“I always thought I had seen Alan—or William, as you call him—before. When I came home today, I started going through my magazines, and I do love People, even with their stupid Kardashian covers—”
“Where is he?” I moved towards her. “Please take me to him, Miss Cliff.”
“It’s Verna, calling me Miss Cliff doesn’t make you any younger, sweetheart,” she said, easing herself into a maroon-colored La-Z-Boy, taking another long drink. “He doesn’t remember you. And he won’t ever remember you.”
“It doesn’t matter. I have to get to him. I have to get him home.”
“You don’t get it. He is home. The only home he knows. He’s just now starting to sleep through the night—”
“You know he’s my grandson! Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“I think you’re aware we’re in the middle of a blizzard and our phones aren’t working. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. And it’s not like they’re going to let him leave.”
“Who’s not going to let him leave?”
“The same people who sign your husband’s paychecks. Listen, have a seat. Do you want a drink—?”
“I would love a drink,” I lied. As she got out of her chair for the side table where several glasses surrounded a bourbon decanter, I sat on my hands to keep them from reaching out and shaking her. I thanked her when she handed me the glass, and pretended to sip. The smell was so intense I almost gagged.
“I know you want to help William, you’ve already done so much for him.” I spoke slowly. “And he looked healthy at the park; I’m so thankful to you.”
“I love all my kids.”
“It’s really obvious. You’re a godsend to them. But please, Verna, please. I need for you to tell me where he is, how I can get to him—”
“Now you listen to me,” she brandished her bent index finger as I’d seen her do to corral the children. “I’m taking a real chance even talking to you. Don’t know how you got away from security, but since you’re still here, it means you’re on the run. And don’t think for a moment they’ve contacted your husband. Plus, he doesn’t mean shit out here. You don’t understand the mistake you’ve made coming to Argentum. Your husband is nothing here. You’re nothing here.”
“It doesn’t matter whom I’m married to. I could be married to a truck driver for that matter. All that really matters is he’s my grandson—”
“All they care about is that Alan—I mean William—will never leave.”
“Who? The people at the hospital?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Argentum doesn’t really have a hospital, Mrs. Roseworth,” she snapped, finishing off her bourbon and quickly filling up the glass again.
“Of course there’s a hospital—”
“It’s no town either,” she waved her hand. She downed another glass, and refilled quickly.
At that moment, I was thankful I was sitting down. “It’s an old silver-mining town—”
“That they made into a military base. Doesn’t matter what I tell you, you’ll never leave here. They won’t let you. Even the townies, outside of myself, don’t know this whole place is basically a military prison. And anyone who ends up at the section of the base that’s used as a hospital never leaves.”
As frustrated as I was dealing with a person who was just moments ago clearly passed out, and had drank three additional bourbons in the last five minutes, I was grateful for the liquor. She was talking, divulging more than she would have sober. At the park, Verna was rigid, protective. Obviously, anticipating being trapped inside her home for days meant there was no limit on how much she could drink.
“How do I get to him?”
“Honestly, I don’t even know if he’s still there.” She polished off the glass, reaching again for the decanter.
“What do you mean?” I moved to the edge of the chair.
“They know you’re here in the town somewhere. They’ll want him out, shipped off to one of the other bases. You might be in luck, though. The storm might have kept him here. But I saw Alan—William—before I left for the night. His room was packed up. Poor thing.”
“They would move him just to keep me from finding him?”
“Jesus, you are naïve. I can’t blame you, I guess. I’ve been around for so long, I understand how things work. Hell, all I’ve ever known is this town. Thought it was a pretty great place growing up. Even if my old auntie wasn’t the nicest of people, she still took good care of me. All I ever knew was Auntie. Couldn’t have been easy taking on some three-year-old who nobody wanted.”
“Verna, please—”
“Auntie always said my mother must have been a real degenerate, dropping me off at the fire station like she did. Good thing Auntie had a thing for the fire chief and he liked her pancakes, ‘cause she’s the one who found me outside the fire hall door while delivering breakfast—”
“Your auntie showed the kind of kindness to you that you, in turn, showed to the kids here, and my William in particular. Your auntie took care of you. She would be so proud of you, of what you’ve done. All I want is to do the same for my grandson.”
“It’s always been my job to protect those kids, make them feel safe after what they’ve been through. I don’t handle the adults, but those kids are my kids, and I take care of them.”
“I can’t thank you enough for taking care of him all this time,” I said, knowing I was laying it on thick. “But Verna, I don’t understand. What happened to William? How did he end up here? Why doesn’t he remember me?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” She threw back her head to shoot the rest of the drink.
This is more than a binge. This is how she copes. “I would believe you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Was he abducted?” I asked carefully, seeing the woman’s eyebrows rise lazily. “By something that most people … don’t even believe in?”
“But you do?” Verna asked quietly, refilling and taking another swig.
I swallowed. “I’ve seen a lot.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything. You haven’t seen people show up in a field, some wearing suits, some wearing jeans, some wearing hijabs. Kids, too. Your boy. All in a field behind White Crest.”
