Solitary: A Novel

by Travis Thrasher

  "Where?"

  "Somewhere warm."

  His smile mocks me.

  "Did they say anything-"

  "Enough of this," he snaps. "I have other things to do with my time than listen to some lovesick little boy. Enough. You got it?"

  I nod.

  "And you listen to me," Kevin says, his long, skinny finger pointing at me. "You come in here asking more questions or needing the sheriff or any of that, you're going to find trouble. You got that?"

  I nod again and then stand up.

  My wrist still hurts.

  I leave the station and wish I were back in Illinois.

  Alongside Jocelyn.

  Maybe there's truth in it.

  Maybe every single thing related to Jocelyn doesn't have to be some deep, dark conspiracy.

  After talking to the deputy, the overgrown brat of a boy who acts like he's still in high school, I decide to touch base with Poe and Rachel.

  Poe is her normal aloof self on the phone, short and distant and claiming no knowledge of Jocelyn's whereabouts.

  "She's been too busy lately to fill me in on her wonderful life," Poe says to me.

  Where'd that come from?

  Before saying good-bye I tell her to let me know if she hears from Jocelyn.

  "I'll be sure to do that."

  Which means that she won't give it another thought.

  Whats up with girls? I mean, really?

  It takes a couple of phone calls to locate Rachel. I get her on her cell and she sounds out of breath. Says she's out of state at some outdoor mall shopping. She basically says the same thing as Poe, but in a nicer way.

  Maybe Jocelyn's aunt did decide they should leave.

  But where'd that email come from?

  I don't believe it was from Jocelyn.

  I don't believe that for a second.

  Girls can be girls, sure. But not after Christmas Day. Not after everything that was said and done.

  I see the leather band around my wrist. I make a fist, then release it. I do this a dozen more times.

  Then I touch the band as if it's Jocelyn's hair.

  Where are you?

  Two days before New Year's Eve, the phone rings.

  I jump up from the couch and the boring reality show I'm watching to grab the phone.

  Its her. She's going to tell me she's fine and she's in Florida and she just freaked out a bit like people do.

  "Hello?"

  Hoping, praying, wanting, needing Jocelyn.

  "Chris."

  It's a female voice, but not Jocelyn. This voice sounds older. Lower. Even though she whispered, I know it's not Jocelyn.

  "Yes?"

  "Don't give up."

  "Excuse me?"

  "It's not too late to save her."

  "Who is this?" I ask.

  But then the phone clicks off.

  "Who was that?" my mom asks from her room.

  I stand with the phone in my hand, feeling the room start to turn like a ride at an amusement park.

  "Just a telemarketer," I say.

  And, oh yeah, they're selling terror and insanity free of charge.

  I don't have a clue what I'm supposed to do now.

  I'm standing at the edge of a bridge that goes over the train tracks. It's not far up from the main strip of Solitary. My hands are in the pockets of my winter jacket. My cap is helping to keep me a little warmer. It's a brutally cold day, the last day of the year. The weather reminds me of Chicago. The sky is clear and getting dimmer. The cutting wind reminds me it's only going to get colder.

  I'm waiting for someone or something. I don't know what. Maybe this was a ploy to get me to come here. Why, I don't know.

  All I know is the handwritten message I received yesterday.

  The message came via regular mail. The envelope was stamped and addressed to me. Mom gave it to me, assuming it might be from Jocelyn.

  There was no name on it, however. No return address.

  Nothing except the postmark where it was sent from.

  Solitary.

  Of course.

  The madness exists only in this little strange town. They're pumping something into the water thats making everybody crazy.

  I can't keep still, bouncing up and down and moving to keep the blood flowing.

  This evening is quiet.

  Too quiet.

  I stare down the hill toward Solitary. It looks peaceful and innocent, like a little girl on the edge of the road with pigtails and a lollipop, smiling.

  Why do I get this sick image of the little girl shoving the end of her lollipop in my eye?

  The revving of an engine startles me and sends me to the side of the road. The sound came across the bridge from the west side. It's a silver SUV with tinted windows. Its lights are on, but I can't see who's driving.

  It stops, and the passenger door opens.

  "Get in," a voice orders.

  A female voice.

  The same one who called the other day.

  I do as I'm told.

  It helps that the pistol is in my jacket pocket. I keep my hand buried inside it, holding on to the gun.

  Justin case.

  I have barely shut the door when the woman races down the road and takes a sharp left, turning away from the town's main street.

  The woman sitting across from me driving the Mercedes SUVthe new Mercedes SUV, by the smell of it-looks like a movie star. She's wearing a white winter cap, her long blonde hair falling out of it past her shoulder. A white scarf is draped around her neck, falling onto a long overcoat. Underneath the cap are shades that seem to cover half her face.

  She doesn't look at me, but stays focused on the road.

  "What is this?" I finally say as I sway with the turns.

  "Just hold on."

  We drive for ten or fifteen minutes. The road we're on is familiar for a moment, but then she takes a turn or two that make me lost. She drives in silence, as fast as she can. The only thing I can see her doing is looking up in the mirror to see if anybody is behind us.

