Exit Us; The Pillar Saga, Book II

By Ben Larken

Winter has come to Railston.

Shattered from the loss of his old life, Thomas Pillar hides, chilled by the past as much as the falling snow. Ross Medford, more media sensation than detective, knows his days as head of the Pillar taskforce are numbered. Both men have hit a standstill—but that’s about to change.

After a failed suicide attempt, Pillar finds himself in the condemned hotel Elysian Falls, living amongst Railston’s homeless. Vagrants are being picked off by a mercurial stranger wielding a sword, their bodies carved with an otherworldly message: EXIT US. No one knows what it means, but Pillar realizes the hunter is searching for something he possesses, a key that will open a doorway to another realm. As Ross and his team draw near, demonic forces clash and a trail of murder blazes through the city—a trail that leads straight to Pillar.

Can Pillar stop a madmen obsessed with igniting a demon apocalypse? How can he defeat an opponent who knows more about his purpose than he does? One thing is certain. If Pillar fails, the world may never see another spring.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781619502246

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

Exit Us

The Pillar Saga, Book II

by

Ben Larken

All rights reserved

Copyright © April 28, 2014, Ben Larken

Cover Art Copyright © 2014, 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: 978-1-61950-224-6

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: July 1, 2014

Also by Ben Larken

Pit-Stop (The Hollows Series Prequel)

The Hollows (The Hollows Series Book 1)

The Man in the Wall (The Hollows Series Book 2)

Pillar’s Fall (Pillar Saga Book 1)

The Babel Walker

Dedication

To my mother Lou Ann,

for her love, patience, and the time she pranked me by removing all the towels from the bathroom while I was showering.

Moments like that made me a horror author.

Chapter One

The Plastic Room

Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim.

Be patient and tough—someday this pain will be useful to you.

—Ovid

The sword lay sideways on his lap, and Tusker ran his fingers over the hilt with a bored playfulness, almost fondling it. His gaze drifted to the table in the corner, a plain metal foldout, and its contents: a laptop computer, a portable television, and a cellphone; arranged so neatly it bordered on obsessive. The portable TV was off. He hardly switched it on, mainly to conserve the batteries. But the laptop was on, and a window box took up most of its screen, displaying chat room comments. Six people were logged on, fewer than usual. He watched it, wasting time. There was little else to look at in the room, except plastic. Lots and lots of plastic. Sheets of transparent plastic draped over the walls and spread across the floors, charging the air with static and making the wood paneling and the tile floor fuzzy and out of focus. Every time he came in here, the plastic smell made him light headed, but the smell ceased to be an obstacle after fifteen minutes. He had been in the room for six hours now, and the scent barely registered in his nostrils anymore. His gaze went back to his lap, to the gleaming silver blade. He didn’t glance toward the center of the room. He was tired of that spot and tired of the man who inhabited it. This had been a long afternoon, and it was all that man’s fault.

Tusker rubbed his temples with long, delicate fingers. The throbbing beneath was growing, and the way to get rid of it was to finish this. Which meant looking at the man again.

Ready for another try? he asked.

The man in the center of the room didn’t say a word. His name was Barlow, and he was a pitiful sight. Tusker had shackled the man’s wrists to chains that were bolted to the ceiling above. The bonds held him tight enough to keep his arms pulled wide, leaving his shirtless chest open to attack. He wore only the khaki slacks he had on when Tusker abducted him. They were speckled with blood that had sprayed from Barlow’s nose and mouth during the last beating. His chest and arms were blood-smeared too, but the sheen of sweat covering his body made the bloodspots runny and pink.

His face, though—looked like shit.

Barlow was a young man, twenty-five according to the article Tusker had read in the paper, although his age was indecipherable now. Barlow’s face was a bluish-gray mush lined with blood streaks. He resembled a loaf of moldy bread. The photo in the paper and the thing hanging from the rafters were complete opposites. The strapping young man in the photo was clean-shaven, handsome; even debonair. Rafter-boy was a freak of nature. The thought gave Tusker a jolt of pride. He had a gift for pulling the inner freak from obnoxious yuppies, turning princes back into toads. And to think, this was just the beginning.

He rose from his chair, stepping toward Barlow. The young man flinched, causing the chains to rattle.

Tell me, Tusker started. What do you think my first question will be?

