Our Last Echoes

by Kate Alice Marshall

  “What are you looking for now?”

  “Your mutilated man,” she said. “Daniel Rivers. Age twenty-eight. Lives in Colorado. Lists a PhD from UC Berkeley, but he works at a ski resort.” She spun the laptop around so I could see the Facebook page she’d pulled up. Liam craned his neck to get a look.

  I stared at the dates under the photos. Three days ago, two weeks ago, a month ago. He’d shaved off his beard, but it was him. “I don’t understand. I saw him.”

  “And Liam saw you, down by the beach,” Abby pointed out.

  “The man I saw wasn’t Daniel Rivers,” I said, realization dawning. “It was an echo?”

  “That’s my guess,” she said.

  “This is fucked-up,” Liam muttered. We looked at him, and he crossed his arms. “I just feel like someone should say that periodically, to remind us. Abby’s acting like this is normal. But it isn’t. It’s fucked-up.”

  “Fucked-up is normal for me,” Abby said.

  “We need to get to those records,” Abby muttered.

  Then the ground lurched beneath me. Cold shivers ran down my back, and my stomach churned.

  Backlash.

  “I’ll—I have to—I need a shower,” I managed, and turned abruptly, marching into the hall. I ignored Liam’s puzzled response, not even registering his words. I was almost running by the time I reached the bathroom, and I had to try three times to throw the lock. I turned the shower on full blast and sank to my knees, biting my sleeve to stifle the moan that escaped my lips.

  No. No. No, I thought, and my mind filled with the image of Daniel Rivers’s broken flesh. Of wings and claws. Of William Hardcastle, his empty smile, his hand outstretched.

  No. No. No—and I realized I was saying it, too, bent to the floor, my words soft and my lips pressed almost to the tile.

  There was nothing to do but endure.

  INTERVIEW

  SOPHIA NOVAK

  SEPTEMBER 2, 2018

  ASHFORD: It’s interesting to me, Ms. Novak, that you are so concerned about what I did and did not tell Abby. Given how much you concealed from her and Mr. Kapoor yourself.

  SOPHIA: What do you mean?

  ASHFORD: You doled out information so carefully. You knew that Abby was investigating your mother’s disappearance, yet you did not tell her about your reflection until she noticed it herself. Nor did you tell her about the girl that you and Mr. Kapoor saw on the beach the night she arrived—not until Mr. Kapoor mentioned it himself.

  SOPHIA: I wasn’t trying to deceive her.

  Ashford leans back in his chair, considering her.

  ASHFORD: Is that so? But you didn’t tell them about this emotional backlash you experienced either. Why?

  SOPHIA: Isn’t that obvious?

  ASHFORD: Please. Assume I’m ignorant.

  Sophia looks down at her hands, fingers laced, palms spread.

  SOPHIA: It took me years to learn how to tell when the backlash was coming. And even then, sometimes there was no warning at all. It came sometimes without me pushing away emotion to trigger it. Over time, I learned how to ride it out without hurting myself—or anyone else. But by then, I’d been to too many psychiatrists to count. Been fed drugs that made me sleep and shake and even have a seizure once but never helped. Lost every friend I managed to make. Do you know what it’s like to have people look at you like you aren’t even human?

  Her eyes burn with intensity.

  SOPHIA: Do you know what it’s like to wonder if they’re right?

  13

  TWILIGHT CAST EVERYTHING in an eerie gray when we met Liam by the LARC, but if anything, Abby seemed more at ease than in the daylight. “Got us a key?” she demanded.

  Liam produced a key ring. “I have to get these back into Dr. Kapoor’s coat pocket before morning or we’ll all be strung up for the birds,” he warned. “And be careful. Mikhail’s around here somewhere.”

  “Is he dangerous?” Abby asked.

  Liam looked troubled. “He was weird with Sophia,” he said. “And I’ve heard Dr. Kapoor tell Hardcastle something about not wanting to run into the warden while she was alone.”

  “If she’s afraid of him, why employ him?” Abby wondered aloud, but Liam didn’t have an answer. She glanced over at me. “You going to be all right?”

