That’s when her words finally start to sink in. Last time. Last time what? She’s acting like she knows me. Why don’t I remember her? The impression she gives is military, or maybe NSA. Definitely badass. What did she call me? Agent . . . something. The clock behind her says four a.m. “I don’t remember falling asleep,” I say.
“If you really start to think about it,” she says calmly, “and I don’t particularly recommend doing so, you’ll realize you don’t remember anything at all, including me. That memory loss is only temporary.”
“What happened to me?” I ask. She seems to know everything.
“You drank a memory seal last night, in preparation for completing a task that requires you to be . . . a blank slate.”
I blink. “Memory seal?”
“This video will explain everything.” She slides a cell phone onto my lap, hits Play on the cued-up vid.
“I’m Special Agent Marshall King,” says a dark-haired guy. “I’m you. Look in the mirror.” On cue, the girl holds a compact mirror in front of my face . . . his face. “I’ve voluntarily taken a drug that will seal off my memory, for my own protection, during this mission. This is my partner, Elyse Alton.” The guy in the picture turns the phone toward someone else, and suddenly the beautiful girl is in the frame. She waves. “She’ll be here just to guide me along, smooth the process for me, and give me detailed, minute-by-minute instructions. Don’t ask what it’s about. I’ve already agreed to it.”
The video ends.
“I know it sounds crazy.” The look in her eyes now is gentle and compassionate.
“It sounds off-the-hook insane,” I agree. Like I should throw off these covers and run from her as fast as I possibly can. But it’s definitely my voice in the video. And more important, something about this girl’s sureness feels natural, trustworthy. I just don’t think she would lead me astray. “All right, brief me on this mission, please.”
She tosses me a pair of jeans and T-shirt and looks away while I dress. “My part of the mission,” she explains, “involves distracting the enemy while you perform the actual task. The cabin where he lives is on the way to where you’re going, so I’ll go and visit him first and make sure he’s not looking out the window or otherwise noting where you’re headed until it’s too late.”
I nod. “And what is this task I’m doing?”
“A magic ritual.” She hands me a notebook. “You’re very skilled in magic. Take some time to read through it.”
I open the front cover and see a diagram of what appears to be a circular spiral labyrinth. It’s only one page long, and it doesn’t take me long to understand the general idea. It’s simple but crazy.
I point to the diagram. “Can I ask you a few questions about this?”
“Actually you’re kind of the expert in this area.”
“Me?”
“You wrote all this,” she says.
No way. I grab a pen from the desk and scribble, I did??? on the page. The handwriting matches, deep-pressing and right-slanted and practically illegible. The handwriting of someone crazy enough to come up with this ritual. “I wrote this,” I repeat, trying to get used to it.
“Well . . . some of it you adapted from the work of another agent.”
“Can I talk to him, then?”
Her lips form a sad line. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
Twinges of alarm burn the pit of my stomach. “How dangerous is this mission?”
She looks me in the eye. “We’re both risking our lives.”
I think about dying, my life being cut short today, and realize with a shock that I’d be willing—for the right cause. “In your opinion, is it worth it?”
“Yes.” She says the word with longing, with passion. “Yes, it is.”
“And I believed that too? Last night, for example, before I lost my memory.”
“Yes. It’s what we both believe.”
I nod. “Then I’ll do it.”
Not long after, the doorbell rings and we head downstairs to see a redheaded young woman standing on the doorstep.
“This is Elizabeth, our consultant,” my partner explains.
“Hey.” She nods at me.
I take in the redhead’s dirty face and brown patched dress. She’s either in deep cover as a street person or she’s a street person.
Trust my partner. “Hello.” I stick out my hand for the redhead to shake.
“You are to stay with her at all times,” my partner goes on, “until you dive into the pool. She’ll lead you there and her job will be to steer you clear of any obstacles—so if she starts to run, you follow.”
I nod. “What kind of obstacles are we talking about?”
Elizabeth and my partner look at each other.
