Within These Walls

by Ania Ahlborn

  “Hi there,” Lucas said, lifting his hand in greeting. “Can I help you?”

  “I live down the road a ways,” the woman announced. “I saw the moving van rolling around a few days ago, and I keep seeing cars coming and going. Figured I’d come and introduce myself like a good neighbor.” She extended her right hand, her fingers heavy with costume jewelry. “I’m Echo.”

  “Lucas.” He took her hand and shook it. “Good to meet you.”

  “And you are?” Echo fixed her eyes on Jeanie in a way that made him uncomfortable. Echo seemed a little too interested in Jeanie’s answer, a little too curious.

  “Vee,” Jeanie said.

  “Virginia,” Lucas corrected, nudging his kid away from the door.

  Jeanie frowned at her dad edging her out of the conversation. “God, Dad. Whatever,” she mumbled with a roll of the eyes. A moment later, she left her father to handle their visitor alone.

  “Nice to meet you. Vee,” Echo singsonged as Jeanie stalked up the stairs to her room.

  “Virginia,” Lucas corrected a second time. Echo didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy looking over his shoulder at the house, shaking her head at an idle thought.

  “Man, this place . . . you know where you’re living, right?”

  He cast a quick look up the stairs, remembering Jeanie’s words. I know what this place is. Regardless, he didn’t want her anywhere near anything that had to do with Halcomb talk. He already felt like shit for having dragged Jeanie here in the first place, but he’d fix it. They’d pack up their stuff and go.

  “Okay,” he said, giving Echo a questioning glance. “Is that what you came over to talk about? Are you selling something? With the Pier Pointe voters pool? What?”

  “Oh, no. Sorry.” She held up her hands. “I’m not here to make trouble. I just wanted to say ‘hi’ and ‘welcome to the neighborhood,’ all those neighborly things my mother would have insisted I say if she was still around.”

  “Yeah.” Lucas was skeptical. “Well, thanks for that . . . but we’re not staying.”

  Echo looked surprised. “No?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s a shame,” she said. “Aren’t you a writer?”

  He raised an eyebrow. Who was this chick?

  “Small town.” She gave him a smile. “People talk.”

  “No kidding. Thanks for stopping by.” He began to close the door, but Echo stopped it with an outstretched hand.

  “I guess you moved here for the inspiration?” Holding the door open, she cast a glance along the interior walls once more. “Not ­everyone can handle living in a place with such history.”

  I can handle it. The retort simmered on the tip of his tongue, but he fought the temptation to spit it at her.

  “It’s a shame, though,” she said. “There’s a lot of material here.”

  Oh really? He nearly snorted at that. Maybe if the mute bastard that promised me the world hadn’t screwed me over, sure. Maybe then there’d be a lot of material. Echo seemed to notice his aggravation. He was too tired to disguise it. He wasn’t quite sure he cared to disguise it at all.

  “Did I say something wrong?” she asked, looking concerned.

  “Just having a bad day,” he muttered, casting a pointed glance at her hand, still pressed against the wood of the door.

  “Any particular reason?”

  He shook his head at her. How about minding your own fucking business? Did she really think he was going to confide in her? “It’s not a big deal,” he said. “Anyway, I really need to get to packing up.” Get lost.

  Echo’s expression fell with the mention of moving. “Yeah, of course,” she said. “I’m taking up your time. Sorry.” She pulled her hand away and took a backward step, canting her head as she gave him a final once-over. “But if you want my advice, I’d give this place a fair shake. Places like these have a way about them. This one hums. Listen for long enough and you’ll hear it, I promise.”

  Echo gave him a knowing smile and wiggled her fingers in farewell. He watched her sway down the gravel driveway and climb into the old bus, the rattle of its engine cutting through the quiet.

  “You promise, huh?” he murmured to himself. He wouldn’t have been half-surprised if that crackpot had forced her way inside and demanded a goddamn tour. And give the place a fair shake? Right. Because all the house needed was a chance. If he just sat around long enough, the damn walls would start talking up a storm.

  Maybe if you gave me some of that weed you’re smoking. He smirked and closed the door.

  Outside, it started to rain again.

  INCIDENT/INVESTIGATION REPORT

  CONFIDENTIAL: 04/21/84

  AGENCY: Veldt Police Department

  CASE NO: 84-022

  REPORTING OFFICER: Harper, Harold L.

  SUPERVISING OFFICER: Parrish, Andrew R.

  INCIDENT INFORMATION

  DATE/TIME OCCURRED: 04/02/84, approx. 01:40 – 04:32

  DATE/TIME REPORTED: 04/02/84, 01:47

  INCIDENT LOCATION: The 200 block of Trinity Ave., Veldt, Kansas 67713

  INCIDENT TYPE: Arson

  LOCATION TYPE: Commercial / Residential

  REPORTING PARTY: Norman Cresswell

  OFFICER’S REPORT

  I arrived at the 200 block of Trinity Avenue after dispatch alerted me to an emergency call regarding possible arson. When I arrived, the entire block was in flames with residents and bystanders watching from a safe distance. Residents reported the fire started at the Gate of Heaven Church. Resident Norman Cresswell claims to have seen “two or three hooded figures” around the church through his window before the fire started. Resident Mira Ellison was inconsolable and stated she saw similar figures in and around her yard a few weeks prior, but did not report the incident. When questioned whether she could describe the figures, she recalled hooded shirts and “maybe masks.” When pressed further, the resident insisted it was the work of former Veldt resident Jeffrey Christopher Halcomb coming to get her. She stated fear over an interview she gave about Halcomb and the incident in Pier Pointe, Washington, last year.