“A field?” I asked, horrified at the thought of little William standing in the cold, lost and confused.
Verna was starting to drink slower now. “He’s a sweet boy, that grandson of yours. All the kids love him, they just flock around him. Took to me real quick, too. Now I understand why. He has a maw maw who loves him. Never had kids of my own, so they’re all my grandkids.”
“Then you know how I feel. Of course you know.”
“The docs always give the line—and I bought it for a long time—that the patients come here from all over the country to get help. And once they became functional, they’d return to their families. Except, they weren’t coming from all over the country, it turns out, just from a field out back. And their families never came to get them; they just get driven away from the hospital. And I never see them again.”
She sighed.”I never expected to do it my whole life. I felt so sorry for them, still do. But about ten years ago, I wanted to retire. At the beach. I was too old to drive in the snow anymore. That’s when they told me I couldn’t leave. ‘No, Miss Cliff, we can’t lose you. No, Miss Cliff, the kids need you.’ And they sat me down and showed me what was really happening. I didn’t even have a choice. They even set up this new house for me so I could get to work easier. It became very clear I wasn’t leaving. Hell, I’d been there longer than anybody else. Everyone else at that damn place leaves after a year or so, even the docs. They say they can’t handle it, or they’re too sick to work anymore. They won’t even get close to the kids. But honestly, I couldn’t leave my babies. Poor things don’t even realize they don’t have amnesia. None of them do. Or did.”
“What’s happened to them then?”
“Their memories are straight up gone when they come ba
ck. Blank as a slate, standing there in the field. But then, there are the special ones,” she said, raising her wrinkled index finger. “Those are the ones who present a problem.”
“Special ones?”
“They don’t know why for sure. But unlike the adults, a few of the kids remember. I’ve heard the docs whisper—’cause they don’t think I can hear—that it’s a genetic thing that their memories are stronger than whatever those bastards in the cosmos do to them. And if those kids come back, well, the Suits have all kinds of good drugs to make those memories, and everything else, go away. Remember that drug that Michael Jackson OD’d on? They love that one, cleans out those memories real good. Can’t risk those kids getting out and talking and causing a mass panic.”
I was so horrified all I could do was watch her sip.
“All those families … they deserve to know what happened. What’s been done to them,” I finally said.
“They wouldn’t want to know.” Verna licked her lips. “They’re vegetables, most of the grownups. Whatever they do to wipe out their memories, most adults can’t handle. Only a few even learn to talk again. The kids, for some reason, are different. They can learn what they’ve forgotten. There are very few exceptions with the adults, like that young Sarah up at the inn, and, of course, Joe.”
Verna scowled after a sizable slurp of her drink. “Is he the one who ratted me out? Is that how you got here? Caught the eye of that old fart, and he dumped you off?”
“I swear to you, I will tell no one that I was here.”
“They’ll kill me, you know,” she said, her eyes bulging in her attempt to stay awake.
I leaned forward. “They wouldn’t kill you.”
“Why do you think they won’t let me retire? They won’t let me leave, Mrs. Roseworth. And they can’t erase my memories because they need me to take care of the kids. You still don’t get it? If word of this gets out—what will the world think? That those assholes in DC have known about the abductions for decades? Mass chaos, lady. It’s why your boy won’t leave. It’s why you won’t ever leave.”
“You don’t have to do anything more than what you’ve already done. I need to know how to get to the hospital.”
“No need for much security. No one remembers anything, so they have nowhere to go. There’s no way you’ll get in. You do have to have a code to get in. And it changes every month.”
“If I could just get that code … And just an idea of how to get to the hospital.”
“Hell, you won’t survive walking. It’s below zero out there.”
“Joe should be back soon.…”
“There may not be that much time.” She looked out at the windows in the dining room. “The snow is letting up a bit. They’re going to move him.”
“Let me have your car. I beg you. I’ll never find him again. You said you considered all them your kids. There’s nothing more important than William getting home.”
Verna took a long slurp. “What do you think will happen? Alan—I mean William—won’t know his parents. He won’t know you. You are jusht a shtranger to him.…”
Oh God, don’t fall asleep. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life reminding him that he’s ours, and we never stopped looking for him.”
The teacher narrowed her eyes and then closed them, leaning back into the chair. “They’ll find you,” she said, her eyes closing. “And you’ll be like the rest of them.”
“May I take your car?”
“My car is under two feet of snow … you’re shit out of luck. And you … you can’t go my way … our way … you’ll get lost…”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll never find him,” she said, yawning. “I can’t even remember the number of his room … they probably moved him to the second floor. You’ll never find him.…”
“Tell me the code. How do you get to the hospital?”
“Hell, I don’t remember the code.” She wiped her mouth.
“How do you get in?” I wanted to shake her.
“First thing … I do … when I walk up … put it on the fridge. First thing … every time … I walk up.”
“Walk up?”
“First … thing,” she muttered.
I started to ask more, then held my breath. After a few moments, the woman’s mouth opened a bit, and her chest began to rise and fall deeply.
I fought the urge to slap her. She was so far gone, even if I woke her, she’d be incoherent.