“What, is that classified information? Do I need a higher clearance or something?”
“Ghosts,” Elizabeth says.
“Ghosts?” I repeat dumbly. “Is she kidding?”
“I wish,” my partner says.
She hands me a flashlight and the three of us walk along the main road. We get to a trailhead just as dawn is breaking. The trail begins to climb quickly, and soon I can see the sweeping panorama below of the calm lake, a town with trees and lawns and buildings, and the surrounding land—a lifeless desert stretching endlessly in all directions. It’s a weird sight to behold, but then again it’s a pretty damn weird night.
Abruptly, my partner splits off from us. “Wait here ten minutes,” she tells us. “Then run for the pool.”
The ten minutes is interminable. I keep thinking about this enemy she’s distracting. About what kind of danger she might be in that she’s not even telling me about. I guess that’s the thing about being partners. My risking my life is one thing, but I’m not comfortable with her risking hers.
“Walk quickly,” Elizabeth says, when the time’s up. “We don’t want the person who lives in that cabin to see us together—or to see you at all.”
We race the rest of the way up the trail and come to a roaring waterfall, but Elizabeth points behind it, to an overhanging rock structure. Inside, quietly hidden like a secret, is a natural pool.
I know what I’m supposed to do.
I’m about to dive in when I hear footsteps approach.
“Oh, no,” Elizabeth mutters. “It’s him. We’re cooked.”
I look up to see a man in a morning coat grinning at me. “Well, well,” he says. “I always enjoy watching a good death.”
“Ignore him.” My partner appears behind him. “Just follow our plan. Trust me!”
I don’t know why, but I do trust her.
I plunge into the clear, cold water, my jeans and heavy work boots soaking it in, my skin sprouting goose bumps in protest as I look below at a circular spiral made of rocks. Water insects and tiny fish swim in between the stones. A low roaring vibrates from the bottom of the pool, sending a shiver down my spine. What’s down here with me?
I swim down toward the bottom. As I get closer I can see tiny model buildings in the labyrinth. All elaborately designed and new-looking. A church. A library. A school. Houses painted white, yellow, green.
I feel a strange urge to walk the labyrinth from start to finish. It’s drawing me in, but that’s not what my mission is. Not what the piece of paper with my handwriting said. All I have to do is walk a circle around it, until I’m free. I find my footing in the mud below and start walking awkwardly because I have to hold myself down or I’ll float to the surface.
What does that mean, until I’m free? Free of what? How will I know?
I figure I’ll find out soon, but I’m running out of breath fast. Should I come back up?
Maybe “free” means the girl’s going to come rescue me or take my place for the space of a breath. Freeing me of my responsibility here, sharing the burden like partners do for each other.
I keep walking, though I’m desperate for a breath and it makes me feel light-headed. I remember the strange man in the morning coat’s words: �
�I always enjoy watching a good death.”
What if it’s my job to die here? Is that part of the ritual?
What if freedom doesn’t mean I’m getting rescued? What if it means being free of this mortal coil? Free of life?
It doesn’t matter. She said the mission was worth dying for. Worth it to both of us.
Another second and I’ll have to breathe in, only I can’t. My vision blurs, colors shift to red, and I keep walking.
Chapter 37
ELYSE
After I leave Marshall and Elizabeth behind on the trail—with instructions to wait ten minutes—I walk up to Joe’s log cabin and take a deep breath. It comes out shaky. My heart feels like it’s exploding in my chest. How am I supposed to outsmart my hundred-and-fifty-year-old evil occultist ancestor? But I have to. I need to distract him, keep him from noticing Marshall.
I take a second deep breath and knock.
No answer, then Joe/Preston finally comes to the door, wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, his Coke-bottle glasses askew on the bridge of his baby-smooth nose. “Elyse?” He’s deeply disappointed to see me here, and he’s too surprised to hide it. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be in California by now.”
“I realized I couldn’t leave this place,” I say. “Not yet.”
