by Melhoff, D.
“No one. When he asked if he could steal you this morning, I said not until he told me why. Since I don’t see a ring, I assume it’s not because it didn’t go with the outfit.”
“I haven’t decided yet. It came out of nowhere.”
“I know. A month in?” Laura shrugged. “Luke at least gave me two.”
“What is it with these Vincents?” Camilla let out a full-body sigh. “Aren’t men supposed to be commitment scaredy-cats? I mean, I’m glad he’s not a chauvinistic pig, but a romantic? I don’t know what’s worse.”
“If you think the proposal’s sudden, wait until they start talking kids. I swear, the day after the engagement the whole family was already asking names.”
Camilla forced a snicker. “You’re not pregnant?”
“Not yet, touch wood.”
“Or don’t.”
Laura started laughing and couldn’t stop. It was infectious, and Camilla—who hadn’t laughed in over a week—cracked a smile and started laughing too.
Outside, another piano tune was beginning. The guests rose to their feet.
“For what it’s worth,” Laura said, reining in her laughter as they looked out and watched Lucas and Peter take their places under the gazebo, “they’re good men. Any girl would be lucky to have them.”
Camilla watched Peter plant himself on his mark. He was squinting at the house, blinded by the sunlight that was hitting the altar at a direct angle from in front of the estate. From where he was positioned, it meant that she could see him but he couldn’t see her. Still, he stared patiently into the painful rays, waiting for her to come to him.
“Well then,” she said, turning the handle, “let’s not keep them waiting.”
Outside was blistering hot, and as she stepped into the sunlight, Camilla thought she could actually hear her skin sizzling. She hoped she wouldn’t be a sweaty tomato by the time they reached the altar, but the rays were harsh and the minister seemed like a marathon away.
One step ahead of another, she did her best to find the beat of Jasper’s piano march while at the same time trying to remember to smile and hold her shoulders back and balance on the balls of her toes—in other words, walk like a lady—but it was surprisingly hard and made her hate the fact that models who couldn’t scrape two hundred on their SATs could do this a thousand times better than she could. True, she had once done a stint of modeling, but this was one of the numerous reasons she was told to stop: her legs never seemed to cooperate when they needed to most. It didn’t help that the seating arrangement made everything feel unbalanced, either; with absolutely no one on the left side of the congregation, she had to fight from veering to the right.
The closer she led the processional, the heavier the engagement ring felt in her pocket. She looked at Peter. He was watching her with a grin stuck on his face, and immediately she looked away and went back to focusing on guiding her stork legs down the aisle.
Left, right…left, right…left, right…
When they reached the gazebo, Camilla climbed the stairs and stood to the side while the minister brought Laura and Lucas together. As he began his “Dearly beloved” introduction, Camilla tried scanning the audience, but it was no use. The sun was like a stage light that blocked out the people past the front row; unfortunately, the front row consisted only of Moira, Maddock, Brutus, and the Vincents’ cats, Prim and Proper, who were all sitting in freshly lacquered chairs with plush cushions padding their asses.
Moira was perfectly still, perched under a decorative sun hat as the matchmaker of all this, the one who had been pulling her sons’ strings. Had she actually wanted Peter and Camilla together, like Lucas and Laura? Or had Camilla angered her enough in the short time they’d known each other that the old woman no longer wanted anything to do with her?
Again she looked over at Peter, who was watching his brother take Laura’s hand. Then he looked up and their eyes met; he gave a smile and she forced one back.
Her doubts about marriage were clashing violently with not wanting to lose Peter. She felt sick to her stomach—the extreme temperature wasn’t helping—and she looked down for balance, peeking over the rail of the structure at the sparkling pond below. If you have a heat stroke, faint into the water. You’ll ruin the ceremony anyway, so may as well go for the gusto.
