Red Is for Remembrance

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  “Wait,” Shell says, shaking his head. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, there were some missing things found in his room . . . jewelry trinkets, mostly. He’s been betraying us. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you.”

  “Wait,” Shell repeats, his mind whirling with confusion. “You have it all wrong. Brick isn’t the one who’s stealing.”

  “When you betray one of us, you betray the entire community,” Mason continues, ignoring Shell. “You betray our mission here. We can’t allow such behavior to go on unnoticed.”

  “Clay’s the one who’s stealing,” Shell says.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what Brick told you, but I have reason to believe otherwise.” Mason lets out another disappointed sigh, tossing his book to the floor. “This isn’t the first time that Brick has betrayed the entire community. He’s also been involved in witchcraft nonsense, even after he’d been warned against it. Our minds need to be pure if we’re to conduct good work here.”

  “Mason,” Shell says, standing up, heat rising to his face. “It isn’t true.”

  “I’m sorry he’s betrayed your friendship as well.”

  Shell clenches his teeth, knowing that there’s no point in trying to convince Mason now. He has to find Brick.

  “Where is he?” Shell asks.

  “Clay is taking care of things.”

  “What does that mean? Will Brick be okay?”

  Mason gets up and goes to the door, holding it open for Shell’s exit. “He needs to learn that what he did was wrong. That’s what we do here—teach.”

  “Mason, please,” Shell insists.

  “I have to go now,” Mason says, grabbing the lantern and swinging it back and forth, as though a warning, as though he might strike Shell. “I’m driving some of the elder men into town. We have a little business to attend to and probably won’t be back until early tonight. We can talk more then if you wish.”

  Shell nods and leaves, knowing more than ever now that he has to find Brick—and that they have to get out of here.

  I jump out of bed and grab my coat, pulling on a pair of boots as I plop down on Amber’s bed. “Wake up,” I whisper, shaking her slightly.

  She wipes her eyes, still a little disoriented from sleep. “What’s going on?”

  “I need to borrow your van.”

  “Why?” she asks, sitting up. “Is there something wrong?”

  I nod. “It’s Porsha. She knows where the boy is . . . the one who’s supposed to die.”

  “Can I come with you guys?”

  I shake my head. “You have class.”

  “So do you. What happened to the good old days . . . when you used to let me help you fight crime?”

  “I hope to be back later tonight.”

  “Ho hum.” She sighs, clearly disappointed that I won’t be taking her with me. Amber grabs the keys from her Hello Kitty lunchbox of a purse and hands them to me. “Take my cell phone, too,” she says, scrambling through the contents of the box to find it.

  “I kind of already did,” I say, pulling the phone from my pocket.

  Instead of griping about it, Amber nods. “Good,” she says. “Call me if you need anything or just to let me know you’re okay.”

  “Of course,” I say, giving her a giant hug. It is sort of sad that she isn’t coming with me . . . that Drea isn’t here, too, and that everything is changing so fast.

  Amber’s vintage Volkswagen van is parked in the back of our dorm. I climb in, start her up, and crank the heat. It’s 3:30. It’s going to take us well over an hour to get down to the Cape from here, maybe more. Part of me is hoping that her prediction about the sun rising is wrong, that it’s dark in her dream because it’s nighttime rather than early in the morning. I’m just not sure we’ll make it otherwise.

  I pull out of Beacon’s Drive and across the street to the president’s house. Porsha is already waiting for me in the driveway. I unlock her door and she hops in, dressed for the occasion in shades of black and charcoal.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she says, peering out the windows. “My father’s still asleep.”

  “Did you tell him you were going out?”

  “Yeah, right,” she says, fastening her seatbelt. “I left Tamara a note that said I was with you. That should keep him quiet for a while.”

  I shake my head and pull out onto the road, the van sputtering a couple times from the cold. “So where are we going?”

  “Where else? The Cape.”

  “Yeah, but where?”

  Porsha pulls a few sheets of paper from her bag. “A town called Brutus.”

  “Excuse me?” I gasp. Brutus is only one town over from where we were staying this past summer.

  “Yeah,” Porsha says, referring to the sheets. “Your spell worked. I dreamt about some place called Bargo Tower.” She flashes me a picture of a tall brick tower positioned high on a hill. “I looked it up online and found it. Here are the MapQuest directions, by the way.” She places them on the console.

  “Okay,” I say, taking a giant breath, trying to get everything straight. “So, this boy—”

  “Trevor,” she corrects. “That’s his name. He told me so in his dream. And then he asked me if I was his guardian angel.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him I was.” She shrugs. “I mean, when you think about it . . . ”

  “Wait,” I say. “Is he going to be at the tower?”

  She shakes her head. “I told you, he’s at some camp, but it’s near the tower.”

  “How near?”

  “I’m not sure, but Brutus is pretty small.” She rechecks the map. “It shouldn’t be hard to find a camp commune like theirs . . . you know, so primitive, near the woods, overlooking the ocean. I bet people in the town will know about it.”

  “That’s it? So we’re just supposed to ask? You didn’t see anything else?”

  “I saw a fence.”

