by Ania Ahlborn
The kind of father that could also run his only child out of town.
A selfish, single-minded sociopath.
The correlation skittered down his back like a spider.
“Fuck.” The word was more subdued this time, dripping with defeat. He shoved his hands through his hair, took a moment to try to steady his nerves, and shot a look around the room he had hit with his pent-up rage.
The coffeemaker seemed to wink at him from the corner of the desk.
Come on, Lou, just wait it out. Keep pushing. Keep trying. What else is there to do?
He fell back into his seat with a sigh. Plucking his cell off the floor, he speed-dialed Lambert Correctional. Halcomb was going to give him his fucking interview, and Josh Morales was going to return his fucking call.
“Hi, this is Lucas Graham.” He didn’t even bother to attempt at a friendly tone. “I have media clearance for inmate Jeffrey Halcomb. The last time I—”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Graham.” He recognized the voice. Lumpy Annie wasn’t feeling particularly friendly, either.
“Hi. I had an appointment for an interview, and he canceled on me.”
“Yes, Mr. Graham, I’m aware of that.”
“Has someone talked to him about this?”
“About what, sir?”
“About a reattempt at an interview.”
Lumpy Annie sighed heavily into the phone. “Sir, I told you . . .”
“And I don’t care what you told me, lady. I drove three thousand fucking miles—”
“. . . sir . . .”
“—just to talk to this fucking guy—”
“Sir.”
“—and this isn’t just a matter of him not feeling like it, okay? This is a matter of him telling me one thing and doing something else. I don’t care about his fucking rights, you get me? We had a goddamn deal.”
“Mr. Graham. I’ve already told you, the inmate isn’t taking any visitors right now.”
“Right, of course he isn’t. Except for some woman . . .”
“I don’t know anything about that, sir.”
“And what about the message I left for Josh Morales? Why hasn’t he called me back yet?”
“I really don’t know the answer to that, sir.”
“Can you at least make sure that he got it?”
Another sigh. “Yes, sir, I’ll make sure that Officer Morales gets your message.” Lucas left his number with Lumpy Annie for a second time and jabbed his finger against the phone’s LCD screen, ending the call.
He paced his study, waiting for his aggravation to taper off.
It didn’t.
He needed a drink.
Stalking across the house, he pulled open the refrigerator door and grabbed a sweaty Deschutes. But rather than trudging back to his study—he was still too worked up to get a damn thing done—he remembered the cross Halcomb had passed on to him a few days before. He’d nearly left the thing in Selma’s Toyota. She had tucked it into the mail slot before driving back to Seattle. Before Mark had left his Honda in exchange for the U-Haul rental truck, in exchange for Lucas’s Maxima, which he had yet to pick up. Goddammit.
That was when he heard something crunch up the driveway. Mark?
Maybe his friend had grown tired of waiting for his car to be returned. And now Lucas would feel like an asshole for yet another thing he’d promised to do but hadn’t. This is my life, he thought. Nothing but an endless train of feeling like a dick.
Pulling open the door, he prepared his apology. I’m sorry, man. Seattle just keeps getting pushed to the back burner. But rather than Mark, he found his weird neighbor Echo standing on the front doorstep. She held a small photo storage box nestled against her chest.
“Hi.” She flashed him a wide smile.
Oh, what the hell? He felt like slamming the door in her face. As though he didn’t have enough aggravation, now he had to deal with this chatty Cathy.
“Hi.” Lucas tried to be positive in return, but he couldn’t help being on the defensive. He wasn’t in the mood for company, but clearly this chick hadn’t taken a hint on her previous visit.
“So . . .” She cleared her throat and peeked around his shoulder. Her long brown hair swept across the folds of her billowy poet’s shirt. She ducked her head in an almost coy sort of way. “Is it safe to talk, or is your daughter . . . ?”
“She’s upstairs,” Lucas said. “And honestly, I’m not in the mood—”
“Okay,” she said, cutting him off. “Sure, I understand. But I have something for you.” She lifted the box and shook it enticingly.
