Authors: Erik Tomblin
"But I know what I felt, Walt." Isaac paused, his eyes watering. "This was different. This wasn't just me overreacting to my own imagination."
Walter said nothing at first. He finished off his beer and nodded when Isaac offered to grab him another. After sipping off the suds from the mouth of the bottle, he finally looked Isaac in the eyes.
"I'm not saying you're wrong. I'm just trying to make sure you understand the possibility that it could be something else. For the record, I think you're right. It's probably a grave."
Having Walter agree with him didn't settle his nerves as much as he thought it would. "But whose? It's obviously up there to stay hidden. It could be Mary Jane's. That makes sense, especially knowing what happened to her in that room. But if it's
Elizabeth
's . . ."
He couldn't finish the thought in words. It was too painful to think about when he was still fighting with guilt over abandoning her the last time. Walter must have sensed the young man's discomfort. He leaned forward and placed a hand on Isaac's wrist, squeezing gently to allow what small comfort he could.
"You don't know if it really is a grave. And you can't change the past." He leaned back and drank deeply from his beer. "You can only change the future by living in the present."
Isaac looked up at Walter, surprised by the man's suddenly melancholy tone. His guest was staring again at the bottle in his hands, as if mesmerized by the golden brown liquid. It was easy to like him. He had an interesting way about him, almost a gentle, fatherly quality that reminded Isaac a little of his own father. And he seemed the kind of man that would have been good company to Grandpa Owens.
When Walter looked up and caught Isaac staring, the younger man glanced away.
"You got a sweet tooth?" Isaac asked. "I've got a box of Little Debbie brownies. It might not be a gourmet dessert, but it hits the spot for me."
Isaac stood and grabbed the box from the counter, returning to the table. Walter accepted one and they sat for a few minutes in silence, chewing and washing down the sweets with their drinks. The taste of chocolate and beer, learned from his father, was a comforting combination that helped calm Isaac, getting the conversation moving again.
"I suppose there is one way to find out," he said, his words squeezing around a mouthful of brownie.
Walter's hand stopped halfway to his mouth. "Find out what?"
"If it's a grave."
The old man's arm dropped back to the table, the half-eaten treat falling from his fingers. "I don't think that's a good idea." There was a definite fear in his eyes.
"I know it's kind of morbid, but don't you think the authorities need to know about something like that?"
"No," Walter snapped. "If it
is
a grave then it's an old one. No good can come of disturbing the dead like that."
"You're not superstitious, are you?" Isaac smiled, hoping his little poke at Walter's reaction might calm his neighbor.
Walter leaned forward again in his chair, this time locking his eyes with Isaac's without a trace of humor visible.
"If half of what you've been telling me is true, and I
do
believe what you've been telling me, then I think you'd be the first to see you shouldn't be messing with buried secrets you can't do anything about."
Isaac was surprised at Walter's reaction; the old guy was dead serious.
"Fair enough," he conceded, raising his palms in mock surrender. He was relieved when Walter seemed to relax, a nervous smile working itself across his lips. "Besides, I think you have enough going on without digging up what's probably the grave of some poor
ol
' hound dog.
Isaac laughed, but it was completely forced. Walter's sudden change in demeanor had thrown him, set his suspicions to squirming again. Was his neighbor so concerned with his welfare, or was he involved in this and still not telling? Isaac didn't want to be controlled by paranoia, but it was hard to ignore the emotion that, at times, seemed to control Walter when discussing these things. It wasn't consistent; just suddenly here, then just as suddenly gone. Isaac was on the verge of asking again, but Walter suddenly stood and pulled his harmonica from the front pocket of his overalls.
"I don't know about you, but I can think of a better way to spend our time than worrying about some old rock sitting out in the woods."
And there it was, that friendly smile that, for some reason, Isaac found irresistible.
"Let me get my guitar."
