One Last Time (14 page)

“Take my hand,” Quillan offers.

“I would if I could, but I can’t see you.”

His strong hand wraps around my elbow as he gently guides me along. “Can you see the mouth of the cave?” he asks me.

I look back. “No, not anymore.” Darkness surrounds me.

That is his cue to light the lantern. The glow is faint. Still, it shatters the darkness, dispelling the gloom. I breathe a sigh of relief. Even still, my angst returns when I see how the cave walls surround us. Any lower and we would have to duck our heads. My claustrophobia is on the rise. I hope I don’t start hyperventilating.

“You okay?” Quillan asks, eyeing me. I survey my surroundings, twisting my thumbs.

“Just a little claustrophobic,” I confess, wrinkling up my nose. God, I have more hang-ups than I realized.

Quillan is trying to suppress his laughter, but the flame of the lantern dances in his eyes, giving him away.

“Why don’t we sit and wait,” he suggests. “If we’re near the ground, the ceiling won’t seem so low.”

I sit down fast and take a deep breath as I lean against the cold rock wall. I gasp for air like an oxygen-deprived person who is pulled ashore after a near drowning.

“It’s all up here.” Quillan gently taps me on my head. “There is plenty of air. We’re not going to run out.”

It doesn’t matter. I could be wearing an oxygen mask right now but it wouldn’t do any good. He has a way of stealing my breath. All air escapes my lungs when he sits shoulder to shoulder beside me.

Taking my hand in his, he lifts it to his mouth, kissing the back of it. “For what it’s worth, I am proud of you.” He continues to hold my hand. “You’re the bravest fraidy cat I know. I hope I can find someone like you one day.”

All of a sudden, I want to bolt from this cave. My heart is already at bursting level, weighing heavy with emotion. Tears sting my eyes. I fear if he says one more thing, I might start crying. He doesn’t, and if he planned to continue the conversation, he is stopped short by the sound of someone coming.

“They’re early.” I position myself to stand.

Quillan pulls my arm, keeping me close. “Stay behind me.” He keeps his voice low. “It could be a trap.”

My heart is in my throat again when a faint light flickers in the distance, growing bigger with the sound of approaching footsteps. Whoever it is cares nothing about being discreet. They scuff along, kicking tiny pebbles that bounce across the cavern wall, echoing through the small corridor, as the oncoming light cast an eerie shadow against the rock wall. Quillan steps in front of me, blocking my view. He lifts the lantern to reveal the intruder. The footsteps stop abruptly, as does the huge shadow on the wall to my right. The silence is deafening, neither Quillan nor the advancing party speaks. Then, without saying a word, Quillan turns and gives me a peculiar look as he slowly steps aside.

My legs go weak. I gasp. “Mike?”

Mike looks like ten miles of bad road, another hick saying my momma uses to describe someone who is a mess and hasn’t kept up their appearance. He’s still wearing his black serving pants and white shirt, which is not very white anymore. His bow tie is long gone, and his cool surfer hair is beginning to dread. He’s eyeing me like I am an apparition. The relief on his face immediately melts into confusion, no doubt wondering why I am dressed to the hilt in Southern-belle attire.

“Ave,” he manages to say. If he wasn’t so cool, he might have broken down and cried.

“Mike?” I answer, still as shocked as he is. I think we both want to ask the same question. I get mine out first. “How did you…”

“I was in the kitchen cleaning up when the lights went out. After that, things began getting weird. When I finally got a candle lit, the kitchen was different. Then, I heard you pounding on the wall and yelling for me, but I couldn’t get to you.”

He becomes agitated as he recounts his story. His eyes take on a desperation I have never seen before in my happy-go-lucky friend. He runs his hands through his gnarled hair as if he is reliving the horror all over again. “I could hear a clock chiming off the time, and I heard everyone in the dining room screaming, but I couldn’t get in there. God, all this time I thought you were dead.” A tear he tries to blink away slips past his coolness, leaving a crooked dirty trail down his cheek.

“Oh, Mike.” I half laugh as I embrace him. We hug a moment. He holds me tight and kisses the top of my head.

“I would have died if anything happened to you,” he whispers, but I know Quillan can hear him. “I have beaten myself up over and over for asking you to sit in on that stupid dinner.”