“What’s this?” He nodded to the box.
“Consider it a favor.” She casually sidestepped him and slipped inside, then slid her Birkenstocks off her feet and left them neatly beside the front door.
Lucas opened his mouth to protest. Hey, man, just because you’ve come bearing gifts . . .
He wasn’t sure he wanted this stranger inside the house. She was an oddball. Who knew what kind of shit she was into, living way out here on her own. But before he could ask her to leave, she twisted where she stood and gave him a knowing look.
“You’re going to flip when you see this stuff,” she said. “Do you have a place we can sit down for a minute?”
He furrowed his brow but motioned to his study anyway, his gaze not wavering from the box held against her chest.
Echo followed him and stepped into his study. She pulled open the box top, slid the carton across the desk, and pulled her hair back with her hands. Her attention slithered along each of the walls. The slowness in which her gaze traveled across the room was disconcerting, as though she was seeing a completely different room from the one they were standing in. He didn’t like the way she was looking at his things. It almost felt as though she was putting the space to memory, as if she was planning on sneaking in through a window when he and Jeanie were sleeping and didn’t want to trip over a piece of furniture while robbing the place. As though I’ve got something to steal, he thought, giving her a moment to soak the place in despite his own misgivings. Finally, he took a swig of his beer and issued a reality check by clearing his throat. Her attention snapped back to him.
“Sorry, zoned out.” You don’t say. She turned to the box as if about to dig through it, then clasped her hands together, looking back at him. Her temporary embarrassment had dissipated beneath the tight line of her lips. “There are different types of people in this world,” she began. “Leaders, muses, healers. I’m a helper.”
Lucas gave her a questioning look. “A helper,” he repeated, hoping like hell this wasn’t about to turn into some mumbo-jumbo lesson in new age philosophy.
“Yes.” She squared her shoulders. “Like my mother.”
Echo looked almost prideful at the statement, and he could only assume that she and her mother had been close. But it didn’t leave him with much to work with, so he nodded and encouraged her to go on with a plain “Okay . . . ?”
“I’ve been really contemplating this, and I know you’ve been thinking about taking off. You’ve been having a hard time with the writing, yeah?”
Lucas canted his head to the side, not sure whether to admit that he’d been toying with the idea of surrender or to take offense to her astute observation. She was nosy, assertive. She made him feel on edge.
“Like I said before, I’m not here to make trouble,” she told him. “But I can’t help but think that what you’re doing is great. I looked you up.” Her half smile made his skin prickle with nerves. A phantom buzzer went off inside his head. Warning! Was this chick a stalker or what? “That sounds weird,” she said. “I’m not crazy, I swear. I just wanted to see what kind of stuff you wrote. I bought one of your books.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep.” Here it comes. “Bloodthirsty Times, the one about the Night Stalker. It’s grea
t. You’ve got real talent.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyway . . .” She took a step away from the box and motioned to it with an open palm, imploring him to take a look inside.
Still unsure, Lucas watched her carefully before stepping farther into the room. The wood-paneled walls and green carpet usually gave the place a man-cave sort of feel, especially with his big old desk dominating the center. But it suddenly felt smaller, as if the walls had lost a square foot during the split second he had blinked his eyes.
He sidled up to the desk, placed his half-drained bottle of Deschutes onto the coaster he used for his coffee cup, and peered into the box.
He didn’t know what he expected to see—maybe a quintet of severed fingers despite Echo’s peace-and-love vibe. Some of the world’s most vicious killers came out of the sixties. They slashed throats and dismembered their victims while everyone had their eyes focused on DC, FDR, Vietnam. The most notorious were the ones you’d never suspect. Maybe Echo was an ax murderer moonlighting as a Washington coast hippie. The cops would never think to look for bodies in her vegetable patch.
There were no human remains, but there was a yellowed envelope marked “DO NOT BEND” in black Sharpie. Lucas reached in to retrieve it. A small stack of photographs was tucked inside.
