The Man in the Wall; The Hollows Part Two

By Ben Larken

Now that David Alders knows time travel is possible inside The Hollows, his mind is set on one goal—to save his wife Elise. He has one chance to get it right and decides to try changing the past on a test subject. A nightmarish spate of child killings known as the Wetzel Murders occurred in the 70’s, and David believes he can erase them from history.

But The Hollows has other plans...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Jun 27, 2013
• ISBN: 9781619501218

Ben Larken

Ben Larken resides near Fort Worth, the city in which he was born and currently works as a police dispatcher. He is the winner of three Epic eBook Awards for Best Horror.

Book preview

The Man in the Wall

The Hollows—Book Two

by

Ben Larken

All rights reserved

Copyright © March 20, 2013, Ben Larken

Cover Art Copyright © 2013, Charlotte Holley

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-121-8

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: June 27, 2013

Also by Ben Larken:

Pit-Stop

The Man in the Wall

Pillar’s Fall

Exit Us

The Babel Walker

Dedication

To Sam,

who leaves bruises when wrestling, hacks his Nintendo regularly,

and makes having a big heart look effortless

Elise’s Journal: March 24, 1999

He should have been back by now.

That’s all I can think. It’s the one sentence that circles my head all day like an annoying song. He should have been back. Like, days ago. Hell, he should’ve been back five minutes after he left. I mean, I’m talking about time travel. I don’t know how he’s making the trip, but if he’s able to make it at all he should find his way back to the same time period, right? He could punch some coordinates into a super-computer, give the Flux Capacitor an oil change and just pop back to the same day he last saw me. That makes sense, doesn’t it? God, I’ve got a headache.

Future David. That’s the name I gave him a week ago, this rumpled guy with the tortured eyes who showed up in my front yard. He’s the guy who knows something too terrible for words is about to happen to me. I know, because I tried to make him say those words and he couldn’t. Part of me wanted to strangle him for that, but another part of me reminded that part that I AM in love with this man.

Well, that might be true. But sometimes love isn’t worth the pain. Or love shouldn’t cause so much pain. Or something greeting card-y like that.

Last night I was thinking of him again, my mind drifting as I sliced apples and separated them into plastic baggies for Mel’s school lunches. Mel was in the front room soaking her brain in Dora the Explorer. Hop (that’s Present David, the man who has absolutely no idea that Future David paid me a visit last week) was enjoying his day off by catching up on paperwork, a task which seems to define a detective even more than detecting. He sat at the kitchen table, scribbling something in triplicate, and I let my brain devolve into the same line of circular questioning that has become the bane of my existence. It goes something like this:

A. Why isn’t he back yet?

B. What if he CAN’T come back?

C. What if he’s in some kind of trouble?

for instance:

D. What if that creepy oily-haired bastard in the Roaming Plumbers van grabbed him?

That’s the question that caused me to put the knife down and grab the counter to steady myself. I tried to stop where my thoughts were headed, but as usual I couldn’t. I saw Future David in a slasher movie, where the audience sees the bad guy sneaking up on the innocent victim. Hop hates taking me to those movies. I’m the viewer who shouts at the screen. DON’T GO DOWN THAT HALLWAY! or TURN ON THE GODDAMN LIGHT BEFORE YOU GO IN THERE! That’s what I was about to do to the movie playing in my brain, the one where Future David walks out of the Candlelight Inn and the red van swoops in and… and… the rest of the scene brings tears to my eyes. Because it’s never anything good. It’s not like the giggly bastard stops him to hand him a plumbing gift certificate or ask if him if he’s considered being a Jehovah’s Witness. I can see those manic eyes as he said the words that have since been seared into my brain.

You’ll have to learn to share him… Just like he’ll have to learn how to share you.

God, I’m putting the pencil down. I need a tissue.

Okay, I’m back. So obviously, Question D is not my favorite question. It always turns me to emotional jelly, and that moment last night was no different. But it gets worse. Question D always leads to Question E, the most hopeless question since God asked Cain if he’d seen Abel around. It’s the one that puts everything in perspective and makes me realize just how insane a situation I’ve found myself in.

E. What do I do about it?

Those apples are going to turn brown if you don’t bag them up and get them into the fridge— said Hop, who was right next to me, leaning on the counter.

I jumped. He chuckled, giving me a sideways hug, which I accepted rigidly. The alternative was to melt into his arms, and if I did that I would start bawling and never stop. I’d tell him the whole crazy story and he’d have me committed.

He pulled back, watching my stony expression. You’re edgy, he said. And I don’t blame you. I know I’ve got you worried.

I let out a bitter chuckle. If he only knew. Yes, I replied. You’ve got me worried. (I left off the part about him breaking the laws of space and time.)

He nodded and crossed his arms, something I imagine he does every time he’s about to interrogate a perp. But I wasn’t the perp in this situation. HE was—or will be—in ten years, when he decides to come back in time and mess with my head. (Have I mentioned I’ve doubled the amount of weekly headache medicine I buy?)

You think I’m forgetting you, he said. You think I’m getting all caught up in my little world and I’ve left you to fend for yourself.

Well… That was all I could say, because it was truer than I wanted it to be.