§
The evening had ended well. Isaac, warmed from the company and alcohol, was able to sleep peacefully through most of the night. He awoke only once, wrapped in a feverish dream that fled too quickly from his mind, leaving nothing but a quickly fleeting feeling of dread. Walter had lost all appearances of seriousness and anxiety once the two men had sat down to play some music. The old man had insisted that Isaac play some of his originals, falling right in with the harmonica as if each song had been written specifically with the instrument in mind. Again Isaac told himself that if anything came from this strange adventure, he would make sure he got his neighbor into the studio for the next recording session.
He awoke refreshed and excited about his day. At least until the reality of the task ahead settled back upon his thoughts. Once that occurred, staying in bed another hour or two sounded much more appealing. It wasn't so much the preparation to get Harold out to this place that felt daunting, but more the actual encounter itself. If Albert were able to get the other man out to the house, it would likely be an unpleasant time, especially if it were under false pretenses.
But Isaac knew delaying his course of action might result in a loss of momentum, and it was that momentum that was keeping him from getting mired down in confusion, fear, and frustration. He sat up in bed, rubbed the grit from his eyes, and marched into the bathroom to wash away the remnants of the night. The shower was hot and helped ease the slowly building tension that had already begun from just the thought of confronting Harold again. He stayed under the stream of water longer than he needed. Again he stayed there until it began to cool before turning the water off. He toweled dry in the steamy confines of the shower curtain.
Dressed and ready to get moving, he decided to forgo breakfast until he got to the diner. His stomach growled at him the whole way, but it paid off when he walked through the doors and found Albert sitting by himself at the end of the counter. If luck stayed on Isaac's side, Harold would not show up for breakfast for another fifteen minutes or not at all. Isaac slid in next to Albert, who smiled through a mouthful of scrambled eggs and bacon.
"How are you?" Isaac greeted.
Albert nodded and washed his food down with a loud slurp of coffee. "Not bad. And yourself?"
"Could be better, could be a whole lot worse."
Isaac nodded when Sissy, wearing a smile that put Albert's to shame, offered him some coffee and slid him a menu. He pushed it back across the counter and ordered two eggs, over easy, with a side of country ham and grits.
"So what brings you by this fine morning, Ike? Get bored out there all by yourself?"
"Hardly," Isaac said between sips, not catching the interesting look this response planted on Albert's face. "I actually came by to talk to you. I need a favor."
"Yeah? Well lay it on me."
He took a moment to get his thoughts together, stalling by adding sugar to his coffee. Albert waited patiently, watching the younger man with growing curiosity.
"It's like this," he finally continued. "I need to talk to Harold again, but the last time we had words it didn't go over so well. I was hoping you might be able to get him over to my place this evening."
Albert tilted his head to one side and cocked an eyebrow. "Are you asking me to kidnap the man and bring him out to you?" He was smiling when he said it, but Isaac noted it barely qualified as such.
"Not so much kidnap. More like mislead."
The silence that sat between the two men was quickly getting under Isaac's skin. He was on the verge of regret for involving Albert in such a way until his breakfast companion laughed out loud and clapped him on the back with one hand. Albert must have sensed the younger man's relief.
"I'd do just about anything to get that old goat riled up. Nothing makes for better entertainment."
Albert paused, apparently imagining such a scenario, and then laughed again. When he finally gained control of himself, his laughter dwindling into a weak chuckle, Albert reached across the counter for a napkin to dab at his eyes.
"You just got to promise me one thing. This
ain't
nothing I'll feel bad about in the morning, is it? I know I like giving him a hard time, and the way he's been treating you he's likely to deserve it. But you're out to fix that, right?"
"You have my word on it. I just need to ask him some questions. I think if he can give me some honest answers, then we're likely to get to the bottom of his beef with me."
Albert seemed to consider this as he chewed through another mouthful of eggs. When he finished he put his hand back on Isaac's shoulder.
"Then count me in. What time do you want him there?"
"How about six? I'll make sure to have some dinner for you guys. Maybe that will show I have good intentions."