The first picture was of a tall, overly serious dark-haired girl standing next to a guy smoking a cigarette. The man wore a cowboy hat and matching boots. There were pine trees behind them. The pair in the photo hung off each other like siblings. The second photo had those same two people in it, but they were now joined by a cute blonde with a crooked haircut, and who looked to be little more than a child. She couldn’t have been much older than Jeanie. By the third photo, Lucas had lost his breath. He knew these kids, knew them from the countless pictures he’d seen on the Internet and in old articles. Except these were nothing he’d ever be able to match in an image search. These were someone’s personal items, photos they had taken of Halcomb and his brood.
“Holy shit,” he whispered, his throat suddenly dry. His eyes darted to Echo’s face, and the moment their eyes met, her mouth curled up in a satisfied smile. “Where did you get these?” He went back to the photos in his hands, afraid that if he looked away for too long they’d disappear, too good to be real. What he was holding was true-crime gold. If Lucas could publish them in his book, John would push for a blockbuster, one-day laydown release. Screw the writing—people would buy the damn thing just to get an eyeful of these never-before-seen pictures. But the real question wasn’t where Echo had obtained such items; it was how she had known to time her arrival so perfectly. It was strange, as though she hadn’t just googled him but had been peering through the window of his study, waiting for the precise moment to introduce him to his own salvation.
“My family has owned the house down the road for a long time,” she said. “My mom lived there in the early eighties.”
“Your mom? You mean . . .”
Echo nodded. “She knew them. She and Audra Snow were best friends.”
Lucas’s stomach flipped. “You’re kidding me.” Was this really luck? Could serendipity truly be this fortuitous?
She shook her head with a little laugh. “I swear I’m not joking.”
Setting the photos aside, he reached into the box once more and drew out a stack of brittle newspaper clippings, most of which he’d read before. But that didn’t matter. If Echo’s mother knew Audra, really knew her, it was another lead.
“Why are you showing me this?” He shot her a look, unable to keep his suspicions at bay. “We don’t even know each other. You realize this stuff . . .”
Echo held up a hand, assuring him that he didn’t have to finish his statement. She knew. The contents of this box would change everything. It would, perhaps, even change his life.
“I told you, I’m a helper. I feel like it’s what I’m supposed to do, at least to pay homage to Audra in my mother’s name.”
Shit. That meant Echo’s mom wasn’t around anymore. But he still had Audra’s best friend’s daughter. Hell, maybe Audra was like an aunt to Echo when she was a kid. Maybe Echo had met the group herself. She’d been young, but that didn’t mean she’d forgotten it all.
“When I came to introduce myself, you put out this vibe,” Echo explained. “You were in distress. I picked up on it right away. I suppose I’m just a good guesser.” She shrugged. “I figured that maybe, since you said you were going to move away from here, that distress had something to do with your job. And so, here I am.” She lifted a shoulder, smiled. “Just remember me when you finish your book. Give me a mention. Maybe even offer me one of those beers.”
“Oh God.” Lucas shot a glance at his nearly empty bottle. “I’m sorry, do you—”
“It’s okay.” She cut him off. “Next time. I just wanted to drop that off. After all, you have a lot of work to do.”
Lucas shook his head, hardly understanding any of this. It was impossible, a situation that only happened in movies—a happy coincidence that could never occur in real life. Too perfect. But he decided to put his trepidation aside. This was too much of a good thing to lose to his own paranoia. “Hey, I can’t just let you give this to me,” he told her. “Let me pay you or something.”
“I’m not selling them,” she said. “You’re borrowing them, that’s all.”
“No, no, I understand, I just don’t . . . I don’t feel right. I don’t think you understand how incredible this stuff is. It’s invaluable. Priceless. This is like . . .” He struggled to find the words.
She finished his sentence. “It’s the Halcomb Holy Grail, yes, I’m aware. If anyone will put it to good use, I’m confident it’s you. I’m a helper, remember?” Echo lifted her hands, wiggled her fingers at him as if summoning some unknown, mystical force. “The color of your aura is already changing. That distress is dissipating, which means I’ve done my job.”
