Into This River I Drown (16 page)

“If you touch her,” Cal says quietly, “I will take you and yours into the black. If you touch
any
of them, darkness is all you will see.”

The sheriff laughs. “Well, how about that!” he says, slapping his knee. “Boy, you wouldn’t be threatening a county sheriff, would you?”

“The black,” Cal promises him, shutting the door slowly. He turns back to me and I have to fight myself from taking a step away.

a meeting of the minds

Most
people don’t realize that being hunted is just one step away from being haunted.

It’s this thought I have when I wake in the dark, struggling to catch my breath. I sit up in the bed and look at the clock. Just after midnight. I shake my head, trying to clear the dream away. But something feels different. Off.

After the sheriff left, it had taken a while to calm Cal down. I could tell he was just one word away from bursting through the door and hunting down Griggs to tear him apart piece by piece. His dark eyes had grown darker, and he ground his teeth together. He clenched and unclenched his hands repeatedly.

I was unsure what to do, as he ignored my entreaties to move away from the door, to stop glaring out the window. Griggs was long gone, I told him, and besides, didn’t he want to go back to the kitchen and have more Lucky Charms? I picked out all the green marshmallows for him. He ignored me.

And since I didn’t know what else to do, I just stood near him, hoping my presence would be enough to calm him. There was a tentative moment when I touched his back through the old white shirt he’d found in a drawer that pulled tight across his shoulders. He said nothing and I began to rub my hand in a slow circle at the base of his spine. Eventually he sighed and I felt the tension bleed from him and he bowed his head.

“He’s just talking,” I told him quietly, meaning the sheriff. “He’s made empty threats before.”

There was a flash of fury in his eyes, and he turned and gripped my shoulders. “He will not threaten you while I stand before you,” he snapped. “Do you understand me?”

“Cal….”

“
Do you understand me?
”

“Yes.”

He scowled at me and turned to look out the window.

We spent the rest of the day on opposite sides of the house. Cal had still been at the window as night had fallen, but I’d heard him making his nest outside my closed door right before I’d dropped off to sleep.

And now that I’m awake, in the middle of the night, Little House feels different. It feels emptier.

I move from my bed and open the door. His blanket is there. His pillow is there. He is not.

He’s not in the spare bedroom. He’s not in the bathroom. He’s not in Little House. Sunrise is still hours away, but I tell myself I have one last place to look. I open the door and climb up the ladder.

There is no one on the roof.

I will take you and yours into the black
.

I slide down the ladder as quickly as I can, my heart starting to thud in my chest.
He wouldn’t do that
, I think.
He wouldn’t hurt anyone
.

But, I realize, I don’t know a damned thing about him. I don’t know what he is capable of. I grab the keys to the Ford off the table near the door. I slip on my work boots and grab my father’s coat from the rack on the wall. It smells of earth, of feathers. I shut the door behind me and head out into the night.

Poplar
Street is dark as I drive through town. I pass the station as it sits silently. No one’s out this late. Some shops have low lights that reflect in the front windows. The banner for the “Jump Into Summer Festival” glows briefly as my headlights hit it, but then I pass under it and it is dark again. I leave the main drag behind, turning onto Old Valley Road, which winds up through the hills that surround Roseland. I’m trying to remain calm, but not knowing where Calliel might be is doing nothing for my nerves. I almost expect to get to the sheriff’s house and see it razed to the ground, Calliel standing above it like some dark avenging angel.

I’m a guardian,
he whispers in my head.
I guard.

Yes, but he also protects. And he’s found someone he’s deemed a threat.

I switch off my headlights as I round the final corner, familiar enough with the road to drive it in the dark. The house is not destroyed as part of me had anticipated, but rather is lit up, as if someone is still awake this late on a Tuesday. I pull the truck into a copse of trees off to the side of the road well away from the house, hiding it in case someone passes by.