He had one of those inner conversations with himself. I saw the back-and-forth in his eyes. It didn’t take him long to come to a conclusion. He looked up again and smiled curtly.

Right, then.

That was all he said. He turned and exited the kitchen.

Umm, Hop? I stood there next to my bruised apple slices and waited for him to come back. But he didn’t, and it wasn’t like him to give up so quickly. I finally lost my nerve and went after him. Hop, I called as I crossed the kitchen, I’m not that upset. We don’t have to make this a big dea—

I stepped into the hallway. There he was. He hadn’t gone three steps beyond the doorway when he turned and got on one knee. He held up a diamond ring.

I’m not trying to bribe you, he said, his eyes large and earnest. I just wanted you to know why I’ve been working so hard.

Hop, I said, my voice lost after that.

Five years ago your wedding ring disappeared down the drain, he said. I’ve always taken it as a bad omen for our marriage. And I didn’t want a bad omen hanging over us. More than anything else in this life, I want us to work. So I knew I had to take the next step. No more being a beat cop. Even if it meant moving heaven and earth, my wife was not going through life without a proper wedding ring.

He went silent and waited for my reaction, the ring glimmering in the hallway light.

That thing I said about melting into his arms and bawling? Yeah, I did that. What can I say? He gave me an opening, and I went with it. He tried to give me the ring, but my fingers were too shaky, so we both kind of clung to it for a second. I held him, letting my view of the sparkly thing connecting us dissolve into tears. This diamond ring that on the one hand was just jewelry and on the other meant the whole world. Because he was right, I realized. I want us to work, too. And what did that mean for Question E?

Well, it meant I needed to take the next step.

Tomorrow after David goes to work, I’m cracking open the phone book. It’s time to call the Roaming Plumbers.

The Clock Strikes Six

Yes, Time has reappeared; Time reigns a monarch now;

and with the hideous Ancient has returned all his demonical following of Memories, Regrets, Tremors, Fears,

Dolours, Nightmares, and twittering nerves.

I assure you that the seconds are strongly and solemnly accentuated now;

and each, as it drips from the pendulum, says:

I am Life: intolerable, implacable Life!

—Charles Baudelaire, The Double Chamber

1

Fort Worth Osteopathy

September 3, 1972

Ladybugs and grasshoppers and crickets and daddy longlegs. The boy in the bed fiddled with each squiggly figure on his writing tablet, taking a moment to give each one more detail. The ladybugs got extra spots and little circles at the end of each antenna. The grasshoppers got a few more lines around the face and a couple extra toes on their jumping feet. And so it went. The characters soon stood out on the page, at least more than they had before. The nuances made them real and fleshed out. They no longer felt like drawings, but friends—or maybe the family he’d never have. The boy’s expression never showed the connection he felt to them. When he drew, his face was a blank slate. His eyes and fingers were all that moved. If there was warmth toward his creations or the beginnings of a smile, they were buried deep within.

A sudden sense of being watched made him stop and look up. He saw Petra at once. From the darkness of his room her silhouette was a stark outline against the bright lights of the hallway.

Hi, Paul, she said.

Hi, Pet, he replied casually. How’d you find me?

He slid the writing tablet under the covers as she entered, her flared jeans swishing as she came to his bedside and into the small glow of the nightstand lamp. A kind face smiled at him. Her light blonde hair, so light it was almost white, fell around her shoulders. Piercing blue eyes scanned him up and down, taking measure of him. He knew those eyes well, because he saw them every time he looked in the mirror. Most of her face was a mirror of his. The high cheekbones, the slightly-too-big ears and the prominent eyebrows were all identical to his features. But the eyes captured him most. They belonged on someone several times older than a mere thirteen-year-old boy. He thought that again as he watched her watching him. Her eyes were too old and weathered for a girl the same age as him. Well, she was a couple minutes younger, truth be told.

The patient name you put down, she said. Brian Eatles, as in B. Eatles, as in The Beatles.

He looked at his lap. I thought using it might help them reunite.

They’re not going to reunite, she said plainly. Some groups break apart for a reason.

So do some people.

She nodded to herself. Okay, she said. Let me see how bad it is.

He rolled over compliantly, letting her untie the back of his hospital gown. It was a quiet process, one they had been through before. She pulled away the fabric and took in the purple splotches. The first time she’d beheld one of his bruises, a little more than five months ago, she’d wept for over an hour. This time there was only silence. Haunting, nauseating, crushing silence.

What happened? she asked, although she already knew the basic answer. What happened was that Joe Wetzel, their foster parent and guardian for the last half-year, had beaten him brutally. He guessed she probably meant How did it happen?

The Cowboys lost. He got mad. He stopped there, because she didn’t need to hear the gruesome details.

But she thought otherwise. He didn’t use his fists this time, she said. He could feel her eyes on his back, reading the marks like she would one of her Nancy Drew stories.

He grimaced. It wasn’t so much from the pain. That had been ferocious enough at first, but in the last three hours it had settled to a dull thrumming, like a dryer running in the next room. He was more worried what would happen if he told her the truth. She’d go back to that idea again, the reckless and dangerous one. They already had enough danger in their lives.

Paul, she prodded. Don’t be Mister Mule.

