Burntown

by Jennifer McMahon

  “Okay,” Necco agrees, hesitantly. They have no reason to run off with her papers; Necco’s the one with the upper hand here—she’s got what they both need. But they’ve still gotta follow the rules. “But you stay here, in the car. No matter what.” She unzips Hermes’s bag and takes out a small metal-barreled flashlight.

  “Deal,” Theo says. “Now pass me your backpack.” Necco does, and Theo takes it and hugs it on her lap.

  “The backpack stays closed,” Necco orders. “I’ll know if you’ve looked through it, and if you have, our deal is off. You get no bag, no money.” She turns to Pru. “No pills.”

  Theo nods in agreement. Necco opens the door and hops out. She scans the area, sees it’s deserted, and runs for a side door that has been broken for years. She slips through it into the dusty, cool mill. Even though the mill hasn’t run in years, the building still smells like oil, heat, and friction. She can almost feel the thrum of the looms. The brick walls and wooden ceiling were once white but are now a dusty gray, and tagged with graffiti. The junked remains of the old looms lie in rows, sad, piano-size machines of iron and wood with notched gears and wheels; some are still loaded with rotten thread.

  She’s never spent much time in here, knowing it was often populated with kids getting high and fooling around; they’d heard stories about the Jensen Mill ghost, a little girl who once worked at the mill and died, sucked into a cutting machine, before she was eleven. They said if you went late at night and called to her, she might answer. That on certain nights, you could hear the noise of the machines, a vibrating thrum so loud you couldn’t hear yourself think, and then, on top of it, one voice—the little ghost girl looking for her missing arm.

  Necco doesn’t believe in ghosts. But she believes in danger.

  Walking quietly, she pauses by the remnants of an old loom, listening. She hears something far off, from the other end of the building. A small scuttling. Rats probably, dragging off the remains of some stoner kid’s sandwich. Just to be sure, she draws her blade. Somewhere in the distance, from the floor above her, maybe, she hears what sounds like crickets chirping.

  Necco creeps through the ruined building, trying to shake off the feeling she isn’t alone, and climbs out through a busted window on the other side. She slides her blade back into the sheath and sprints down the overgrown road until she gets to the camouflaged metal lid that marks the back-door entrance of the Winter House.

  After checking to make sure Theo hasn’t followed, she leans down, finds the handle, and pulls the hatch up. She lowers herself onto the old metal ladder, closing the hidden door over her head.

  The cool, damp air comforts her, smells like home. She flips on the flashlight and scuttles along the stone tunnel to the Winter House door, which is closed, just as she’d left it early this morning.

  As soon as she pushes it open, however, she knows that something isn’t right. She does a sweep of the room: the bed she had neatly made this morning has been stripped bare, the covers tossed in a heap on the floor. The dishes, pots, and pans have been pulled out of their places on the makeshift cupboard and piled on the floor.

  She detects a familiar, sweet scent. Pipe tobacco. Like her father used to smoke. The scent brings her back to such a clear vision: her father standing in the doorway to his workshop, just a silhouette. He’d come because she’d yelled for him. Because the thing on the workbench, the machine under the tarp, had made a noise.

  “I heard a voice,” she’d told him.

  And her father had stepped forward, pulled back the tarp, and the machine, his terrible machine, was on, the tubes glowing like fierce eyes, the static humming like a voice. And then, a voice had come through, an actual voice, and it had spoken to them.

  Danger, it said. You’re in danger.

  Then, He’s here!

  She shakes away the memory, continues scanning the room, sees no hint of movement from the shadows.

  She hears the voice in her mind again: Danger. You’re in danger. He’s here!

  Remembering what she came here for, she runs to the bed, pulls it back from the wall, and discovers that the loose bricks that covered her secret hiding place have been pulled out, revealing an empty cavity.

  Theo’s bag is gone.

  How could anyone have found that hiding spot, or even found their way into the Winter House? Had she been followed yesterday without realizing it? Had she been careless in her panicked state? Or was it just an accident that someone found the place now? But her mama had taught her better than that—there were no such thing as accidents.