“Don’t tell me you’re homesick?” He shudders, and I wonder, Is he playacting for my benefit? Pretending to be Joe, the hapless occultist sent here by coldhearted higher-ups? Or is a part of him honestly sick of being stuck in this paradise he created? After all, is it really paradise if you can’t leave?
“More like I have unfinished business here.”
His eyebrows go up. “Are we talking about a boy?” he says with an indulgent smile.
“Maybe.”
“I’m not the best person to be asking for relationship advice,” he warns. I remember Elizabeth’s account of their century-long marital feud and think, Yeah, you’re not kidding there. “But, come on in.” He sighs, and moves aside in the doorway, gesturing for me to join him inside. Success. “I’ll make us some tea and try to convince you that no boy, no matter how cute, is worth you being stuck here.”
He means it. I’m sure, this time. He wants me out for reasons of his own, but he also genuinely wants to help me do what he no longer can: move. Move on.
“Excuse me while I put a kettle on for tea.”
I look around the one-room cabin, at the old-fashioned wood-burning stove in one corner and a single bed (made) in the opposite corner. It’s primitive but looks comfortable at the same time. Joe/Preston puts a kettle that looks more like a witch’s cauldron on the stove and busies himself setting up teacups for us. “So, is it Dan?” he asks. “Because that was a terrible tragedy, but you can’t sit here and dwell on it forever.”
“Not Dan, but you’re close.” The polished wooden table’s set with mustard-yellow velvet-covered chairs. Their high backs are shaped like keyholes. I quickly choose the one facing the window.
“Another athlete?” He sets down our cups and sits across from me. “Anyone I’d know from school?”
Behind him in the window I can see Elizabeth and Marshall dart past along the path to the waterfall.
I feel a tiny, tiny bit sorry for Joe. I have to remind myself that he’s done horrible things. He’s been indirectly and directly responsible for horrible things happening to me. But he’s also my great-great-grandfather. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be alive.
“It’s not about any one boy,” I say. “It’s about all the boys, and the girls, and men and women, and children. Like Dan. And Pete. And my father. And that woman Hazel. All the people in this town who’ve been sacrificed. I can’t leave Summer Falls until I know that won’t happen to anyone else.”
Joe sets down his teacup hard. “You don’t sound like yourself.” His voice sounds odd, and my pulse pounds. Did I give away our game too soon? Did I ruin everything? “It’s obvious to me who’s been influencing you.” He waves his ring finger at himself and suddenly he’s dressed in his old morning coat and top hat, just like his statue in the square. Gone are the Coke-bottle glasses, the hair sticking up, the clashing clothes. All vestiges of Joe are gone. “Come on, Elyse.” He walks over to the door and opens it. “Let’s go finish your unfinished business so you can leave town.”
“What are you going to do?” I scramble to follow as he marches up the path toward the waterfall, desperately grabbing at his arm, but he’s too strong and keeps walking. The waterfall’s so loud here, we have to yell to be heard. “What are you going to do to him?”
“Nothing!”
“I don’t believe you!”
I dive at his knees, trying to stop him, but he’s so pumped up with life force, he’s almost like a god. My hope sinks at the sight of Marshall still standing next to Elizabeth by the pool.
“I just want you to see,” Preston says, “the futility of trying to mess with someone else’s kingdom. He can’t touch my spell. He’s just a pawn. The water spirit’s going to recognize his signature and eat him for lunch.
“Well, well,” Preston greets them. “I always enjoy watching a good death.”
“Ignore him,” I say to Marshall. “Just follow our plan. Trust me!”
Marshall takes a deep breath and dives in.
“Well, it was swell knowing him.” Preston turns to Elizabeth. “Nice to see you here, beauty. I lost my mind the first time I saw that hair.”
She turns from him, but her long red curls still blow toward him in the breeze.
Thirty seconds pass, the longest thirty seconds of my life.
“Son of a bitch, it should have spat him up or eaten him by now.” Preston takes off his hat. “Why isn’t it picking up his signature?”
