After Dark (2 page)

“I can carry my own bag,” I said, following behind her.

“I know,” she said, stepping outside, “but I haven't been to kickboxing or yoga in weeks, and these arms are getting flabby. Plus, you dillydally, and I want to make it back to Rolling Hills by six. I've got a million things to do.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa — hold the presses,” I said. “Do you mean we're actually spending the summer in Rolling Hills? I thought that was more like a hypothetical situation. Kind of like, maybe we'll spend the summer in some out-of-the-way hick town, but we'll probably go to Hawaii instead.”

“It's not hypothetical,” she said, marching down the front walk and into the parking lot. “And it's not a hick town, Charlie. Rolling Hills happens to be a popular getaway for some very influential families. Your great-grandfather built the inn as a place he could take business partners. A lot of the people he brought there were powerful — and they liked it so much they built their own summer homes.”

“So it's filled with rich, old people? Sounds like a barrel of monkeys.”

“There are 1251 people happily living in Rolling Hills year-round, Charlie, and they're not all old. Plus, when the tourists start to arrive in July, there are bound to be a few teenagers. Who knows, you might even have a little fun.”

“I could have fun lying on a beach in Hawaii, sipping coconut water straight out of the shell.”

“I'll buy you some coconuts at the grocery store,” she said. “We'll be too busy finishing up the renovations to worry about coconuts anyway. We've only got about a month before the first guests arrive.”

“When you say that we'll be busy renovating the inn, you don't actually mean that we'll be renovating the inn, right? You mean that we'll be present during the renovations but enjoying ice-cold glasses of lemonade and lounging by the nearest pool, correct?”

“No, Charlie, we'll be renovating the inn,” she said. “I've hired some help, but we'll be getting our hands dirty, too.”

“I'm more of an ideas man than a worker bee, Ma. Plus, I've got
sleep in
right at the top of my to-do list. I've had a pretty tough semester at Choke.”

“It will give us a chance to catch up. I haven't seen you since Christmas.”

“We could catch up on a beach in Maui, too, you know,” I said, keeping my eyes peeled for her black Jag. It was the perfect napping car: soft leather seats, smooth ride, the calming hum of the engine. My eyes were getting heavy just thinking about it. But Mom stopped in front of a massive black pickup truck.

“How do you like the new ride?” she asked. “It's a Dodge Ram 1500, with 390 horsepower and a V8 Hemi engine.”

“Do you even know what that means?”

“Some of it,” she said, climbing inside.

“I thought you were an environmentalist,” I said, getting in, too.

“This will be better for the work we have to do,” she said. “I'll trade it in for an electric car and plant a few trees when we're done. Will that make you feel better?”

“It doesn't matter to me,” I said, getting into the front passenger seat. “You're the one who's always worrying about the melting ice caps. I always figured we had enough money to survive a flood. I mean, don't they have secret bunkers for people like us?”

“You wish,” a voice said from the backseat.

It was my twin sister, Lilith. Her shoes were beside her on the seat, and she was sitting with her legs folded up like a Zen master, and her eyes closed. Technically we're twins, in that she was born two minutes and thirty-seven seconds after me, but that's as far as it goes. Lilith is short, lean and wiry, with blond hair and blue eyes like Mom. I'm at least half a foot taller than her, with brown eyes and brown hair that's just curly enough to look messy all the time. People used to say it was adorable, but that stopped when I hit nine or ten. Also, Lilith has an uncanny knack for keeping her clothes looking spotless and crisp. Even on the last day of school, her uniform — a green and black tartan skirt, dark green knee-high socks and a white short-sleeve shirt — looked brand-new.

“People with money don't have to wish for things, Lilith,” I said.

“When money ceases to have meaning, I will be prepared,” she said, opening her eyes. “Will you, Charlie?”

“Probably not,” I said, leaning the seat back and closing my eyes.

“You should reconsider your motivations in life,” she said.

“My motivation right now is to get some sleep, so go back to meditating about puppies or boys or whatever it is you think about.”

“I
don't
think when I meditate, Charlie — that's the point. You'd know that if you'd bothered to read any of Dad's books.”