He didn’t know what to say. It was a kindness that he couldn’t begin to understand, especially after not being that accommodating a neighbor. He hadn’t been on his best behavior when Echo had paid her first visit, and yet here she was, fulfilling her spiritual role. He took a breath and slowly exhaled. “Beer,” he said. “A thousand bottles of whatever you choose—just tell me what you like and come over whenever you want.”
Echo smiled at the offer. “That would be nice.” She cast a look around the room again and nodded. “I’d like that.”
“Then that’s what it’ll be,” Lucas said. Good fences make good neighbors, his father would have grumbled, but this time his dad would have been wrong. This strange granola girl had made his day. His year. Possibly his career.
And even though he had been cursing Halcomb not a half hour before, now he couldn’t help but think, Thank God he talked me into moving to Pier Pointe. Because without Pier Pointe, he wouldn’t have met Echo, and without Echo, there would be no hope. Suddenly, his dead project was alive and kicking.
Screw Jeffrey Halcomb. If he didn’t want to talk, Lucas would talk to Echo, the next best thing, instead.
LAMBERT CORRECTIONAL INCIDENT REPORT—031210SXH
DATE OF INCIDENT: March 12, 2010
TIME OF INCIDENT: 15:30
REPORTING OFFICER: Stewart Xavier Hillstone
At approximately 15:30, I entered Lambert’s solitary confinement unit to retrieve inmate 881978, Jeffrey Christopher Halcomb, and escort him to the visitation cell. Upon entering the unit, I heard Halcomb and inmate 932104, Trey Allen Schwartz, conversing in low tones through the ports in their doors. I made myself known by announcing that Halcomb should ready himself to be cuffed and removed from his cell, which brought their conversation to a halt.
Once I had Halcomb cuffed, I unlocked his cell and led him down the hall toward visitation, at which time Schwartz called out to him. I didn’t catch exactly what was said, but it was something akin to “see
you later, Jay.” Schwartz sounded in good spirits. Halcomb did not respond.
I surrendered Halcomb to Officers Pasqual Cruz and Steven Morris at approximately 15:35, stopped by the security desk to note that Halcomb was in visitation, and returned to the SC unit and proceeded to do a standard contraband check of Halcomb’s cell. I completed my check and was ready to proceed back to the security desk when I noticed blood pooling out from beneath Inmate Schwartz’s door. Through the port in the door, I discovered the inmate unconscious on the floor at approximately 15:45. It appeared that the inmate had obtained an undetermined piece of contraband and stabbed himself in the carotid artery of his neck.
I immediately called for backup as well as for the security desk to unlock his cell. I rolled the inmate over and checked for a pulse while waiting for medical assistance, but the inmate appeared unconscious and limp long before they arrived. By the time assisting officers Malcom Gladwell and Craig Koch appeared, the inmate was deceased. The inmate was transported to Lambert General at approximately 18:15, where he was officially pronounced dead by the Lambert City coroner. The coroner removed the object that was used to end the inmate’s life and identified it as a metal cross with a sharpened stem approximately three inches in length. The cross appeared to have been a piece of costume jewelry potentially obtained through a visitor, though records show that Inmate Schwartz had no visitors for the three months previous to his death. It is as yet unclear as to how the inmate obtained such an item.
28
* * *
YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE said anything.
Vee sat on the edge of her mattress and stared at the carpet beneath her feet.
We’re going to move as soon as I can find us another place to go.
No surprise there. She’d brought her father’s decision to leave the house down on herself, all because she had been angry, because she couldn’t resist taking a jab at him. He had seemed serious when he’d announced the change of plans, sad and defeated but not willing to take no for an answer. She could have said a lot of things to her dad right then, like how she wanted him to succeed so he could be happy again. Like how she knew that his books were what made him who he was and his writing kept him alive from day to day. She could have told him she loved him, that she was terrified of losing him in a divorce. She could have let him in on her secret, told him about the girl in the mirror, the boy in the orchard, the shadow people and weird music, the way the house had changed before her eyes.