A shadow crossed Camilla’s beet-red face as the sun rose over the gazebo and blessed them with shade. She regained some of her posture. Lucas and Laura were starting their vows already, which either meant that the ceremony was zipping along at record speed or she must have zoned out again. Snap out of it! You’re on stage, for Christ’s sake.
She turned her attention back to the congregation, which was now visible without the harsh glare in her eyes.
There was an older couple sitting in the third row. She exchanged a smile with the elderly man, wanting to seem engaged, and looked past him at a small family on the opposite end. Behind them was a younger couple—the same ones she’d seen pushing a stroller three weeks ago—and a man with his teenage son.
Her eyes kept scanning the seats.
Another pair of couples, an old widow in a white slip, a single mom with a little boy—
Camilla’s knees buckled halfway to the floor. Her eyes bugged open, fixed on the sight of the little boy from her first night in Nolan. He was sitting with his mother near the edge of the yard, flanked by empty chairs.
She looked one row back and received another shockwave: there was the girl who went skipping away on the night of the hospital. The eight-year-old from Leonard Gall’s autopsy file.
Girl, boy. Boy, girl. Girl, boy.
They were right there, both of them sitting with their families in the back half of the congregation.
Laura and Lucas were now exchanging rings. The ceremony was almost over, and Camilla wished she could freeze everything in order to give herself more time to scan the situation with a new set of eyes.
Something’s not right. What’s. Not. Right.
The seating arrangement was an obvious red flag—Why is everyone so far back? They’re not family, but they’re here for the Vincents—then she looked over and studied the empty section. And what about Laura’s half? Why didn’t they come?
She stared at the children, unblinking, as her eyes flitted between them like a metronome bar at top speed. The boy looked bored out of his skull. He was kicking the white chair in front of him, dazed, while the little girl chewed on a wad of gum and combed her fingers through her hair, caught up in a fantasy of her own future wedding, no doubt.
“And now, by the power vested in me, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Lucas and Laura Vincent.”
Camilla looked back just in time to see Lucas and Laura kiss.
Suddenly there was a bright flash of light and someone in the congregation shouted, “Stop! Stop ‘im, quick! He’s running!”
It took less than a second for Camilla to recognize that it was Brutus who was shouting. He had hopped out of his chair and barreled down the center aisle after a figure who was scrambling toward the house.
She had never seen an obese man move that fast, and in a couple of seconds the fat funeral director pounced through the air and tackled his prey to the ground. Dust and gravel stirred up by the gift table, and suddenly someone’s leg lashed out and kicked the whole station over, sending all the presents crashing down on top of them.
The congregation went rushing to see if Brutus was OK, but Camilla’s head whipped in the opposite direction. The mysterious figure had torn for the flowerbed and slipped over the iron fence.
She had no idea who this stranger was. She didn’t know why Brutus had tried tackling him either, or whether or not it had anything to do with the mysterious children who were back in the Vincents’ courtyard. But she did know that someone—a trespasser—had taken a picture just moments before the chaos erupted, and that was a cliff-hanger she simply couldn’t ignore.
So while everyone else was busy helping Brutus to his feet, Camilla skirted around
the white lacquer chairs and slipped back into the funeral home. Barely ten seconds later, the front door of the house flew open and then banged shut behind her.
11
The Midnight Sun
Camilla burst through the front door and saw—
Nothing.
Nothing was moving except the water trickling down the fountain in the center of the yard.
Suddenly a swish in the bushes. She spun and saw a shoe disappear through a thicket of hedges and out to the street.
Still in her stilettos, Camilla half sprinted, half hobbled down the driveway to the bars of the entrance gate. When she got there, she stuck her head through the iron rungs and saw the back of a man bolting down the middle of the road. There were no buildings on the long stretch of gravel, and no vehicles either. It was a wide-open footrace.
Camilla bit down and flew off like prairie fire.
Her heels tossed up rocks and chunks of mud as she raced through the heat waves that rippled in the air. The flashes of light spearing the tree branches were disorienting, and the sounds of the man’s shoes were getting more and more distant. He’s too damn fast.
