Henry Franks (13 page)

twenty two

Henry looked out at the parking lot outside of Dr. Saville's office. The rain was coming down in sheets and he could barely see his father's car waiting for him at the end of a row. He pulled his shirt over his head and ran out the door, jumping over puddles and bouncing off a car as he slipped on the wet pavement. His T-shirt was soaked before he'd taken more than a dozen steps, and flashes of lightning threw shadows around him. At the door to his father's car, he pulled the handle but nothing happened. He pounded on the window for his father to unlock the door.

Long moments passed with Henry hitting the glass with the heel of his palm, not even feeling the impact. He ducked down, squinting to see inside. A flash of lightning illuminated his father, slumped over the wheel. Henry ran around the car, sliding through a puddle and ramming his shoulder into the bumper of the minivan next to him. His ear rang from hitting the light fixture above it, but he didn't feel any pain.

He stood up, unsteady, shaking and soaking wet, and made his way around the car. He rubbed his ear, still ringing, and came away with his fingers dripping blood. At his father's door, Henry banged on the window, leaving a trail of blood to wash away in the rain.

When there was no response, Henry started kicking the door, denting the metal before his father finally stirred, tilting his head to look up at him. Henry wiped the rain away and stuck his face up close to the window.

“Unlock the door!” Thunder drowned out the words and the sound of his father pressing the unlock button.

Inside the car, Henry dripped on the seats and tried to wipe the rest of the blood off his face. “Have a nice nap?” he asked.

“Sorry,” his father said as he started the car. “Lost track of time. You're bleeding, what happened?”

“I slipped.”

“You okay?”

Henry shifted away from his father, turning to the window to study the trails the rain was making down the glass. “Fine.”

“I said I was sorry, Henry.”

“I said ‘fine.'”

A ray of sun broke through the clouds as the rain slowed on the brief drive home. In the driveway, William stayed in the car as Henry got out.

“You coming in?” Henry asked.

His father shook his head. “No, too much to do.”

“Whatever,” he said, then slammed the door.

Behind him, William rolled the window down. “Henry!”

He turned around, standing in what remained of the rain. “What?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Will you be home at all?”

His father shrugged, rolled the window up, and pulled out of the driveway, leaving Henry standing in the middle of the front lawn. He looked at Justine's house, waved even though he didn't see anyone, and walked to the front door.

One by one, he searched through wet denim pockets for his keys, hoping they weren't with his cell phone in his backpack still in his father's car. He tried the knob but held little expectation that it would work, and wasn't surprised when it didn't.

“Just fine,” he said, resting his head on the door. “Crap.”

The wind chilled his wet clothes as he climbed up on the porch railing to reach the spare key in the gutter. His shoulder popped as he reached up over his head and his ear was still ringing from the car he'd run into. With a grimace, he walked his fingers back and forth in the gutter until he finally pulled out the spare keys.

Up and to the right, he unlocked the door, then threw the key-chain back into the gutter.

William parked down the street from the house, watching as the wind blew the branches through the rain. His stomach grumbled but there was little desire to eat, to drive somewhere and buy something. He sighed and unrolled the window, letting the water splash his face as he looked into the marsh.

With a shudder, he pushed the door open and ran between the houses. Back to where the trees were lost in shadow, his feet slipping in the mud. Still, he kept moving, chasing the wind to find where the hissing began. But there was never anything there when he arrived. A branch broke, the echo right behind him. He spun around, her name on his lips, but he was all alone. Always alone.

Walking through the trees, he wiped the rain away from his face with muddy hands and left streaks of dirt behind. Another branch broke and he took off running toward the sound. The rain blinded him and he stumbled, twisting his ankle, but he kept going, chasing the sound.

Behind a tree, he saw someone walking through the woods, long hair whipping around in the wind. William slipped again, sliding into a tree. The figure turned around at the noise. The person screamed, voice lost in the storm, and then ran.

Showered and warm, Henry pushed the case of pills from one end of his desk to the other, counting out the days until he ran out. Enough for now; nothing else mattered.

His father had come home long enough for fast food burgers before he left the house again. Henry rescued his backpack and his cell phone—no missed calls—and then went back to staring at his pills. Taking them would let him sleep without dreaming, no nightmares and no dead daughter calling out his name. He thought of Justine and put the medicine back, closing the pillbox.

A branch scurried against the glass, trying to claw its way in, and the wind moaned beneath his window as he lay down on his bed, cell phone beside him.