Poor Barlow trembled silently, still afraid to talk. He needed motivation. Tusker lifted the Claymore sword, making the tip graze Barlow’s nose. It was a brutally large and clumsy looking weapon, but that was okay when it came to intimidation. Not that he was clumsy with it. The sword was a natural extension of himself. He extended it toward Barlow. The young man tilted back, his puffy eyes fixed on the 39-inch blade in front of him.

I asked you what my first question will be.

The d-doorway, Barlow said hoarsely. You’re going to a-ask about the doorway.

Very good. You’re right. I’m going to ask about the doorway. And when I do, I would like a good answer. Do you remember what happened the last time I asked you about the doorway?

Barlow dipped his head, tears forming at the corners of his swollen eyes. Yes.

What did you answer?

I said— Barlow sobbed, his body trembling harder. I said I didn’t know what you were talking about.

Tusker held out his hand beseechingly. And that was… ?

A b-bad answer.

Tusker smiled. Very, very good. Right again. That was a bad answer. And what’s the consequence of a bad answer?

Barlow sniffled. You cut off three of my toes.

Tusker glanced at Barlow’s bare feet and the three marble-sized appendages lying a few inches away. Blood still oozed from the wounds on Barlow’s right foot, though the flow had slowed considerably in the last hour. He took another step forward, squashing one of the dismembered toes under his boot. Barlow shuddered, his injured foot recoiling as if feeling fresh pain. Tusker brought his face close to Barlow’s, close enough to smell the putrid odor of fear wafting through his ski mask.

Mr. Barlow, Tusker whispered. Tell me about the doorway.

Barlow squinted at the man before him, at the skin-tight black polo shirt, at the black mask turning his face into a silhouette, at the blade ticking back and forth between them like a pendulum. Mainly, he watched the eyeholes, the only part of Tusker that could be seen.

Tusker smiled, knowing the eyes matched everything else. Black and intense, like the gloves and the pants and the boots, his pupils were devoid of humanity.

He saw the young man fight the urge to weep. Barlow coughed and gagged on his own sobs.

The doorway, Tusker pressed. Now.

Barlow’s lips groped for something to say. The sound came out in a small moan and formed words, becoming, Why do you think I know about a doorway?

Tusker clicked his tongue disapprovingly. Oh, Barlow. You can’t answer a question with another question. Who do I look like—Socrates? He rubbed the chin of his ski mask. I can answer that. But the information will cost you.

Barlow let out a whine. No, I didn’t mean that. I—

The reason I’m asking is simple, Tusker said. You are the Guardian. You are its chosen protector. You are its keeper.

No, I promise, I’m not.

Tusker sneered. His hand was up in a flash, striking Barlow across the jaw. Come on, Reverend! Tusker screamed. Of course you’re the Guardian! I read about you. I read that story in the paper. You’re the best preacher Railston’s seen in decades. You are active, charismatic, and compassionate. You have all the makings of a great warrior of God. If anyone has been appointed the Guardian, it’s you. You have control over the doorway, I swear it. Stop fucking with me and tell me what I want to hear.

Barlow gazed at him, strength giving way to hollowness. Tusker knew he had him. Barlow was coming around, giving up the fight. Barlow opened his mouth, but what came out was a melody.

And He walks with me and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own…

Tusker lowered his head. Oh, Barlow, he whispered. Mr. Barlow. Reverend-fucking-Barlow.

He clenched his teeth and punched the young man in the gut. He didn’t care about intimidation. The singing had to stop. The melody came to an abrupt end. Barlow wheezed and puffed, trying to recover. Tusker used the relative silence to assess the situation.

That was my fault, I’m afraid, he said to the man dangling before him. I never should have said the part about you being a warrior for God. You took strength from that, didn’t you?

Barlow didn’t answer. He busied himself with huffing air, but Tusker knew the man was stalling. This bastard might take up the rest of the day, believing in his own pathetic faith.

Let me tell you a secret, Tusker said in a conspiratorial whisper. Your god doesn’t give a damn about you. Do you really think he’s going to protect you? I think I’ve already proved conclusively that he won’t. He paced in front of Barlow. I know. You think of your god like a bank. You’re saving up credit with him, right? One day, you know he’s going reimburse you. Every appendage you lose today will be replaced with better parts. That’s the light at the end of the tunnel, is it not?

Barlow’s breathing steadied. For once the young man wasn’t avoiding Tusker’s gaze. In fact, he matched it with newfound intensity.