“It’s all right,” I say. “I survived it. I’m fine.” Looking up at him, I ask the question I’ve been eager to know since he stepped out of the shadows, “Where have you been all this time?”

As soon as I ask, I think maybe I shouldn’t have. As eager as I am to know, the recounting only agitates him more. I’m no therapist, but I think he has a classic case of traumatization.

“While I was looking for a way to get to you, I found a tunnel in the back of the pantry in the kitchen. I followed it, and it led me up through the root cellar on the east side of the property. When I noticed the van was gone, I began running for help, but I couldn’t find the highway. Everything was gone.” His distress is on the rise now, so I rub his back, hoping to calm his nerves. “The next thing I know is some backwoods sheriff, dressed like he’s in a Western, picks me up for public drunkenness. When I ask him to drive me home, he tells me I’m talking crazy. I ask for his cell. He says okay but locks me in some dirty jail, telling me he’s keeping me there until I sober up. It makes no sense. It’s as if I got sucked into the effin’ twilight zone.” I want to laugh but don’t dare. Mike’s frustration is evident. Still keeping me close, he includes Quillan in our conversation. “You were at the dinner too, huh?”

Quillan nods.

“What the hell happened to us?”

Quillan gives me a slight wink, allowing me to answer. I am not sure how much of the truth Mike is ready to hear. I tread cautiously, sugarcoating it as much as possible. “Seems we are a part of a time-travel experiment. The tunnels work like a portal. When you went inside the one in the pantry, you traveled back to 1859. Just like we did.”

“What the hell? There’s no such thing as time travel!”

Placing my hands on my hips, I tap the waistband of my hoop skirt giving him a sarcastic look.

“Who planned this? Mr. Brackett?”

My expression gives him away. “Stupid, stupid shit!” Mike hisses in frustration. “I told mom the man was creepy!”

“It’s actually my fault.” Quillan speaks up. “I conducted the experiment because I needed to come back and prevent the hanging of Lunar Wilson.”

Mike lunges, pouncing on Quillan, throwing him against the rock wall.

“Mike!” I scream, but it’s too late. His fist makes impact with Quillan’s face.

Blood pours out of Quillan’s nose as he blocks Mike’s next punch.

“Mike, stop!” I yell again, trying to pull him away from Quillan. Mike snarls like a deranged animal ready to go in for the slaughter.

“What gives you the right?” he screams at Quillan. “You could have killed her!”

I’ve never seen Mike this angry before, let alone hit anyone. But who am I to judge him? I kicked Quillan in the jaw our first morning here.

Ignoring me, Mike lands another punch. This time Quillan’s had enough. He’s taken his punishment. With one forceful blow, he sends Mike flying across the tunnel, knocking him against the opposite wall.

“Enough!” I scream, standing between them. Mike recovers quickly for someone who’s just stormed through hell. He scrambles to his feet, ready to strike back.

“Enough!” I yell again, this time extending both my arms, one pushing Mike back and the other on Quillan.

“Mike, stop, please! You don’t know everything. Quillan actually saved my life, and he’s sending me back as soon as we stop Lunar’s death.”

Mike’s breathing heavily. His eyes are savage, and his upper lip is curled in an angry scowl.

“Saved your life from what, Averie? The diabolic danger he put you into? It’s no hero who pulls you from a burning building they purposely set fire to.”

Mike has a way of saying things that either makes you feel stupid or makes you think. Right now, it’s both. I never thought about it that way, and now that I do, my fairy tale is shot to hell. Mike’s right. Quillan knew what was happening the moment he sat down at the dinner table that night. It’s why he gave me a curious look, but he never intervened. Not until all hell started breaking loose, and I found the pocket watch on the painting. Why have I been trusting someone who pulled me in and let everyone else die?

I look over at Quillan, hoping for a rational explanation because right now my heart is still attached.

“Sins of the fathers.” He wipes the blood with the back of his hand.

My hair stands on end at his cryptic proclamation. I’m creeped out all over again, so I back up close to Mike. “What are you talking about?”

