There was a long pause. Haft could hear McAllister inputting the details into the police database.
“Three hits.”
“Good enough,” Haft said. “I need names and addresses.”
McAllister told him.
* * *
As Frank drove, he could hear the restless movement of his wife and son in the trunk of the car. They sounded like badgers, rummaging around in the dark. He tried to imagine how dazed and confused they must be feeling, and realized that he didn’t need to imagine it: he’d experienced the same sense of turmoil himself ten months ago when Jake had first disappeared. He listened to the gentle disturbance behind him and felt an unmistakable contentment wash over him. The long-held terror of being unable to trace his family was gone; in its place was an almost painful determination never to allow them to be taken from him again.
He glanced over his shoulder into the rear seat, checking that everything was still intact. Before setting off he had packed a box of provisions to see them through the first few days of the trip, emptying the contents of his fridge and cupboards of whatever items he could find. It hadn’t amounted to much; tins of soup, cereal, half a loaf of bread, several dairy products. The kind of groceries you might expect to find in the home of a single man bound by a deep depression. Whatever else he might need, he would simply find a way of obtaining along the way. He hadn’t given the details of the trip too much thought, and he didn’t intend to now. Not like when they’d visited the cottage the first time. He smiled at the memory. Cindy had planned the damn thing for months in advance, working out a full itinerary to keep them occupied during their stay. It had paid off, though. Cindy’s foresight and careful navigation had taken them off the beaten track and they’d been able to explore vast areas of woodland that felt like an undiscovered country. They had walked for miles without seeing another living soul, and Frank had told Jake they were pioneers. It had been a wonderful holiday; a family memory that they had often fondly remembered together, and a return journey had been frequently proposed.
Frank recalled Jake looking at him, his face serious, his eyes thoughtful and wide.
“I want to be pine ears again, Daddy,” he had said, and both Cindy and Frank had laughed for a full minute, until even Jake had joined in.
The memory of that day was so strong Frank could barely contain his tears. God, the past could be painful; even the good bits hurt sometimes. They made his insides go loose, as though Jake had physically reached inside his body and yanked on his heart. That’s how Frank’s memories worked; they had the power to both nourish him and tear him apart at the same time. It was the flux underpinning his whole personality: he had come to think of love and fear as the same emotion. He no longer knew which he could trust.
* * *
He drove on, heading for the cottage as the sky grew dark, steering the car almost by instinct. In the trunk, the shuffling noises from Cindy and Jake had stopped, but he could still hear them breathing heavily through the gap in the lowered rear seat. Occasionally, as the car rumbled on, he sang to them, songs that he and Cindy used to sing to Jake when he was a baby. He was out of tune and croaky with emotion, but singing those old songs made him feel like he was in a time machine, guiding his family back to the past. Everything had been safer then, more stable. It was a world where kids went to school and played football in the park; where they ate crustless sandwiches while watching cartoons; where they lay on their daddy’s chest and fell into a gentle, dreamless sleep. In the world Frank remembered best, children weren’t abducted from gardens. Lives weren’t destroyed because of one careless minute of inattention. Those things happened in universes far from theirs. Galaxies away. So remote they barely even registered as reality…
Frank held his breath, trying hard not to think about how that distant, impossible darkness had been brought directly to their door, shattering their illusion in an instant. He counted to ten, trying to forget the memory of that moment—that appalling, sickening moment—when he had realized that Jake was gone.
Just look in the back. He’s right there, where he belongs, in his mother’s arms. If you listen carefully, you can hear him breathe. Just like when he slept on your chest late at night as a baby. Remember? All that bad stuff is gone.
He risked a quick glance behind him and smiled when he saw Jake’s foot poking through the gap between the seats. He maneuvered his thoughts to a warmer, brighter place, where the bad stuff couldn’t reach. He let the white light of the headlights show him the way forward, drawing him on to the cottage by the lake.
* * *
No more than an hour later, he turned off the motorway and began to negotiate the winding roads that he knew would lead him and his family to their new home. They were dark and quiet, just as he’d hoped, and he kept his eyes trained on the road signs, looking for the narrow turnoff to the lake.
He briefly wondered what he’d do if they arrived at the cottage only to find it occupied by another family. He could feel his heart begin to race at the mere thought of such a thing, and he tried to push the idea away, concentrating instead on the road. It was off-season, dark and cold; the cottage would be empty. It had to be. It belonged to them. It bore the imprint of his perfect family.
He turned onto an unlit track and slowed down to a more sedate speed. On his left he could see the mirrored glass of the lake, reflecting the black landscape. The stone face of the moon tracked their progress, surrounded by the cooling light of dying stars. To Frank it seemed to mark the end of all that was wrong with his life and the beginning of something fresh and new. The notion made him smile and he pressed on, convinced that even the night was bending to his will.
Another mile or so down the track, he slowed the car to a crawl and pulled over. A hundred yards ahead, nestled on a raised promontory overlooking the lake, was the cottage. He held his breath for a moment, mildly astonished that the place was so suddenly upon them. The place was in darkness, surrounded by a swathe of ancient trees. Unless you were looking for it, you might never even know it was there.