I know God is watching me, he said, his voice low and zealous. I also know He is stronger than you.

Tusker let out a laugh. He danced toward Barlow. That sounds like a bet. Well, why don’t we test your theory?

The young man pulled his gaze from his captor and stared at the wall in front of him. Tusker knew the look. He was gathering himself for the next round, mentally buckling down for the coming pain. He opened his mouth and the song resumed. And the joy that we share as we tarry there…

Tusker smiled. Do you remember me saying the answer would cost you?

Barlow’s voice wavered. None other has ever—known.

Steel slashed upward. The blade caught his left arm between the shoulder and the elbow. It sliced through the muscle and bone with little resistance. Barlow wailed again, his body swinging by the chain connected to his right arm. The left arm dangled by itself on the other. Blood squirted in a jet from the stub. The reverend cried in agony, swaying, the squirting blood making wide circles on the plastic-sheet floor.

Tusker stood frozen in a barbaric pose, the sword held high in his outstretched arm. He slowly lowered his arm, realizing with a brute chill that he had gone too far too early. Barlow was bleeding out. The reverend wouldn’t last much longer. Tusker bit his lower lip. If the bastard hadn’t started singing he would still have both arms. But no, he wanted to show off his Christianity like some Boy Scout badge.

Enjoy the pain, Barlow, he said, his voice barely registering over the screams. You’ve earned it.

The cell phone rang.

Tusker looked at the table. Excuse me. We’ll pick this up again.

He walked to the table, grabbing the phone and walking to the far end of the room, though it did little to drown the noise. He flipped it open, glad to see it was a text message. He couldn’t carry much of a conversation in all this racket. On the tiny phone screen the words came up. The text message was simple:

Turn on the TV.

Okay, Tusker said, puzzled. Mind telling me what channel?

He shrugged and clomped back to the table. Barlow’s volume was fading, along with his consciousness. He moaned weakly, taken over by shock. Tusker walked past his prisoner and touched the power button on the portable television. The picture came on, taking its time to come up to full light. It was on channel five, one of the local ones. He realized why the text didn’t include a channel. Breaking news notifications rushed across the screen, and from the looks of it, the same would be on every station, even the national cable channels.

The footage came from a news helicopter, its camera fixed on a light brown skyscraper, one of many that towered over Railston. This skyscraper had a sizeable hole in it. About midway up; a large chunk was missing from the wall. Pieces of metal gleamed along the edges of the hole like silvery worms. Wreckage. Tusker arched an eyebrow, turning up the volume. A female newscaster’s voice faded in, dramatic and scared.

… ran into the Proselytite Office Building about twenty minutes ago. The reports we’re getting are all unsubstantiated, but we do know the helicopter belonged to the Railston Police Department. It struck the building at approximately 4:45. The helicopter remained attached to the building for about ten minutes before coming loose and tumbling to the ground. We have footage, but it’s taking us a minute to get it prepped. Are you ready, Bill? Okay, here it is.

The live coverage jumped to tape, and what Tusker saw next both disturbed and thrilled him. It was the building again, this time with the helicopter attached to its side. As he watched, the helicopter buckled and tilted before coming loose entirely. It plummeted quickly, dropping to crash into a blurry car at street level.

Dear God, the newscaster mumbled. A car was destroyed during the impact. We don’t know if anyone was in the car. No fatalities have been reported so far.

The tape rewound and spooled, giving the same scene in slow motion. The newscaster piped up again. Oh, wait, she said. More details are coming in. According to the police, the person inside the helicopter was—oh God—was Detective Thomas Pillar, the same detective who first gained the nation’s attention last year when forced to throw a young child from the William D. Fluxom Bridge. As we reported this morning, Pillar was the first official suspect arrested in the Morrissey Murders. He must have—he must have escaped in the police helicopter somehow. And his escape ended here, in the side of the Proselytite Office Building…

Tusker turned the volume down. His heart thudded with undeniable excitement. Thomas Pillar. He was responsible for the spate of murders that had gripped the city all week. And now he was loose again, loose to do who knew what. The thought sent chills down his spine. The phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced down at the new text message scrawled across the readout.

Pillar is the Guardian, was all it said.

He can’t be, Tusker whispered. His stomach clenched and a tingling fire swept up through his diaphragm. He nodded slowly. Yes, he can, he told himself, a light dawning in his eyes. He sure as hell can.