  Her mama had also taught her to check behind her, to be extra careful of blind spots, but Necco had been so absorbed with getting Theo’s bag, and distracted by the memories of her father and his machine, that she’d forgotten. So when the figure who has been hiding behind the open door springs forward and tackles her, Necco is not prepared. She has no time to go for her blade. The flashlight is knocked from her hand, and the next thing she knows, her face is pressed down into the cold stone floor, her right arm grabbed and twisted up high behind her, making escape impossible.

  Fred

  There are few things Fred hates worse than rats. And this place is crawling with them. Fred has seen only one, but he knows that where there’s one, there are more. Many, many more. He’s sure he can hear them, scuttling around in the dark corners, hiding under the wrecked machines. The old mill is in horrible shape—floorboards rotten, bricks crumbling. He imagines falling through the floor, being knocked unconscious. No one would find him. The rats would eat him.

  He breaks out in a cold sweat just thinking about it: their little orange teeth ripping through his clothes.

  Then he worries about his birds. Who would take care of the birds if he disappeared down here, became rat chow?

  It’s comical, really—he can bench-press three hundred pounds and here he is all freaked out because he saw one stinking rat.

  He tells himself, Get yourself together, my friend.

  He takes a breath, looks around. There’s no one here.

  Un-freaking-believable.

  His brother had given him simple instructions: “Follow that guy. Do not let him out of your sight.”

  Fred had gotten a call from his brother earlier that day telling him to come to the library right away—the guy they’d been looking for was back.

  James had been hired by the governor to track down his son, Matthew. James had followed Matthew around town for a few days, saw him meet with this kid a couple times (always in the library, in the mystery section). The last time was the same day Matthew ended up dead.

  Fred’s mission was simple. Follow the kid out of the library. Don’t lose him. Find out all he could.

  And somehow, the kid had disappeared. Like a magician. Now you see him, now you don’t. Poof.

  Maybe the rats got him. Or some magic porthole opened up and the guy walked straight through into another dimension.

  Fred shakes his head. He doesn’t like unsolved mysteries, and he sure as hell doesn’t believe in magic or other dimensions. This makes no damn sense at all. The kid had spent hours at the library, then headed out on foot across town. He didn’t take any buses. Just hoofed it down to the river, crossed at the Steel Bridge, and made his way to the old mill. Fred, sensing that the squirrely kid now suspected he was being tailed, backed off a bit. James had said the kid might be dangerous, might even be armed. That he was somehow connected to the governor’s son who got a knitting needle through his left eyeball. Shit. What a way to go.

  “Follow him. Try to figure out who he is. Where he lives. What his connection to the governor’s kid might be. Why was Matthew meeting with him? Right now, other than finding the homeless girl Matthew was shacked up with, this mystery kid is the biggest lead we have. Who knows, maybe he can even lead us to the girl. Or give us a name. Anything.”

  Fred didn’t carry a gun. James did, but he was the real PI and totally got off on the image. He had a fancy silver PI badge that he flashed
whenever he could (especially at pretty women) and a concealed carry permit. Fred was just the hired muscle. The one who did the grunt work and showed up when James, who was a skinny guy—and kind of lacking in the balls department when push came to shove—needed backup.

  James is across town meeting with the governor, giving him an update. Probably being served some kind of fancy coffee in a huge office with a view.

  Fred’s phone rings out his text tone: chirping crickets. He takes it out of his pocket to see a text from James.

  You still got eyes on the kid?

  James loves talking the PI talk, which Fred suspects he mostly got from TV.

  Fred’s the younger brother, the one who makes shit money driving a delivery truck for Paglieri and Sons and lives in a hole-in-the-wall apartment; the quirky brother with the cockatoos (the damn noisy pigeons, James calls them). He doesn’t want to be seen as a failure by his older brother, who, if truth be told, is really kind of a prick even if he does make a ton more money and gets to have coffee with the governor.

