by Dima Zales
I climbed the steps and rang the doorbell. In my hand I held the folder containing the photos, now stained by a greasy fry I’d dropped on it during lunch.
Lia, the five-year-old, opened the door.
“Aunt Beth!”
“Hi, sweetie.”
“Mommy! Aunt Beth is here! Are you here for dinner? Daddy said Susie could eat with us, so I guess you can too.”
“No, honey, I just need to talk to your Mommy for a minute. Who’s Susie?”
“She’s my dolly, duh!”
Good lord. How nice to see my nieces were learning good manners.
Justine appeared behind Lia and shooed the girl away. “What do you want?”
She didn’t open the screened door. I bent the folder open to the cemetery picture and held it up against the screen.
“What do you know about this?” I asked.
She glanced at it and shrugged. “It’s a picture. Looks bad, so I guess it’s one of yours.”
“Look at it.”
She sighed elaborately. “That what I have to do to get rid of you? Fine.”
She opened the door, took the folder, and looked at the pictures with an obvious lack of interest. Then she stiffened. I could see her knuckles turn white, hear her stop breathing. Slowly she looked up at me. Long seconds passed. She just stared.
It wasn’t guilt I saw on her face. It was confusion and fear. No, not fear — terror.
Finally she snapped back to life, as though someone had hit her play button. Without saying a word, she threw the folder at me and slammed the door in my face.
For a few seconds, I stood there amazed. It hadn’t been the reaction I was expecting. At all.
I gathered up the pictures and rang the bell again. No one answered. I knocked on the door.
“Justine? Justine?”
I couldn’t hear anything at all from inside the house. No voices, no footsteps, no TV. It was as though the whole place had gone to sleep. Strange. I knew at least two people were in there. I went from knocking to something closer to pounding.
“Justine! Lia? Ben? Ben!”
This was weird. Why had Justine freaked out like that? Was she afraid I’d get her in trouble for the prank? Surely not — playing a joke on someone wasn’t illegal. I walked around the side of the house. The lights were on, but the shades were drawn. I stopped to listen.
It wasn’t just quiet. It was still. Utterly still.
The hair prickled on my arms and my pulse sky-rocketed. My mouth went dry and a wave of dizziness sent me staggering against the house. Terror engulfed me. Without even thinking about it, I turned and lurched back to my car, piled in, and locked the doors. I sat there, gasping for breath, chest aching. Snapping my rubber band didn’t help. I couldn’t get enough air. I grabbed the little wastebasket I kept on the passenger-side floor and threw up. Then I clawed at my shirt collar, trying to loosen it.
I must’ve passed out. I came to sprawled awkwardly to the side, clumps of hair sticking to my sweaty face. I sat up, dazed and sick, and did what I always did after an attack — looked around to see who’d witnessed it. In this case, no one. A small favor.
I thought briefly of just going back and knocking on the door like a normal person, but even considering it set my heart racing. I profoundly did not want to get out of the car. I couldn’t shake the sense that if I got out, something terrible would happen.
I started the car up and headed home. It was either that or have back-to-back attacks. My hands trembled on the steering wheel the whole way. Just thinking about Justine and Ben’s place sent my pulse up. I tried to put it out of my mind and focus on my driving.
By the time I parked and got inside my house, the adrenaline rush was fading. It left me exhausted.
I should call Justine.
That thought made the panic begin to rise.
The phone’s all the way upstairs, I told myself, and I’ll have to look up the number. I never called Ben at home, anymore, and didn’t remember it. I’ll call her later, I thought. Tomorrow was soon enough, especially after she’d been so rude.
Besides, I had stuff to do. I needed to clean up the basement and make some dinner. Then I’d read a little and go to bed early — tomorrow was a workday. I tried to push the memory of Ben’s house and the attack into the background.
After getting a drink of water, I headed down to the basement to neaten up. I’d left my desk a mess the night before, when I’d freaked out about the monster-foot trick. Looked like I’d even left the lights on.
I was most of the way down the stairs when I looked up and saw a man standing at my desk, going through a sheaf of prints. I froze, not really processing what I was seeing.
After what seemed like ages, he looked up at me. He didn’t look at all like a burglar caught in the act — there was nothing surreptitious or guilty in his manner. He just stared at me, then set the prints down on the desk.
That motion jogged me out of my paralysis. I turned and ran back up the stairs, trying to remember where I’d set down my keys.
I’d only made it a few steps when my left foot was jerked out from under me and I fell, banging my forehead on a step hard enough to make me dizzy. I lay there, feeling confused and tangled up in my own limbs.
As though from a distance, I felt the man step over me and heard him close the door at the top of the stairs. Then he dragged me back down the steps and over to the desk. He leaned me up against the wall. I promptly slid over onto my side, feeling sick. He went back to what he was doing — looking through stacks of prints. I closed my eyes for a while and just listened to the slippery rustle of photographic paper.
Slowly, the spins and nausea receded. I collected my thoughts a little. It occurred to me that he was probably going to kill me. I’d gotten a good look at him. I’d be able to ID him in a line-up.