He sighed in defeat. There was no use lying. She had a way of finding out the truth—a way he had long ago affectionately termed her special frequency.

Cans, he said softly. Joe went to the pantry and grabbed an armload of ’em. Soup, corn, spam—he got them all. He started chunking ’em at me. I took it as long as I could, but then…

She let out a single wretched sob. You shouldn’t take it at all.

Paul tried to grin. I was doing okay until he broke my Merle Haggard record. I kinda liked The Fightin’ Side of Me. He shrugged, an act which hurt more than he’d thought it would. That was when I threw one back at him.

Oh no, she breathed more than said.

I got him in the nose with a can of peas and carrots. It knocked him over for a few seconds, enough for me to get past him and run outside. Then I came here.

She crumpled into the chair next to the bed, her face hidden in her hands, her breath coming in ragged wheezes. She took her inhaler from her pocket and took a hit off of it. A puff followed by a sudden suck. The inhaler was the reason Joe never went after her. He wanted to. Every night Paul saw it in the big man’s eyes. But Petra went to regular doctor visits, and doctors tended to notice bruises. Joe had to loathe having a human punching bag that he never got to touch. But he liked the CPS money more. An asthmatic with special needs meant a bigger monthly stipend. And there was always her twin brother for stress relief.

A few more sobs followed, each one quieter than the last. If Paul knew anything about Petra, it was that emotion didn’t get the better of her often. As her nerves calmed, her blue eyes widened, and whatever plan she was concocting began to come together.

Don’t worry, he said, trying to distract her. I ain’t staying long. I was just keeping away from Joe until he calmed down some. He hates hospitals, probably because he hates answering questions. But I’ll sneak outta here before the police show up. And by tomorrow, Joe’ll be upset about something else, and I’ll be forgotten.

Petra looked at him without looking at him, something she did often enough that it was one of his pet peeves. It was as if her biggest ideas only came to her when her eyes were connected to him. He thought about telling her how rude she was, but he held his tongue. Because being connected to Petra—even as a middle man to her deeper thoughts—wasn’t such a bad thing.

You’re right, she said and rose to her feet. We are sneaking out of here, but we’re not going back to Joe’s house.

We’re not running away, he stated flatly, as if his tone might change her mind.

Okay, she said with a little smile. Then we’ll walk quickly.

No, he said. You gotta have insurance. Those inhalers are prescription only.

We can stock up for the road after Joe leaves for work tomorrow.

But stock runs out. Someday you’ll be wheezing and we won’t be able to stop it.

We’ll figure something out.

I can take the punches, Petra. What I can’t do is let anything happen to you.

She gave him a thin smile. Whatever’s supposed to happen will happen—as always. But we can’t stay with Joe and survive. There’s another place we’re supposed to be. We gotta move on.

How do you know? Is that you talking or your special frequency?

She glanced toward the doorway and her smile faded. She closed her eyes, turning her focus somewhere inside. Seconds passed and she didn’t move, although he knew she was listening. That inner radio dial turned slowly, searching for her own private channel. He sometimes wished he could hear it, too. More often, he was glad he couldn’t. Petra’s special frequency was a temperamental thing, not unlike their foster dad. It only worked when it wanted to. At times reception fizzled out as if they were driving under a tunnel. Other times, if he was being honest with himself, she was probably doing it for show, pretending to make him feel better.

He hoped this wasn’t one of those times.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, beaming urgency. We’ll figure that out later, she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. But we gotta move now. The police just arrived. C’mon.

* * * *

Petra moved into the hall, scanning both directions. She waved at him to hurry. He gathered the small pile of clothes into his arms and rushed after her in his gown, praying he wasn’t forgetting anything. He’d hate to get all the way outside, only to discover his underwear was still back in the room.

There was lots of starting and stopping as they made their way down the halls. Petra led the way, eyes half-closed and head tilted. Every few seconds she stopped and shoved him into the nearest doorway. A second later they’d hear footsteps pass, sometimes a single set, sometimes clusters. But at least her special channel was coming through loud and clear. Paul hoped the reception remained fizzle-free, because if they ran into a staff member, or worse, a cop, it would be a mad sprint to the nearest door. He wasn’t sure how well he could do that in his present condition.

He tapped Petra on the shoulder as she peeked out the door. She didn’t look back, so he spoke into her ear with hushed urgency.

We have to stop somewhere long enough for me to get my clothes on. I ain’t running outside in a gown.

Okay, but not here, she whispered back. I know a better place.

She swept through the door, and Paul rushed to keep up, his bare feet slapping too loudly against the tile floor. They reached a stairwell. He almost walked headlong onto the staircase that would take them down to the first floor, until he realized Petra had taken the other one—the one leading up. He paused a moment, wanting to call after her, but then heard footsteps clacking up the staircase beneath him. He followed her, slapping his forehead for ever doubting her at all.

He found her waiting at the next landing in the shadows of a burned-out light bulb. They still heard the footsteps coming. Voices faded in, too. Paul gazed at his sister questioningly, but she didn’t notice. She stared over the railing, down at the figures circling the stairs beneath them, a revolving blackness moving their way.

He hasn’t said a thing about how he got the bruises, a man said, a question in his voice.