  NOTE: Halcomb is incarcerated in Washington State’s Lambert Prison, maximum security. We currently have no suspects.

  23

  * * *

  DESPITE ECHO THOROUGHLY weirding him out, something about his odd neighbor’s visit planted a final seed of determination in Lucas’s brain.

  Places like these have a way about them.

  Even if he packed up all of his and Jeanie’s things, they still had no place to go.

  This one hums.

  It would be at least a week before they could get out, which meant he’d have seven days of sitting around, staring at the walls of a house that was supposed to be a source of inspiration and answers no matter what he decided to do.

  Listen for long enough and you’ll hear it.

  Sitting and doing nothing—letting those precious days slip away without anything to show for it—would drive him insane. He had less than two weeks till Halcomb’s deadline. Maybe giving up was an option, but giving up before those two weeks had passed brought a particular word to the forefront of his mind, a word he’d used to describe what he’d done with his career while pleading with Caroline for a final chance: squander.

  You’re a writer, Lou.

  He had to do something, anything. Maybe there was still some way to salvage this mess, this disaster he was now calling his life.

  · · ·

  He spent the rest of the day cooped up in his study. He called Lambert Correctional, insisting he be put on the visitor’s list. He fought with Lumpy Annie for a good ten minutes even after she told him Jeff Halcomb had put a hold on all visitors save for one (“And no, that’s not you, Mr. Graham”). Eventually, she was willing to take a message for Josh Morales.

 
“Tell him I need to speak with him as soon as possible,” Lucas said. “It’s important.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Annie murmured onto the line.

  Screw you! He had wanted to scream it at her. This is my life we’re talking about! But she disconnected the call before he could let loose at her through the receiver.

  He then called his agent, considered telling him everything, but when he finally got John on the line, all that came out was: “There’s a hiccup.”

  “Well . . . it’s not like we’re under contract or anything,” John reminded him—both a blessing and a bitter refresher. Nobody was holding their breath in anticipation of Lucas’s next book, which meant he had all the time in the world to write for nobody at all.

  After hanging up with John, Lucas brought out his copies of the newspaper articles he’d stuffed back into the storage box, and spread them across his desk, his gaze settling on a small photo of January Moore. She had been pretty in 1984, the kind of girl who was popular enough to be crowned at the homecoming dance, yet not quite indelible enough to be the prom queen. Her flaxen hair and big doe eyes gave her a frightened look, like she’d gotten the scare of her life and had yet to shake off the shock. The photograph was captioned: January Moore, Halcomb cult survivor, but it may as well have said January Moore, Lucas Graham’s final hope.

  Lucas drew his fingers across the phone numbers he’d scribbled into the margin of the article—one for Salem, one for Tacoma. He tried the Tacoma number first, but the line was out of service. The one for Salem rang twice before someone picked up.

  “Thanks for calling the Chartreuse Moose, may I help you?”

  “Hi, uh . . .” Lucas fiddled with his pen, tapping it against his desk blotter. He’d hit so many dead ends it was strange to hear a real, live person on the line. “May I speak to January Moore, please?”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the call. “January doesn’t work here anymore, I’m afraid.”

  “I see. Do you happen to have any contact information for her?”

  More silence, this pause pregnant with something heavy. He could feel the weight pressing down on his shoulders as he sat there, the phone against his ear. Please, just give me the information, he thought. Just give me her number and I’ll be on my way.

  “I’m sorry, may I ask who’s calling?”

  Goddammit. “My name is Lucas Graham. I’m a writer. I was hoping January would be open to doing an interview.”

  The woman quietly cleared her throat. He could hear her adjusting the phone.

  “Mr. Graham, I hate to inform you of this, but January passed away about three months ago.”

  Lucas’s stomach dropped. He said nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, as though consoling him for the loss of one of his last leads.

  Had he been standing, he was sure vertigo would have swayed him to take a seat. Shoving a hand into his hair, he let his elbow hit the desk, the heel of his palm covering one of his eyes.

  “What happened?” It was an intrusive knee-jerk inquiry, one that he didn’t expect to get an answer for, but he couldn’t keep himself from asking.

  “January had issues with depression,” the woman said after a moment. “She, uh . . .” A stammer. A pause.

  Oh God. She killed herself.

  “I see,” Lucas said, hearing the emotion edge into the woman’s voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Of course you didn’t. She’s in a better place.” She exhaled into the receiver. “Can I help you with anything, Mr. Graham?”