Frank stared, wanting the moment to last forever. It was like looking at something good that had happened to you so long ago you’d almost forgotten how extraordinary the moment was. Even from here he could see that the cottage had been neglected since last they were here, but his memory of the place, and the impact it had made on his family, was so powerful he wondered whether it had sat empty all this time, simply waiting for the three of them to return.
He covered the remaining distance to the cottage and parked the Volvo on the west side, out of sight of any passing traffic. He parked the car, turned off the engine and felt himself slowly relax.
“We’re here, guys,” he said.
He didn’t expect a reply and there wasn’t one. There’d be plenty of time for Cindy and Jake to thank him once they were safely inside.
He reached forward and opened the glove box. He removed a heavy-duty Maglite and held the reassuring weight of it in his hand. He quietly opened the car door and listened. He heard nothing. The beauty of the lake below was breathtaking.
He glanced around at the bank of shiftless black trees and moved silently towards the cottage. As he edged closer he felt his pulse quicken; forgotten images began to stir in his mind, memories of walking this very path in bright sunlight with Cindy and Jake.
He approached the rear of the building and peered into one of the kitchen windows. He could make out vague shadows, but nothing of any consequence in the dark. He flicked on the Maglite and risked a quick search, shining the light into the corners of the room. He saw no evidence of current habitation: no unwashed pots; no coffee mugs on the counter; no neglected newspapers on the kitchen table. If anything, the room looked like it had been left unattended for years.
He switched off the flashlight and walked with greater confidence towards the back door. He conducted another fleeting examination of the interior through one of the smeared glass panels in the door. Nothing. No movement; no sound. He tur
ned side-on to the cottage, raised the base of the Maglite, and hammered it against the bottom left glass panel of the door.
For a moment Frank froze. The sound of the glass shattering was like a small detonation, spreading across the expanse of the lake. It hung in the air, reverberating, for what seemed to Frank like an eternity, a piercing clarion call announcing his family’s return.
“Shit,” he said. He pressed himself against the door and waited. If there was anyone within half a mile of the place, they’d have heard it. At least there hadn’t been a response from within the cottage; that was a good sign. The place had to be empty. A soft consolation for all the misery he had been forced to endure.
He reached his hand through the broken glass and turned the latch of the kitchen door. It opened. Only the cold moon watched as he stepped across the threshold of his new home.
* * *
Frank was mindful of the broken glass and he pushed most of it out of his path with his boot as he made his way inside the cottage. He closed the door and then moved towards the sink, where he drew the curtains across the kitchen window. He tried the light switch, but was unsurprised when nothing happened; even in the dark, the cottage looked like it had been denied electricity for some time. He switched on the Maglite and made his way towards the long counter that ran the length of the east wall. Beneath the counter there were three cupboards, above which were three wooden drawers. He pulled open the first and found only cheap cutlery. The second, though, yielded exactly what he was looking for. Two boxes of candles, some of which had evidently been used, and a small box of Bryant & May matches. Frank had never been in any rented property where there wasn’t a healthy stock of candles in case of emergency power cuts. He even remembered using them himself the last time he was here, though, as he recalled, it had been a different kind of fire he and Cindy had been hoping to ignite. Another special memory that had lain dormant for so long in that hard black space behind his eyes. Perhaps they could reenact that particular tableau while they were here, too. Maybe the sight of the lit candles would awaken the memory for Cindy and return to them the intimacy that Frank so desperately missed. He had a feeling that once they were all safely installed inside, everything would come back. The hollow cleft in which he had been existing for the last ten months would recede into the candlelight and be forgotten. He had his family; they were at the cottage; and everything would eventually come back.
He reached into the drawer and pulled out the candles and the matches. He found half a dozen chipped saucers in one of the cupboards and lined them up on the worktop. He slid one of the candles from the box, lit the wick with a match, and directed a drizzle of hot wax onto the saucer. The sudden heat and light made Frank feel alive, as though he were recreating his own past. It felt like he was wading through his own history, the candle a heated treasure in his hands. The voices and laughter of his family rose up at him through the gentle prism of time, like echoes of something lost, something he would happily spill blood to regain.
Frank shook his head, attempting to dislodge the myriad thoughts that consumed him. He planted the lit candle in the cooling wax and repeated the entire procedure until he had a neat row of flickering flames. He picked up one of the saucers and carried it over to the kitchen table, where he carefully laid it to rest. The other candles he divided between the sitting room and the master bedroom, remembering to draw the curtains first.
He returned to the kitchen and stood for a moment, mesmerized by the flame. He could barely believe he was here. The idea of revisiting the lake with his family had begun life as the impulsive act of a desperate man, nothing more than a spontaneous notion to try and recapture the past. But now, here they all were, isolated from the soulless horror that had been pursuing them for the last ten months.
He arranged two chairs on either side of the table, and let the tiny flame illuminate the room, picturing the perfect scene.