No, another man replied, his voice vaguely familiar. I think fear is holding his tongue.

This could be the big break we’ve been waiting for, the first man said, and the way he said it screamed cop.

I wouldn’t count on it, the second man said—the doctor who had checked him out, Paul realized. His name was Dr. Soaker or Smoker or something like that. He was a thin, short, sallow man—a man who seemed to hide in his lab coat. He remembered talking to the man, but the doctor’s atonal drone kept him from recalling exactly what was said. Paul only remembered throwing a lot of fake answers at him, and the doctor responding with a bland nod as he wrote on his clipboard. He didn’t sound atonal now, talking to the cop. He sounded intrigued.

This kid is frightened, but not by his attacker, the doctor continued. He seems more afraid that we’re going to figure out who he is. I’m thinking this is a kid from an abusive family who doesn’t want to get a dad or uncle in trouble.

Maybe, the cop admitted. Try not to think less of me for hoping you’re wrong. After sifting through three different crime scenes it would be nice to meet one that got away—someone who could ID the bastard.

That it would, Soaker said. No, it’s Stoker, Paul finally recalled. The doctor’s name is Stoker. But that’s not this kid. He’s scared, yes, but not traumatized. I doubt it would take much prodding to get him to…

Their voices carried out of the stairwell. The siblings shared a glance, Petra nodding slightly to herself. We’ll have to watch out for him, she said.

We’ll watch out for both of them, he assured her.

She grimaced. That’s not what I mean. I—

A shadow moved onto the staircase below. Paul peeked over the railing before he could stop himself. There was Dr. Stoker, his already pale skin almost yellow in the stairwell’s fluorescent lights, staring back. Their eyes met for one complete second, long enough for a tremor to run through Paul’s gut. Then Petra’s hands clamped around his wrist and yanked him out of the stairwell.

Run!

They sprinted onto the third floor, Petra leading the way. Paul no longer worried about the embarrassing split in the back of his gown. He was too fixed on the footsteps clambering up the stairs behind them. He heard the doctor shouting, telling him to wait, telling him they just wanted to talk. He picked up his pace and tried to ignore the ache in his limbs. Petra reached the first intersection of hallways and immediately chose to go right. This way, she said, although that was unnecessary. Paul would follow her without question until they were out of this hospital.

They only passed four doors before she stopped and tried a doorknob. It turned easily, and she led him into a darkened room, bringing her finger to her lips as she closed the door behind him.

Don’t wake them, she whispered.

He looked back, taking in the dim nursery. A curtain-covered window to the hallway provided scant light to the five bassinets lining the opposite wall. Each one had its own slumbering wad of football-sized blanket. Little squishy heads with stocking caps poked out of the ends. Petra tapped on his shoulder and he turned his attention back to her.

She leaned in so her mouth was next to his ear. We only have a few minutes before the labor and delivery nurse makes her next check. Go in that corner and get dressed. I’ll keep watch.

He did as he was told. There was a dark nook behind a supply cabinet that was perfect for undressing in private. He threw off the gown, glad to be rid of it, and started pulling on his clothes. The process took longer than he preferred. His T-shirt touched a bruise; a shock of pain ran through him. When the babies coughed or squeaked, he would freeze, expecting to hear a wail that would bring the nurses running. Petra didn’t seem too concerned. She didn’t look at the infants, only hovered at the corner of the curtained window and peered through the gap into the hall.

He slipped on the last sneaker when she turned around and waved violently. He couldn’t make out the words she tried to mouth, but he had a pretty good guess. He’s coming! Hide! Or something to that effect. Paul eyed the room in a panic, looking for a hiding place. There was precious little to choose from. The bassinets were all on rollers. Hiding under them would be like trying to hide under a foldout table with no table cloth. All the doctor had to do was bend.

Petra didn’t have the same problem. She glanced around the room and settled on a sink against the far wall. She ran to it, opening the cabinet beneath the sink. He watched in amazement as she crouched in the fetal position and proceeded to stuff herself into a space too small for a dog. Within seconds she was all the way in and closing the cabinet door behind her. Before it shut completely she waved at him one last time—a stiff brushing of the air that screamed HURRY!

Her hand disappeared. Paul froze in place, knowing he was trapped. At least the doctor hadn’t seen his sister. As far as Stoker knew, Paul was on his own. He wasn’t too concerned with their questions. He could make up all the names in the world. He grabbed the hospital gown and pulled farther behind the supply cabinet, waiting for the inevitable. Once the light came on, it would all happen quickly.

A soft click gave way to a slow brightening of the room. Paul didn’t dare peek around the corner as the figure moved into the light. The shadow seemed to rise right out of the floor, a black tide coming to swallow the bassinets with their sleeping babies. But the silhouette blacked out as the door shut with another soft click.

Paul waited for a flick of the light switch. He heard breathing—a low, measured breathing that came from the center of the room. Was that Dr. Stoker? The cop? One of the nurses? He wasn’t about to check. He held his spot and controlled his own breathing, sucking and exhaling so slowly his chest ached for more air. He waited… waited… waited. The person was still there, but other than audible breathing there wasn’t any sign of movement. Then the breathing stopped. Everything went silent. Paul strained his ears, wondering if he had imagined the whole thing.

