Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, No. 6. Whole No. 790, June 2007

The World Behind by Chris F. Holm

© 2007 by Chris F. Holm

Born in Syracuse, New York, Chris Holm is the grandson of a cop with a penchant for cop stories. Hardly surprising, then, that his debut fiction should be a mystery. He is also a scientist who currently manages a marine biology lab on the coast of Maine. He has recently completed his first novel, a supernatural thriller.

It’s hot. Too hot to sleep, I think, though the gentle rise and fall of the sheet as my wife slumbers be-side me argues otherwise. I glance at the clock on the night-stand. It’s not quite four A.M. The curtains flutter in the warm summer breeze, translucent and insubstantial by the pale glow of the street lamps. They’re beautiful — one of a thousand tiny reminders that the world is as it should be.

I kiss my wife gently on the cheek and slip out of bed. She smiles but doesn’t stir. I pad down the hall past Maddy’s room, pausing a moment to listen to the quiet sound of her breathing. Downstairs, I make myself a cup of tea and head for the porch, the screen door creaking in protest as I ease it closed. I’m greeted by the scents of dogwood and honeysuckle, and of fresh-cut grass sweet like hay — the scents of summer in Virginia.

It’s been twenty years, I realize. Twenty years since the summer that changed my life forever. Sometimes, after the first hard frost has browned the leaves and the chill rains of winter are on their way, it seems a lifetime away. But on a night like this, when even the setting of the sun provides no relief from the oppressive Southern heat, it seems so close. Truth be told, I know it’s never far away.

The summer of 1986 was one of the hottest on record. Drought had been declared in the city of Richmond, and sprinklers and hoses were forbidden. Though the air was thick with moisture and our clothes stuck heavy to our skin, the grass grew dry and brittle beneath our feet, and eventually grew not at all.

My family and I lived in a well-manicured house in a suburb at the edge of town, where the last tendrils of development stretched into the wild Virginia countryside beyond. At the end of the street was a turnaround, past which lay a dense thicket of brambles that gradually gave way to an old-growth forest of birch and oak. A single, winding path cut through the brambles into the forest beyond.

I’d often wondered where the path led, but I was a shy kid, bookish and afraid. In the end, it was that fear that drove me down it. I was certain then that I could hide. Now, of course, I know better.

It all started with the squirrel.

“Go on, Timothy, do it!”

Billy McMahon’s eyes glinted with mischief. He knew damn well that nobody called me Timothy but my mother, and what’s worse, so did everybody else there.

“No. I won’t.”

“What’s the matter, Timothy, you too much of a pansy?” Billy’s nostrils flared in animal aggression. Billy McMahon was a cruel child, the kind of cruel that made you mighty popular at that age. He had me on the ropes, and he wasn’t about to let up. Not while he had an audience.

“Timothy’s a pansy! Timothy’s a pansy!” This from Mike Harrington, and in a whiny falsetto, no less. The kid lived in Billy’s shadow. Honestly, living in Billy’s shadow was one of the better moves he’d ever made. Mike was a little slow, and small for his age, and standing behind Billy McMahon was a sure-fire way of never ending up in front of him.

“I’m not a pansy,” I said through gritted teeth. The crowd gathered tighter around us, humming with voyeuristic interest. I scanned their faces for an ally, but all I saw was relief that it was me in the hot seat and not any of them.

“Then touch it.”

The squirrel lay dead on its side in the center of the street, one blank eye staring skyward. It looked to me like all it wanted was to be left alone. I knew how it felt.

“Fine,” I replied. “Give me the stick.”

“No stick for you, Timmy-my-boy. You gotta touch it bare-handed. You’re lucky I don’t make you pick it up for being such a girl about it.”

A voice cut through the rising din of the crowd. “Leave him alone, Billy.”

The crowd parted. I couldn’t help but wince. There, straddling her bike, was Alison Ashbrook, all elbows and scabby knees. Billy broke into the kind of grin that you feel in the pit of your stomach.

“You hear that, Timothy? Your girlfriend wants me to leave you alone.”

“His girlfriend,” Harrington echoed in that same singsong falsetto.

I opened my mouth to reply, but all that came out was a dry croak.

“Hey, Billy,” Alison said, nodding toward Mike, “tell your boyfriend he sounds like my little sister, only maybe not as cute. You think he’s getting jealous you’re paying Tim so much attention?”