He spun, facing his prisoner again. Barlow’s body was turned in his direction, held up by that single chain. The reverend’s pupils slid back into his skull and down again, barely hanging on to reality. Tusker leaned over him, lifting the sword.

Good news, Mr. Barlow. I no longer need information. Thanks for your time.

The blade pierced the base of Barlow’s stomach. It slid upward, tearing a line over Barlow’s abdomen, heading toward his chest. The reverend stiffened as if trying to pull off the sword. The young man began to spasm, like a cowboy riding a bull. The chain was his lasso. The blade sliced higher, and Barlow let out a moan, harsh and despairing. The sword ripped into his heart and the puppet went slack on his string, his guts spilling onto the plastic sheeting. What a mess it made. A beautiful, twisted mess. Tusker gazed in supreme satisfaction. He crouched and ran his fingers through the warm intestines, relishing the fading heat. Like a load of warm laundry out of the dryer.

Two words quickly overtook all thought inside his head. He stared at his bloody hand, the words burning through him, a bomb waiting to go off.

Thomas Pillar.

Oh, what sweet words they were.

Chapter Two

18 Months Later

Has life gotten anywhere close to normal in this last year?

Detective Ross Medford focused on the lady across from him, the coffee mug in his left hand trembling enough for the camera to catch it. Chief of Police Donald Queensbury watched from a shadowy corner of the studio, amused. Medford always amused him. He had a bright future as a public official—or at least an actor. The detective looked at home under the stage lights. On the plaid sofa, he struck a noble pose, his jaw sporting enough stubble to suggest a hidden ruggedness. He was the quintessential cop. The chief straightened his thick-lensed glasses as Medford looked down, seemingly deep in thought.

Normal, Ross said. I wish I could call my life that. I haven’t used normal to describe my life in more than five years.

The lady, a bright-eyed and even brighter-toothed morning show hostess named Julianne, dipped her head in acknowledgment. You mean your father’s death, she said sympathetically. You were barely out of police academy when he succumbed to brain cancer. Has that loss affected your job?

Tremendously, he replied with the perfect amount of gravity. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. My father always told me to leave the world better than I found it, to leave people happier and healthier than they were before. That’s what I aim for. I go through each day hoping I’m making him proud.

Well, you’re making me proud, Queensbury thought, his chest swelling. Queensbury was a career cop. Like most career cops, his personal life bore the brunt of his ambition. He’d gone through four wives over three decades, and none of them ever liked him enough to have children with him. If that bothered him in the past, it stopped being an issue the moment he met Ross. From that first meeting after Pillar’s arrest, he knew. The boy was a prodigy in the making. He was the son Queensbury never had. And to think, he had wasted years searching for one outside of work.

Julianne tilted her head, smiling. I have no doubt that he is. And I’m sure he was extra proud the day you arrested Thomas Pillar, bringing the most infamous killer Railston has ever known to justice.

Queensbury almost chuckled. Ross was good, but so was she. She wasn’t letting him drift off into nostalgia for long. It was time to get back to the one subject no one ever got enough of—Pillar.

Ross’s eyes dropped at the mention of the name, but he continued. I hope he was, he answered. My father grew up on the west si—

How difficult has it been to go through each day, knowing that Pillar is loose again and able to pick up the killing spree whenever he chooses?

Queensbury flinched at the barbed question. Ross merely smiled, easing farther back into the chair. Another killing spree is probably the last thing on his mind.

Do you mean he’s no longer a threat?

I mean he’s too busy hiding to enjoy old hobbies. Could you imagine living a normal life when every newspaper and TV throws your face in front of the world every five minutes? It’s impossible. Pillar’s hiding under a rock. Sooner or later, we’ll turn that rock over.

Certain city officials are raising questions about how close you really are, Julianne countered. There’s speculation that the leads are running dry.

Ross took a sip of coffee. There’s also speculation that Elvis is alive.

Is the speculation false?

No, he said, grinning. I believe Elvis is alive, too.

Julianne leaned back in her chair, letting the camera get a quick shot of her shifting legs. You take the hunt for Pillar rather personally, don’t you, Detective Medford?

Ross crossed his arms, his pretty-boy face taking on sharper edges. I caught him once. If anyone’s going to catch him again, it’ll be me.