I hurry up the side of the road, feeling slightly ridiculous at being crouched over, but I need to make sure nothing has gone horribly wrong, or at least find out what happened. I cross a ditch rather than head directly up the driveway, then cut across the yard. The lights inside are bright in the dark, but still muffled by curtains pulled across the picture windows, three cars in the driveway. One I recognize as the sheriff’s SUV. The other two I don’t know. There’s enough visibility for me to see a floodlight attached to the front of the house. I go toward the rear in a wide arc to avoid setting the light off. There’s another light on in the house at the back. The ground around the house drops off. There must be a cellar, a rarity in Oregon. The light at the back is coming from a window just overhead that I can’t see into, but it’s propped halfway open. I smell cigarette smoke.

Then I hear voices.

“I told you to blow that shit outside,” Griggs rumbles. “I don’t know why you gotta smoke inside my house.”

“What can I say,” a male voice I don’t recognize says, “it’s an addiction.”

Laughter. Several voices. All male.

“I don’t care,” Griggs says. “Blow it out the window.”

“Someone’s in a mood tonight,” another man says. “This has really got you spooked. I don’t think I’ve seen you like this before. Not even when Big Ed—”

“I told you not to mention that around me,” the sheriff snaps, cutting him off. “Look, I don’t know how much of what he said was bullshit. Nothing has come through the police station, and the field office in Eugene and Portland said they haven’t sent anyone out this way.”

“Would they tell you if they had?” the smoker asks. “Seems to me if they were investigating, they wouldn’t tell you a damn thing.”

“I’ve got a guy who owed me a few favors,” Griggs says. “He called around, checked some stuff out. Nothing.”

“We still going to move operations?”

“I don’t know yet,” Griggs says. “I don’t want to, but if someone is poking around, we may have to.”

“What is your timeline, then?” a new voice says.
That
one I recognize. Mayor Judd Walken. My mouth goes dry.

“Give it a few weeks,” Griggs says. “If need be, we could do it on the day of the festival, when everyone is distracted. I hate to lose our position now, though. It’s prime fucking real estate. No one even knows about it. But it’s whatever the boss wants.”

“This whole thing has bad mojo written all over it,” the smoker complains. “First the guy in the river. Then that fucking meteor thing falling right near there. Jesus, Griggs! It’s like the universe is telling you to get the fuck out, and you’re saying we need to
wait
?”

“Now, now,” the mayor says over the sheriff’s angry growl. “It’s just a bunch of random occurrences. Let’s not assign this to some higher cosmic power. I’ve already reached out to the community to assure everyone that it was
just
that, a meteor that fell and that the science department at the University of Oregon has already come to pick it up. People seem to be excited that such a thing happened in our little town. They won’t question it.”

“That’s great and all,” Smoker says. “Just one thing:
there was no fucking meteor
.”

“Bah,” Walken says. “Semantics. That’s what it could have been regardless. It could have just burned up upon entry and then fell apart when it landed.”

“Or, it could have been one of those drones they’ve got along the Mexican border,” Smoker says coldly. “You’ve supposedly got an FBI agent in town out of the blue, and then something falls out of the sky on the same day? I’m not a believer in coincidence, Walken.”

“A drone, you say.” Walken laughs. “If that’s the case, it must have gone the way of the meteor, then, wouldn’t you agree? I assume a drone would have left debris.”

“Unless that kid got to it first,” Smoker snaps. “You were the one who saw his truck.”

“I can’t be sure of what I saw,” Walken admits. “It looked like the Ford, but I was in such a hurry. And besides, it didn’t look like Benjamin driving.”

At hearing my name upon his lips, my blood freezes.

“It could have been that other guy,” Griggs says. “That big fucker that tried to start shit at Little House.”

“What did you say his name was?”

“Blue. Cal Blue. Or Calliel or some shit. Supposedly from California. Still waiting to hear back from the DMV to see if there is any record of him on file there.”

Oh, Jesus. Cal. Fuck, what if he sees my thread? No. Stay away, Cal.
In my fear, I try to push Cal as far away from my thoughts as I can.

“And if there’s not?” Walken asks.

“Then obviously he’s lying,” Smoker says. “Which means he has something to hide. And this close to a moving date, I don’t deal well with unknown variables.”

