even with his twisted leg, William kept pace and avoided stumbling. Marny, however, proved he was no sure-footed mountain man. More than once he tripped on a rock or lost his footing and went down, and each time Harold offered not even a glance.

  Marny fell farther and farther behind until Harold was all but out of view. Esther and William stopped and waited for him. Up ahead, Esther sat on a fallen maple whose root system jutted into the air like so many tangled arms of a school of octopuses. The tree had been ripped from its earthy home by some wild and powerful force, but it had not gone easily. Clumps of dirt clung to the roots, and a crater the size of a small car was left where the mighty tree once stood.

  When Marny reached the tree, Esther crossed her arms and said, “Nice of you to join us. Are you doing okay?”

  Marny put the cooler down and drew in several deep breaths. “Yeah. This thing’s heavy.” He looked up the trail and didn’t see Harold. “You think we’re going the right way?”

  She shrugged. “I figure there’s only one trail going up. Kinda hard to get lost. You want some company?”

  “Company would be nice.”

  He picked up the cooler and started up the trail again. Esther and William fell in beside him.

  “So, back at Harold’s house, you said your mother’s death was no accident.”

  “Gary killed her.”

  She said it so matter-of-factly Marny thought at first he’d heard her wrong.

  “He killed her?”

  “Well, not directly. He didn’t pull the trigger, but he might as well have.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “He abused her daily. Never physically, I never saw him lay a hand on her, but plenty of verbal and emotional stuff. He was so … possessed by something … hate, fear, I don’t know, and so obsessive with William.”

  “So much for brotherly love.”

  “Half-brother. I think somehow that exempts him from treating her like a real sister.”

  “Lousy excuse, if you ask me.”

  “You got that right. She stayed there because she felt it was best for us. Gary provided everything we needed. But she could only take so much of it. I think after he left”—she motioned up the trail, toward Harold—“she kinda fell apart emotionally. And she was vulnerable to begin with. I loved my mom, but she wasn’t a strong person.”

  “She did a pretty good job raising the two of you despite the odds against her.”

  “She was a great mom; don’t get me wrong. Everything she went through … I don’t know if I’d have held up any better. Or ended any differently. One evening we were all watching TV. During a commercial break she got up to go into the kitchen”—she glanced at William, who met her look and nodded his approval for her to continue—“and a couple minutes later we heard a gunshot. We searched the house up and down but didn’t find her, didn’t find anything. Finally I checked the pantry closet, and there she was.”

  Esther was quiet as she stepped in even rhythm with her labored breathing. By the casual way she spoke of the incident Marny could tell she’d emotionally detached herself from it, built a wall for safety and isolation. If that wall ever came down, there would be lots of tears and anger. He wondered if William hid behind the same wall. The boy seemed unfazed by his sister’s retelling of their mother’s suicide.

  “I always wondered what happened after something like that.” Her voice was low, thoughtful. “I mean, with the mess. It doesn’t just clean itself up, you know. Someone’s gotta do it.”

  With that she’d put the period on her recollection, and Marny knew she’d speak no more of it. “I’m sorry that happened,” he said. It sounded trite and small, four meaningless words lost in a sea of sorrow and hopelessness, but it was all he could think of to say.

  Esther gripped William’s hand with both of hers and held it close to her chest. “So am I. William’s my rock now. He keeps us both going.”

  They came to an area where the trail narrowed and inclined sharply. Rocks jutted from the ground, forming a natural staircase of sorts. Marny went first, digging his feet in and pushing off each rock. After just a few steps his quadriceps burned and the cooler felt like it was full of leaden blocks.

  Finally, with rubbery legs and a heaving chest, he reached the crest and a clearing.

  But there was no cabin.

  Chapter 36

  AN AUDIENCE OF pale-skinned birch and thick maples encircled the area, standing silent, watching.

  The clearing was small, no more than forty by forty. Harold stood in the center, feet spread a little wider than shoulder width, arms hanging loosely at his sides, the duffel bags on the ground next to him. His mouth was bent into something between a grin and a grimace.

  Marny released the cooler and straightened his back. He was still breathing heavily, and the brisk air of the higher elevation felt good in his lungs. Esther and William arrived, and he heard their labored breathing behind him. Harold, though, appeared neither wearied nor out of breath. In fact, he appeared so relaxed it seemed abnormal. Something wasn’t right, and it put the hair on Marny’s arms on end.

  “This is it.” Harold’s voice was even and low, controlled and professional. A cop voice.

  Marny looked around. “Where’s the cabin?”

  Harold said nothing. His eyes shifted between Esther and Marny, and he worked his jaw as if chewing on the inside of his cheek. He reminded Marny of an outlaw in the Old West, standing in the middle of the street, trigger finger itching, six-shooter on each hip, begging someone to feel lucky.

  Esther came around to the side of Marny, William holding her hand. “Where’s the cabin? You said there was a cabin.” She too must have noticed Harold’s suddenly odd behavior.

  “Harold.” Marny took two steps forward, toward the man Esther used to call Daddy. “You said—”

  Without a word Harold reached behind his back and retrieved a handgun, swung it around, and pointed it directly at Marny.

  Marny stopped and backed up a step, both hands now raised. “Whoa, wait a minute.”

  Harold was calm, in police mode. He’d been trained to take charge of a situation, to intimidate, to control. He pointed the gun at William, then motioned to his right. “You, over here.”

  Esther jumped in front of her brother. “No. Wait.”

  “Out of the way, Esther,” Harold said.

  “What
are you doing? He’s your son.”

  Harold flinched as if someone had sprayed water in his face. “He’s not my son. He’s a freak. A monster.”

  “No.”

  “Get away from him, Esther. I don’t want you involved in this.” He took a step forward, bringing the pistol that much closer.

  Marny was no expert on handguns, but he knew enough to know that big and black wasn’t good.

  “No. I’m not leaving him. How can you do this?”

  Marny took a step toward Esther. “Maybe—”

  “Shut up!” Harold trained the handgun on Marny again. It was as steady as ice. The black hole of the barrel stared at him like a lifeless eye. “This doesn’t concern you, boy.” He motioned to his left. “Get over here and get down on your stomach.”

  With both hands still raised, Marny hesitated.

  “Now!”

  He moved a few steps to his right and lowered himself to the ground.

  Harold turned back to Esther and William. “Now, over here.”

  Esther held William tightly, not letting go of him. “Whether you want to admit it or not, he’s your son, your own flesh.”

  “Look at him. He’s a freak. Step away from him, Esther.” Harold was back to being a cop. “Do it now.”

  “He’s my brother. He’s all I have.”

  “You have me now,” Harold said.

  Marny saw where all this was going. His curse had found them—skipped right over Gary and tracked them through the Green Mountains, up this trail and to this clearing—and now it was eager to satisfy its appetite. And Harold was about to feed it William. It had to end here. The curse, the death, the constant looking over his shoulder. This is where Marny would take his stand, put it all on the line. He wasn’t about to stand by and watch the curse claim another life, not William’s.

  William pulled away from Esther.