The morning show host nodded and turned to the camera, displaying a perky grin. Coming up next, Chef Fred Calino will show us how to make the most dazzling eggplant parmesan ever to grace your dinner table. When Good Morning Railston continues.

The music came up, and Ross rose to his feet, that sharp look disappearing. He waited until the camera man dropped his finger, signaling the break, and stepped closer to Julianne. How’d I come off? Did I look sincere?

The host beamed a large fake smile. Oh, Ross, you were great. Stoic and brave.

He popped a toothpick in his mouth and followed her off the stage and toward the drink table. You really think so? Thanks.

The host turned the opposite direction. Fred, she exclaimed. Excuse me, Ross, I’ll talk to you later.

He stood next to the coffee table, watching her go. Um, okay. Catch ya later. He continued watching her make small talk. Chief Queensbury came to a silent stop next to him, but he didn’t turn. Hey, Chief.

Queensbury scratched his tiny lump of a chin. Good interview, Medford.

Ross shrugged. Eh, I’ve had better. He turned to leave the set. Queensbury walked with him, his bald scalp shining in the studio lights. Did you come down here to watch it? You didn’t have to do that. I’m recording it on my DVR.

They stepped into the hallway, keeping out of the way of stagehands zipping back and forth. No, Queensbury replied. We need to talk.

Oh boy. That’s never a good thing.

Queensbury chuckled. Medford, if I didn’t know you better, I might think you didn’t like me.

They reached the exit to the back lot, and Ross slid his hands into his pants pockets to keep them warm. The air was crisp and cold, with a hint of snow in the wind. Queensbury zipped up his jacket.

Chief, you know I like you. In fact, I’ve secretly had a crush on you for some time. How would you feel if showed up tonight wearing nothing but balloons?

There’s been some new developments lately, the chief said as they continued into the parking area.

I’ll bring a needle, Ross said. You can spend the whole night popping me. Then we can pull out the whipped cream and take our passion to a whole new level.

It has to do with the city council meeting.

Ross stopped in his tracks and turned to Queensbury. The council meeting was last week. Why am I hearing about it now?

Queensbury’s lips twisted into a half-innocent smile. He glanced at the studio they had exited. Ross rolled his eyes and picked up the pace. Oh, I see. This is bad news, and they didn’t want me griping on television.

Bingo.

What is it? They want me to pull back on the public appearances?

Yes.

And that pay raise request probably crashed.

And burned, Queensbury acknowledged.

Ross shook his head. All because I can’t find one guy. I don’t suppose you pointed out the other sixty-seven guys I found and busted in the last year?

Nobody cares about those. They care about the one that got away.

Ross reached his ruby-red Corvette Coupe. Fine. I get the picture. Thanks for coming. He pulled the keys out and opened the driver’s door.

That’s not all, Medford.

Don’t worry, Ross cut in, getting into his sports car. I’ll be at your house with the balloons by six.

The chief leaned down to keep eye contact. They’re disbanding the taskforce.

Shock silenced him. Ross climbed back out of the car. You’re shitting me.

I’m sorry, Medford.

Ross propped a hand on his holster. I thought they wanted me to catch the guy.

They do. That’s why they’re keeping you on the case. But they can’t keep five other officers on it—officers who could be more productive elsewhere.

Oh, this sucks, Ross seethed. Did you fight for me at all?

I was too busy kissing their asses, which is what you should be doing if you want to stay in the public eye.

I’m the best thing the Railston PD has going for it.

You’re right, you are, Queensbury agreed. But you’re also a constant reminder that Pillar is outfoxing us. He’s making asses of us all—especially you.

Ross hit the roof of his Corvette. Then I’ll go it alone. He used his sleeve to wipe off the smudge.

Not completely alone.

But you said—

I said they disbanded the taskforce. But they also gave you a new partner.

Ross had to laugh. This keeps getting better and better.

Don’t worry. You’ll like this one.

I liked the last one too, until he started killing people.

This one was promoted to detective last week. He’s ready to prove himself.

Great, he can hold the whipped cream.

That’s not why you’ll like him, Queensbury said. You’ll like him because he thinks you’re a god.

Ross arched an eyebrow. A lightning-and-thunderbolt god, or a sissy-in-a-toga god?

Let me put it this way. When I asked him what he wanted to be, he said you.

