Chapter 14: Help!
Travel sucks. It’s degrading, exhausting, expensive, and uncomfortable. Never leave your home. Never drive anywhere further than an hour or two in any direction. Anything else is unnatural. Nothing in our evolutionary background prepares us for being hurled six miles up into the sky in a fragile aluminum cylinder, howling through the wind and the rain at more than 500 miles per hour. It turns us into zombies.
I did customs in New York City, changing planes at J.F.K. International. Then I flew another red-eye across the States to Seattle. On that flight, I finally slept. Good thing too, because when my heels hit the ground at Sea-Tac, I needed one more puddle-jumper to get down to Portland.
Back in Hipster City, I reunited with Mr. Reliable in long-term parking. No time for a tearful reunion. Instead, a hell-ride through the rain, slamming McDonald’s Lawsuit-Hot Black, Cream, No Sugar all the way down the I-5. We rolled over Grant’s Pass by noon, heading toward Crescent City and Selkie Bay.
The hours ate up the miles of wet highway. The radio stayed silent. Every nerve focused on the road while I replayed the events of the last week over and over in my mind. But nothing changed the resolutions I’d made on the plane. Interesting, though, how I’d gone from homebody to veteran globetrotter in the course of a week. It wasn’t until halfway over Grant’s Pass that it occurred to me that I’d waltzed right back into the U.S. on a fake passport and nobody even gave it a second glance. No wonder they tell smugglers to act natural.
Finally, finally, finally Colin answered his phone as I drove past Catamount Campground on the final leg home.
“Rowan, is that you? Are you in the States?”
“Colin! Where’s my mom!?”
“I need you to stay out of Port Selkie. Things are a bit of a mess—”
“Like hell! That’s my mom! Does Burke have her? Is it Cherise?”
He took a deep breath. “Let’s not get into this right now. I have to…o…o…”
“Colin? Are you there? Damn!” The satellite dropped him. It can do that in the hills, the mountains, the national parks. The coverage there is awful and who knew how many networks my prepaid Euro card was routing through to make a local call.
That didn’t turn out so well. Here’s the man of my dreams, in theory, who never met the right woman until he met me, or so he claimed. Now he can’t even tell me what’s going on about something as important as my own mother.
Unshakeable Resolution Number Three—Colin Braden was not the one.
I reached US 101, turned north, and gunned it for Port Selkie. But a new problem appeared. Where exactly was I going? I didn’t know where my mom was being held. I didn’t have an apartment anymore. I didn’t know where Colin or Cherise or these other Bradens lived.
The only place I knew to look was that bricked-up tunnel complex I had explored on that first night of strangeness. But did they live down there, somewhere behind a secret door? Or had that just been a convenient place for Cherise to do her black magic thing, light some candles, and summon the sluagh?
I checked the clock—nine in the morning, Tuesday. The Jill Thorman Real Estate Agency would be open. With any luck, Jill would be out and Maria or Amy could help.
It should be Colin helping me. I dialed his number again and again. He never answered and it never went to voicemail. It just rang and rang.
Mr. Reliable rolled to a halt at the intersection with the 101. Left was the way to Jill’s office. But to the right… I hooked a right onto Rainier, rolling over the tree-lined hills of the quiet neighborhood. My practiced eye checked the real estate signs, marked which of the local agencies and different agents had each listing. No changes to the listings since I’d last driven this way.
Up ahead was my destination. I turned onto the broad, semi-private road, headed toward the Lotomaw Murder House, home of the sluagh and the driveway where I’d hit Colin Braden with my car.
The house where it all began.
My Honda rolled to a stop forty yards short of the murder house. For good measure, I turned the car around, nose pointed downhill. Fool me once, I thought, keys dangling, doors left unlocked. This time if I needed to run, the car would be facing the right way.
Somebody sat on the porch as if waiting for me. As I walked up the drive, it resolved into a man smoking a cigarette.
Colin Braden didn’t smoke—not in the time I’d known him. In Paris, he’d had every opportunity to smoke if he’d wanted to. French people love cigarettes as much as wine and beef, but Colin hadn’t so much as flicked a Bic.
The man stood up. It was Burke.
I froze in my tracks.
What did he want? Why was he here? What had he done to my mom?
I stalked forward, hands clutching my purse. Should have stopped at Bear Flag Guns & Ammo and bought a big, fat can of pepper spray, enough to fell a charging brown bear. More than enough to handle Burke Sparks, no matter how far in his little ‘transformation’ game he’d progressed.