“Victor.” She calls my name, her red-gloved hands resting protectively on her belly, swollen in pregnancy.

I can't see her eyes, hidden behind layers of red cloth, wrapped around her from head to toe. There are fingers grasping mine, pulling the bandages away from me, and she calls my name. So soft, gentle, these names she calls me.

“Victor.”

And I answer, the words whisper-quiet as I struggle against the bonds holding me down, dripping red cloth from manacles and leather restraints where they keep her hidden away from me, tearing my daughter from my arms.

“Victor.”

But I stopped listening to her long before she told me she was pregnant; even before she died or I killed her or either of us were born. It was there, in the silence that was the loudest noise of all, the single gunshot, between our daughter's eyes behind those red-gloved hands, resting so protectively against her belly, swollen with pregnancy like an over-ripe melon spoiling in the sun.

That was the final curse. That sun, too hot, even in the rain, creating steam and heat and I can't remember if I ever saw snow.

“Victor.”

But I remember my name.

I remember my name.

I remember.

“Victor.”

I loaded the stolen gun or stole the loaded gun, I forget. Doesn't matter now, anyway; it's just a dream, Elizabeth, go back to sleep. Hush, little one, just a dream, Daddy's here; it's just a dream. I
love you.

I remember that, at least.

Go back to sleep, sweetheart, Daddy will protect you from the monsters under the bed, the witches in the closet, the ghosts in the attic.

“Victor!”

Even when she screams my name it's so soft, gentle in the evening breeze, quiet as a whisper shattering with the crack of the bullet against the bone. Who, I ask her as she unwinds the red bandages so I can see her face before she dies, will protect Elizabeth now?

Me. I answer myself. I'll protect you, Elizabeth. I promise.

And she's here.

So close I can reach out for her, touch her, hold my daughter in my arms and rock her to sleep.

But when I try, my hands pass right through her. A ghost. A mist. Insubstantial.

I'll protect you, Elizabeth.

I promise.

And she's here.

“Elizabeth?” Her name forces its way out of my mouth, as though someone else is speaking through me and I can't stop the words. Can't not speak.

She looks at me, her eyes dark as a night without stars.

“What's your last name?” I ask, but that isn't my question, not what I was going to say. Where did those words come from?

I'll protect you, Elizabeth, I wanted to say. I promise. But then different words sounded, in a different voice.

“Ask Victor,” she says.

“I'm Victor.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Can I go now?”

“What's your last name?”

I'll protect you, Elizabeth, but the words go unspoken.

“I don't remember, Daddy,” she says. “I'm sorry.”

I promise.

The voice is silent for a long time before finally speaking words that mean nothing to me.

“What's Mommy's name?”

Red bandages cover her, dripping like blood from wounds I can't see. They twist around her body, covering her mouth, and when her answer comes the voice is mine.

“Alexandra.”

And then she's gone and my voice is my own again, but there's no one left alive to hear me.

twenty three

The ringtone on Henry's cell phone was drowned out by the wind but the vibrations against his fingers woke him from the dream, lingering images less important than the name echoing in his memory.

“Hello?” he said, and then again, louder, “Hello.”

“It's me.” Justine's voice was quiet as Henry checked the time on the phone.

“I noticed. It's past midnight.”

“There's someone in your backyard, eating the food,” she said.

Henry scrambled out of bed, sliding on bare feet across the floor. He bent the miniblinds away from the window but couldn't see anything. “What?”

“Looks like a bag lady. She's scratching at the side of your house like she's trying to get in. Can't you hear her?”

“No,” he said. “Only the wind.”

“It's her,” Justine said. “There's no wind. I can't see all that well with the trees in the way and the lighting isn't much help. She seems really hungry.”

“Why is my dad feeding a bag lady?”

“Go downstairs and ask her,” she said.

“I'm not dressed and half asleep,” Henry said. “It's the middle of the night.”

“And there's a bag lady eating dinner in your backyard. You don't find that interesting?”

“Interesting, yes,” he said. “Worth getting dressed and—”

“She's leaving!” Justine interrupted him. “Get dressed fast, we'll follow her.”

“No,” he said, but he was speaking to nothing, the call disconnected. With a sigh, Henry pulled on a pair of jeans, shoved his phone in a pocket, and put on his sneakers. He hugged the wall on the way down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky areas in the middle, looking toward his father's room. The light was on, bleeding out from the bottom.

Henry stepped outside. He closed the door softly behind him and was about to turn around when Justine spoke, sending his heart rate through the roof.