  He wanted to ask her how January had ended it. January had left Jeffrey’s group in 1981, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have had a change of heart. If Jeffrey Halcomb had the power to captivate, January certainly couldn’t have shrugged him off like some mediocre one-night stand. Perhaps she regretted leaving Jeffrey behind, the way Sandy Gleason had, especially after seeing a handcuffed Halcomb all over the news. Had some of the envelopes in the stacks of mail hand-delivered to Halcomb’s cell been from her? In the aftermath of what had occurred in Pier Pointe, January and Jeffrey could have reconnected. Perhaps, to clear the checkmark in the column titled “ones that got away,” Jeff had pulled January back into the fold, then quietly convinced her to kill herself thirty years too late. Maybe he had done it just to see if he still could.

  “Mr. Graham? Are you there?”

  Lucas shuddered, shook off his momentary trance. “Yes, I’m here.”

  “What is it that you’re writing about?” she asked.

  “Jeffrey Halcomb,” he said. “The Pier Pointe, Washington, case. January knew a couple of the girls who took their lives back in 1983.”

  More faltering. “I see.”

  “Did January . . . leave a note? Some concrete reason?”

  Another round of quiet. He doubted the woman expected him to ask that particular question. Hell, he didn’t know if she even had that kind of information. Whoever was on the other end of the phone could have been nothing but a store clerk hired as January’s replacement. But Lucas knew it would eat away at him if he didn’t ask. The worst she can do is hang up, he thought. Like that would be something new.

  “Actually, she did,” the woman said after a moment. “Though I’m not sure I should . . .” Her voice tapered off. Her hesitancy was understandable. She had no idea who Lucas was, had no reason to help him, but goddammit he needed this.

  “Please,” he said, surprised at the desperation that tinged that single-syllable. “I’ve lost nearly all of my leads. I’ve moved across the country with my daughter. I was supposed to be interviewing Halcomb myself, but he backed out on me at the last minute and . . .” A sigh, a pause. “I’m at the end of my rope.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” the woman told him. She’s not going to bite, he thought. She doesn’t care. And why should she? He was just a random stranger in a shitty situation. That didn’t change the fact that January was dead.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask . . . what’s your name?”

  “Maureen.” She hesitated, considering something. “But everyone calls me Maury.”

  “Maury . . . were you and January close?”

  “As close as two gals can be. We owned this place together. Now it’s just me.”

  “Can you at least give me the date of January’s death? I’d like to pull her obituary, pay my respects to her in the book.”

  “It was March fourteenth,” she said.

  Lucas’s brain stalled out. That date, it was Jeff’s anniversary—the very day he’d been arrested, the day the police found the gruesome scene inside Congressman Snow’s summer home. Lucas stared at the wall of his study, his pen poised to write, his hand motionless.

  “Mr. Graham?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Thank you for your help, Maury. I appreciate it.”

  He was ready to end the call when Maury stopped him a half second before. “Mr. Graham?”

  “Yes?”

  “How old is your daughter?”

  “Twelve,” he said. “Going on twenty.”

  A soft laugh on her end.

  Another beat of oscillation.

  “I . . . I really don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she said. “I was the one who found Jan’s body. She hadn’t showed up to work that morning, and when I tried to phone her, she didn’t answer her cell. It wasn’t like her, so I went by her house after closing up the shop. She was on the floor . . .” Maury stopped. Lucas waited for her to continue, hoping like hell that she wouldn’t change her mind and hang up. “She took a pill,” Maury said. “The coroner found it between her back teeth.”

  “Do you know what it was?”

  “Arsenic.”

  Lucas’s mouth went dry.

  “I still don’t understand. I don’t even know where she’d have gotten such a pill, or why she’d have had
it at all. Unless she’d been planning on doing what she had done for a while. But . . .” She exhaled a sigh. “I don’t like to think that way. I don’t like to know that my best friend was so sad that she’d been planning on doing something like that and I was too blind to see it.”

  “She didn’t show any signs at all?” Lucas asked.

  “We had dinner together the night before,” Maury recalled. “Her treat for no reason. I suppose that could have been a sign, but we’d gone out before.”

  “There was no clue in her letter?”

  “No. I suppose her letter wasn’t much of one at all.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It said, See you soon, J. Just the letter J. She didn’t even sign her name.”

  Lucas’s heart rattled in its cage. Nausea took hold.

  “She always signed her name,” Maury said softly. “She was fond of her signature, always saying how it was too elegant for an old hippie like her. I still don’t understand why she didn’t sign it then.”

  He scribbled January’s last words down across the top of the interview she’d given in 1984, that J burning itself into his brain.

  The date. The choice of poison. The fact that January’s final words could be equally construed as a farewell and a promise. What if she wasn’t saying good-bye to those she was leaving behind, but saying hello to those she was joining in death?

  “I’m sorry,” Maury said. “I hope that helps. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Maury, thank you. Truly.”

  “Good luck with your project, Mr. Graham.”

  Maury ended the call, leaving Lucas to stare at January’s black-and-white photograph, tiny dots making up her smiling face and straight blond hair.