He gave a slow, easy wave. “Rowan! What a surprise.”
Don’t let his charm lull you into complacency. “Why are you here?”
He came down the steps, one at a time. A plain gray t-shirt, no logo, hugged his chest beneath a flannel shirt. Worn jeans, white strings showing at the frayed knees, over workaday boots completed his attire. He even wore a rawhide tool-belt, replete with hammers, clippers, and screwdrivers.
“You’re violating your own court order.” His easy grin returned. “Three hundred yards, remember?”
“I’ll say it again. Why are you here?”
“Jill hired me to fix the place up. She said you quit.”
“Where’s my mom!?”
“Your mom? How the fuck should I know? Arizona, right?”
I stamped my foot on the gravel drive. “Burke, where is my goddamned mother?”
His smile faded and he raised two hands, palms out, taking a step back. “Take it easy. What are you talking about?”
“I spoke to Joyce. You showed up at their place, talked my mom into your car, and drove off! Nobody’s seen her since.”
He looked at me like I’d gone mad. “Why would I do that? I haven’t been to Arizona in years.”
“That’s not what Joyce said!”
“Who’s Joy—oh, your mom’s lezzy lover. What the hell would I want with your mother?”
“You and Cherise couldn’t terrorize me with your monster, so you grabbed her instead!”
A good liar, Burke knew how to act, but in that moment he did look baffled. “Who’s Cherise?”
“Your vampire mistress!”
“Did you actually say ‘vampire’?” He grinned. “Is this a joke?”
“What, you’re going to deny it now?”
He took another step backward. “Rowan, are you on drugs?”
“Get out of that house! I’m searching it from top to bottom.”
He waved his hand. “Be my guest. I’ll wait in my truck until you cool down.”
“Fine.”
Burke walked off, giving me a wide berth as he went and sat in his Chevy Blazer. The window rolled down and he lit up another cigarette. Country metal played on the stereo, Johnny Devil. He’d played that our wedding. The angry refrains of ‘Blood Wedding’ only raised my hackles now. But if he had anything to do with my mom’s disappearance, he hid it well. He acted innocent.
Could he be right? Was he uninvolved? What if he’d never known Cherise Braden? Maybe she never existed. Maybe Colin was imaginary, too. Did I just hallucinate a week-long sojourn in France?
Doubting my own sanity, I stalked inside the house with my phone out, poking Colin’s contact photo over and over with a cold fury. It rang and rang and rang, never even going over to voicemail. I tried Desiree. At least I still had their numbers programmed into my phone along with thumbnail pics. Those were at least still real. Or did I invent them, too, grabbing random pictures off the internet?
This time my phone said, “That number is no longer in service.”
Where did you go, Desiree? Are you still working on my blog? Or was that another hallucination? Had they done something to me in Concordance Therapy? Jill and Super-Mike sometimes talked about reality bending, mind-over-matter, visualizing a new reality through the Law of Attraction.
If that worked, then I wanted the universe to hand over my mom, right now.
The universe stayed silent.
I searched Lotomaw House from cellar to attic, too scared for her to worry about running into horrific shapes in the halls, on the stairs, behind closed doors. The monster never made an appearance.
Everything looked calm, clean and normal. Someone had laid down a paint-cloth inside the front door. Fresh paint covered half the banister from the first story to the second floor landing, sticky to the touch.
Burke was out here doing genuine work. It made sense Jill would hire him, they were Concordance Therapy buddies. But what did Burke need to work for anymore? He had his undead mistress, his Cherise. Just as I had my Colin.
Pulling out my phone again, I dialed Joyce. I needed a sanity check.
“Hello?” she said.
“Hi, it’s me Rowan.”
“Thank God, hon! Did you find out anything?”
“No, I just got back in the States early this morning. I’m in Port Selkie now, but I haven’t found her yet. Did you call the cops?”
“Yes, hon. I did. I spoke to a nice officer named Deputy Sam Wabash there in the Umawa County Sheriff’s Office. He agreed to open a file on your mom and keep an eye out for her. I’ve got his number here if you want it.”
“Yes, please. Thanks Joyce, you’re a doll. Can you help clear up a little mystery?”
“Of course, hon.”
“I’m going to text you a pic. It will show a man sitting in a Chevy, maybe smoking a cigarette. It’s my ex-husband. Send me a text telling me if that’s the man that came to your house or not.”
