Paul stood at the floor to ceiling window in the room and sipped as he looked out over the city and the lake beyond. Lights were beginning to twinkle in the twilight, and dark grey clouds churned over the water. He was cold just looking, but the Wild Turkey was warming his body.
After several minutes, he finished off his drink, poured another, and returned to the table and the stack of papers. He turned to the second page in the stack, which was crumpled and creased through the middle of the page, both vertically and horizontally. The page was blank except for a single line of text across the top, and a handwritten note along the bottom.
On the top of the page, it read:
41° 51' N / 87° 56' W
In the bottom right hand corner, someone had jotted in messy handwriting:
MICHIGAN AV R B
The top line of text was obviously the latitude and longitude of a location. He opened his laptop and entered the coordinates into the search browser. His search pulled up a number of websites that would convert the latitude and longitude into an address. He clicked on the first website, and a map appeared across his screen, a little red pin pointing to a place just outside of Chicago.
Okay, this was interesting, Paul thought. He sipped again at his bourbon, enjoying the burn and allowing it to calm his nerves. He clicked on a magnifying glass on the bottom of the screen and zoomed in on the map. As details became more apparent, he saw that the pin identified an area of forest preserve in DuPage County.
Paul stared at the screen, trying to think of how this would fit with what had happened that night. Why would Morales be interested in these specific coordinates? As far as he could tell, this was a wide expanse of forest.
Morales had been looking for a girl who'd escaped from somewhere. Paul didn't get any more details than that, but was it possible that she could have been hiding in the forest? Paul absently reached into his pocket for a piece of cinnamon candy, but it was empty. He made a mental note to pick up more fireballs the next time he was at the store.
He stood with his glass of bourbon and walked to the window, thinking back on that night for anything else that Morales had said that would give him a clue as to why those coordinates were in Morales' briefcase.
Paul watched the traffic on the streets below, absently following cars as they turned and stopped at lights. A city bus stopped a few blocks away, and people climbed on and off.
He stared at the bus, and it all came back to him to suddenly, he almost dropped his glass of bourbon. Paul couldn't believe it had taken even this long for the connection. On that night several weeks ago, he was supposed to meet a woman on the bus.
ROUTE B MICHIGAN AVENUE.
He went back to the table and stared at the scribble on the bottom of the paper. It was the same bus route.
The woman he was supposed to meet was going to shed some light on the bombing in Miami. She had sought him out, not the other way around. Paul remembered her inexplicable fear, but at the same time, her assurance that she would meet him on the bus.
It was dark and storming when Paul had ridden the bus, so he couldn't remember exactly where the route had taken him, but he seemed to remember being in the middle of nowhere during parts of the ride. He wondered if the bus had driven by Morales' coordinates. Paul wasn't sure but it seemed possible.
With his heart thumping, he returned to his laptop and pulled up the city bus routes. It took a few minutes of searching, but he finally found Route B Michigan Avenue, and the road was near the forest preserve. Not directly next to, but close enough.
Paul was getting excited now. He set his glass on the table, only a few drops of bourbon remaining.
It all made sense. He was supposed to meet the woman on the bus. The same bus that was near the coordinates that Morales was interested in. A few hours later, the bus driver is found shot on his own bus, near the airport and Morales is found shot in the back of a van, and then taken to a hospital.
It was all connected, he thought. Had to be.
But there was something missing.
Was the woman Paul was going to meet the same girl Morales was looking for? He didn't think so. Morales was specific when he called her a girl, and Paul was sure that it was an older woman he'd talked to on the phone. Not elderly, but older. Regardless, there seemed to be a connection.
He stood, pacing his little room with the metal cane and ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg. Paul was sure there was a connection, but everything seemed just out of focus. He saw the big picture, but not the details.
The coordinates. Whatever had been at the coordinates was important enough to draw Morales' attention, and maybe there was something left. Some detail or clue to bring the picture into focus.
But he'd been shot and almost killed for getting too involved, his mind screamed at him. He was fully aware that just minutes before, he’d been ready to ignore the briefcase and chuck in the trash. But now…
He needed to see what was at the coordinates. Paul considered calling the cops with the coordinates and his theories, but then again, Morales was a cop. He couldn’t risk it with the police, but he needed to see what in the forest was so important.
Then Paul had a thought and returned to his computer. He opened his web browser to a map of the forest preserve. He clicked a button that changed the illustrated map to a satellite view. Paul knew that the satellite images were not updated regularly, but he hoped there might be something on the current image to shed some light as to why the coordinates were important. He zoomed in on the image and began scrolling through the forested area.
After the first thirty minutes, he stood and poured himself another glass of Wild Turkey. So far, he'd seen nothing but forest and trees, and the occasional hiking trail or access road. He was discouraged and his excitement from before was warring off.
Maybe the coordinates were for a meeting place, or a drop-off or pick-up point. In that case, he thought, there wasn't going to be anything for him to find on the satellite images.