  I’d told them my sudden exit was indigestion. I didn’t think either of them believed me—but I’d heard Liam mutter something about a panic attack to Abby, and even that was better than the truth. Normal people had panic attacks. They didn’t have whatever it was that I did.

  “Ready to go find some answers?”

  “I’d settle for knowing what questions I should be asking,” I said.

  She grimaced. “Sounds like something my boss would say.”

  Inside, our shoes squeaked on the tiles. Good thing there was no one here to notice. “This way,” Liam said, stepping into the lead after shutting the door behind us. He brushed past Abby, and she stepped back with an annoyed look. Some people were like oil and water, and I was starting to suspect these were two of them. But I didn’t need them to be friends.

  The light through the windows made it unnecessary to even turn on the lights. “I’m not used to this sneaking-around-before-dark thing,” Abby murmured as she walked beside me.

  “Maybe we should have waited for the mist,” Liam said.

  “You mean do the one thing that you’re warned not to from the moment you step on Bitter Rock?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that,” Liam said with a little laugh.

  “In my experience, there are three reasons for a rule like that,” Abby said. “One, everyone’s hiding something. Two, something supernatural is going to eat you if you disobey.”

  “And three?” Liam asked.

  “They don’t want you falling and breaking your neck with zero visibility, a bunch of sharp rocks, and no hospital in reach except by airlift,” Abby said.

  “Fair. This is it,” Liam added, pointing at the door to the records room.

  I knew the LARC kept paper records because I’d filled out a bunch on the first day. The internship was unpaid, which meant I didn’t have to add social security fraud to my résumé, but I’d had to supply a fair bit of personal info, most of which I’d made up on the spot.

  The door was locked—with a standard lock rather than a keypad this time—and Liam spent several minutes trying various keys from the big ring before Abby jimmied it with a department store gift card (“More flex than a credit card, so it works better,” she explained). When she flicked on the light inside, I let out a breath. I don’t know what I had expected. Shadows and cobwebs, padlocks, something. Instead there was an orderly bank of filing cabinets against one wall. Metal shelving on the opposite side held boxes labeled in neat handwriting.

  “Here we go: ‘Employment Records, Archived,’” Abby said, indicating the farthest file cabinet. “You want these, or the boxes?”

  “Those’re all just old office supplies and that sort of thing,” Liam said. “No one stores anything important in here.”

  “It’s not like they’re going to write ‘Damning Evidence’ on the side,” Abby pointed out.

  “I’ll take the files,” I said. I wanted to be the one to find my mother’s file. To see her name. That belonged to me.

  I opened the first cabinet, and Liam went to the opposite end of the row. I trailed my fingers over the tabs of the files, my eyes skipping over strangers’ names. I opened the next drawer and the next. Nothing. No Novak, Joy waiting for me to find. As if she had been snipped out of the history of the LARC entirely.

  “She’s not here,” I said. I hadn’t meant to whisper, but it was as if there was a weight bearing down on me, diminishing even my voice. “Maybe—” Maybe I’d been wrong. But I knew she’d been here. There was the photo. There was the bird. There was the damn st
ory—The Girl in the Boat, my existence reduced to a catchy title.

  “Look at this.” I wasn’t sure if Abby hadn’t heard, or if she just didn’t know how to respond. Her voice was as blunt and forceful as always, not a hint of softness or consideration in it, but I was glad; the first time I caught a whiff of pity off her, I knew I’d stop trusting her.

  She held out a large glossy photo print for Liam and me to inspect. I recognized the format immediately: a group photo in front of the LARC building, just like the ones in the foyer out front. This one was marked 2003. There were seven people, and I read their names one by one. Dr. Damien Breckenridge. Dr. Helen Whitcomb. Dr. William Hardcastle. Dr. Vanya Kapoor. Carolyn Baker. Martin Carreau. Joy Novak.

  She was here. “Where was it?” I asked, failing to disguise the shaking in my voice.

  “In a box labeled ‘Reimbursement Receipts 2005–2007,’” she said.