“Took you long enough,” she said, the words whisper-quiet.

“Did I mention it's the middle of the night?”

“Come on,” Justine grabbed his arm. “She went this way.”

They walked between their houses, hand in hand. A faint path wound beneath the oak trees and they had to duck under the long tails of Spanish moss hanging from the branches. From somewhere in the marsh a frog croaked, the sound loud in the night. With each step they heard the squelch of their own feet breaking out of the muddy ground. The breeze was just enough to send the moss waving back and forth, distorting their vision and sending shadows to and fro as they squinted to see what might, or might not, be a footprint or two.

Though sounds seemed to carry oddly, this close to the marsh, the distant hissing was a constant companion. The deeper they went into the dark, the louder it seemed to grow. Their hands grew damp in the humid air and Justine let go in order to wipe her palms on her pants.

“This was a good idea, no?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice level.

“I think,” Justine said, taking his hand again, “that I've had better ones.”

“I didn't take my pills tonight,” he said.

“And?”

“Alexandra.” Henry said the name out loud for the first time. “Her mother's name was Alexandra.”

“Does that help?” she asked.

“I don't know. This crazy person I know woke me up so that we could take a romantic moonlit stroll in the middle of the marsh.”

“There's no moon,” Justine said. “And it would be more romantic if it weren't so creepy. All that's missing are violins.”

“You're not helping,” Henry said. “And I have no idea where we are.”

Justine stopped and turned around, pointing back the way they'd come. “I think we live that way. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Only one way to find out.” Justine wiped her hands once again, then ducked underneath a low-hanging branch, Spanish moss grasping after her as she headed down what might once have been a path.

“Wait up,” Henry said, rushing to catch up to her. He picked a piece of moss out of her hair and then took her hand.

The smell of ozone was heavy in the air, the first hints of another storm coming to the island. The mud soaked through their shoes, weighing them down, and the moon cast pale intermittent shadows as it played hide and seek with the clouds. The hissing was everywhere as they stepped around a giant oak tree. Moonlight broke through the clouds, casting odd shadows everywhere.

Henry pulled Justine to a stop before she could step out of the darkness and into the small clearing.

In the pale light, the bodies might only have been sleeping, except for the insects and the blood surrounding them.

Justine screamed and took a step back, the sound echoing through the marsh.

Henry pulled her toward him and she shivered in his arms, her teeth chattering despite the heat.

“I think they're dead,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

A cloud passed in front of the moon and the clearing fell into darkness.

“Me too.” Henry took a deep breath, counted to ten, and exhaled. “Breathe,” he said.

And she did.

Together, they took a breath. And another, until she stopped shivering in his arms.

“Better?” Henry backed away so he could see her face. Tears had left faint trails on her cheeks and she wiped them away as he looked.

“A little, I think.”

Behind them, a branch broke. Henry spun around, slipping in the mud, and fell down next to one of the bodies.

“Justine,” he said, his voice rough and strained, “we need to get help.”

She started to walk over to help him up but stopped after only a couple of steps, her fingers covering her mouth. Most of the color had drained from her skin, leaving her pale and maybe a little green around the edges.

“Call 911,” Henry said, vainly trying to wipe the mud off his pants.

“We don't even know where we are.”

“They'll find us, just call.”

After hanging up the phone, Justine cried softly and when he reached a hand out to her, she melted into him.

“We should call your parents,” he said.

She looked up at him and frowned as she took her phone back out. “Mom?” she said, turning away from him.

Even from where he was standing, he could hear her mother's voice as Justine talked with her. Henry took his own phone out and dialed his father, but there was no answer.

“She's going to wait for the police,” Justine said when she was done. Tears mixed with the mud on her face. “She's not very happy with me at all.”

Henry spread his arms and she stepped forward again. He hugged her, stroking her back, and was still holding her when they heard the sirens cutting through the night.

“What are we going to tell them?” she asked.

“You'll think of something more believable than the truth.”

“I've still no idea what the truth is,” she said.

“Welcome to my life.”

Flashlights crisscrossed the marsh, sending shadows around Henry and Justine. They called out to the police, to help them find the clearing. Uniformed officers surrounded them, barking questions over each other as someone else began to rope off the area around the bodies. Bright lights came on, running on generators they'd brought with them.

Justine's mother ran toward them, calling her name. She wrapped Justine in a hug.