“Speculation, all,” Walken says. “He’s probably just Benji’s ass buddy. Lord knows that boy has been alone for so long. Maybe he’s just found someone to give him attention. Big Eddie’s death was hard on him.”

“Fucking faggots,” Smoker spits.

“Quite,” Walken says, sounding amused. “We’ll keep an eye on him, and this Cal Blue. Actions can be taken if necessary. I’ve sunk too much money into this…
venture
… to let it fail.”

“I say we just take them out now,” Smoker snarls. “Kill the fucking faggot before he goes any further with this. He’s already—” He’s cut off suddenly, a gurgle coming from his throat.

There’s movement above me from the window, and, for a moment, my panic is bright and all-consuming; I’m sure I’ve been spotted, that people are staring down at me from above. I snap my gaze upward and see the back of a balding head pressed against the window sill, a hand wrapped around his throat. I recognize the mayor’s ring as it flashes in the dark, a gaudy ruby on his pinkie finger. The hand is squeezed tight, but no one is looking down at me.

“You seem to forget, Traynor, that you are operating in
my
town, with
my
permission, which makes me
your
boss. You would do well to remember that. I’d hate to think that you’d do anything outside the scope of your employment. Remember, while you are here, I
own
you. Do you understand this?”

Smoker—or Traynor, I guess—nods, unable to speak.

“Good,” the mayor says as he releases the other man’s neck. Traynor takes in a gasping breath. “Besides, I’d hate to think of what
my
boss would do if you acted without authorization. Doesn’t seem like a good idea for any of us. I will say, though, that if there are any…
issues
with the boy, I believe getting permission to hunt him down won’t be as hard as we all think. Until then, we watch. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” voices rumble in agreement.

“And you,” he says, though I can’t tell to whom he’s speaking. “I expect you to keep a close eye out. Are we clear?”

A grunt of consent.

“Now, then, shall we check the maps? I’m sure there are plenty of places we could look at should we have to move. Sheriff, would you do the honors?”

The voices and footsteps fade as they start to move away. I release the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

And then I run.

I don’t
turn on the headlights until I’m almost back to Poplar Street. I consider, for a moment, still trying to find Cal, but he could be anywhere. He could be gone, for all I know. If he’s going to come back, he’ll go to Little House and I need to return anyway to make sure no one else is there.

I pull up the driveway at almost two in the morning. Big House still stands. My mom’s little car is parked out front. I know the Trio’s vehicles are parked in back. The house is dark, no movement. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around. I stop in front of the house, consider knocking on the door and waking them up, but then decide against it. Much, I’m sure, can be seen on my face at the moment, and I haven’t had time to process any of it. I put the truck in drive and head toward Little House.

The lights catch a flash, like animal eyes, on the roof.

Cal.

I release a trembling breath and grip the steering wheel, trying to ignore the overwhelming relief I feel at finding him safe and sound. With so much else screaming through my head, I can’t even begin to understand
why
I feel such relief, or
why
I have to stop myself from tearing out of the Ford and demanding he stand before me so I can make sure he is okay. This is something I don’t yet comprehend, but it seems to be growing stronger.

I switch off the truck and open the door. I can feel his eyes boring into me as I lock it behind me. I glance up at him; his body is tense, his dark eyes bright with something I can’t quite make out. He seems rigid. His gaze follows me as I move to the ladder. I take a deep breath and start climbing. I look up when I get halfway. He’s not there, waiting to pull me up with him. I sigh and climb the rest of the way.

He’s perched at the edge of the roof, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. If he got them from the house, then they are my father’s old clothes. The muscles of his arms strain against the sleeves of his shirt. The red stubble on his head and face looks dark in the starlight. I walk the few steps it takes to reach him, unsure if I should touch him in some way. Surely he’s aware of my presence. I decide against it and sit down on the roof, a few feet away. I’m suddenly very, very tired. I have to be up in a few hours.

We sit in silence for a while. Then, in a deep-throated grumble tinged with anger, he says, “Where were you?”