Looking up, she saw the figure pulling away, curving to the left as the road bent south toward the tip of town square. She pictured Nolan from the view of her bedroom window, envisioning the road hugging the town’s perimeter before side-winding onto Alpine Street and then Main. There’s no chance of heading him off. Unless…
Without so much as a second thought, Camilla hung an abrupt left and ran straight through the ditch, plunging between a gap in the tangled wall of trees ahead.
The smell of spruce and resin hollowed out her nasal passages in seconds. She could see a row of cottages in the distance and, again without thinking, dug her chin to her chest and charged headfirst through the crowded woods.
The roots on the forest floor popped up like video game obstacles; Camilla hopped and crunched and dodged every single one of them, hot blood burning down the backs of her heels as she forced her mind away from the pain and focused on the string of yards ahead. I have to know what’s going on. I have to know what the Vincents are hiding.
She came up behind the cottages and stopped. There was a long stretch of fencing that connected the backyards for a mile in either direction—no way around.
Hiking up the frills and bows of her dress, she lodged her heel on the lowest strand of barbwire and started climbing. Thankfully the fence was only five feet tall and took less than thirty seconds to scale, otherwise she may have lost her time advantage. She plopped down on the other side of the posts and buckled at the knees.
Her head whipped up and she scanned the yard, unfazed by the fact that she’d landed in a row of soggy cabbages that were molding this late in the season. Something about the place seemed vaguely familiar. Don’t stop. Move it! She heaved her stiletto spikes out of the mud and bolted for the front gate, grabbing its rusty hasp.
Something caught her eye.
It was an old tandem bicycle leaning against the fence: rusted chains, tufts of dead grass stuffed into the spokes, plastic handlebars melting from years of being kept too close to the barbeque. The frame looked about as stable as a shithouse in a hurricane, but Camilla squeezed the brakes and felt it respond with a decent stop. Good enough.
The side gate swung open and Camilla sailed through on her new road warrior: a broken-down double-seated bicycle, built for two but captained by one.
“Hey! Where d’ya think you’re takin’ that?”
The bike’s steering was so stiff and off-kilter that Camilla didn’t dare look back to see who was hollering at her. She kept her eyes on the road ahead and yelled a garbled apology into the wind: “Sorry!”
Nolan’s cemetery loomed across the street, and Camilla jetted straight for it. As she whipped through the graveyard’s gates, her dress billowed back in the wind and her hair tossed itself out of its pins. The rush of the airstream muffled the squeals of the bike chains and brought a coolness to her burned cheeks, and the raw speed sent volts of energy up her spine, awakening her from her depressive coma.
The wheels bumped over tiny clumps of grass and patches of grave markers; despite being disrespectful, a straight line was the quickest path. Seconds later, the bike barreled out the other side of the graveyard and into town square.
Two senior citizens were coming out of the General Store and stopped dead in their tracks. Another pair of elders paused their outdoor game of chess midmove, and a group of joggers all turned their heads in unison as they ran by.
Camilla looked certifiable.
Her hair was everywhere. There were mud and grass stains plastered all over the front of her dress, and her feet were covered with a heavy layer of caked-on blood. Her eyes, bugged out as usual, flitted rapidly around the space as she wobbled into the scene on a bicycle built for two, by herself.
One of the seniors stood up from their chess match. “Need help there? Miss?”
The other chimed in, “Lose someone off the back?”
Camilla ignored them, eyes racing for her target. Just as the first elderly man limped within arm’s length, she spotted a figure dash onto the far end of the street and vanish through an alley between two buildings.
“Sorry,” she said, pushing her way through the crowd. “I have a—a date.” The seniors’ mouths hung open as she gripped the bike’s handlebars and heaved it away.
The alley was crammed with bundles of outdated newspapers, broken down cardboard boxes, and bags of garbage piled halfway up the first flight of the building’s fire escape.