A sudden intake of breath, only a few feet away. You don’t have to hide from me, a low whisper said. It was Dr. Stoker, talking directly to Paul. You can come out. I won’t tell on you. I won’t even tell the police officer waiting downstairs.

Paul didn’t budge. He wasn’t sure if he had been found, but he wasn’t about to give away his position. Maybe Dr. Stoker was giving him a chance to come out on his own, but he could be fishing for a response, hoping if the kid was in here he’d listen to the good doctor’s words and trust him. It was a gamble, and Merle Haggard had a song about gambling on the Fightin’ Side album. Kentucky Gambler told the story of a man who left his wife and kids to get rich in Reno. It didn’t end well for the guy. A gambler doesn’t stop, Haggard advised, until he loses all he’s got. The only thing Paul couldn’t decide was, in this situation, was the doctor the gambler—or was it him?

I know you don’t trust cops, Stoker continued, closer now, maybe on the other side of the supply cabinet. I don’t trust them either. But I had to call him. It’s hospital policy. Still, I could tell him I never found you. I could go downstairs and do that. All you have to do is talk to me.

Paul remained still. Sweat trickled down his neck and pooled around his collarbone. He’d heard this talk before from the CPS social worker who sat him and his sister down. The lady had wanted to know all about them, had wanted to be their buddy, and once their confidence had been won she jumped into the good news. A foster parent had been found—a wonderful, benevolent, family man named Joe Wetzel. Thank, but no thanks. Paul didn’t feel like being duped again.

Come on, Brian, the doctor urged, and for a moment Paul wondered who he was talking to. Then he remembered the name he used at intake, Brian Eatles. He couldn’t help but grin as he listened to the doctor attempting to build rapport with a false identity. I don’t want to drag you out of here. I want us to be friends. You and I are more alike than you know. I could tell you all about it sometime. Just let me in. Let me help you.

Why doesn’t he turn on the light? Paul wondered. For a college-educated doctor it seemed like a dumb move. Maybe it was another ploy for his trust. As long as he kept the lights off, they were two friends sharing secrets in the dark. But it felt like more. Dr. Stoker wasn’t using the darkness as a tactic. He was basking in it. Paul heard it in the small man’s voice. He spoke in an excited whisper, the way his parents used to when they were about to dump the kids at the sitter’s and have a night on the town. It made him wonder about the good doctor’s intentions. Maybe he was being truthful when he said he wouldn’t tell the cop. But then what did he want?

Three bassinets down, an infant let out a rusty hinge of a cry.

I’m sorry, Brian. The doctor moved toward him. You leave me no choice.

The cabinet doors were thrown open. One nearly hit Paul as it swung around and then snapped back. Dr. Stoker stood on the other side of it, quietly staring into the cabinet and all the nursing supplies it held. Paul heard him breathing—no, not breathing, seething. The air rushed in and out of the small man’s nostrils in a frenzy.

No, he grumbled. This time he really was talking to himself and not Paul. No, I know when I’m being watched. I know, damn it.

The child in the third bassinet let out another whimper—still soft, but on its way to a louder squall. The doctor’s neck audibly cracked as he turned to look at the baby. His breathing became normal as he watched the little noisemaker. Then he spun around stiffly and exited the room, shutting the door behind him. Paul allowed himself to exhale. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. One question rolled around in his head. How did he not find me?

The doors under the sink popped open and a shadow spilled out. Petra grunted as she got her feet under her. Even in the dim light he could see the sheen of sweat on her face. She smiled at him, and that simple act made all the tension go away. Paul emerged from his corner and smiled back. The baby in the third bassinet sneezed and made a gwaak sound.

That was close, she said.

It sure was. Paul moved toward the door. We better get moving before that baby really gets crying.

I know. She took a moment to nestle her fingers against the baby’s pudgy cheek. Sleep tight, little guy. Thanks for the distraction.

Paul cracked the door and peeked out, looking for Stoker. He wasn’t in sight and the hall looked deserted. It was as good a chance as they’d get. He glanced back. All right. Let’s move.

His sister was still by the third bassinet. She didn’t look up when Paul spoke. Her gaze was stuck on something else, and it wasn’t the baby.

Petra, come on. They could be right around the corner.

She bent to examine something—the nameplate at the end of the bassinet. She read and then looked at the baby and then reread the nameplate. Paul huffed and took her by the elbow. Can we get out of here please?

Petra shrugged him off, bending low to look at the baby again. For a moment their faces were only a couple inches apart, Petra scrutinizing the baby as he gazed bleary-eyed back at her. Then she pulled away. Paul was surprised to see a troubled look on her face.

What? he asked anxiously. What’s wrong?

Petra’s voice was a deadened whisper. This is the man who’s going to kill me.

Paul looked at her with no idea what to say. He finally managed a, Say again?

She shuddered and turned away. A smile lit her face, as bright and as cheerful and as fake as the CPS lady’s had been. Sorry. Don’t mind me. Let’s go.

She moved past him, heading for the door. Paul looked down at the baby, still confused. The puffy-faced tot yawned and made a little chirp. He bent down and checked out the nameplate.

Come on, Paul, Petra said from the doorway. Now.