My head ached fiercely. It was like I could actually hear it hurting. I thought about pretending to be unconscious, but that didn’t seem useful. If he was for sure going to kill me, he’d do it whether I was awake or not. If I talked to him, maybe I could help myself.
I opened my eyes. The man had moved on to the images on my hard drive. He was scrolling through them, studying each one carefully. All my prints were out on the desk in piles.
Something about him nagged at my brain. It took me a minute, but then I realized he had a thick, lumpy scar on his left wrist. And a blue sweatshirt. And jeans.
I stared at him. He was a white guy and had brown hair, but otherwise he looked nothing like the man who’d been with Callie in the restaurant. Whereas that man had been bland enough to fade into a white wall, this guy was anything but. Instead of neat and conservative, his hair looked shaggy and none too clean. His features were severe. He looked a lot bigger, and he was the opposite of unnoticeable. “Dangerous” just roiled off him. If this guy had walked into Pete’s Eats, Pete would’ve reached for his shotgun.
And yet, the scar looked just the same. And the clothes were so similar. Was it the same shirt, or just one very like it? His sleeves were pushed up, so it was hard to be sure. But did it matter? Two men could dress the same, but they wouldn’t have the same scar. This must be the same person — a master of disguise, or something.
My god, had “Moral Crusader Callie” gotten herself involved with terrorists?
I took a deep breath. “What do you want?”
No response.
“Are you looking for money? My purse is upstairs.”
Silence.
“What are you going to do with me?”
He didn’t bother looking up.
I thought about how close my neighbors’ houses were. My basement was mostly underground. The few windows were up near the ceiling and only a foot high. Would anyone hear me if I screamed?
As if he’d heard what I was thinking, the man said, “No screaming.” He had a slight accent, and his tone was flat, affectless. It sounded unnatural.
He continued going through the images, ignoring me. It took quite
a while — I had many more images on the computer than I had prints. I sat there watching, too terrified to think of what to do.
When the task was done, he crouched down in front of me. His face was as blank and emotionless as his voice.
“Where are the pictures you had at the restaurant?”
I hadn’t really believed, not completely, that this was the same guy. Taken by surprise, I blurted out the truth. “Upstairs. On the kitchen counter.”
Then again, I couldn’t think of an advantage to lying. He’d already seen them.
“Have you taken pictures of any other Seconds?”
“What?”
“Seconds,” he said flatly, as though I were being evasive. “Beings of the Second Emanation.”
Oh my god, Callie had convinced him “hellspawn” were real and I was passing around pictures of them. Or maybe he was the one who’d convinced her. That thought brought a wave of nausea. Callie’s moral crusades were annoying, sure, but they were basically harmless. If this guy was the one launching the crusade, there’d be harm. Lots of harm.
“Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing special about my pictures. Someone was just playing a joke on me, sticking that foot in there.”
His face was motionless, like a mask. “Why did you photograph the green man?”
“Green?”
He looked at me, silent, waiting.
“Come on, this is crazy. That picture shows a black guy walking in front of a bar.”
He reached back and grabbed a big handful of my hair, close to my scalp. Then he twisted it.
It might seem like a pretty small thing, almost schoolyardish — someone pulling your hair. But no one had ever intentionally hurt me before. It hurt so much more than I would’ve thought. It was like, in that instant, I knew I was at the mercy of someone who cared nothing about me, maybe someone who enjoyed hurting me. I had no control over what was going to happen to me. Panic surged through me, and I thrashed and flailed, screaming. I would’ve told anyone anything. Resistance was unthinkable.
I think he only hurt me for a few seconds, but it seemed to go on forever. It was a while after he stopped before I could get any words out.
“Take the pictures! Erase everything. I don’t care. I won’t tell anyone. Just leave me alone — please!”
“Tell me why you photographed him.”
“I didn’t! I was just taking pictures of the bar. I didn’t see him!”
For the first time, an emotion crossed his face: surprise. Then he looked thoughtful.
“You never saw it?”
I shook my head. Big mistake — it hurt.
“Did you see the one in the cemetery?”
“No! There was nothing there.”
He stood up and leaned back against the counter, thinking. I slumped back against the wall and took deep, shuddering breaths.
“Have you ever taken any other pictures that showed weird things?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I only started taking pictures last year. Everything I’ve taken is on that computer.”
“Any back-ups?”
I shook my head.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Why did you start taking pictures?”
My fear started receding a bit. It wasn’t that the situation seemed better. I think it’s just not possible to maintain that level of terror for very long. In its place came exhaustion. I sensed it was almost over, maybe that I was almost over.
I looked up at him, not really focusing.
“Tell me why you started taking pictures.”
“I got the camera.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I mean, I won the camera in a raffle, so I just started using it.” I stumbled, trying to get the words out quickly. “It makes me feel better. Less anxious. I don’t have so many attacks. Panic attacks, I mean.”
He was silent for a while. Then he rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Fuck.” He knelt down and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. For the first time, I really saw his face close up. It was harsh and heavily lined. No, a lot of those were scars, not lines. His eyes looked too dark. He was terrifying.