  “Misfiled?” I asked.

  “Not a chance,” Liam replied. “That’s my mother’s handwriting. And she does not misfile things.”

  Abby grunted. “I’ll take your word for it. There’s some other stuff in there, but I think we should take it with us. We’ve been here long enough.” She took off the empty backpack she’d been carrying for this purpose. Just as she unzipped it, something clattered down the hall. We froze.

  “Goddammit!” croaked a familiar voice. “Hello, hello, hello.”

  I relaxed. “Moriarty,” I said.

  Liam shook his head ruefully. “He’s likely picked the lock on his cage again, the little bastard. We can’t just leave him wandering the halls—last time he managed to injure himself.”

  “I’ll pack up here; you two corral the bird,” Abby suggested. “We can meet up outside.”

  “Don’t forget to lock the door behind you,” Liam said, and she waved a dismissive hand at him, turning back to the mislabeled box.

  We exited the file room and looked in the direction I thought the sound had come from. With all the echoing it was hard to be sure—but then Moriarty gave a gurgling chuckle, settling any confusion. “Silly bird,” I murmured, and we headed down the hall.

  “What do you think of her?” Liam asked as we walked.

  “Who, Abby?” I shrugged. “She’s smart. Seems like she knows what she’s doing.”

  “Just remember that you don’t have any reason to trust her,” Liam said.

  “And what reason do I have to trust you, Liam Kapoor?” I asked.

  “My good looks and ravishing accent,” he replied. I shook my head, chuckling, but there was a strain in his voice.

  “Are you all right?” I asked him. “I know this is a lot.”

  “That’s a hard question to answer, for me. Even in the most normal of times,” he confessed. “I often find that the moment I think the answer is yes, I’m about to fall into a hole again. All of this . . . It’s almost pleasant to have something to be afraid and angry about that’s real, and not just a chemical imbalance trying to mess with me.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” I replied. “It’s not quite the same, but knowing that this is real, and that I haven’t been imagining it all my life? It’s weirdly a relief.”

  “Three cheers for objectively real horrors,” Liam said wryly. This time neither of us laughed.

  Moriarty was near the bathrooms, perched on the top of one of the ubiquitous stacks of plastic tubs and cardboard boxes that migrated around the LARC like glaciers of clutter.

  Moriarty croaked and examined us with one black eye. “You’re not supposed to be out here,” I told him. He made another guttural caw.

  “Come on, bird,” Liam said. “Let’s get you back to—”

  Moriarty gave Liam a withering look, spread his wings, and launched himself down the hall. I threw myself back, avoiding the storm of black feathers and flashing talons. He didn’t get far before he thumped down on the ground, hopping along at a surprisingly fast gait.

  “At least he’s heading in the right direction,” Liam said. “Maybe we can herd him.” We hustled along after the bird.

  My foot slipped in a wet patch, nearly making me fall. Water had pooled on the floor. Random drips and patches of wet—and others that weren’t so random. Bare footprints traced a path along the hallway before vanishing. Moriarty crouched at the end of the trail, his wings hunched, his pupils narrowed to pinpricks.

  “Liam,” I whispered, goosebumps prickling up my arms. “I don’t think we’re alone here.”

  “Hello, little bird,” Moriarty said, but with the odd angle of his head, I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me or at my reflection in the window beside us. Liam motioned for me to stay still, and he crept around the other side of the bird. Then—

  “Damn it, Moriarty,” a familiar voice said from around the corner, and Liam and I looked at each other in horror. Dr. Kapoor was here. What was she doing here in the middle of the night?

  “I thought you put a combination lock on the cage,” Dr. Hardcastle said.

  “Clearly that isn’t a foolproof solution,” she snapped back. “I’ll get him. You work on getting that equipment fixed. We can’t afford for it to fail with the way the mist’s been acting up.”

  “Normal seasonal variation,” Hardcastle replied, sounding exasperated. They were getting close. They were going to come around the corner and find us. Liam’s face was a mirror of my own dread. We were on opposite sides of the hallway from where Hardcastle and Kapoor’s voices were coming. Go, I mouthed. I moved backward as quickly as I could without making a sound. I reached for the nearest door—Please be open, please be open.