Paul was getting tired, and the bourbon was working its dark magic. His leg hurt and he wanted to pop a few pills and go to sleep. He gave himself just ten more minutes of scouring the satellite imagery before he would call it quits.
Maybe there was simply nothing for him to see--just like his pipe dream conspiracy theory on the attack in Miami. Maybe he was once again barking up the wrong tree.
And then something caught Paul's eye. A rectangular structure set several miles into the forest preserve, surrounding by a small clearing. A thin access road led from the cabin and wound its way through the forest and exited to the county highway that boarded the preserve.
He toggled to the other tab in his web browser and examined the map containing highlighted route for Route B Michigan Avenue. Sure enough, the city bus drove right by the access road.
It probably meant nothing, and Paul forced himself not to get too excited. It was, after all, just a cabin in the woods.
But maybe... just maybe there was something at the cabin that would connect all these dots.
Paul stood, ignoring the raging pain in his leg. He hobbled to the large window and stared out at the city. It was full dark now, and the winter storm had arrived at the shores of the lake. He couldn't go now, in the dark and with the impending storm. But in the morning, he would call a cab and make the trek out to the forest.
It's probably nothing, he thought, just a lonely cabin in the woods.
But maybe not.
Paul watched the first flakes from the winter storm flutter toward the twinkling lights of the city below and smiled.
To Be Continued…
Snow Falling
Book Two in the Snow Swept Trilogy
Derrick Hibbard
Move, before the devil gets ya
-Lilly Edwards
You asked me once, what was in Room 101. I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Room 101 is the worst thing in the world…
-O’Brien (1984)
/>
Part One: Before
Chapter One
Less than an hour before the skyscraper on the corner of Biscayne Blvd. and 5th Street collapsed, killing 456 people, Mae Edwards buried her toes in the cool sand of the deserted beach. She was almost sixteen, and despite living in a coastal state for most of her life, it was the first time she'd seen the ocean.
The waves swept up and around her feet, tickling against her legs before rushing back out to sea. Tiny bubbles of foam remained on the beach in wavy lines all around the damp soil. A small crab skittered along the water’s edge, rushing back up to the dry sand an instant before another wave crept up the gentle slope. When the water rushed back down the beach, the crab followed, repeating its little game with each new wave.
Mae smiled as she watched the crab run to and from the water, until the water came up too quickly, dunking it beneath the surface. It floundered for a moment in the crystal clear water, its tiny legs struggling to get traction on the sand, before the wave returned to the ocean, leaving the crab on the beach. It seemed to be tired of the game, or realized the risks involved (if crabs were capable of such analysis) and it trundled up to the dry sand and disappeared into a small dark hole.
The water came back up the beach, higher this time, wetting her shorts and her lower back, and she gasped at the coolness of it. Although the water off the coast of Miami never truly got cold, even during the winter months, the water was still cool enough to run a shiver up her spine.
Mae laughed to herself and tilted her head back to bask in the morning sunlight, enjoying the warm breeze. The beach was much different than her home, and while she missed the snow, the cold fresh air, and the way the sunlight glistened off icicles and snowflakes like diamonds, there was something to be said about sitting on a beach in the dead of winter, enjoying the water and warm breeze.
The smell of the water was vibrant and beautiful, as if each part of the whole was a brushstroke of aromas. The saltiness of the air and the smell of the wet sand were the strongest, but she also smelled the rotting sea grass, hints of coconut suntan oils, and sweat. It was the perfect smell of the beach.
A bird cawed nearby, and Mae scanned the horizon to see what kind of bird it was. Finally, she thought she saw movement several hundred yards away, flying low over the rolling water. The bird swooped and glided in the wind, like graceful dancing, and then it dove into the water and disappeared for several seconds before bobbing up like a dry cork. She tried to remember the last time she'd seen a bird, but the memory wouldn't come, and it was frustrating to her. Surely, she could remember seeing a bird, but there was nothing in her mind but a blank slate, a clean white piece of paper waiting to be filled, but no birds.
After a few moments the bird took flight again, soaring up and away, lifted by the warm winds from the ocean, disappearing into the light of the sun.
Along the horizon, she saw the Miami skyline.
That's weird, she thought, I don't think I noticed the skyline before. She studied the tall buildings with reflective glass, watched cars and trucks and boats ride over the bridges that led from Miami Beach and Virginia Key to the downtown area, and strained to hear the sounds of the city, so far away.
The only thing she heard was the breeze that rustled through the palms, and even that sound was a faint whisper.
Mae looked down at her feet and legs and saw that the water had risen with the tide, that the lower half of her body was completely submerged. With the sight of the water, she suddenly felt the chill of the cool ocean on her legs and feet.
This isn't right, she thought. I should have felt the water.
She brought her hands to her face and covered her eyes for a moment, and the sensation of being underwater disappeared—the coolness of the water, the feel of its wetness against her skin, the sand on her toes and feet, the pull and tug of the tide—it all disappeared.