Three words on the card—David William Alders—a name that meant nothing to him.

Paul, she coaxed.

I’m coming. Paul went to the door, leaving the only awake baby to stare at the darkness.

2

Homecoming

July 3, 2009

Right this way, ladies and gents.

Charlie Rickett led the small gathering toward the second of the six apartment buildings in the complex. The apartment manager had an extra spring in his step this blindingly bright morning as he guided them under the walkway overhang; his stout frame arched as he bounced up the curb and onto the sidewalk. He pointed out the woodwork along the window ledges they passed.

See all that? he said, meaning the intricate border designs around the ledges. His fuzzy white beard bulged as he smiled. That there’s all new. And the glass on the windows is double-paned and thicker than before. I didn’t skimp on the quality of materials. Go on and rap your knuckles against it. It don’t even rattle.

We believe you, David Alders said, holding back a laugh. This had been Charlie’s demeanor all week long. David knew the coverall-wearing country boy could never be labeled downtrodden, but as the time for reopening the damaged sections of the complex neared, he went from chipper to excited to out-and-out bubbly. He was like a first-time father waiting outside the delivery room, which in a way made sense. The Hollows had always been Charlie’s baby.

I don’t. Tess let go of David’s hand and skipped over to Charlie. She put her small fist up to the window and gave it a good knock. It made a thump, but that was it. The nine-year-old with the pretty blonde ringlets gave Charlie an impish smile. Okay, now I do.

Charlie bent low, talking softly to the girl, as if five other people weren’t standing there. Ain’t that something? And that’s just the start. We installed new deadbolts also. They’re toppa-da-line, able to withstand over three thousand pounds of pressure.

Tess’s eyes grew wide. I don’t know anyone who weighs that much.

Ha! The apartment manager slapped his knee. Well, that’s good. They wouldn’t be able to visit ya anyway. Between that and the new security cameras in every parking area, the reinforced front gate, and the night-time security guard doing patrols through the complex, we might as well change the complex’s name. This ain’t Whispering Hollows no more. Now it’s Fort Knox!

Oooh, Tess said appreciatively.

David placed his hands on the girl’s shoulders. I think she’s just humoring you, he told Charlie. I don’t think she knows what Fort Knox is.

Yes, I do, Tess spun around excitedly. That’s where they keep all the gold. Papa used to say he’d give up his first born to get to walk around in there. I’m glad he didn’t, because that woulda been me he was giving up.

See? Charlie said, delighted. The girl knows her stuff.

Whatevah, Mrs. Phuong said with a grunt, her thin arms crossed. Can we go inside now? It’s hot out heah.

The apartment manager snapped his fingers. Right you are. Let’s giddy-on-up the stairs.

The group continued to the stairwell, Charlie leading, the others tagging along. Tess went back to holding David’s hand as they neared the first step. She never strayed far from him. He had his guesses why. Call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or being a stranger in a strange land, but he thought it had more to do with the dream she had told him about, the one of her mother. Amarantha Buckner had foretold Tess about David, even told her how to help them escape, and in that sense she had vouched for him. A mother’s blessing is a strong thing, especially in the eyes of a girl whose entire world was ripped away exactly one month ago. So Tess kept near him whenever possible. She didn’t fuss when he left for work, but she was always back at his side when he got home. It wasn’t that she didn’t like anyone else’s company. But liking others wasn’t the same as trusting them. David knew the feeling all too well.

He squeezed her hand as they started up, thankful that she wanted to be by his side. It saved him constantly checking to make sure she was safe, which he did more often than she realized.

Did he just say giddy up the stairs? Rennie Scoville asked, his head tilted in a deadpan stare. The teen in the Texas Rangers shirt and blue jeans shorts chuckled as he followed.

He sure did, David said, looking back. Rennie had hung around a lot in the last month, and David was happy to have him. The young black man had more than proven himself as far as he was concerned. Rennie’s bravery had been one of the main reasons David’s teenage daughter Melanie was still alive. And though the Scovilles’ apartment had been untouched by the quake of June, it was only right that he was here for the grand reopening of the Alders’ apartment.

Lord knows, David thought. He almost never made it out alive the last time he came by.

Rennie shook his head. Every time I think that man can’t be more of a hick he finds a way to surprise me.

He’s a true Texan, came a raspy voice from the back. Not many of those left, I’d wager.

Melanie was quick to respond. Well, if anyone would know about wagering, it’s you.

Eldon Mickles and Melanie brought up the rear. Her arm entwined his like a couple heading to the dance floor. At first David thought they walked that way to keep Eldon steady. He never admitted his age, but he had to be circling ninety. Yet the more David watched them together, the more he realized Melanie simply responded to something in the bald and half-blind Eldon. His old school charm always worked on her, and he easily fit into the role of grandfather.

They had stayed with Eldon while renovations were underway on their place. His apartment was a three-bedroom family unit, but the codger’s belongings barely filled a single bedroom. The other two had been left empty, as if the old man had known someone would soon need them. He had been beyond gracious. David thought the term bending over backward sounded apropos, but dismissed it as he looked back at the bald man’s hunched gait. The poor guy was always bent forward with his head down, as if searching for his keys, which was odd for a man who constantly saw the upside to every situation.