“Because he’s changed.” I stare at the pool, desperate for a sign that something’s working. Come back up, Marshall.
“People don’t change. Water spirits play with their food sometimes. But just to be safe, I’m going to end this now,” Preston says. “I’m sorry, Elyse, but you’ll forget him soon.” He pulls a crystal from his pocket.
Quick as a snake, Elizabeth throws her arms around him and kisses him full on the lips. Preston closes his eyes, a look of ecstasy on his face, just as she knocks the crystal out of his hand. It falls onto the rocks below, and I don’t even hear the end of his hissed curse. I have to get Marshall out of there, even if it means abandoning the mission.
I run up, launch myself at the pool, and dive in. I’m still midair when I glimpse something pale and shiny breaking the surface of the water. Ghost. I barely miss crashing into it.
Then I’m submerged. Cold stuns every cell of my body, and my skull throbs with an instant ice-cream headache. My eyes can’t focus, it’s blurry . . . then I realize why: all around me, the water is cloudy with ghosts. Fast-moving ghosts. A sparkly swirl of them, exploding upward like a geyser from the depths. No way I can escape this many at once. My heart pounds as images of drowning fill my mind.
The ghosts close in on me. Their limbs brush against my trembling skin, their touch as light as smoke. I thought I’d be repulsed, but they seem so familiar by now, like neighbors. The little girl with sad eyes. Hazel in her peach frilly apron. The 1920s swimmer with his cap and goggles. The warrior with feathers in his hair. Tomoko pushing her empty stroller. Eva with her dark mermaid hair. And then I realize how many ghosts have swept past me and kept moving, soaring to the surface like shimmering birds. And that I’m still awake, alert.
They’re not feeding off me. They’re not hungry for my pain.
They’re free.
We did it. Marshall, we did it. Please be okay.
I swim down after him, through the rising sea of ghosts. As I race for the bottom, a spiral of stones comes into view. A maze. Marshall’s lying in the center of it, facedown.
Suddenly the rock structure starts to crumble, and I grab hold of him and push off the bottom, carrying his unmoving body upward. He’s deadweight, his eyes closed, but
my lifeguard training’s taught me how to carry deadweight. Above me more and more ghosts are evacuating as I push toward the surface. The moment we break it, he grabs a lungful of air. He collapses on the rocks, coughing.
I feel around in my zipped pocket. The vial containing the antidote is still in there, thank god. “Drink this.” Without a moment’s hesitation, he uncaps it and downs the thick red liquid.
“Didn’t think we’d meet again till hell,” Preston greets him. But something’s wrong with Preston’s voice. It’s strained and gravelly. He’s popping coat buttons, spreading, his face lining with creases, his hair shedding. Elizabeth’s red hair is turning rusty, then white, her face wrinkling like crumpled notebook paper. It’s like watching a fast-forward video of a tree’s leaves in autumn.
Above the roaring of the falls, I hear a horrible rumbling from the valley. Like an earthquake, downtown buildings are falling over. The lights have gone out. Neighborhood streetlights too. I think of Liz and all the people I know in town, how scared and confused they must be.
“It’s finally over,” Elizabeth mutters, her voice an old woman’s now. A look of peace comes over her face.
The hum coming from inside the pool is now a roar. We watch together as behind Preston House, the once-glassy lake roils and bubbles, dark blue waves punishing the shore. Then a deafening sound and Preston House itself has fallen, caved in on itself. “Mom!” I scream. “No!” And then my legs turn to jelly under me, and I crash. Memories. Not just thirdhand memories from the journal to the music box. Real, in my gut, memories. And all of them hurt so much, I sink to my knees on the rocks, racked with sobs.
I feel a hand on my back, and then Marshall reaches out his hand to help me up. “We did it.” I can tell just by the slightly devious spark in his eyes that he’s back, fully back. “Mission accomplished. I knew you’d be unable to stop yourself from rescuing me.”
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