"Sounds like a fine idea," Albert said, turning his attention back to breakfast as Isaac's plate arrived. "We'll see you at six."
Isaac was surprised at how easily Albert had agreed to help, but he was not one to question it. It was a stroke of luck, and hopefully it would spill over into the visit that evening when Albert somehow managed to get Harold over to the
Willoughby
house. He just hoped his request for help didn't put an unbearable strain on the two older men's friendship.
The rest of the morning meal was spent with Isaac and Albert exchanging small talk and mild gossip, most of which fell from Albert's lips as easily as toast crumbs. Once Isaac's plate was cleared away and he finished off a second cup of coffee, he bid farewell to Albert, thanking him for his promise to help lure Harold into another conversation. He breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled away from the diner, watching as Harold's truck parked in the same spot he'd just left. It definitely seemed as though luck was on his side today. Maybe it would still be tagging along at the courthouse.
Janice's face lit up as she came from the back room and saw Isaac standing there, a light blush playing across her cheekbones. Isaac smiled and raised a hand to greet her.
"I'm glad you came by today. Your timing is perfect." She ducked back into the room and he could hear the shuffle of papers before she returned to lay several sheets on the counter between them. "I think I have just what you're looking for."
As she sorted the papers in front of him, Isaac felt a rush of excitement. With as many pages as she had put down, there had to be some new information that would prove helpful. He followed her finger as it tapped a few of the pages.
"Most of these are just the legal mumbo jumbo the lawyers have to put in there. But here," and she double-tapped the page on his left, "this one tells us what was going on with the property
before
it was put into a trust. And these two tell us what happened after."
She pointed an index finger from each hand to two separate sheets of paper, both near the end of the line of printouts. Isaac was trying to read the print, but the statements Janice had made sent his thoughts reeling. Right here in front of him could be the answer he was looking for, the connection between his family and the
Willoughbys
. He leaned forward and placed his hands on the edge of the long counter, forcing himself to focus. Janice plowed ahead and pointed out each bit of information she assumed he needed.
"See right here? This says the land belonged to an Elizabeth Willoughby up until about ten years ago. Then it was placed in a trust with
Ferguson
, Davis & Rainwater, a small firm out in
Manchester
."
Isaac felt his face drain of blood, his heart suddenly pumping double-time. If the land had belonged to
Elizabeth
as soon as ten years ago, she must have survived the fury of her father. And the law firm mentioned must be the same Walter said he bought his land from.
Janice continued, unaware of his sudden change in demeanor.
"This document says the land, which was fifty-five acres, was split into two parcels by decree of the trust. One is the forty-eight acres that you have. The other is a seven-acre lot that was handed over to a Walter Willoughby. I'd guess he's a relative."
Janice was still talking but Isaac's ears seemed to be filled with wet cotton. All he could hear was her muffled voice, as if it came to him from the end of a long tunnel.
Walter Willoughby. I'll be damned.
The old guy was a part of it all along. He probably knew exactly why Isaac was here, maybe even had a hand in setting it all up to begin with.
But why?
Possibly an elaborate scam to somehow extort money from him? That seemed unlikely. Anyone who would go through that much trouble would surely research and target someone who was making a lot more money than Isaac was. Sure, he was getting paid nicely from the first album, but it was nothing compared to some of the seasoned, major players in the music industry.
And
Elizabeth
? The door? Are those just elaborate special effects?
Isaac wasn't ready to chalk up his visits through that door to some amazing feat of engineering. Rooms shifting, people appearing and disappearing without him noticing any behind-the-scenes action. It seemed impossible.
"Mr. Owens? Are you okay?"
Still, Walter knew something he wasn't telling.
Damn it!
How could he have been so naïve to fall for the friendly old guy bit? And the fact that a man of Walter's age got along so extremely well with him, was so approachable and accommodating. It was also interesting how well Walter's musical ability fell into place with Isaac's songs. Hell, that was as simple as buying a CD and studying up.
"Son of a bitch," he mumbled.