Make some coffee. Make her drink it.
I went to the hall, looking around frantically. The green lights from an ancient microwave revealed the kitchen to the right. I entered and turned on a light above the stove.
The light illuminated an olive-green fridge. On its door were a few magnets, including a small dry-erase board with a dangling marker attached. Scrawled hastily on the board were the numbers 16-0-19-8-25-30.
I found a pen in a junk drawer and wrote the numbers on the back of my hand. But what good would the numbers do if I couldn’t even get to the hospital? I could wait for Joe to return, but that could be another hour. And if Verna was right, and they were preparing to move William when the storm broke, I had only a small window of time to find him.
Seeing no coffeemaker, I hurried out of the kitchen. Verna had said that when she came in tonight she had written down the code, which meant she had to have gotten here through the snow. I walked down to a back door, hoping that she had been lying, that there was a covered car park, or maybe even a garage. Instead, I could just make out a Buick with snow tires parked around back, its fading blue paint barely visible under the mounds of snow.
Did they shuttle the workers back and forth? Was there some kind of hospital bus service that operated even in this weather? And if there was, what was I going to do? Put on one of Verna’s wigs, throw on her coat, and call for a pick up?
I went back into the living room where she now snored softly. I hated to do it, but I found a purse on the closed lid of a piano. A row of pictures sat on top of the piano, watching as I violated a woman’s most private of belongings.
Her wallet was mostly empty except for some cash and an ID that read “Verna Cliff. White Crest: child care.” Nothing was written on the back.
I scavenged through the rest of the purse and found only an empty minature bottle of Bacardi at the bottom. I sighed, glancing at the photos witnessing my transgression.
It took me several moments to start breathing again.
In the center of the photos was one badly aged with time, yellowed on the edges, featuring a heavyset woman wearing an apron, with a small child on her lap. The woman appeared stern, clearly the auntie Verna had described. The girl on her lap had dark hair and a gap-toothed smile.
I had seen the girl before. Only a few days ago, sitting in the Nashville library, in an old photograph next to a newspaper article from August 5, 1934, about a girl who went missing from the woods behind my house.
That girl sat on Auntie’s lap.
In the photos, Amelia Shrank turned eight, then ten, and finally became a teenager. But it was the photo of the Amelia as a young woman, probably in her midtwenties, smiling, leaning on a post, that bore a strong resemblance to Verna Cliff.
I covered my mouth with my hand while looking at Verna’s slumbering body.
You don’t know who you really are. That you once had a family so devastated by your disappearance that they made a grave for you in the woods where you vanished. That you, and me, and a hunter, and my grandson, and God knows how many others all vanished from the same clearing in those trees.
I doubt very much that you showed up on a firehouse stoop. I bet the military gave you to your auntie because they weren’t equipped to deal with you. You weren’t a baby—you were a three-year-old girl without a memory. I bet your auntie was the first in this town to start caring for a child who remembered nothing. And then so many kids and people started showing up, they had to build that hospital.…
I rushed back into the kitc
hen, scanning the refrigerator for phone numbers; anything to show how Verna got to the hospital in this weather. I searched the entire kitchen again. Nothing.
I started going through a utility drawer in desperation when I saw the boots by the pantry door. They’d clearly been tossed there and abandoned for the thick, plaid house shoes on Verna’s feet. But there was no puddle, not even a drip of moisture on them.
I looked at the pantry door and saw it had a dead bolt.
I walked over, turned the bolt, and opened the door. Steps led down into the dark, barely illuminated by orange bulbs placed above a railing. The metal stairs went down far too deep to lead to just a basement.
The lights steadily increased in brightness. I could now make out the metal circular sconces holding the bulbs in place, and how, in a very clear, precise stamp, each was marked with the words, “Property of the U.S. Government.”
NINETEEN
The tunnel at the bottom of the stairs extended in two directions, with metal casing on the floor, ceiling, and walls. My fears were no longer fluid, no longer intangible; they were rooted in this man-made tunnel buried underneath a town whose silver mine shafts had been remade into bunker-style passageways.
Roxy was probably far along on the interstate now, closing in on a gas station with a working phone. Whatever communication disruption occurred in the town when this kind of storm hit, it couldn’t happen all throughout the mountains. Once Roxy reached Tom, nothing would stop him from getting here.
If Verna was right, my grandson would be gone when they arrived.
I had to find William, convince him to come with me, and find our way back to Verna’s home. Even if she refused us, I would have to beg her to let us through so we could hide in Joe’s house until the storm was over.
The tunnel stretched before me, with no indication which way would lead to the hospital. I was terrible with directions anyway, and I had no idea in which area of town the hospital stood. All Joe had said was that it was on the outskirts.
Stepping around the stair lift that was obviously put in place to allow Verna easy passage up and down the long staircase, I moved into the tunnel, looking for any markings, any pattern of the lights that would indicate which direction to take. There appeared to be nothing—no arrows, no signs—nothing. And how did Verna get to the hospital? At the pace she moved, it would take her a day just to walk a mile. It didn’t make sense.
The Darkest Time of Night Page 22