“I don't think
Dad
read all of his books, Lilith. You know the last two were written by other people, right?”

Lilith's arm lashed out like an angry cobra. Her fingers clasped on to my shoulder and pinched down on a nerve, which sent an incredible bolt of pain through my left arm.

“Take that back,” she said in a cool voice.

“Relax,” Mom said, starting the truck.

“Take it back,” Lilith said, squeezing tighter.

“Relax, Lilith!” Mom yelled.

Lilith let go of my shoulder, sat back and closed her eyes again. “Fine.”

“You're lucky I'm tired, Lilith,” I said, trying to ignore the fact that my left arm was now numb, “or I'd have to give you a lesson in Charlie-jitsu. And believe me, you don't want a piece of that action.”

“Anytime, Charlie,” she said.

“No more fighting,” Mom said, backing out of the parking spot. “Lilith, chill out. Charlie, apologize to your sister and go to sleep.”

“Oh, come on. We all know that Dad had a ghostwriter for the last two books. Remember that guy — Jim or Al or something? I mean, we're not going to sit around and pretend Dad's a hero or something — not after what he did.”

“That's not the point, Charlie. Apologize to your sister.”

I turned around and looked at Lilith. She stared back.

“Sorry.”

Lilith closed her eyes and went back to meditating.

“What do you say, Lilith?” Mom said, making her way through the parking lot.

“Life is not a joke,” she said.

“You might be right,” I said, lying back down.

“Lilith, that's not how you accept an apology,” Mom said.

“Forget it. I'm too tired for all this mumbo jumbo,” I said as sleep drifted in. “How long is the drive?”

“About seven hours,” Mom said.

“Wake me for lunch,” I muttered, and fell fast asleep.

Friday, ?:?? p.m.

I woke up in the dark.

Alone.

With an urgent need to pee.

I was still in the truck, which was a surprise. I had some foggy memories of stopping at a McDonald's for lunch, but other than that, the whole trip was a blank.

I sat up, wiped the drool off my chin and took a look around. It was dark, but thanks to a very bright moon, it wasn't pitch-black. To my right, at about two o'clock, was a large, inn-like building — I assumed it was the inn. It was two stories high and covered in gray paint that was cracking and peeling off in spots. A sagging porch ran along the front, with a string of thick bushes covered in pink flowers growing wild against it. There were four large windows along the ground floor and six slightly smaller windows on the upper floor. From what I could see, there weren't any lights on inside. I had absolutely no idea what time it was, but that was beside the point now; what really mattered was the fact that my bladder was about to explode.

I slipped outside and took another quick look around. The gravel driveway stretched out behind the truck for about seventy-five feet before it hit the road. The other three sides of the inn were surrounded by trees, so there were plenty of places to take a whiz, but I made a beeline for the bushes growing along the front porch. I chose one that looked slightly more parched than the others and opened the floodgates.

I wouldn't normally go into too much detail about my bodily functions, but that was one of the most joyous moments of my life. Choirs of angels sang, bells rang out, trumpets blasted. I was so overwhelmed with relief that I failed to notice an old man stepping up behind me.

“Stop urinating on my roses, punk!”

He had a full head of curly gray hair and was wearing a black jacket, black pants and black gloves, but no shoes. What really caught my attention, though, was the large shotgun he was aiming at my back.

I always thought I'd panic under those kinds of circumstances, but I managed to remain surprisingly calm.

“I told you to stop urinating on my roses, punk!”

“I'd love to, but my bladder's on autopilot right now. Maybe I could just shuffle over to another bush.”

“What'd you say?” he asked, squinting at me.

“I said, I'll move to another bush!”

I took a few steps to my left, and he jabbed the gun in my back.

“Don't move a gard-darn muscle! After what happened here last night, I'm well within my rights to lay you out! You got that?”

“I don't know what happened here last night, old man, but I was a long way away. My mom will vouch for me, except I'm not sure where she is at the moment.”

“What'd you say?”

“I said, I wasn't here last night!”

“What?”