"Mr. Owens?"
Janice had lost her ruddy complexion. Isaac, remembering she was still there, gathered his composure and tried to stand a little straighter, resisting the urge to collapse to the floor.
"Sorry," he said. "I think my breakfast isn't sitting well. You said the land was handed over to Walter Willoughby? It wasn't sold to him?"
She looked at him, her lips drawn into a tight line, eyes narrowed. After a moment she relaxed and continued, shaking her head in response to his question.
"No, it was definitely conveyed to Mr. Willoughby as part of the trust. As far as I can tell, this was all set up in Miss Willoughby's will. It's hard to tell for sure because sometimes a conveyance of land doesn't always appear in the court records. She may have passed the land onto an heir or another party years before, but because it's set up in a trust, I'd guess it was her wish to do so. I might be able to find out for sure, if you want."
Strength was slowly returning to Isaac's legs. He stood taller and leaned forward, letting his eyes dance around the pages before him, looking for some other piece of information but knowing he had enough now to force Walt to show his hand.
"This is good, I think," he said, stepping away from the counter and turning to leave.
"You can take these," he heard behind him, but didn't trust his voice to answer.
Isaac walked out into the late autumn sun, the chill in the air batting against his now flushed face like a spray of cold water. His car was only a few yards from the entrance, but he felt as though if he didn't get there quickly enough he would be waking up on the sidewalk with a concussion.
The wind bit deeper into his skin as he jogged and caught himself against the car door with both hands. He opened the door and collapsed down onto the driver's seat, fighting to slow his breathing and calm the deep, heavy thud of his heart.
Walter had established himself as Isaac's voice of reason and a confidant, and now even that comfort was crumbling before him. Why would the man lie? What could someone like Walter possibly have to gain from keeping secrets, from setting up the wild scenario in which Isaac now found himself? It was like bobbing for apples in a tub full of milk. Nothing seemed clear or reliable, especially since his one touchstone for clarity was no longer trustworthy. He was groping in the dark, looking for his sanity now that the last lingering light was suddenly snuffed out.
Isaac took a few minutes to try to relax as much as possible. Once he felt confident his vision and pulse had stabilized, he started the Mustang and gunned the engine. Fueled by a mixture of hurt, anger and suspicion, he headed straight back to
Mt.
Zion
. Walter had some explaining to do and this time he would either give up everything he knew or, between whatever law enforcement and attorneys could muster up, Isaac would hound that old man until he came clean.
§
By the third round of forceful knocking on Walter's door, Isaac accepted the fact that his neighbor was not at home. The truck was not in the spot he'd last seen it, but the anger at being lied to had propelled him from his car and onto the porch anyway, flinging the screen door back until it slammed against the side of the porch. His knuckles stung from rapping on the door, and the chill in the air blew against the raw, red marks as if to help relieve the pain. It bunted around the door behind him and whistled through the screen.
Isaac stood there a moment, panting and listening for the sound of an engine in the distance. He could only hear his breath and the wind, and he had the sudden sensation of being abandoned there on the hillside, his world fallen away into a past or future to which he couldn't travel. A shiver whipped through him and he ignored the fear that was building within, choking it down with one hard swallow.
"He'll be back," Isaac whispered, shivering again at the sound of his voice in the quiet, how it seemed to fall dead from his mouth and travel no further than the tip of his nose.
He turned and left the porch, giving the screen door a final shove and stomping down the steps. He was stepping into his house (the
Willoughby
house) a few minutes later, still clomping around like a mad bull. Realizing he was sweating under his jacket, he threw it on the stairs as he passed through the foyer. Immediately dismissing the idea of making coffee, he instead grabbed the single remaining beer Walter had brought the night before. It tasted bitterer than it had just twelve hours previously, but the calming sensation of alcohol was immediately gratifying.