“Henry.” Mrs. Edwards looked at him. There was little welcome in her voice. “I knocked on your door until your father answered. He's on his way.”

“Thank you,” Henry said.

“What were you doing out here?” she asked, turning to her daughter.

“I'd like to know the answer to that as well, if you don't mind.” One of the people broke away from the two bodies on the ground. He was dressed in blue jeans and a FLETC T-shirt, a badge around his neck. “Major Dan Johnson, U.S. Army.” He stretched a hand out to them, his grip quick and firm. “And you are?”

“Justine Edwards, my daughter,” Mrs. Edwards said. “I'm Louise Edwards. This is Henry Franks.”

“And I'm his father, William,” Henry's dad said as he entered the clearing. “What's going on?”

“Justine? Henry?” Major Johnson asked, looking back and forth between the two of them.

Justine looked at Henry, then pushed herself away from where her mother still had her wrapped in a hug. “We got a little lost,” she said, the words hesitant and shaky.

“What were you even doing out here?” her mother asked.

Justine looked at Henry and then turned to face her mother as Major Johnson spoke again.

“It's a little late for a walk,” he said.

“I thought I heard something,” she said. “In the backyard.”

“So you called Henry and followed?” her mother asked. “In the middle of the night?

“I didn't feel safe walking in the marsh alone,” she said with a shrug. “I felt safer with him.” Justine looked up at her mother but seemed unable to meet her eyes.

“I'm afraid we're going to need the clothes you're wearing, both of you,” Major Johnson said, pointing at Henry and Justine. “Routine, you understand, but just in case. When I have more questions, and I will, I know where to find you. In the meantime, the next time you hear a strange noise in the middle of the night, I'd suggest calling the police.”

Officers escorted them home through the marsh, flashlights cutting the night into sections as they walked in silence, Henry and his dad a few feet behind Justine and her mom. As they came into sight of their houses, the hissing resumed, so loud it seemed to be throbbing beneath their feet.

“Your father leaves in the morning for Savannah, Justine,” her mother said.

“I know.”

“No, you don't know, young lady. He probably won't be able to get back to sleep tonight. Because of the two of you.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Henry,” her mother called back to him. The four of them stopped between their houses. “I'm afraid Justine is going to need a rain check on that so-called date tomorrow night. Well, I guess that would be tonight now, no?”

“Date?” Henry's father asked.

“I'd like to say it was a pleasure finally meeting you, Mr. Franks,” Louise said. “I've stopped by a couple of times but no one ever seems to be home.” She smiled but there was no warmth in it. “Maybe we'll try this again later?”

“I think that would be best, yes,” William said.

“Let's go, Justine,” her mother said as she started walking toward the house. “Time to give your clothes to the police.” She threw her hands in the air and shook her head. “Words I never thought I'd say. Good night.”

“Good night,” Henry said, before following his father into his own house.

Henry sat at his desk, his fingers running over the holes in the wall where the pushpins used to be. His monitor was dark and the only light was from the moon shining through the clouds. He spun around at the knock and the door opened.

“It's been a long night,” his father said, taking a step into the room.

Henry shrugged and turned to look out the window, trying to think of what to say to the man standing in his room. What questions to ask. Instead, he closed his eyes without speaking. His breath caught and he fought even to remember how to count to ten. The numbers tripped over themselves, leading nowhere as one very simple question kept repeating inside his head:
What's your name?

But he didn't say a word.

“Henry?” his father called to him, his voice soft and hesitant.

He opened his eyes but didn't turn around, watching the wind push the branches against the side of the house, reaching for him.

“She seems nice,” his father said, but the words just hung there, ignored.

Henry took a deep breath and counted to ten, the numbers falling in to place like long-lost friends.

“What were you thinking?” his father asked. “It's not safe out there, don't you know that?”

He pushed off against the window and let the chair spin around so he was facing his father. The sudden motion made his father take a step back, and they stared at each other in the moonlight. Henry's nose was bleeding and blood dripped off his chin one drop at a time.

“No place is safe,” he said, and only then wiped his face.

The wind picked up, pushing the clouds back in front of the moon. What little light there had been disappeared. A branch crashed against the house. Henry turned on his monitor and a soft glow filled the room. When he looked up, his father was shaking, his fingers trembling. His eyes were wide open and far too red. Thin strands of dirty hair were pasted to his skin with sweat.

The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he was trying to smile, and then he walked out of the room. His fingers shook on the doorknob as he left. Right before the door closed completely, he stuck his head back into the room.