“I'm going to burn down all these bushes,” I mumbled.

“What are you saying? Speak up,” he said, jabbing me with the gun again.

“I said! I was at school last night! Choke Academy! Last night! I wasn't! Here!”

“Choke Academy? What about it?”

“I was there! I was there!”

“At Choke? Why were you at Choke?”

“That's where I go to school!”

“At Choke?” he said, lowering the gun a little. “Who are you, kid?”

“I'm Charlie. My mom is Claire. She owns this place!”

“What's your mother's name?”

“Claire!” I yelled, finally finishing up my business with the roses. “Claire Autumn!”

“Your mother is Claire Autumn?” he said, backing up a step.

“That's right. I'm Charlie!”

“You must be Charlie,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, turning around. “I'm Charlie.”

“Yeah, I see the family resemblance now,” he said, lowering the gun. “Why the hell didn't you say that in the first place, kid? Gard-darn it, you should know better than to urinate on another man's roses.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“What?”

“Who are you!”

“I'm Hal — your uncle Hal, kid,” he said, looking at me like I was the crazy one. “You have to speak up. I'm a little hard of hearing.”

“You don't say.”

I had vague memories of an email Mom had sent a month ago about Hal still living at the inn, but she'd failed to mention that he was completely deaf and liked to wander around at night dressed all in black, carrying a shotgun.

“It's nice to meet you,” I added, holding out my hand.

He looked at it like I was trying to give him a rotten fish. “You'll have to wash that thing before I shake it,” he said. “Come on, I'll take you inside.”

I followed him around the side of the inn, down the gravel driveway and toward the back.

“Why are you all dressed up?” I asked. “Big party? Gun convention? Shock therapy?”

“What?” he said, as we turned the back corner.

“Nothing. Where's Mom?” I shouted.

“How the heck should I know, kid?” he said, stopping in front of the back door, leaning his gun against the wall and pulling out a ring of about thirty keys.

“She's probably inside,” I said, watching him try the first key in the lock. It didn't work.

“She's probably inside,” he said, trying another key.

“Good thinking. By the way, how long have you been living here, Uncle Hal?” I asked. But before he could answer, a figure burst out of the trees at the back of the yard and sprinted toward us.

“Get inside!” the figure screamed, waving hands in the air. “They're right behind me!”

Hal dropped the keys, grabbed his gun and whirled around.

“Freeze!” he yelled, aiming the gun at the stranger.

“Get inside,” the stranger cried, still sprinting straight at us.

“Freeze, punk!”

Our panicky visitor came to his senses and skidded to a stop about twenty feet away. He was a little on the short and scrawny side, with chin-length black hair and black-rimmed glasses. Everything he was wearing was black: military-style boots, pants and his jacket. I started to wonder if wearing black at night was a tradition in Rolling Hills.

“Please, please, please,” he pleaded breathlessly. “We've got to get inside. They're right behind me.”

“Who the hell are you?” Hal asked.

“I'm Miles Van Helsing. I live down the street. Please, please, please, we've got to get inside.”

“What did he say?” Hal said, glancing at me.

“Just go inside,” I said. “I'll explain inside!”

Hal lowered the gun, grunted something, then turned back to the door.

Miles immediately ran over to us. “Hurry!” he said, hopping from one foot to the other.

“Who's after you?” I asked, while Hal rooted through the keys.

“Hurry, hurry,” Miles said, glancing over his shoulder.

Hal tried another key, but it didn't work.

“Who's after you?” I asked again, but this time Hal found the right key and opened the door. Miles pushed past both of us and dashed inside.

We followed him in, and Hal turned on the lights. We were standing in a narrow, rectangular room, with an old brown couch pushed against the opposite wall. A coffee table cluttered with newspapers and magazines was sitting in front of it. I noticed one of the newspapers was dated August 6, 1972, and there was a faded and curled
Time
magazine from 1967 with some kind of psychedelic rock band on the cover. Across from the couch, a small, ancient television was propped up on a knee-high table, its antennae reaching up in a
V
. Miles stood beside the television, peeking out of a small window that had a view of the backyard.