Locked (The Heaven's Gate Trilogy)

by C. B. Day

  Now it was my turn to rub my temples. I couldn’t follow all this. I was starting to really believe I was being threatened – maybe from more than one side.

  Michael was continuing to mutter under his breath while he paced. I managed to make out the word “birds.”

  “What are you saying about birds?”

  He looked up, surprised, as if he’d forgotten I was even there. Swiftly, he composed his face into a serene mask. “Nothing. It was nothing.”

  I stood, staring at him from across the room. The surrealness of the situation began to sink in.

  “Am I dreaming?” I wondered. I looked at Michael, standing in the middle of my bedroom. With his broad shoulders, his proud stance, I couldn’t imagine anything more solid, more real. Yet I knew it couldn’t be so.

  “No,” Michael said, his eyes heavy with resignation. “I didn’t want to have to tell you all this. But after last night, I couldn’t imagine how I could have hidden it from you any longer.”

  The rush of adrenaline that had been keeping me afloat dissipated, leaving me weak. I sank back down to the floor.

  “This can’t be real,” I murmured, looking up at him from the floor and wondering what on earth I’d gotten myself into. “What am I supposed to do now?” I could feel a vague sense of panic rising inside me.

  His mouth closed into a hard line. Swiftly, he bent over and plucked me from the floor, carrying my back toward my bed. “You’re exhausted, and no wonder. Between last night and all this,” he said, his blue eyes flashing with remorse, “I’ve worn you out.”

  “You must be tired, too,” I said softly, seeing for the first time the fine lines etched around his eyes. “From the pain.”

  He stopped, staring at me in surprise. The corners of his mouth stole up before he shook his head and continued over to the bed. Carefully, he laid me down and tucked the covers around me.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, luxuriating in the comfort of his kindness, trying to forget why it was exactly that I was the focus of this gorgeous boy’s attention. When I opened my eyes, Michael was still hovering over me.

  He paused, looking deep in thought as if carefully choosing his words.

  “Your father is not crazy, Hope,” he whispered to me, his lips hovering just above my ear. “In ancient times, we would have hailed him as a prophet. His vision may be fuzzy,” he said, his familiar grin stealing once more across his face, “but he is right about one thing: you are special, and you have been singled out. Whatever for is locked inside you, deep inside you, and has been for a very long time.”

  Swiftly, he bent to kiss me on the forehead.

  “Whatever it is, I will make sure you get a chance to find out. You can count on that.”

  Then he was gone.

  As soon as he was, I could feel myself surrendering to the pull of sleep. Half-awake, I drew my fingers across the spot where his lips had touched my skin. It burned and tingled, and I sighed deeply as I remembered the heat of his touch. The feeling stayed with me even in my dreams.

  Chapter 5 – Big City Traffic

  Mom being who she was, I wasn’t allowed to sleep for long. It was not a good afternoon. My entire body was black and blue from my fall, and every step I took was a painful reminder of each rock and shrub I’d bounced against. A slight heat rash had wrapped around my torso and arms where Michael had carried me last night, and the skin where he’d held my hand was shiny. I realized with a start that the rash on my wrist had been from his touch, too – not my fall against the curb during my ill-fated run.

  What was worse, I couldn’t baby myself – not if I wanted to keep my injuries hidden from my Mom. I was on edge, nerves taut. I needed to escape Mom’s watchful gaze and questions and sort things out on my own, so I took myself out for another run around the neighborhood.

  I paused briefly at the top of the cul de sac, remembering Michael’s warnings and words about the “bird attacks,” but shook it off, desperately in need of the release.

  I tried not to think too much about everything that had happened. Instead, I tried to empty out my mind, leaving no room for anything but the run itself.

  The aftermath of last night’s storms lay all around me in the street. Fallen tree limbs and brush littered the asphalt. The creek that wound through the neighborhood was about to burst its banks – the rain had been much fiercer here. It was at once familiar and alien – as if the secrets I’d discovered had altered nature itself; as if the things I didn’t know still threatened me from the shadows. My body protested as I forced it to move. But the air was crisp and clean, even if the day was grey, so I pushed my fears and pain aside and concentrated again on the rise and fall of my knees, the rebound of my feet off the pavement. I soon fell into the rhythms and footfalls of my run, finding comfort in their sameness and letting the stiffness work its way out of my body.