Ross considered the chief’s words, finally nodding. That’s a good start, Chief. He got in the Corvette and shut the door. He rolled down the window. How good is he with commands? You know, like roll over and play dead?

He’s there to help you. Queensbury’s owl eyes tried to look fatherly, but fell short. Don’t take focus off the goal. Catch Thomas Pillar.

Ross grinned and turned the ignition, bringing the engine to a quick roar. Don’t worry, Chief. I’m gonna mount the bastard over my fireplace.

He shifted gears, and the Corvette shot out of its space, its tires neighing like angry horses.

Chapter Three

December

Sunt lacrimae rerum

There are tears for things. Life is tragic.

—Virgil

Sunlight broke over the canyon wall, illuminating the wooden monolith in the center of the rocky plain. Thomas Pillar lay crumpled on his side, his forehead resting uncomfortably on a large stone, three feet from the upright rectangle. His eyes flickered open, unfocused. He stared blankly at the brown door, at its simple frame, at the rusty hinges. Pink light reflected off the knob’s tarnished silver. Everything was quiet here. The wind was a forgotten whisper. Animals were nonexistent. Just the sky and the ground and the door—a land of bare minimums. Sometimes that was comforting. There were times, coming with more frequency lately, when Pillar needed the solitude. He needed to pare away the unnecessary excess and clutter of the world. He needed a place as vast and empty as his soul.

Other times, like now, he longed for something else—when he caught himself wondering what would happen if he opened the door.

He sat up, his arms resting on his knees, facing the door. A single word sat at the edge of his tongue. It had wanted to be uttered for weeks, ever since the thought hit him, but he hadn’t been brave enough. The implications were too ominous. His eyes skipped over the barren crevices and withered walls. He knew it was time. He opened his mouth, trying to overcome the urge to hesitate.

Charlotte?

His voice came out small, but he didn’t care. Volume didn’t matter much in this place. Charlotte, are you in there?

He waited. Regret seeped into the fringes of his mind. She wasn’t in there. Of course, she wasn’t. Why had he been stupid enough to think—?

Tom?

His eyes widened. He scrambled towards the sound. Soon his hands were on the door’s chilly veneer. Charlotte! I’m here.

Tom, she said. Oh Tom, where are you? I can’t see anything in here.

I’m right here, baby, on the other side of the door. Are you okay? Are you hurt?

God, Tom, where have you been? I’m scared.

Pillar ran his fingers down the door, seeing her face in his mind. I know you are. I am, too. I miss you bad.

Something ran down the other side of the door—fingers. Tom, let me out. I don’t want to be in the dark anymore.

He turned his eyes to the old knob, the pink sunlight still beaming off it. His fingers drifted toward it and then stopped.

Tom, she whispered, right on the other side. What’s wrong? Open the door.

I—I’m not supposed to.

What? Tom, I just want out. You can close the door behind me.

He rested his forehead against the door, closing his glazed eyes. If I do, bad things will happen.

The voice came back wounded. Do you not want me anymore?

Baby, no, he said, a tear slipping down his cheek. I want you so much, it hurts. I need you. I’m nothing without you. I’m nobody.

Then open the door, she sobbed. Let me hold you.

His fingers drifted again. He looked down and saw them resting on the knob. His jaw clenched. Another tear broke free. I don’t know what to do, Charlotte. What if something else gets out?

There’s nothing else here. But you have to hurry, because they’ll be back soon. Hurry and open the door. I want to feel you against me.

He was silent, choking on his own emotions. His fingers grazed the knob. All he had to do was add a little more pressure. He could turn it quick, and she’d be here again. Charlotte would be back in his life. He—

Damn it, Tom, she cried. Why won’t you open it? First you shoot me, next you trap me in here. Let me out already!

He pulled his head back. One thought came to the forefront.

You’re not Charlotte, he whispered.

Tom, she pleaded, but her voice changed. The light, warm tone he knew so well shifted. It deepened. It gargled. It sounded horrible. Tom, Tom, Tom, the slimy voice croaked. Fucking Tom. Fucking bastard Tom. I’m going to get out of here soon. And when I do, you will feed on your own excrement.

Go away, he said, his voice dwindling. Leave me alone.

A raspy laugh came through the cracks. We’ll never leave you alone, Pillar. Not until you open the door. Turn the knob already. Something pounded the other side, making the dust fall from the frame and the hinges squeal. Then a second pounding came, booming through the canyon, and he leapt back as the door bent outward.

OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!

Tom’s head jerked up and a cold spasm riveted his body. No! he cried, and the word bounced from every direction, sounding like a disapproving parent. For an instant, Tom thought he was still in the canyon. No, he was awake, lying alone in a darkened shower room. The cruel part was he couldn’t tell which place was worse.

He sat up, scrutinizing the shadows. The single grate mounted at the top of the wall across from him, a foot in length, normally remained shut to keep the winter draft out. He staggered to his feet and hobbled to it, opening the slats. Gray sunlight filtered in, reflecting off the intricate tile work. His face hovered close to the grate, basking in the achromatic light.

Everything’s okay. The canyon isn’t real. Only a dream, something constructed out of subconscious fears. The words ran through his head like a mantra. It was. He thought the same thing every morning.

He turned from the grate as another tear dripped to the floor. He touched his face, smearing the wet lines on his dusty cheeks. He had been crying again. His hand dropped to his side, and he straightened his back, glancing at the ten showerheads surrounding him like vultures. He stood in the center of them, ignoring the biting wind that flowed through the grate. A chill wrenched his insides, along with the realization that had circled every thought and emotion for weeks.

I’m going to die, he whispered, glancing at each of the showerheads like they might talk back. I’m going to—find Charlotte.

He nodded at the statement, relishing the crossroad he had come to. It was somehow both disturbing and exhilarating. The only part that disturbed him was the word—suicide. It sounded horrible and sickening. It was something he never pictured himself doing, even during those awful teenage years. In the police academy, he scoffed when they cited the statistic about officers who killed themselves out of depression. That wasn’t going to be him. Suicide was another word for coward. Those ideas sounded so noble then—and so foolish now.

He stepped out of the shower room, his feet sliding in worn-out sneakers. Cracks split the fronts of them, and over the last month, he’d come to hate the way the cold air circulated between his toes. He went into the next section of the locker room, the part with the sinks and mirrors, the part he usually avoided. He couldn’t today. If he was really going through with this, he needed to look himself in the eye at least once.

He went to the first sink, placing his grimy hands on the basin. The reflection in the mirror was little more than a nighttime silhouette. He made out his own haggard beard, looking like one of those tumbleweeds from the canyon. The large overcoat hung on him with a stiffness that didn’t come from starch. He had lifted it from an unlocked car four months ago. It had been almost too fancy for a grungy man trying to remain inconspicuous. It was anything but fancy now. The edges were crisp with dried mud, the sleeves were ripped in places, and the inside of it smelled like a clogged gutter.

Tom slumped it off, which made him even colder. His eyes remained on the mirror, though his reflection was concealed in darkness. He couldn’t turn on a light switch either. The electricity had been off since last month, along with the water and the phone line in the office down the hall. That was good. Lights would bring out the ugliness in his eyes. He simply stood there, watching. His right ear tilted slightly toward the pane, cocked to listen. He waited, nodding subtly. He pulled back and sighed.

I’m not a coward, he said. Cowards are trying to escape. I have a purpose. I have to find Charlotte.

He shut his mouth and listened. He honed his ears, hanging on every whisper that murmured inside. Once upon a time, The Voice came clearly—eagerly. It sounded distant, like a child talking into a coffee can on a string. He heard tinny words, and they brought a growl from him that he couldn’t contain.

Because I miss her, that’s why! he boomed. I miss her smile. I miss her body next to me. I miss the way she always found the silver lining. I miss how she held me, even when I didn’t want her to. I miss Charlotte, damn it! My bones ache for her.

The wind battered the walls of the pool center outside. Stray tree limbs scratched the roof, and the tarp over the pool ruffled like a flag. The background noise was a distant world.

Right now, it was Tom, the hairy shadow in the mirror, and the whisper of a dismayed friend sliding back and forth between them. In the reflection, he saw glimmers of what the man behind the voice used to look like. He had been clean-cut, always wearing a suit and tie. He had close-cropped hair and a smile that walked the line between warm and sarcastic. Confidence filled the air around him, and it had nothing to do with the holster on his belt or the gun sticking out of it. That was his voice of reason, and it looked a hell of a lot like the Thomas Pillar of two years ago.

What mission? he growled at his reflection. "This is no fucking mission. I’m still nobody. I live in the locker