You know what else I’d wager? Eldon asked, talking to Melanie. That I’m going to let you go on ahead while I catch my breath.

What? Melanie said. You’re not going to let a little staircase get you down, are you?

David heard the gentleness in her voice and couldn’t help but think of Elise. She was sounding more like her mother every day. Looking more like her, too. Mel had borrowed the pickup last week to get a haircut. She surprised everyone by chopping most of it off. She now had a short bob that made David’s breath catch in his throat every time he saw it. It was Elise’s hairdo, and it looked beautiful on her. Of course, it had looked just as beautiful on Elise.

Eldon paused as they reached the side stairwell. He patted Melanie’s arm even as he pulled away from it. Get me down? Heavens no. I just don’t want to hold anyone up. A man of my considerable years likes to take his considerable time whenever going up or down is involved.

Mel leaned to get in his line of sight. It’s okay. I don’t mind taking a few extra minutes.

The old man gave her a big goofy grin, his thick glasses making his eyes the size of football fields. I know you don’t, sweetie. But this is a big day for the Alders. You need to be by your father’s side when he walks through that door.

Mel and Tess exchanged a quick look. David felt Tess’s grip tighten. He had an idea the younger girl wasn’t about to give up her place at David’s side to the older one. Really, Mel said to Eldon. I don’t mind helping you.

Not necessary, Eldon insisted. I’ve got my trusty cane to help me. He tapped his cane against the concrete to prove it. Not to mention there’s a sturdy guardrail on the staircase.

A guardrail won’t catch you if you slip, Charlie added.

Eldon didn’t look back at the apartment manager, but his smile widened. If that happens, I’ll finally be able to take Mr. Rickett for everything he owns.

Yeah, right, Charlie said with a snicker. Poor bastard don’t know I’ve done buried all my money. He put his hand to his mouth and raised his voice. You hear that, prune juice? Even when I finally show up to your weekly poker game, you ain’t taking a dime off of me.

Eldon straightened up as much as his spine would allow, holding a hand to his ear. I’m sorry. Were you speaking to me?

Yeah, that’s what I figured. Charlie started up the staircase. Ya’ll coming or not?

David, Tess, and Rennie took to the stairs after him. Mel watched them, but lingered next to Eldon. The old man patted her shoulder. It’s okay. Go on. You’re not leaving me for long.

Mrs. Phuong made a noise in the back of her throat. Don’t know what the big deal is, she muttered as she stomped onto the staircase. She didn’t mind leaving me behind.

David winced at the comment, wishing he could say something to her. He’d heard Mel and Rennie’s account of that day—how the man named Garrett had chased them, psychically ripping the walkway from the second story and causing a shudder through the whole building that left the roof partially collapsed. The worst damage had been in Mrs. Phuong’s apartment as Mel and Rennie ran through it. As the teens jumped off of her balcony to escape, a section of roof had crashed through Mrs. Phuong’s ceiling and pinned her to the kitchen floor, where she remained for the next three hours until firefighters located her. It had left a coldness in the Vietnamese woman, who thought she’d been the victim of a simple earthquake. Every time she looked at Mel or Rennie, her eyes silently blamed them for those three hours of misery.

She didn’t realize she was the lucky one. She could’ve ended up like Mr. Morton from Apartment 212. His body still hadn’t been found, and David knew it never would.

Mrs. Phuong rounded the corner at the mid-point of the staircase and noticed David watching her. He looked away quickly, but her gaze continued to scrutinize him.

Say, she snipped. Some people said hey or excuse me. Not Mrs. Phuong. With her it was always say. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Tess. They didn’t veer from the girl even as she spoke to David. This your niece, right?

Right, David said without adding more.

On your sistah’s side?

Brother’s, he corrected, praying she never did an online search. It was true David had a deceased brother, which is why they told everyone Tess had to stay with him now. But Scott Alders’ only child was a boy.

She don’t look much like you, Mrs. Phuong said.

Tess smiled. I take after my mother.

That’s true, David said, amazed at the girl’s tenacity. He had no idea how many young girls ever had to relocate sixty years into the future, but Tess Buckner made it look effortless.

Charlie stepped onto the walkway. He took a moment to turn around and survey everyone below him on the stairs. Now, I want ya’ll to know this here is all new. We completely demolished the old walkway and built a new one. New rebar, new concrete, new railing. It’s all—

Toppa-da-line! Tess contributed.

Charlie hooted. Right you are, missy. This is what the contractor calls structurally sound and then some. Come on up and jump on it if you’d like.

Tess surged forward, but David tightened his grip. We’re coming, he said. But I don’t think any jumping will be required.

Aww, Tess said, disappointed.

The group made their way onto the landing. David looked back to see Mel next to Rennie, their shoulders grazing imperceptibly as they walked. Muted cane-taps from below let them know Eldon was on his way. For a moment David couldn’t help but smile. What a strange little family they had become. A man and daughter, a niece, a landlord, the boy next door, an angry neighbor, and the self-appointed grandpa. The only thing missing was a wife.

God, Elise, his mind whispered. I wish you could be here right now.

