A History of Wild Places(88)

I slide the book out and hold it in my hands. It’s a heavy book, dense in content and page count. And it’s not a kid’s book, not for birthday party games. This is a clinical book, a practical application book. It took Levi years to read it all the way through, to understand it.

I let my fingers slide over the letters. I will my unpracticed eyes to focus on the words, and the memories snap through me with sudden, sharp accuracy.

I remember nearly everything.

Everything.

Hypnosis and Practical Applications to Alter the Function of the Brain by Dr. Arthur Trembly.





CALLA


The night sky is teeming with stars, but there is a bite to the air, the possibility of a storm.

We reach the edge of the community and duck into the tree line, not wanting to be seen. Candles throw light against windowpanes and children have been herded into their homes for bed. Pastoral is settling into an evening hush.

We pass the community kitchen and through the windows, I see two figures inside—Alice and Roona—working late as they often do. At least we know Alice won’t be home when we get there.

At the east end of the community, we cut across the main path, moving secretly to the front door of Levi’s house. It’s dark inside, not a single candle lit.

Hopefully Levi has drunk too much, as has been his nightly ritual lately, and is passed out in bed—an immovable human form that wouldn’t wake even if we thumped him on the head.

But we can’t be certain, so Theo pushes open the front door slowly, listening for any sounds. He looks back at me and holds a palm up, gesturing for me to wait here on the front porch, but I shake my head at him. I’m not waiting out here alone. “No,” I hiss. “I’m coming too.” He drops his hand and nods; it’s not worth the argument—we don’t have time—so he turns back for the open door and we both slip inside. The house is cold, drafty, and we move into the office off the living room. My shin thumps against a chair and I let out a wheeze, buckling forward. Theo snaps his gaze back at me and I cover a hand over my mouth, listening for someone moving down the stairs, for Levi to wake. But there is no sound. No movement on the second floor.

Either Levi really is passed out or perhaps he’s not even home, gone somewhere else within the community.

Theo reaches the broad wood desk and his outline bends low, opening one of the drawers. Books line the shelves on the far wall—I can smell their damp, inky scent—and the curtains over the window are drawn closed. Theo pulls out a tangled heap of keys from the drawer, keys to every vehicle that’s ever come to Pastoral, and he places them on the desk then begins sifting through the pile, searching for one key in particular.

“Do you know what it looks like?” I hiss.

He doesn’t answer, his hands working methodically through the keys secured on metal rings, others attached to woven fabric, while some have multiple keys tied together. But then Theo lifts one up, bringing it close to examine it. Hanging from one end is a square piece of metal that reads: Lone Pine Lake. It’s a souvenir, the kind of thing you buy at a gas station or at a small, lakeside store near a campground. A memento.

Memories swirl and collide through me, recalling such places: campgrounds and winding highways and car radios and the smell of tents newly erected after sitting in attics and garages for too long.

“I think this is it,” Theo says, holding the key up for me to see. And then he is quiet a moment, staring at it, and I wonder if he’s recalling a similar flutter of memories. “This is the key to my truck,” he states, as if to solidify it in his own mind.

He pushes the key into the pocket of his jeans, and looks at me, nodding. It’s time to go.

But that’s when I hear it: the banging through the walls.

An echo coming from inside the house. Upstairs.

At first I think it’s Levi—he’s woken, he’s heard us, and he’s stumbling for the stairs, bumping into furniture, still half-asleep and fully intoxicated.

But then I hear a voice; someone shouting for help, fists pounding against a door.

I walk carefully into the living room, to the stairwell, straining to hear. And I know the voice: It’s Bee.





THEO


Her voice is hoarse against the grain of the wood door. “Let me out!”

Bee is trapped inside the closet, and Calla reaches for the knob, but a lock has bolted the door shut. I reach up to the top of the doorframe, feeling for a key, but find only dust.

“Stand back,” I say to Calla.

Her eyes swivel to mine, and she steps away quickly. I ram my shoulder into the door, but it doesn’t move—the wood frame is solidly built. I spin around, looking for something I can use to it pry open. But the hallway is mostly empty.

“Calla,” Bee pleads from the other side. “Please, open the door.”

“We’re trying,” Calla whispers, as if she needs to be quiet, as if Levi might return and hear us in the house.

I bolt back down the stairs, and in the living room I find an iron poker hanging from a hook beside the fireplace. I grab it, and for a split second, an image flashes across my vision: of Levi holding the metal poker and jamming it into the fireplace to spur on the flames. His face turns, looking back at someone behind him. “You could be valuable here,” he says. “Part of our community. It’s a better life than what you left behind.” And then another face comes into focus, the man standing behind him in the living room: It’s me.