  It was. I slipped inside and shut the door slowly behind me, hoping Liam had found someplace to hide.

  Only then did I get a look at the room I was in—and I frowned, puzzled. The room was filled with audio equipment, enough to stock a recording studio. There was a bank of monitors and computers that looked like they had enough computing power to put a man on Mars, and printouts strewn around or tacked up on the walls with what looked like sound waves and—satellite imagery? They were of the island, and the mist.

  A window stretched along one side of the room, and on the other side was a shadowed chamber. I could make out several microphones, and something else—a birdcage, covered in a white cloth. A recording booth? Hardcastle was studying bird calls, but this seemed like overkill. I crept toward the window, the glass throwing back my dim reflection.

  And then a footstep sounded outside the room. Hardcastle.

  Something shifted at the corner of my vision. A trick of the light, but my eyes went to my reflection, wild-haired and waifish in the dim light, features indistinct. I touched the sleek braid that hung over my shoulder; my reflection mimicked the movement—but she didn’t have a braid, just that wild tangle of hair.

  She crooked her finger toward me.

  The reflected room around her was dark, the angles of the walls and ceiling barely perceptible. The doorknob began to turn.

  “Little bird, little bird,” Moriarty croaked in the distance. I lifted my hand tentatively toward the reflection.

  The door swung open. I spun around, trying to form a plausible excuse.

  A hand grabbed my wrist and yanked hard.

  VIDEO EVIDENCE

  Recorded by Joy Novak

  AUGUST 14, 2003, TIME UNKNOWN

  The camera switches on, then off, then on again. It focuses on floorboards, then spins to look up at Sophia Novak’s face. She squints in the bright light and shifts it quickly away, training it instead on the adults, who are clustered together near the other side of the room. Joy Novak still has her bandaged leg stretched out on a pew.

  HARDCASTLE: We can’t stay here. We need to leave as soon as it gets light out.

  NOVAK: When is that going to be? Night was only supposed to last an hour. It’s been at least twice that long.

&n
bsp; HARDCASTLE: Morning has to come eventually.

  NOVAK: I wouldn’t put much faith in natural laws here, Will.

  KAPOOR: So then we don’t wait. We find a way out now.

  CARREAU: What does that mean? Out? How do we do that?

  KAPOOR: Obviously, I don’t know. But I refuse to believe that there is no way back to—what, our world? Our reality?

  CARREAU: A way out of the mist.

  Novak cocks her head to the side.

  NOVAK: That singing is starting again.

  The others seem to hear it as well, but the camera picks up nothing but the faint sound of wind between the gaps in the walls.

  CARREAU: It doesn’t sound threatening.

  KAPOOR: What, that doesn’t creep you out?

  CARREAU: Unsettling, yes. Threatening, perhaps not. I think we should investigate.

  KAPOOR: I agree. We need to know more, and we aren’t going to learn it hiding in here.

  NOVAK: It isn’t safe out there. Sophie—

  KAPOOR: No, of course you’ll stay. Two of us should go see what we can find, and someone able-bodied should stay behind with you. Bar the door behind us.

  CARREAU: It sounds as if you have already decided you will be one of those to go.

  KAPOOR: I couldn’t stand waiting while you two went without me.

  HARDCASTLE: You might have control issues, Vanya.

  KAPOOR: Massive ones. So which of you wants to come?

  BAKER: No way.

  HARDCASTLE: I’ll go.

  Kapoor nods.

  KAPOOR: A quick scouting trip to start. Twenty minutes, just to get the lay of the land and see if those things are still out there. We’ll head toward the beach for now. See if there’s a way to the shore and off this damn island.

  Various sounds of agreement go around the group. Neither Kapoor nor Hardcastle look thrilled to be leaving their questionable sanctuary, but for each of them, the presence of the other guarantees that they will not want to be the first to express reluctance or fear. Kapoor and Hardcastle lift aside the pew and open the door cautiously.