  Soon we slow down and turn down a street that comes to a dead end in the middle of the woods.

  She puts the car in neutral, then turns and faces me. "Listen to me," she says, her eyes hidden away like those of a rock star behind sunglasses. "You don't have much time."

  "Much time for what?"

  "Jocelyn's life is in danger."

  "Where is she? Who are you?"

  "It doesn't matter who I am."

  The woman looks older, but I can't tell how much older. She looks tall and slender, her face white as a vampire.

  "What matters is that you do what I tell you to do. If they think others are around, they might be scared and back out."

  "They?" I ask. "Who are you talking about?"

  "Chris, listen. There are things at work here that you can't begin to fathom-trust me on that."

  "Who are you?"

  "I was a friend of your uncle," she says.

  I stare at her, speechless.

  "Robert Kinner. Your mother's brother."

  "Do you know where he is?"

  She shakes her head, remaining silent for a moment.

  "Is he involved in this?"

  "Listen-I drove us out here so that we wouldn't be followed. But they're watching everyone they can."

  "Who?"

  "The ring. The leaders. There's no name. They just are."

  "What do they want?"

  "They want secrecy," the woman says. "That's all they care about. To keep their secrets from the rest of the world."

  A part of me should probably be freaking out right now. I should probably open the handle to this door and sprint out shouting "Help!" For some reason, however, I'm relatively relaxed.

  As relaxed as someone with his hand on a gun might be.

  "You need to get their attention somehow. But you also need to not get caught. Just listen. I'm going to leave you here, and you need to walk a mile downhill. Through the woods. A straight sho
t. No turns, nothing. Just head directly downhill and you'll see it."

  "See what?"

  "An open area in the woods. Used to be a campground. Now it's used for other things."

  "Other things?"

  "You have to be careful not to be seen. But you must try to get their attention. It won't be a very large group. They always meet like this before the ceremony. Their own version of a prayer meeting. Make sure they know they're being watched, then get away from them. Get away, and maybe-just maybe-it will work."

  "What ceremony? What will work?"

  "I want you to scare them."

  I didn't pretend to understand. There was only one thing I wanted to know. "Where's Jocelyn?"

  "She's there."

  "She's with them?"

  "Yes. Trust me."

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  "Because of-because of who you are. Because of who your uncle was."

  "I don't-"

  My voice trails off because I don't know what to say.

  She reaches across me and opens the handle to my door. I climb out and then shut it. The window rolls down as those large sunglasses face me.

  "Don't underestimate yourself, Chris. You'll be surprised what you're capable of doing." She shifts the car back into drive and tears down the gravel road.

  It's dark now.

  I'm walking through the woods, carrying the gun now, making sure that I don't trip over something and accidentally shoot myself. The safety is on, but still-I don't like guns. Never have and never will. I'm beginning not to like other things, like the forest and shadows and hills and nighttime.

  I replay what happened over and over again. The woman in the white cap and scarf and sunglasses telling me what to do in the middle of nowhere. Telling me she knew my uncle. Telling me that I need to save Jocelyn.

  Save her from what?

  I know the answer to that, but don't want to utter it. I don't want to think it. Saying it or thinking it might mean that it could actually happen.

  And all of this-every little bit of this-feels both like a nightmare and a dream coming true.

  Jocelyn is the dream.

  What's happening to her is the nightmare.

  I'm stuck in the middle, just some stupid sixteen-year-old kid thinking that I know better and I can be better, but really just completely terrified.

  I do as I'm told and walk down the hill. I'm walking for about ten minutes, maybe longer, when I see flickers of light.

  The forest begins to thin, and I soon reach the edge of the trees. They open up to a clearing the size of half a soccer field. I look out and then wonder if what I'm looking at is real.

  I see maybe half a dozen people-maybe more-wearing dark robes. At first I think they're black robes, but as my eyes adjust, I see that they're red.

  Of course they're red.

  They remind me of the robes I've seen on pictures of the Ku Klux Klan, with hoods that have slits for eyes.

  There are lights scattered around this area, small lanterns hanging on beams. The people all stand facing the same way, as if they're waiting on someone. I don't hear a thing, and that in itself creeps me out.

  Just a bunch of people standing there in dark robes in the middle of the dark night.

  Then I see another figure-this one in white.

  Is this some kind of Klan group, a variation on it? Some crazy hillbillies up to weirdness?

  I still can't hear anything, but it seems like the figure in whitehood and all-is addressing the group. There're eight of them.

  I shiver, feeling heaviness. Feeling despair. Feeling light-headed and cold and burning at the same time.

  Where's Jocelyn, and what does she have to do with this?

  I watch for a few minutes.

  The person in white is talking-I know this. But I can't hear anything. I'm not close enough.

  Get out of here, Chris.

  I don't need someone to tell me that there are weird things in the world. I have the Internet for that.

  But in front of me-in my face, in my lap, in my hands-all of this feels out of my control.

