“Stay,” she said.
He left his own black dress shoes on as he slid into the bed next to her. She curled into his warmth, no longer caring if he was dangerous, just wanting to feel the comfort of his body against hers.
The room was empty when Bess awoke. She went to the bathroom and then searched the rest of her small home. Scott Howland was gone. Retrieving her phone from the kitchen counter she called him. It clicked straight to voicemail.
Bess checked the clock and saw that it was nine at night but had no idea what day it was. She’d lost time before. She tried Scott again. When his voicemail clicked on she hung up, not bothering to leave a message. She searched the counter and coffee table for a note but didn’t find any. Going into the garage she saw nothing but her broken radio and felt a twinge of pain somewhere down inside of her soul. She pushed it away. There wasn’t time for regret or sorrow. Not now.
The events of the last few days ran through her mind, jumbled, reordered, made themselves clear. She knew there was only one thing left for her to do. She hadn’t made it to Mills’s house the other night. Greg had distracted her. Scott said he saw Daniel at work, not his home. It was time someone paid him a visit.
Bess changed into jeans and a tee shirt, not bothering with a hoodie or her other stealth clothing from the night before. She didn’t need to hide from anyone anymore. There was no point.
It was a twenty-minute walk from her front door to the river and just a few more minutes over to Poplar Street where Daniel Mills lived. She heard a siren in the distance and wondered if someone was being saved. The pavement was wet from a recent shower and the air smelled like hot rain and nostalgia.
The sidewalk was cracked and broken. Dandelions poked up through cracks in the sidewalk and Bess avoided them for no particular reason. All the houses here were the same, identical white concrete slab homes sandwiched together with identical debris littering in their identical yards. Bess had written the address on the side of her hand and she checked the numbers. 224 Poplar Street. She was standing right in front of it.
The lot was small and the backyard was surrounded by a rundown wooden privacy fence that was probably once a golden brown, but had faded out to grey. A “Beware of Dog” sign on the gate hung slightly askew, but Bess did not hear any signs of an animal. The house was completely dark and Bess stepped onto the lawn.
There was a sudden clatter from inside the house, like a door flinging open and the subsequent rattling of poorly anchored furniture and knickknacks as it crashed back into its frame. Bess dashed over to the fence and pressed herself against it as flat as possible. Sucking in, trying to be small.
A man burst from the front door and landed on the lawn like a cougar, slowly rising, sniffing, looking for prey. Bess held her breath and prayed to a god she didn’t believe in to keep her safe, keep her hidden, keep her secrets. Slowly the man moved away from the house and down the street, stopping to survey the area, searching still for the force that disturbed it.
Once he was out of sight, Bess peeled herself away from the fence and crept back into the yard. She reached the stone path leading to the house and waited, listening. There was a soft shuffling noise behind her, like sneakers on gravel, and she turned to look.
A man stood on the opposite side of the street. Someone Bess did recognize. He stood, illuminated beneath a street light. Greg Leeds stared at her, a small smile on his lips. The house was right there, but she knew she’d never see the inside. She had to follow Greg, her own personal white rabbit.
Greg didn’t move as Bess jogged over to him. He did not turn to smoke or fade away like she expected a ghost to.
“Why do they think you aren’t real?” she asked him.
“You can’t be here,” Greg said.
“You’re too late, I already am.”
Greg stepped back into the grass and out of the lamplight. “You have to go home, Bess. He’ll be waiting for you there.”
“Who’s waiting for me?”
“Don’t let yourself be caught here. He’s waiting.”
She looked back toward the house, knowing it was the answer, but also that maybe it wasn’t her question.
15
BESS’S HOME WAS lit up like she was having a party. Had she left all the lights on? She couldn’t remember and it didn’t matter. Her door was unlocked and that didn’t matter either.
Inside the house her garage door was open and maybe she did that herself. Maybe she left it open when she was leaving. She could have. She was there. But the smashed radio was no longer on the floor, and that she did not do. The battered, broken radio was on the table once more, yet somehow it was alive—turned on and humming with static that reverberated through the room. She didn’t spend time wondering how this was possible. All things were possible through the Dragon.
With great reverence, like a nun entering a church, she crossed the threshold of the garage and sat (knelt) before her radio. Bess did not bother to tune the radio, it would not be necessary. He was waiting for her and he would find her.
You’ve done so well.
The deep, masculine voice she associated with the Dragon purred through the speaker.
Don’t worry, Margaret. It’s almost over now.
You did these things because you wanted to. And I’m proud of you.
“I didn’t do anything,” Bess said.
You’ve been faithful and good. Poor Bess. Unloved by a father who can’t bear the memories you represent. Unloved by a fiancé who put others before you and strayed. Unloved by the friends who abandoned you. But I love you, Bess Jackson. And my love is eternal.
There was a shrill, deafening screech from the radio and Bess clapped her hands over her ears.
When Bess awoke she knew there was someone else in the room. The air had a heavy recycled feeling. She sat up slowly, being careful of the crick in her neck, and stretched her arms over her head. Her cheek was cold from being pressed against the concrete floor.
“I know you’re here,” she told the room. The only response was a long slow exhale from somewhere behind her.
Bess turned around and saw a slender figure standing in the open doorway between her garage and living room. Long blond hair hung limp down to the shoulders, weighted down by grease and dirt.
“Amy?” Bess asked.
The figure turned away and walked in toward her kitchen. Bess stood and followed her. The woman was in front of the kitchen counter now, looking back at Bess. She wore nothing but a long dirty white tee shirt with light rust-colored stains on it.
“Amy, is that you?” Bess asked.
“Stay away from me,” the woman said.
Bess stepped forward. “Amy, you don’t have to be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The woman was crying now, crouched down, her arms covering her head. “Please, I’m sorry,” she wailed. “I swear I didn’t know. He told me he was single. I didn’t know.”
“You don’t understand,” Bess said. “I’m not who you think I am. Everything’s going to be okay.” She bent down over the sobbing woman and reached out to soothe her.
Something struck her, hard on the back of the head. Bess collapsed to her knees, her mind racing. She tried to turn, to see who was behind her, but another solid hit came down and then all was white and then, finally, peacefully, black.
Bess’s eyes fluttered open and her right hand instinctively reached for her head. It was sticky with dried blood. Lifting herself onto her elbows, she looked around the room and found it empty. She stood up, but a hard wave of dizziness and nausea overtook her immediately and she fell back to her knees, retching hot bile onto the carpet.