Charlie reached the Alders’ door first, but continued past it to the next one. I figured we’d start with Mrs. Phuong’s new digs, he said over his shoulder. So if the lady will step this way…

He fished a handful of unattached keys from his coveralls pocket. As Mrs. Phuong approached, he picked a key from his palm and handed it to her. You can toss your old one, he told her. With new digs comes new locks and new keys. He held a hand to the door invitingly. Would you like to do the honors?

Mrs. Phuong didn’t hesitate. She stepped curtly past him and unlocked the door. She opened it just enough for her to get inside, which she did curtly. David heard her voice through the door. Say, this is nice. Tanks.

With that, she slammed the door in Charlie’s face.

The apartment manager’s eyes widened. He looked at David, flummoxed. I guess we ain’t touring the Phuong residence. He shrugged and started back to Apartment 214. That’s okay. This here’s the main attraction.

He reached the door and selected another key from his open palm. David held out his hand, but Charlie only smiled. If ya don’t mind, I’m gonna do the honors on this one. This is where I blew most of the insurance money. He lowered his voice. Just don’t tell that to Mrs. Phuong.

It’ll be our little secret, David assured him.

Charlie winked and turned to the door. He inserted the key into the lock. Ladies and gents, he said grandly. Your humble apartment manager proudly presents… He turned the key. There was a metallic flick and then Charlie turned the doorknob and pushed the door wide. He moved out of the way, his arms spread out like a carnival barker’s. … Casa De Alders!

Tess leaned forward to get a view. Whizzo, she murmured in awe. It was all she could say.

* * * *

Melanie Alders had to admit, Charlie had outdone himself. He could’ve replaced the door and patted himself on the back for upholding his managerial duties. He hadn’t. Charlie hadn’t only replaced the door—he had replaced everything. She could already tell she was heading into a different apartment than the one she had fled from a month ago. As she stepped to the threshold and saw the gleaming wooden border panels that made up the entryway floor, she let out a whistle.

Tess was right, Rennie said, his shoulder against the doorframe. Whizzo’s the word.

Charlie beamed at them and pointed at the floor. That there’s colonial maple with a white diamond accent, he said proudly. She’s a beaut, ain’t she?

It’s whizzo, sure, Rennie said. But whizzo and a beaut? He shrugged. I don’t know how many new vocabulary words I want to experiment with in one day.

Mel leaned toward Charlie and pecked him on the cheek, which made the apartment manager and the teenage boy stand a little straighter. It is a beaut, Charlie, she said. Thank you.

Well, Charlie said, clearing his throat in the process. Go on in. There’s lots more to see.

She smiled and stepped inside, passing through the entry way. Then she gasped.

What? Rennie said in concern and came inside after her. Then he gasped, too.

The old apartment had been designed with a hallway on the left and a dining room and kitchen on the right, both leading to the living room at the other end. But the hallway wall had been torn out. The new design was all open space. Melanie was immediately confronted with an entirely new kitchen and dining area. David and Tess stood in the middle of it, revolving slowly and marveling at everything in turn.

Mel practically felt the grin coming off Charlie. Let’s see here, he said, deciding where to start. You’ve got maple cabinets against the wall, which have twice as much shelf space as your last kitchen. You’ve got your patterned tile backsplash and dark granite counters and your stainless steel appliances and that there’s a palazzo counter-height dining table with a marble tabletop.

Charlie, David said, almost breathing the word. He seemed at a loss. Why did you do all this? You didn’t have to.

The apartment manager shrugged. I guess it’s just us here so I don’t have to put on any airs. He looked from David to Tess and then to Rennie and Mel. You all went through a terrible ordeal last month. Hell, terrible don’t begin to cover it. The worst part was it all happened in a place I’ve called home for more than two decades. I figured for sure that day you’d pack up and leave before the sun could set. But you didn’t. You stayed. While other residents were jumping ship, you stayed. I can’t tell you how much that meant to me… and I wanted to make sure you knew it.

David gazed a long moment at the shiny countertops and the new dining table next to the curtained windows. Melanie watched him, wondering what he was thinking. Sure, he was noticing all the improvements. But she saw something else in that gaze, a memory perhaps. Maybe Dad was remembering other events that had transpired in this kitchen, events that had led to a bullet in his gut. He had never gone into much detail about that moment. She knew it had been the late Gerald Mason who shot him, back in a time when Gerald Mason was the only person on the lease. Mel could barely imagine the nightmares that had caused. Dad could, though, and did. No matter how many comforting things he said, his eyes always gave him away.

But like every other time, he blinked until the look went away. He turned to Charlie and smiled. It’s perfect, Charlie. Absolutely perfect.

Maybe Charlie sensed it, too. His smile dimmed as he watched David. He pulled away to focus on Tess. Hey little lady, you mind if I let you and Melanie explore the rest of the place on your own while I show David his new and improved bedroom?

Tess actually looked at his hand before finally turning it loose. Wow, Mel thought. I wonder how long it took the doctor to cut her umbilical. And then immediately felt guilty for thinking it. Because the thing was, Tess really was a sweet kid. She was bright, funny, and honest. Mel caught herself liking the girl at the strangest moments. Like bedtime. Every night Tess quietly kneeled at the foot of her bed and mumbled prayers to anyone who might be listening. Mel