  I try and figure out what I'm supposed to do.

  Get their attention. Scare them.

  That's what she said. Get their attention and then get out of here.

  Easier said than done.

  I can outrun a bunch of freaks in robes, no problem.

  I consider throwing something out there. Then I think of maybe firing a shot in the air-I have several bullets left. That would get their attention. That would make them think twice about having their weird little-

  "Hey," .

  The voice shakes me, causing me to jerk and slam the side of my stomach into a broken tree branch. It scrapes and punctures my skin.

  "What are you doing here!" the voice shouts. "Hey! Someone's over here hiding out! What are you doing?"

  I see the outline of a robed figure standing only a few feet away from me.

  The group at the center of the field are turning, some of them running toward us.

  Then he's on me.

  A hand takes me by the throat and tightens, and I take both hands, including the one holding the gun, and flail them toward the figure's head.

  Somehow I get the hood off.

  I see a face I don't recognize.

  A face with a sparse beard and mustache, the face of a kid who's gotta be my age, maybe older.

  He lessens his grip.

  Then he plants an elbow in my gut.

  The gun goes off, and the guy howls as he lets go of me and reaches for his side. He curses as I look down as if the gunshot came from someone else.

  I didn't mean to shoot it.

  It just went off.

  I want to say this to him, but then he launches himself at me and grabs my hands and tries to get the gun away from me.

  We roll around in the ground, and his robe gets caught on a branch. I slip out of his hands and kick him somewhere on his body as I take off running back from where I came from, away from the field and this guy I just shot and the others who are coming.

  I can hear voices.

  Shouts.

  I tear through the woods, the trees, branches hitting me, the night shaking all around, the shadows smothering, the air I'm trying to breathe getting thinner and thinner.

  I don't turn around.

  I don't dare drop the pistol.

  I think I still hear voices, but maybe they're just in my head.

  I hear my own breathing-sucking, panting, ragged, harriedas I bolt over a log, pound a shoulder into a limb, get swatted by a branch.

  I run for an eternity.

  I run so fast I can't think.

  The only thing that stops me is something jutting out from the snow-and-leaf covered forest floor.

  I fly for a moment and land in something soft and cold.

  Thankfully the gun in my hand doesn't go off again.

  My heart beats so fast I feel like it's exploding in my mouth.

  My ears ring. My body shakes.

  I listen for any movement, but don't hear anything.

  I wait. For an hour or more. I don't know for sure.

  I feel dizzy and electric.

  Part of me wants to close my eyes and close them for a good long time.

  For a moment I keep them open, wide open, waiting, watching.

  The stillness covers and coats and swallows.

  I'm fighting the darkness, and soon I can't help it. I drift off.

  Sometime later-I don't know how much later-my eyes open. It takes me a while to regain my senses and remember where I am.

  I have no idea where I'm at.

  After a bit I start moving again.

  I walk carefully through the woods, my side hurting. It doesn't just ache like it got hit. It throbs as if the cut is deep. I know that it's bleeding.

  I have no idea where I am-I could be in South Carolina as far as I know. I just know that I'm far away from that open field with the disturbed folks playing Halloween.<
br />
  The first thing I'll do when I come to a town is find somebodyanybody-who will listen to me.

  I'm going to tell them to take me to the nearest police station where I'm going to tell everything.

  This is insane.

  Enough's enough.

  If they won't listen, someone will.

  I'll send an email to the entire world and get someone to respond.

  This little backside that nobody knows about needs to get revealed. The world needs to know.

  There are some sickos here and they need help.

  Jocelyn-if she's a part of this in any way-needs help.

  I need help.

  And then, as if my unspoken prayers were answered by an unseen god, the forest opens to a clearing, and I see a house.

  Jocelyn's house.

  "You gotta be kidding," I say aloud.

  No way.

  I laugh, and it hurts.

  I don't see anybody around-still no lights on, no car parked outside. It's just like I saw it a couple of days ago.

  I'm going to break down a door and see if I find anything. Then if I don't, I'm going to call the cops and tell them I need help.

  When I get to the door, I'm glad I try the handle again.

  This time the door opens with ease.

  As if someone wants me to go inside.

  I move slowly, quietly, as if someone's here. I'm almost surprised when I find a switch and flick on the lights and see that there's still power.

  The house looks the same. Nothing unusual.

  "Hello?"

  I call out several times but don't hear anything.

  What if jocelyn's in the back? What if she's in her bedroom and she's all rig-

  I shut up the voice. I'm holding the gun in my right hand and I'm ready. The safety is off and the gun's ready. Ready to at least show someone that I'm ready.

  Ready to pretend like I'm ready because I'm not ready and I'll never be ready.

  I find a phone and pick it up with my other hand.

  There's no tone.

  Either someone didn't pay their phone bill, or someone cut out the phone line all together.

  "Jocelyn?" I call out as I walk back to the bedrooms.

  Maybe Wade is here, waiting.

  And maybe you re stupid for coming back.