The sound of the breeze in the palm fronds cut in and out, like an AM radio station with bad reception.
She heard a voice, a man's voice, very far away, but didn't understand what he was saying. Mae understood the words, but not the context. The sound of his voice was like listening to someone talk while swimming underwater.
“She's focused on the paradox. What's there is not really there, and without the senses to prove it, her creation has become a paradox.”
When she uncovered her eyes, she saw that the beach seemed to have lost several degrees of color, as if the world had suddenly faded from a high definition photograph to one taken with an old Polaroid camera.
A bird glided by, but the bird had no head, and only half a wing, as if in an unfinished drawing. The ocean no longer rolled lazily, and the waves didn't climb up the sandy beach. The water had frozen, and the cool winter breeze that had felt so good only second before had disappeared, leaving behind a wet and stagnant feeling.
“Can she hear us?” The voice belonged to a woman, and she recognized the voice. It was her mom talking.
“With her ears exposed and the fluid levels decreasing, she may be picking up something.” The man's voice again. “If she can hear us, the sound would be very faint.”
“But wouldn't that only add to the paradox? Voices where there shouldn't be any?”
And then the sound of running liquid, pouring through a sieve.
I can't breathe, Mae thought, and then her body was jerking.
“Brain scans are spiking,” another voice said, but the panic was on her now and she wasn't paying any attention at all.
“She's coming around, but slowly.”
A door slammed open.
“What's going on?”
The sand and the frozen waves, the half-drawn bird, suddenly clicked off.
Only darkness remained.
Mae started to scream.
Chapter Two
Exactly 26 minutes before Mae’s time on the beach, she was sitting at a low table in a room with padded white walls, and a large mirrored window behind her. The room had no furnishings except the table at which she sat across from her father. He was smiling at her with the dark green eyes that she'd inherited and the kind smile that was completely disarming.
“Daddy, I don't want to go back into that room,” Mae said, and her father reached across the table and took his daughter’s hands in his. He held them tightly and brought them close to his lips. He kissed her fingers, and his hands were warm, and the feel of his whiskers on her skin brought back so many memories of before, when she was just a child.
“We don't have to worry about that room right now,” her father said, and his baritone voice was soft, almost melodic.
“Daddy, I don't want to go into that room ever again.”
“Let's focus on the music right now.” Her dad lifted an older model, white iPod from within the bag at his feet. The bag was her backpack, the one she'd taken with her to school on countless mornings, her feet crunching the falling autumn leaves or skipping through the sunlight that filtered through spring blossoms. It was her bag, and the iPod had been hers too, a gift from her father on her birthday.
“Let's focus on this for right now, then we'll worry about the other room.” He offered her the headphones. She took them reluctantly and placed them into her ears. There was no sound, not yet.
“Now, you remember what we practiced,” he said. “I want you to wait until I'm out of the room and the door is fully closed behind me before you press play.”
“Okay, Daddy.” Mae could tell by the expression on his face that he didn't want to leave her in the room with the padded white walls, but he would be watching from behind the glass. She thought her mom was here today too, although her mom didn't like to come and visit as much. Her mom was always crying when she visited, and no matter what Mae said, she would never stop.
“I love you, princess,” he said as he stood up. He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head gently.
“Daddy, don't go,” she said, tears streaming down her face now. “Please don't go.”
&nbs
p; “It will all be over soon,” he said. A few seconds later, he closed the door behind him, and it latched, sealing the room off from the world. Mae looked over her shoulder at the big mirrored window and smiled weakly before pressing PLAY on her iPod.
A gentle swirl of music filled her ears, and the sound was beautiful. It was a song she remembered listening to in her earliest memories, and it was the song they always made her play. It was the song that haunted her dreams, the sound that was the soundtrack to her life.
She felt a buzz in her head and the gathering warmth in the air, but otherwise she felt fine. She listened to the song and allowed it to carry her away, imagining that the song would play in little cottages in the French countryside. She imagined sitting in a wicker chair on the front porch of an old stone house, overlooking a million rows of lavender, which extended on into the perfect French azure. It was a picture she conjured often, one that she'd stolen from an old travel book of her mother’s. When she was little, before the room with the padded white walls and the tank.
Mae would pore through the book and admire all the many pictures of France—the cities and lights, the rivers and gently rocking boats, the countryside, orange groves, and quiet beaches with yellow striped umbrellas.
The song ended almost as abruptly as it had began, and there was nothing but silence now. She waited a moment, then turned to look at the mirrored glass, shrugging her shoulders as if to say, what gives?
The door unlatched with a whisper of escaping air, and her father stepped inside, his smile a bit restrained.
“Daddy?”
“Honey, you did fine,” he said, and again sat across the table from her. He took her hands in his, and his dark green eyes were no longer warm, like before. A coldness had crept in, and Mae didn't like that look in his eyes. He took the iPod away from the table and slowly wrapped the headphones around the base, like she'd seen him do a thousand times before.
The Snow Swept Trilogy Page 24