  I leaned into the curve as I entered the undeveloped section of my neighborhood and felt a familiar tingle – the tingle of being watched. This time, though, I wasn’t afraid. I stumbled to a stop, bending over to catch my breath, before I turned, a smile on my lips, ready to greet Michael.

  The smile froze on my face as my father stepped from the woods.

  Irritation and disappointment surged through my body, quickly chased by guilt. When was the last time I’d even thought about my father, let alone seen him? I thought to myself. Only to blame him for something he didn’t even do, I thought remorsefully, remembering the Valentine card.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I came here, Hope.” He was holding his hat in his hands, looking almost penitent as he came closer to the road. He stopped at its very edge, his big hands twisting the hat.

  “How did you know I would even be here?” I asked, suspiciously.

  “I didn’t know. But I figured your mother would let you run outside and if I came here, eventually I would see you.”

  I stared at him, stunned. Back near the trees I could see the hood of his beat-up car where he had parked it near one of the utility boxes and cursed myself for failing to notice it earlier.

  “You’ve been coming up here and just lurking around in the woods, just in case I decide to go for a run?”

  He nodded and then pursed his lips, as if the oddness of what he’d admitted had only just occurred to him. “It hasn’t been that often, just every now and then. On days when I thought you might not be in school.” He looked down at his shoes and seemed to brace himself for my rejection.

  In our times we would have called him a prophet. Michael’s words came back to me and I suddenly felt small. After all, if my father was guilty of anything, it was of being over protective. And maybe it wasn’t really fair to blame him for everything that had happened to me in Alabama. From the time I’d been a little girl, parents had carefully steered their children away from me, almost unconsciously, as if a force field surrounded me, making it impossible for them to get close. I learned to recognize the look as they drew them across the other side of the playground – a mix of unabashed gawking, lurid supposition (“are you sure she wasn’t hurt?”), and schadenfreude. I’d had no best friend. I missed out on the My Pretty Pony birthday parties, had no one to braid my hair and whisper secrets and giggle about boys with me. I lived my meager existence, suffering the normal outrages of transitioning to middle school and high school like every other teen, I suppose, but with the extra burden of being an outcast, based on nothing more than the odd fear that parents seemed to harbor that somehow, if their kids got too close, something bad would happen to them, too.

  “I won’t tell Mom,” I said, and his head jerked up, his eyes full of surprise. He stopped twisting his hat, a grin lighting up his face.

  “Thank you, Hope.”

  I nodded, not sure what to say next.

  My dad was first to break the silence. “I got a job, Hope.”

  “That’s great, Dad!” My delight for him was genuine. It had been years since he’d last had a job.

  “I’m night manager at the
Taco Bell. You know the one, right off campus, near South College?” His voice was eager, his eyes searching for approval.

  I swallowed my disappointment. It was a far cry from the engineering job he used to have, but it was a start.

  He continued on, oblivious to my warring emotions. “I figured I had more time now, with you gone. They didn’t want to hire me at first, said I was over-qualified, but when I explained everything they changed their minds. They’re really nice folks, Hope. They even let me take home the leftovers,” he said, pulling a neatly folded bag out of the folds of his coat and thrusting it at me.

  “Aw, Dad, you shouldn’t have.” I took the paper bag from him, gingerly holding it away from me so as not to be overwhelmed by the grease.

  He beamed again. “It’s the new burrito. I bet you’ll like it.”

  “I’ll take it home for dinner tonight.”

  A shadow fell across his face. He seemed almost embarrassed and started mangling his hat again. “You probably shouldn’t. Just in case.”

  Mom. I nodded swiftly, patting the bag. “I’ll eat it on the way home.”

  I kicked some pebbles with my toe. This was the first time I’d ever had to visit my Dad. It felt strange.