He wiped flakes of wax from his hands and nodded. Everything was set. It was time to reacquaint his wife and son with their new home. He stepped outside and walked towards the Volvo. The night air was crisp and cold; the lake looked uncommonly still. For the first time in almost a year Frank felt at peace with the world. He thought of Jake and Cindy, hugging each other, as he opened the trunk of the car.
* * *
Frank shone the Maglite into the dark space and smiled. Both Cindy and Jake recoiled at the sudden intrusion of light and he could hear Cindy’s muffled complaints through the duct tape slapped across her mouth.
“Not long now,” Frank said. “Almost home, just like I promised.”
He placed the Maglite on the roof of the Volvo and reached inside the trunk. He scooped Jake into his arms and carried him towards the cottage. The boy’s eyes were darting around, trying to take everything in, and Frank was staggered by how beautiful his son looked in the wash of moonlight that accompanied them to the door.
He carried Jake across the threshold and into the cottage, mindful of the child’s anxiety, soothing him with reassuring words as they entered the kitchen. He seated him in one of the chairs he’d arranged at the table and angled his bound arms behind the wooden backrest, enabling Jake to sit upright using the frame of the chair for support. Frank stared at the boy’s face, the candle flame dancing in his eyes. He reached forward and ripped the duct tape from his son’s mouth.
“It’s very late, Jakey, so no shouting. Okay?”
Jake nodded, breathing hard through his mouth.
“Where are we?”
A frown appeared on Frank’s forehead. “Don’t you remember?”
Jake looked nervous and shook his head. “Is this where you live?”
Frank smiled. “This is the cottage we stayed in when you were younger, Jake. This is where we all live.”
He placed a hand on Jake’s head and tousled his hair; he tried to remember the last time he had been able to express affection in this way and thought he might cry. This is what he’d been denied for so long: the ordinary things, the simple things. The kind of things a father takes for granted when he assumes his son will always be there.
“Let me complete the set,” Frank said, and he returned to the Volvo, leaving Jake to mull over his new home. He came back within a minute carrying the box of provisions and the Maglite and then disappeared again. There was an echoing thunk outside as the trunk was slammed shut and in no time at all he returned, this time carrying in his arms the writhing body of his wife, her clothes bloodstained and askew, her fury clearly evident in the way she refused to co-operate with Frank as he wrestled her into the chair. He levered her arms behind the backrest, just as he had done with Jake, ripped the duct tape from her mouth and slapped her, hard and quick, across the cheek.
The shock of the strike took Cindy by surprise and she ceased her struggle, paralyzed by the unexpected violence. Her cheek, even by the lambent flame, had turned bright red, and Jake could see the woman reassessing her situation, nervously appraising the man in a different light.
Frank seemed not to notice; he brushed the loose hair from his eyes, wiped the sweat from his brow, and seated himself at the kitchen table.
“So what do you think?” he said, smiling at Cindy.
She kept her eyes on him and said softly: “I think you’ve gone insane.”
“Remember how much fun we had the last time we were here, Cindy? We talked about it for months.”
“You need to take us home, Frank. This poor child needs to be returned to his family.”
“We are home, silly. This is where we can start again. We can make things exactly as they were.”
Cindy stared at her husband, terrified by how old he looked, by how detached from reality he’d become. He seemed to have been released to some dark influence that held him by the throat, glorying in a past that never was and never could be. She was as horrified by that as she was by the increasing realization that the Frank she knew, the Frank she had loved and married, had slipped away from her for good. What had been left
in his place was this distorted copy representing everything that had been bottled up inside him since Jake’s abduction.
“You’re not thinking straight,” Cindy said. “Look at us. Look what you’ve done. I don’t know what’s happened to you, Frank, but I can help. You just have to untie me. Then we can talk about it. About Jake; about us. About everything.”
Frank ignored her; his smile seemed plastered on, hideously frozen in place. He began unpacking the box of provisions.
“Do you remember when we came here before and we went walking up into the hills?”
“Yes. But we were living in a different world then, Frank−”
“We seemed to be walking forever. Remember? Jake kept hitching a ride on our shoulders. I remember looking at you both and thinking Jake looked like a little spider monkey clinging to your neck. Do you remember any of this, Jakey?”
Cindy glanced at the boy seated and bound beside her. “Frank, please don’t do this. The kid’s terrified enough as it is.”
“We had to cross a stream to reach the path that would eventually lead us back home. There were a dozen stepping stones. Jake sprang across like a gazelle and when I tried to follow his lead, I slipped and fell headlong into the stream. Remember how hard we laughed?”
Cindy stared at him, her face stinging, her stomach in knots. “Yes,” she said. “You pretended you were the Swamp Monster and chased us back through the woods. Jake busted a gut the entire way home.”
“They were good days, weren’t they, Cind?”
She breathed slowly, not sure whether to be complicit in Frank’s delusion or to try and disabuse him of it. She couldn’t quite gauge the extent of his breakdown. While his actions to this point had been extreme, there remained an element of ambiguity. As she watched him put away the meager provisions, he looked no worse than a broken man, crippled by pain and haunted by the past. She wondered whether she had failed him in some way; perhaps she could have tried harder to avert whatever internal fracture had ripped him apart.
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