  Yes he types back and then gets another chirp in response.

  Good.

  “Shit,” Fred mumbles as he sticks the phone back in his pocket. He bites the inside of his cheek, thinking.

  He’d seen the kid go into the old mill. Fred had waited a few minutes, then followed him in. That was nearly half an hour ago now, and Fred has searched the whole godforsaken place and found no trace of the kid. Had he backtracked and left? Had he taken another way out? But why come in here at all? The mill itself is massive, and now Fred is all the way at the other end of the building. He’s up on the top floor, where machines he can’t identify lie in ruins, and wooden bobbins loaded with faded thread are piled here and there. Long bolts of fabric, chewed through by generations of rats, lie moldering on the old wooden floor. The air is thick with dust and decay. He’s also found an old porno magazine, some graffiti tags on the wall, a few smashed beer bottles, and the burned-out remains of a small campfire.

  Fred wants to give the kid up for gone, get the hell out of this creepy place and head back home to his birds. His stomach rumbles. He never even had lunch. He’ll pick up a double bacon cheeseburger on the way home. His mouth waters thinking about it.

  The crickets chirp again, and out comes the phone.

  Get me the kid’s name and there’s an extra hundred bucks in it for you.

  Right. Sure. Fred can feel the hundred slipping through his hands just like the kid has. Like a damn eel.

  Feeling like the upper level has been sufficiently searched, he descends the rickety circular stairs back to the main factory floor, keeping one hand on the crumbling brick wall, the other on a banister that doesn’t feel very sturdy. His footsteps echo on the stairs. He tests each one before putting his full weight down. When he gets to the main floor, he hears it: music. Ducking down, he holds perfectly still, listening hard. It’s coming from outside. He jogs over to peer out a broken window in the front of the building. There’s a car parked right in his line of sight: a big old rusted-out Chevy Impala. His hopes rise. Maybe the kid came here to meet someone. He gets out his phone, starts snapping pictures, but when he zooms in, he sees it isn’t the kid in the car. There’s a girl in the front passenger seat; she has long hair, and is wearing a Charlie Chaplin hat for God’s sake. She’s fiddling with the car radio. The driver shakes her head. When she turns to the girl, Fred gets a good look at her face. He knows who she is in an instant.

  But what the hell is Pru Small doing out here?

  Theo

  It’s been sixteen minutes and Theo is getting antsy. She’s flipping around stations on Pru’s radio: Top 40, jazz, a preacher talking about the power of prayer.

  And when you are in your darkest hour of your darkest day, he’s saying, right before Pru turns to Theo, says, “Change the station. I’d rather hear anything than this ding-dong.”

  Theo laughs. “Ding-dong?” She raises her eyebrows. “Not a religious person, Mrs. Small?”

  “My daddy, he would have called that man a charlatan, and he would have been absolutely right.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m from the circus, Theodora. I know all the tricks showmen use.”

  Theo flips the radio off, pulls out her knitting bag, and takes stock.

  “You knit?” Pru asks, voice full of surprise.

  “Yeah,” Theo says, pulling out some yellow angora yarn she’d bought once because she loved the soft texture and bright, lemony color. “My aunt—well, she’s actually my mom’s aunt—taught me when I was a kid. Then I kinda forgot about it. I started in again last year ’cause I couldn’t find any leg warmers I actually liked so I had to make my own.”

  Pru is smiling. “What else have you made?”

  “Hats, scarves, mittens. I made this bag.” She holds up her patchwork felted bag with its bright colors and odd shapes. “I haven’t tried a sweater or anything big. I’m not into complicated patterns. I’m more of what you’d call an intuitive knitter. I start projects not even knowing exactly what they’re going to be sometimes. Like my bag. I thought I was going to make a blanket of patched-together squares, then I had the idea to do the bag.”

  “Amazing,” Pru says. “I’ve always wanted to learn to knit.”

  “It’s easy,” Theo says. “I can show you if you want.”