“Someone’ll come talk to you about this soon. For now, don’t tell anyone I was here. Don’t take any more pictures. Don’t show your pictures to anyone. Don’t talk about them with anyone. Don’t leave town. Don’t attract attention to yourself in any way. If you do any of those things, you’ll die. You understand?”
I couldn’t have spoken for the world. I just jerked my head.
He stared at me for another few seconds, maybe to make sure I really got it. Then he stood up and left.
For a long time, I just sat there on the basement floor, staring at nothing. I had no idea what to do. I felt oddly listless and distant, as though most of me was far away, connected to the rest of me by a thin tether.
What am I going to do?
Move. I have to move.
I shifted against the wall, and my body came alive with sensations. None of them were pleasant. My head swam and pounded, my scalp hurt, and my right hand ached where I must’ve slammed it against the wall. Plus, I was cold and wet. I’d pissed myself.
This is the worst moment of my life.
I had no idea what to do. He’d said someone would come for me. Someone like him? Who was he? Some sort of religious vigilante? What was going to happen to me?
A single thought formed: get away. I had to get far away and never be found. Not by him or anyone like him. Once I realized it, I was completely clear on this point. It was essential.
But no … is that really right?
He’d said I’d die if I told anyone about him or if I tried to leave. I believed he meant it. He would do it himself. It didn’t matter what his motives were. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t done anything wrong. Dead is dead, even if you’re killed by a crazy person for a crazy reason.
But he’d also said someone would come for me. I couldn’t sit here and wait for that to come again. I could not. It was a terrible struggle not to run screaming from the house that very moment.
It occurred to me that I probably wasn’t being rational. I tried to take a step back.
What if I sleep on it and decide in the morning?
The very room reacted to the thought, closing in on me, crushing me. My breath came in gasps, and all the strength left my muscles. Black spots rushed at my eyes from the far wall. I flopped forward, trying to claw my way to the stairs. I didn’t make it.
I woke up on the basement floor, not sure how long I’d been there. There was no more question of staying in Dorf. All I needed was a head start. I needed time to pack some things, get my money out of the bank, and put gas in my car. Then I was out of there.
I would call the police. I’d say I’d walked in and found Callie McCallister’s boyfriend rifling through my stuff. He’d assaulted me, then run off.
I could make it believable. Billy and Doyle had heard Callie accuse me of photographing “hellspawn” in Pete’s earlier. He’d been with her and had shown an interest in my pictures.
It could work. I had a big lump on my forehead as evidence of assault. He hadn’t been wearing gloves, so he’d probably left fingerprints all over the place. Maybe one of my neighbors had seen him getting in or out of his car — even when he left, it wouldn’t have been totally dark yet.
But would anyone have recognized him? He looked so different.
My mind skittered away from that thought.
Even if the charges didn’t stick, I’d have a chance to get out of town before the cops let him go. Doyle was a good guy. He’d let me know if they were about to release my assailant.
I got up slowly, testing my legs. They worked. I went upstairs and dialed 911. Then I sat down to wait.
During the many hours that followed, the police were unable to find the folder with the two photos. The man had taken t
hem.
3
“Betty? Hey, it’s Doyle. Honey, the charges aren’t gonna stick. Turns out the guy’s FBI. Paperwork’s going through now. He’ll probably be out within the hour.”
“He’s in the FBI?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Yep. Apparently he’s up here investigating a meth ring.”
“A meth ring?”
“Yeah, you know, it’s this drug —”
“I know what it is, Doyle. I’m just having trouble believing it. I mean, if he’s an FBI agent, where’s his partner? And why’s he living with Callie McCallister?”
“Beats me. Maybe he was undercover or something. Guess we blew that.”
God, was he really in the FBI? Was that who the government was hiring now — thugs who broke into people’s houses and beat up women?
“You guys checked this out with the FBI directly, right?”
“Sure thing. The chief called Washington and talked to his supervisor. Who was pretty darned pissed, actually.”
Suddenly I felt very alone. Very alone and very scared.
“You believe me, don’t you, Doyle? About what he did to me, I mean?”
“Sure, Betty, I believe you. All of us do. I mean, you got that knot on your head.”
Did I hear doubt in his voice? Maybe he was thinking about other explanations for that so-called evidence. They hadn’t found any way to confirm my story. None of my neighbors had noticed the man’s car, and somehow he hadn’t left any prints. It was just my story and my injury.
“Okay, Doyle, thanks. And thanks for calling to let me know. I really appreciate it. I owe you one.”
“No problem. You hang in there, okay? Just give us a call if something seems funny. Hey, maybe have Janie come stay with you for a few days.”
“Good idea, Doyle, thanks. Bye.”
I gave myself exactly one minute to sit in my car and cry.
Callie’s boyfriend’s name had turned out to be John Williams. The cops had picked him up early that morning, after spending the night going over my place and hearing my story. Now it was a bit after 2:00 in the afternoon. What with the things I’d had to do before leaving town, I’d gotten less than six hours’ head start.