  “So how is school?” “School is okay,” we began at the same time, and then laughed nervously at our awkwardness.

  “School is okay,” I repeated. “A lot of the same kind of classes.” I fumbled around for something to add, the heat of a blush spreading across my face. “I ride the bus for now,” I said. “Oh, and I made a new friend. Her dad is a minister, and her name is Tabitha.” I was grasping now and beginning to babble.

  “Great,” Dad said, straining to smile. “That’s just great.”

  “Dad,” I burst out before I could stop myself, “Mom told me some things. Some things about when I was little. Why do you think that I am being targeted?”

  He blanched and looked nervously about.

  “Mom’s not going to find out you told me.” I rushed to explain. “I promise. I just…you know, wondered. Wondered why.” I tried to keep my expression as neutral as possible so he did not feel threatened.

  He looked at me warily. “You really want to know?”

  I nodded vigorously. “I’m being serious. I won’t argue or anything. I just want to know.”

  He sighed then, and his eyes suddenly became very tired. “Because I hear voices, Hope.” The words came slowly at first, but as he continued, they seemed to rush like water bursting a dam.

  “They started the night we found you. Sometimes it’s almost like a buzzing sound in my head. Other times, they are whispers. But if I ignore them, they get louder.”

  Before, I would have asked him if he had tried using anti-psychotic drugs to relieve his symptoms, but now I just remembered Michael’s words and tried not to let what my Dad had said startle me too much. I took a deep breath and asked the question I needed to ask, even though I didn’t want to.

  “What do they say, Dad?”

  “They always tell me to keep you close. I never wanted to find out what would happen if I didn’t.”

  I felt a stab of pity for him. How horrible must it be, to be the only one who believed in something so strange? To carry the guilt of my disappearance, but not be able to admit it, not even to yourself? To fear it might happen again?

  “I know how this must sound,” he said, shrugging. “The only person I ever told was your mother.” He laughed, his mouth twisting into a bitter smile. “She told her lawyer, but in court, it never stood up. I’m not crazy. And I’m smart enough to know not to talk about it. And for whatever reason, your mother never pushed it. Couldn’t bring herself to drive the knife in, I guess.

  But the thing is….”

  His voice dropped, and a sudden burst of wind battled to drown him out.

  “What did you say?” I asked sharply, not sure if I’d really heard him say what I thought. I locked eyes with him, willing him to say it. His whole body sagged with defeat as I dragged the words out of him.

  “They just stopped.” He seemed bewildered, lost, his hands falling to his sides as if a puppet master had suddenly cut the strings. “These last few months, the voices just stopped. It’s almost like…it’s time. But time for what, I don’t know.”

  A wave of unease gripped me. Michael and my father, both feeling some irresistible force, compelling one to guard me and the other to let me go. It couldn’t be all coincidence – could it?

  “They didn’t even say anything when you tried to leave home. In fact, it felt like they almost wanted you to go.”

  I looked at my father and realized, as he stood there alone, the winds whipping about him, that he felt he’d failed me somehow.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said, flinging my arms around him for a great hug. He looked down at me, surprised, as he wrapped his arms around me and patted my back.

  “You’re welcome, Hope.” Awkwardly, as if he was afraid I would reject him again, he brought his great hand up and patted my head.

  It wasn’t until later, in the silence of my bedroom, that I really began to realize the implications of what he’d said.

  *****

  I welcomed the visit to the shelter the next day – anything to distract me. I figured between Tabitha’s constant chatter and the interview itself, I would have plenty to keep me from thinking about Dad’s dreams, Michael – or what any of it really meant.

  By the time we got to the center, I had heard all about Tabitha’s time with Tony on Friday night, as well as a vivid description of her father’s sermon earlier in the morning. All the while, I kept stealing glances at the Sunday “cleaned up” Tabitha – rings and tattoos removed, face scrubbed clean, hair its normal shade and pulled back, wearing a prim sheath in sleek navy.