  Theo’s phone rings. It’s her mom. Calling for like the 212th time since she got home last night and found Theo missing. Theo hasn’t picked up. Hasn’t answered any of her mom’s frantic WHERE ARE YOU???? texts. Theo doesn’t know what to say, and the longer she waits, the worse she feels about it. Her mom probably thinks she’s dead in a ditch. Other than Aunt Helen, Theo is all her mom has. Theo’s dad died when she was a baby—she doesn’t even remember him. Her mom never remarried, has dated a little, but never anything serious. Most days, she still wears her old wedding ring.

  Her phone rings four times, and Theo doesn’t pick up, lets it go to voice mail, guilt gnawing at her insides. Her mom calls again, leaves a second message. Theo silences her phone. Then she calls three more times, the phone buzzing quietly in Theo’s hand like a large, angry insect. Her mom doesn’t leave any more messages.

  “Someone wants to get ahold of you pretty bad,” Pru says, looking worried.

  “I guess,” Theo says, pushing the message button and putting the phone to her ear to hear her mother on the verge of hysteria.

  Theo, my god, where are you? Where did you spend last night? I’ve been worried sick. I stayed home from work. I called the school and they said you weren’t there. A young man named Jeremy came by looking for you this morning. He says you have something that’s his, that he needs it back. I didn’t like the looks of this boy, Theodora. And he’s much older than you. Then, just a few minutes ago, a policeman came. A detective. He asked a lot of questions, honey. About you and some girl who was living in a car? A girl who is wanted for murder. For killing the governor’s son. Detective Sparks said…he said they have a picture from a store of the two of you together this morning. Her voice faltered. Please call me. Whatever trouble you’re in, I can help.

  Shit. Jeremy came to the house. He knows where she lives.

  Theo’s stomach knots up so tight she’s afraid she might throw up all over Pru’s front seat. She swallows hard. Takes a breath.

  And the police have a picture of her and Necco together. Necco, who is wanted for murder. Fucking wonderful. Maybe Natural You had a security camera? Just as likely, some concerned citizen snapped a picture with their phone once they recognized Necco.

  Theo listens to the second message from her mother: Call me, Theo. I’m begging you—this is way more than you can handle on your own. You don’t have to handle it on your own. I know a lawyer. Ray. Remember him? I can call him.

  Theo remembers Ray. Her mom dated him for a few months: a short man with thinning hair. He’s a tax attorney; not exactly the kind of guy to seek advice from when you’re wanted for hanging around with a murder
er, or especially when you’re the one who gave her the goddamn weapon. Wasn’t that called being an accessory?

  “This is bad,” Theo breathes.

  “What’s that?” Pru asks.

  The police probably think she was in on it the whole time. Part of some sick love triangle.

  She looks at her phone with a sudden bolt of fear. She’s watched enough late-night crime dramas to know that you can be traced with your phone. She imagines that detective from yesterday morning putting in a call, someone tapping a keyboard, using satellites or whatever it is they use, looking at a monitor with a little blipping light on it—There she is, sir.

  Her heart is racing now.

  How long till they find her?

  “Fuck!” she says. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Pru looks mortified. “Theodora, what on earth—”

  Theo pushes open the car door, throws her phone on the ground, and stomps on it as hard as she can with her boot. She smashes it again and again, until it’s cracked and in pieces. Then, she scoops them up and runs over to the river’s edge, throws them into the water.

  “Let me guess,” a man calls from behind her.

  Fuck. Too late. They’ve found her. She’s been caught. She knows when she turns, it will be Detective Sparks, and he’ll have a little gleam in his eye that says, I knew you were up to no good. She could run, but the riverbank in front of her is too steep. No place to go.

  She spins around. This isn’t Detective Sparks or some uniformed cop with a gun drawn. It’s a large, bald, thickly muscled man with a curled mustache coming out of the old factory. He doesn’t look like a cop at all. He’s dressed in jeans and a dirty white shirt.

  “Boy trouble?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “You just busted up your phone, dumped it in the river. How come?”