Quillan stares at me a few seconds, blood still pouring from his lip. He spits a stream of it, and then cuts his eyes over to Mike. “In order to transfer to the year 1859, everything had to be in place. There are certain universal laws that must be applied. We set the dinner on the same night as the original event. Everything needed to be consistent, down to the number of dinner guests. Everyone invited that night, with the exception of Averie, was a direct descendent of the men who massacred James Faulkner and his friends. The sins of their fathers were to be visited upon them that night.”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupt him. “Every guest that night was white. How could they be descendants of the Wilson brothers?”

Quillan wipes his hand on his tailored pants to clean off the blood. “Because the Wilson brothers didn’t do it, Averie. They were used as scapegoats.”

My head swims, drowning in confusion. In a way, I am relieved to know Jeb and the boys are innocent. Since spending time with them, it’s hard for me to wrap my mind around the fact they could do something so gruesome. “Who did it then?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I really want to know.

Quillan sighs. “You met them today, Averie. It was the men from Georgia.”

The cave is still but Quillan’s little disclosure bounces off the rock walls, echoing a horrific omen that twists my stomach and stirs the remaining contents of dinner, bringing on instant nausea. I remember the way they looked at us, especially Emily. The legend of the Faulkner mansion is just that, a myth of sorts, passed down for over a hundred years, distorting the truth of the ghastly night.

“So why, Averie?” Mike growls. “Why in the hell would you put her in the mix?”

I’m curious to know, too, so I stand there waiting for Quillan to come clean, hoping what he says doesn’t destroy my faith in him.

He stares back at me with a look on his face I’ve never seen before. He closes his eyes a moment, as if he fears that I can see inside his soul. My heart is beating in a frenzy now. The walls of the cave seem to close in around me, crushing my resolve and not allowing me to catch a decent breath. I think I might collapse. Mike, as usual, senses my uncontrollable fears and places his hands on my shoulders while we both wait to hear Quillan’s confession.

“Like I said, there are universal laws. We assembled the guilty, yet we needed an innocent soul, someone pure, a victim of a world that embraces immorality. Someone unspotted by greed and self-indulgence. When I came into the dining room and was introduced to Makayla, Mr. Brackett’s niece, I knew she was the innocent…like me. No matter what the outcome, I wasn’t going to let the malevolent take her life as it did mine.”

“Are you saying my invitation to sit in as the Fourteener was planned from the beginning?” I choke as I speak.

“I’m sorry, yes.” His eyes search mine. Sorrow hollows his face the way it did the night in bed when he backed off and apologized for awakening something in me he couldn’t finish.

Mike’s grip on my shoulders tightens. I fear he will push me aside and go after Quillan at any moment.

“Who are you?” he snarls.

“Quillan Wilson. The unborn son of Emily and Lunar.”

I know Mike’s head must be throbbing right now. He’s lived such a carefree, privileged existence his entire life. Not anymore, not since he has been sucked up through a supernatural vacuum his mind cannot begin to fathom. As usual, he pushes through the obstacle, keeping my best interest in mind. “Send her home now. I’ll stay behind and help you.” His words are firm, leaving no room for discussion.

Quillan smirks. “You’re far from innocent Mike.”

I’m thinking this might be Quillan’s last words, but Mike doesn’t take offense. Their stare down continues until Quillan breaks the silence. “I would have sent her home already if I was able,” he admits, and my heart suffers at his words.

“The dimension door won’t open again until the night of the massacre.” He announces our doom. “We are here until then.”

The three of us sit in silence now, drained from the furor that fed the small war waged in the tunnel. It’s a peculiar feeling knowing Mike was here the entire time, sitting in jail, alone and confused. My heart warms with his concern for me. Although, I shouldn’t be surprised, he has been watching out for me since first grade. He’s still agitated, I can tell, but Mike has always been one to choose his battles. I know he’s biding his time, waiting for the right moment to exact his revenge.

A faint glow of light pierces the darkness from way down the corridor. This time the footsteps are soft, cautious, no doubt the frightened cargo we’ve been expecting. Quillan is the first on his feet again. He helps me up but then gently pushes me back, making me wait until he checks it out. Mike stands and reluctantly steps behind Quillan as the glow of light grows closer.

“Praise the Lord Almighty.” A woman leading the small group mumbles her thanksgiving when she sees us.

“Welcome,” Quillan greets them. Without another word, we turn to lead them out the other end.