Camilla dismounted and put her ear to a heavy gunmetal door. There was the sound of something mechanical running inside, but nothing resembling voices or footsteps.
She pushed on the handle and the door swung open obediently.
No light leaked out of the dark room—just the greasy smell of paper and ink, which dazed Camilla’s neural receptors like a potent whiff of paint thinner or gasoline. She took her last breath of clean air and slipped silently into the cavernous room. Inside, the halogen lamps hanging from the two-story ceiling were all turned off. Tiny square windows existed above the catwalks that networked overhead, and the shafts of light that shone through them were just enough to outline a cluster of jumbo conveyor belts and plate processors with a fine, silvery glow. None of the massive offset machines were running, though a steady hum of fans droned evenly in the background.
The door slammed shut and darkened the room even more. Camilla took a moment to adjust, feeling in front of her, and tiptoed deeper inside. As shapes started coming into focus, she spotted a bundle of newspapers that were corded together and piled into three-foot stacks; when she squinted, she could just make out the headline: 25th CANDLELIGHT VIGIL BRINGS MOURNERS BACK TO NOLAN.
Understanding dawned.
Camilla was inside the Midnight Sun’s printing plant. The papers in front of her were dated the previous week, and their covers showed people with candles kneeling around the stone memorial that she recognized from the Nolan hospital.
A quiet plunk echoed in the room.
She straightened, looked left, right, up, down—it was no use. The room was too resonant, and she couldn’t tell where the sound had come from.
“Hello?”
No answer.
“I’m not chasing you,” she said louder. “I just have a question.” Or two, or ten.
Still nothing. She walked deeper inside, trying her best to stay away from the edges of the room where heavy girders draped long shadows over the cement floor. She didn’t know if the photographer was hiding because he was scared or because he was the Phantom of the Newspaper, ready to pounce from any dark crevice or closet or balcony.
On the right side of the warehouse was the editor’s workstation. The area was part of a crude garrison, like some sort of homeless bivouac complete with ratty pull-out couch and the dirtiest microwave Camilla had ever seen. Clippings of past news stories were wheat-pasted to the walls alongside some of th
e editor’s personal photographs, including several Polaroid pictures of a teenage rockabilly band on road trips through Nashville and Memphis and Graceland. Every inch of table surface was cluttered with strips of rejected headlines and scrap Post-it notes, and the mess had built up so high that it was hard to imagine anyone actually working there.
As she scanned the bench, something caught Camilla’s attention. It was the only thing on the table that was relatively organized: a large sheet of glass covered with carefully placed clippings and local advertisements. On top was a sticky note that read: Todd, Meet @ 12 so press can start @ 1.
She looked up at an Elvis clock on the wall—the King’s pompadour showed 11:44 a.m.—then looked at the note again.
Noon. He’s meeting someone here at noon. He can’t go far.
She took in the rest of the glass board and suddenly it dawned on her that she was staring at the mock-up of the next day’s newspaper, lain out column by column, ad by ad, block by block. Her fingers reached down and peeled away the sticky note that was covering the front page, slowly revealing tomorrow’s headline.
VINCENT WEDDING INSIDER! PICTURES FROM THE PAGAN MARRIAGE
Her pupils lit up like searchlights. She scanned the proof, but her eyes moved too fast to process full sentences. All she caught were quick flashes of words: courtyard ceremony, flowers arrive late, first since ’89, no guests for bride, mysterious bridesmaid.
Something flashed in the reflection of the glass board.
She held her breath. It had come from somewhere high up on the catwalk.
Pull it together. Pull it together. Pull it together.
Camilla calmly backed away from the workbench and walked to the edge of the room, into the shadows that she had previously been avoiding. Once under the girders, she trained her eyes on the catwalk and took a deep breath in. He was there. The weasel was definitely up there.
She felt for the cold wall and crossed one foot over the other, then repeated the step again and again, slowly at first and then faster as she followed the bricks to a staircase and paused at the bottom step.