  “What kind of fence?”

  “A chainlink one, like they have at parks, but with barbed wire at the top.”

  “Like a prison?”

  She nods. “There was a hole in the fence, too—toward the bottom—like it had been cut and pried open, and there was a lot of overgrown brush around it.”

  “Was there anything else around it? Any structures . . . some landmark we might be able to recognize?”

  Porsha shakes her head. “It might be near something bee-related.”

  “B, as in the letter B?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “Bee as in the kind that buzzes.”

  “You saw bees?” I ask, feeling the surprise on my face.

  “No, but I heard them buzzing in my ear.” She sticks her finger in her ear as though she can still hear them.

  “It’s the middle of winter,” I say, turning onto the highway. “Are you sure it was bees and not something else buzzy?”

  “What can I tell you?”

  I shake my head and glance at the clock. It’s almost four; we only have two more hours before the darkness starts to lift.

  “Didn’t I do good?” she asks.

  I nod. “Better than good.”

  “Thanks,” she says, gripping the healing-receiving crystal I gave her, reminding me more than ever of myself.

  We don’t say much on our way down to the Cape. I’m just too tense for words. I keep my foot pressed firmly on the gas the whole way, over the Sagamore Bridge and past the Welcome to Cape Cod sign. We pass several Cape towns on the highway as we continue into the Brutus/Dalmouth area.

  “We’re doing good on time,” Porsha says.

  I nod, grateful that there isn’t much traffic at this time of day, that it only took us an hour-and-a-half to get here. I take
our exit a little too fast, almost sending the van on two wheels.

  “This sucker’s got steam.” Porsha pats the console, which makes the glove compartment drop open. A red lacy bra and Catwoman mask fall out. “I won’t ask,” she says, closing the compartment back up with the tip of her finger.

  I smile slightly and click on the overhead light to read over the MapQuest directions.

  “Thank you,” Porsha says, just out of nowhere.

  I glance at her. “You’re welcome.”

  “I mean, you didn’t even have to help me. What’s in it for you?”

  “More than you know.” I take a deep breath and continue to turn down several more streets. “We should probably talk about what we’ll do once we get to the camp.”

  “Save Trevor,” Porsha says. “What else?”

  “No, I mean, I find it hard to believe that such a primitive-type camp is going to let two young girls go waltzing in there without a word, especially a camp where actual killing is about to take place.”

  “Good point,” Porsha says. “How about we just say we’re looking for some place to stay?”

  I bite my bottom lip, losing confidence by the moment.

  The MapQuest directions bring me through downtown Dalmouth. It looks much as I left it—the brick streets and touristy shops. Only now it’s covered with patches of snow.

  “Are you okay?” Porsha asks, obviously noticing my sullen state.

  “I will be,” I croak.

  “This is where it happened, isn’t it?” she asks. “Where you lost your love?”

  I nod.

  “Sorry,” she says.

  I shrug, fighting the urge to break down.

  “Sucks, doesn’t it?” She sighs.

  “Which part?”

  “Coincidence. You lost your love here and now I’m bringing you back.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence. Everything happens for a reason.”

  “So what do you think the reason is?”

  I shake my head and bite my bottom lip, wondering about the irony of the situation, wondering if maybe Porsha’s nightmares are sort of like the ones Jacob was having about me. He didn’t even know who I was and yet he felt compelled to find me—to save me. Because we were soul mates.

  Maybe Trevor is Porsha’s soul mate and that’s why she’s been dreaming about him. Maybe that’s how she and I are connected. I’m helping her find her soul mate, so that I can finally put mine to rest.

  We enter Brutus and spot the Bargo Tower right away. It’s in full view, high up on a hill, highlighted by street lamps.

  “It’s a little past five,” Porsha says.

  I nod. “It’ll only be dark for another hour.”

  “Right, so we need to hurry up.” Using the street map, she directs me toward the ocean, telling me how it appears as though it meets patches of woods in several places.

  “We need to ask somebody,” I say, noticing some guy dragging his trash out to the curb of his driveway. I pull over and roll down the window. “Excuse me?” I shout.

  The man turns from his trash and takes a couple steps toward my window. He looks much older up close—maybe seventy at the least—with wiry gray hair and a skinny build.

  “We’re looking for a campsite,” I say.

  “For RVs or tents?” He takes a second glance at the van.

  “No,” I say. “We’re looking for a camp where our friend is staying. It doesn’t have electricity and they use well water.” I shake my head, thinking how ridiculous I sound.

  “The commune?” the man asks.

  “Yeah.” I nod. “I think so.”

  “You’ve got a friend staying at that place?”

  More nodding.

  “They should shut that damn place down.” He shakes his head and lets out a sigh. “The problem is the leader’s too damn slippery. He’s got a loophole for everything.”

  “Can you tell us where the camp is?” Porsha asks, leaning closer to the window.

  “That commune is no place for two young girls like yourselves.”

  “Please,” Porsha insists.

  “Can’t do it,” the man says, repositioning his cap. “I’d never forgive myself later.”

  “We need to get our friend,” Porsha says. “He isn’t safe.”