  “I can see you,” Tabitha finally threatened as we pulled into the parking lot, prompting me to hide a smile behind my gloved hand. “You’re so backwards, Hope. You stare at the ‘normal’ girl and hang out with the freak show,” she said, shaking her head in mock disapproval. “Let’s hope you do better inside,” she said as she rolled her eyes.

  The doors to the center were locked, a numbered keypad, camera and visitor’s button conspicuously visible next to the entry. We pressed the button and waited. The loudspeaker buzzed to life.

  “Who to see?” a disembodied voice called out from the intercom.

  “Delores Blankenship,” Tabitha replied promptly. “We’re Dunwoody High School students, here to interview her and some girls.”

  There was a long silence before the intercom crackled again. “Can you show your ID’s in the camera?”

  We dug in our purses and brandished them before the tiny lens.

  We didn’t hear the voice again, but a loud whirring signaled the door was unlocked. We pushed our way through and entered the lobby.

  The lobby filled me with hopelessness. It was windowless, lit only by long, fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, giving the entire space a drab, lifeless feel. A grey steel desk was pushed up against the wall, stacks of papers spread out all over it and a steaming cup of tea testament that someone had been there not long ago, but the desk itself was empty. Two, lonely folding chairs sat in front of the desk. Everything was utilitarian and slightly varying shades of gray or beige– the industrial linoleum flooring, the tiled wall, even the ceilings. Someone had done their best to cheer up the place, taping up posters and strategically placing plastic pots of dusty fake flowers around the room, but the attempt only underscored the drabness. A heavy door, its tiny window criss-crossed with bars, stood in one corner.

  “Now what?” I asked Tabitha, but she just shrugged and started walking around, showing an inordinate amount of interest in the dated calendars and posters.

  The click-clack of high heels echoed from behind the door, signaling someone’s approach. We stared at the door, expectantly, and were met by a burst of color and noise as it swung open toward us.

  The woman was tall and large, obviously comfortable in
her own body. She’d dressed in layers of flowy knits, a mix of violets, magentas, pinks and blues that enveloped her in warmth and light. Long chains, punctuated by polished agates and stones, fell in layers from her neck and jingled as she rolled through the door. The busy look was topped by a fuzzy knit beret, perilously perched on the side of her head. She overcame the entire dreary room with her presence before she’d ever opened her mouth.

  “Hello, girls! I’m Delores, Street Grace’s Executive Director. You must be Mona Carmichael’s daughter?” she asked, nodding at me as, with one graceful move, she swept her reading glasses onto her nose. She did not pause for my answer. “Fantastic. I am so glad to have the opportunity to help you today. I don’t know your mom, but she’s been a good friend of a member of our Board, so I am happy to help you. I thought we’d start here, where I can give you some background information about Street Grace and tell you about the girls, before we take you inside to their living quarters.” She gestured to the folding chairs as she stepped behind her desk and sat down.

  Tabitha nodded mutely, seemingly in awe of the energy and force that was Delores. I was just amazed that anyone had managed to get Tabitha to be quiet. We quickly took our seats as Delores launched into a speech she’d obviously given before – not that it was rote. Her passion for her cause exuded from every pore.

  “Street Grace works with all sorts of women and children in need – getting them off the street, helping them prepare for employment or school. We opened our doors in 1965 and have been in service, more or less, ever since. Some of the people we serve are simply victims of homelessness. Some are runaways or women who have turned to prostitution for whatever reasons. But our recent focus has been on human trafficking – that’s the work you’re interested in, right?”

  She paused to take a sip of her tea – the only pause since she’d started barreling through her speech. She didn’t wait for us to answer before she jumped back into her story.

  “In the past few years, we’ve seen a surge of people trafficked into Atlanta for a variety of purposes. In some cases, they’ve been lured from their home countries with the promise of a better life, only to find out later that they’ve really signed up for slavery. In other cases, they are sold by their families, or outright kidnapped. In about half of all cases, the victims know the trafficker who ‘recruits’ them.” Disgust flickered across her face as she pushed a stack of papers across her desk toward us. “I hate that term, ‘recruits.’ As if they had a choice.”