He sat at the small table, caught somewhere between anger and confusion. What could Walter possibly be trying to pull over on him? And how the hell could that old man come across as so damn friendly? He was one hell of an actor; Isaac would give him that. And it wouldn't surprise him one bit if Walter was a professional scam artist. He
had
to be; it was either that or Isaac was just too gullible and trusting.
This line of thought only stoked his anger. He downed the beer in five swallows, then cursed aloud that there were no more. If he didn't get hold of his thoughts soon, he felt he would end up trashing the kitchen, possibly moving through the entire house doing the same. It wasn't like he'd paid for any of it, and it was nothing a lowball sales price wouldn't remedy.
When the phone rang, Isaac's arm twitched, ready to hit whatever had just interrupted his inner monologue of anger. He couldn't even laugh at himself for reacting in such a way. Instead he stood and went to the phone, hoping it was Walter so he could tear into him with a line of questioning that would leave the man sweating and stammering out excuses.
"Hello," Isaac answered, his tone direct and unmistakably tainted with his rage.
"Ike? It's Albert."
This time Isaac did manage to laugh. The disorientation in Albert's voice and the realization that just answering the phone in this house seemed to be a ride in itself was enough to force a release of tension.
"Hi, Al," he sighed. "How are you?"
"Just fine. Thought I'd let you know everything is good for tonight. I told Harold I needed him to ride with me out to the Home Depot in
Manchester
, which is true. What he doesn't know is we'll be stopping by your place on the way back."
The relief passing through Isaac helped alleviate the anger resulting from Walter's betrayal.
"I really appreciate this. I don't want to cause trouble between you two, but I need to get to the bottom of a few things about this place, and I have a pretty strong feeling Harold knows more than he is telling."
A brief pause from the other end of the line signaled Albert was probably considering whether or not to try his luck at prying. He apparently decided against it.
"It's no problem. It'd take a lot more to separate us. He can hardly stand anyone else in town, but I know he gets lonely. Since I'm the only one that will put up with him for more than a few minutes, he doesn't have much choice."
Isaac was able to laugh out loud at this, the last of his anger dissolving.
"Well, thanks again. I'll see you this evening."
"See you then."
He hung up the phone and stood there, smiling at his foolishness. No matter what Walter was trying to pull, Isaac could surely handle it with a few phone calls: one to his attorney and another to local law enforcement, if needed. He was getting too worked up over something about which he still didn't have the whole story. If he kept it up, he'd be trying to solve the
Willoughby
case from a hospital bed while recovering from a stroke. At his age it was unlikely, but not impossible.
It was still several hours before Albert and Harold would show up. Isaac would need more groceries to accommodate the men, and that was an excellent excuse to pick up more beer. He could throw back a few to force himself into an alcohol-induced nap, then wake up in time to start dinner. Sleep was an excellent way to forget his worries for the next few hours, even if it meant trudging through a few bad dreams.
Feeling slightly better about the situation, he retrieved his coat from the stairway and headed out the door. He thought about driving up to Walter's again to see if he'd returned, but decided he'd rather stay in his current state of calm acceptance. Perhaps he would check on the way back in, or wait until tomorrow morning when he'd had time to let his emotions find their proper place in his thoughts. It would bode better for the old man, and Isaac still had a bit of a soft spot for him.
§
Isaac did indeed come back from the grocery store and drink two beers in quick succession before passing out in the recliner in the midst of a buzz. He couldn't remember any of the dreams that kept him squirming in the chair for several hours, but when he awoke there was an echo of a whisper swirling in his thoughts: his name, spoken softly by a woman. It could easily have been either Emily or
Elizabeth
's voice. He had heard a familiar, sincere concern in its tone, a deep need that pulled at his core. It seemed so real that he sat up quickly, his head reeling as he tried to focus on the room around him.
The voice echoed throughout the house, floating across the room, through the doorways on either side of the den, and down the halls. Isaac blinked once, then closed his eyes to focus his hearing. The whisper disappeared quickly, however, and when he opened his eyes all he could hear was his own breathing and the hum of the central heating unit somewhere in the attic.