“Will do.”
I changed the phone over to camera, held it up as I walked outside toward Burke’s truck. ‘Sparks General Contracting’ it read on the side, same as always, along with a business address, contractor’s license number, and a business number about three years out of date. Last I’d heard, Burke had been living on the couch of his good buddy Super-Mike, Concordance Trainer, drinking away what little money he earned. What did Cherise even see in him—if she even existed?
Burke leaned out the window, gave his best shit-eating grin.
I raised the camera, snapped a picture.
His grin vanished and he flung the cigarette at my feet. “What the fuck are you taking my picture for?”
“Thanks for the memories.”
“I ain’t violating no fucking order—I’m on a job site!” He protested, fuming, knowing I could in theory get him in trouble for this. “You quit! This is private property.”
“I’m not turning you in,” I said. I sent the photo off to Joyce.
“You’re off your meds, except you never took any. Didja start?”
“No.”
“Maybe you should. Vampires and Arizona. What’s with this shit?”
“Never mind,” I said, turning to leave. It took all my self-control to make it back to my Honda. Why didn’t anything fit together anymore?
Calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean—and face facts.
Number one: my mom is missing. Joyce confirmed that. Number two: I did just come back from France. My travel bag sat on the back seat, full of brand new clothes fresh from the runways of Paris. And I did speak to Colin coming over the mountain earlier this morning. Right?
On impulse, I tried his number again.
“That number is no longer in service,” the network told me.
What just happened?
After what felt like an eternity, Joyce texted back two simple words: That’s him.
I shot a look over at the Blazer. Burke still smoked his cigarette with an insolent look on his face. But his falsehoods showed through. He’s lied before, he’s lying again. The hair on the back of my arms stood up.
I felt a premonition of danger, a tremble through and through. He’s lying and he’s dangerous and so is his partner and that creature and no matter how determined you are, maybe this is too much for you.
I started the car and headed back toward the highway and the Umawa County Sheriff’s Office. Maybe Deputy Sam Wabash would have something to say.
“Do let me know if the little lady turns up,” Deputy Sam Wabash said. He raised his campaign hat, a broad-brimmed straw cap like forest rangers wear and waved it as my Honda drove off.
I’d wasted two and a half hours waiting for him to see me only to tell me he’d taken down the basic information but hadn’t entered it into the computer yet. But boy, howdy, if my mom turned up on any traffic stops or other law enforcement contact, he’d be sure to let her know plenty of folks sure was worried about her. Yes, ma’am.
Useless nitwit, he made me want to scream.
More frantic calls to Colin or Desiree received only the same disconnected message. I called Joyce and let her know the bad news. We commiserated but she didn’t have anything new.
Something Colin had said days before flooded back:
With a story like that? Burke would deny it, Cherise will never be found—and then where would you be?
Exactly. Where could I go? To whom could I turn? No mom, no cat, just Mr. Reliable. Not even Netflix, just a $143 bank account and this phone with a European SIM card.
I whipsawed back to thinking the last week had been one giant, hallucinatory fantasy. But I had a travel bag with my passport and Parisian clothes on the back seat. I double-checked it in the rearview mirror.
The back seat was empty.
I pulled over on the side of the road, trying not to shake. Was I going crazy?
Had I turned into a delusional bag-lady living out of her car overnight? I ran to the back of the car, opened the trunk. I had two more bags in here, part of my hasty retreat from Europe.
Gone. Not a bag, not a tag, not a sign of any trip at all. Not a single thing to assure me that I’d been anywhere near Paris. Nothing but the clothes on my back and this phone, this generic, Samsung knockoff—the Keosung 4000, it said, made with pride in the Republic of Korea.
There’s an expression: the end of your rope. It derives from hanging from the neck until dead, whether by suicide or execution. It’s a morbid turn of phrase. But I’d reached the end of my rope. I’d lost my mom, my home, my mind.
Opening the glove-box, I rummaged around and found an old Jill Thorman Real Estate folder. A business card, with her big, boisterous face and easy-to-remember phone number, was stapled to the cover.
I dialed.
“Jill Thorman Real Estate, home is where the heart is!”
“Hi Amy, it’s Rowan. Is, uh, Jill there?”
“Sure, one sec.” She punched my call through.
“Sparks!?” Jill boomed. “What do you want?”
“Help.”