  “If he’s at that place, you can bet he isn’t safe.” He sighs again and thinks about it for several seconds. “Okay,” he says, reluctantly. “I’ll tell you.”

  The man gives us directions to the camp, telling us how careful we need to be and how we shouldn’t listen to any of the leader’s “mumbo jumbo.” Being such a small town, we’re actually pretty close to the place and, when he mentions that it’s just past a honey farm, I almost leap out the window and kiss him.

  “Bees,” Porsha whispers, a bit surprised by her own prediction.

  We arrive in what appears to be an undeveloped part of town—no houses, sparse streetlights, and tons of trees. Once we pass the honey farm, the road turns from pavement to gravel.

  The camp is just up ahead, a barbed wire fence around it. I drive toward the entrance just as a couple flashlight beams shine in my direction from what appears to be a small guard shack.

  “What do we do?” Porsha asks, her eyes widening.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, noticing two people standing at the gate. I take a deep breath and park the van. “Are you ready?”

  “What do you mean?” Porsha asks.

  Instead of answering, I work quickly, removing the ignition key from Amber’s key ring and shoving it into my sock, just in case I’m forced to give up my keys. Now, only the trunk key and what appears to be a key to an old gym locker remain on the ring. “Let’s go,” I whisper.

  “Wait,” Porsha says. “What are we supposed to say?”

  “Just follow me,” I whisper and open the door, almost wishing Amber were here to break the proverbial ice. Porsha follows as I head to the entrance, my heart pounding, my teeth chattering from the early morning chill.

  The two boys keeping guard are actually pretty young—around fourteen or fifteen at most. They’re dressed in regular street clothes, but it’s clear from their stance that their job is to keep people from entering, and so I wonder if they’re carrying weapons. “Excuse me,” I say, resting my hands against the fence, noticing the sharp metal spokes that jut off the winding wire at the top. “My friend and I are from out of town. We were wondering if maybe you could give us a place to stay.”

  The two boys exchange a look and then one of them shakes his head.

  “Please,” Porsha whines, joining me at the gate. “We don’t have money for a motel and we’re practically out of gas. It’s freezing out here.”

  “We can do work in exchange,” I offer. “Is there somebody in charge we can ask?” I look through the fence. Despite the darkness, I can see that there are a bunch of cabins lined up in the middle. I glance from right to left, searching for someone who might be able to get us in. But the place looks almost vacant. There’s a parking spot just beyond the gate; I can tell from the tire tracks. There’s also a chopping block and a stockpile of wood piled high near the opening of the forest and a pathway that seems to veer off toward a beach.

  “Where is everybody?” I ask. “Is everyone still asleep?”

  “You need to leave now,” the taller of the boys tells us. He reaches inside his pocket, as a warning I think. There’s definitely something in there. It’s not big enough to be a gun; I figure it might be a pocket knife or a bottle of pepper spray. Still, it’s nothing I want to protect myself against—not yet anyway.

  I take a deep breath, remembering how Porsha said she saw an opening in the fence in her dream. I glance toward the forest, noting how she also said there was brush and overgrowth surrounding it.


  “Okay,” I say finally, taking a step back from the fence. I nod to Porsha and then gesture toward the van. “Let’s go.”

  After Mason leaves for town, Shell continues to scour the camp for Brick. No one will give him any inkling as to where Clay may have taken him, though he’s not convinced the other campers even know.

  Except Lily. After searching the beach and checking that the fishing boat is still docked, he decides to take one more look in the forest before heading back to the dining cabin and insisting that Lily tell him where Clay and Brick have gone.

  He figures he’ll go deeper into the woods this time. He passes the chopping station and takes just a couple steps down the dirt-covered trail that winds into the trees.

  That’s when he spots it: Brick’s pentacle rock. It’s sitting faceup in the middle of the path, practically glowing because of its whiteness. Shell picks it up, remembering the time he and Brick scratched on their rocks and wished for peace, knowing that Brick would never be so careless as to misplace it like this. A sick feeling creeps up Shell’s throat, like he’s going to be sick.

  There’s no doubting it; Brick dropped the rock on purpose—in hopes that someone would find it and come looking for him. Because he’s in danger.

  Shell picks up the rock and hurries into the forest, trampling over fallen branches and dead brush, shouting Brick’s name until his throat stings. But no one answers him. He stays firmly on the trail, relying on its steadfastness to guide him through the early morning darkness, wondering why he didn’t think to bring a lantern.

  After several minutes, he begins to feel extra guarded and uneasy. His heart constricts. He stops a moment to catch his breath and get his bearings, the frigid morning breeze biting at his skin. He thinks he hears some noises up ahead. He squints to try and see something, but it’s just too dark; the sun has yet to rise.

  He moves quickly again, almost tripping over a log, trying to trust his instincts and where they’re pulling him—farther and farther away from the camp. It must be a good twenty minutes now that he’s been gone. He wonders if the other campers have noticed, if they’ll tell Mason when he gets back from town. Surely there’ll be hell to pay. But it doesn’t matter. He has to find Brick.