Harrington went red and silent.

“You should watch your mouth, you little bitch,” Billy replied, shaking with rage. The crowd had turned on him, laughing at his discomfort from the safety of a few feet away. Anonymity is a hell of a cure for cowardice.

“And you should watch yours,” she replied. “Every time you open it people get to see what kind of guy you really are.”

Billy picked up his bike from where it lay on the street and climbed atop it. “C’mon, Mike,” he said. “Let’s bail. Too many losers around here for my taste. Oh, and Timothy? I’ll see you around.”

Mike collected his bike without a word, and they rode off, leaving a snickering crowd behind.

With Billy and Mike gone, the crowd began to disperse. I was grateful. My face was flushed with embarrassment, and tears welled in my eyes, threatening to spill over. Soon it was just me and Alison. She looked at me with an expression of sympathy. I looked at my shoes.

“Don’t worry about those guys,” she said. “They’re more bark than bite. You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, turning away. “I’m fine.”

“You wanna go get some ice cream or something?”

“Can’t,” I replied. Truth was, I couldn’t stomach the thought of the looks we’d get, the whispers as we passed. Timothy Hewitt, saved by a girl.

“Oh. Another time, maybe.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” I started down the street, toward home. There was a flutter of playing cards against spokes as Alison turned her bike around to do the same. I took a breath and turned around.

“Hey, Alison?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

Alison flashed me a smile that almost made the day worthwhile, and then turned and rode off. I strolled home beneath a sky of deepening orange. I thought about Billy and Mike, and the price I’d pay for Alison’s intervention. I thought about the squirrel, lying dead and bloated on the sun-bleached pavement. I thought about Alison, so quick and so fearless when I was clumsy and afraid.

But mostly, I just thought about her smile.

When I came down for breakfast the next morning, my father was sitting at the table, hidden behind his morning paper. A half-eaten plate of waffles sat in front of him. I sat down at the empty plate beside him as Mom fished another batch of waffles out of the toaster and set them down in front of me.

“You see this, Meg? Looks like another coupla animals went missing from the neighborhood again. Coyotes, they’re saying. Says here the heat drives ‘em out of the woods looking for food. They’re telling folks to make sure to bring their pets in at night.”

Mom said nothing. I concentrated on my breakfast. Dad continued from behind his paper, “Only I was talking to Mark Holbrook the other day, and he says that isn’t so. His brother works over at Animal Control, and he says the ones they found were taken apart, but there wasn’t anything missing. Way he tells it, no animal coulda done it. You ask me...”

“David,” Mom replied sharply. “We do not need that kind of talk at the table.” At the table is what she said. In front of Timothy is what she meant.

“What?” Dad glanced over the top of his paper. “Oh geez, kiddo, I didn’t know you were up yet. I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sure Thurston’s fine.”

“That’s okay,” I mumbled. It wasn’t, though. Thurston was our cat, a four-year-old tabby. Earlier that summer, she had wandered off. Nobody’d seen her in weeks. Mom insisted she was all right, that some nice family had taken her in, but I knew the truth. Thurston wasn’t coming back.

“So,” Mom said, “I was thinking you could ride your bike over to Ben’s today if you like, maybe go for a swim? Ben’s mom says she’d love to have you.”

Ben’s house was half a neighborhood away. The route took me right past Billy McMahon’s house. “I don’t feel like it,” I said, pushing waffles around the plate.

“Well, I’ve got a house to show, and you can’t just lie about all day. You’re going to Ben’s.”

“Fine.” I pushed back from the table, leaving behind a congealing mess of waffles and syrup. I threw my swim trunks and a towel in a bag and headed for the door. As the screen door clanged shut behind me, Mom called out.

“Timothy?”

“Yeah?”

“Be safe!”

Safe. Right. I grabbed my bike from the garage and rode off down the street.

The important thing was, I had a plan. Three blocks up to Forest, four blocks over to Cherry, and then back onto Oak. That’s five blocks more than I needed to go, but it would be well worth it if it kept me away from Billy.

I was barely to the end of my street when I heard the call.

“Hey, Timothy, I got a present for ya!”

He’d been hidden behind a tree, waiting. In his hand was a tree branch. By the time I spotted him, he was less than an arm’s-length away. He jammed the branch into my spokes. The bike jerked to a halt. I didn’t.

I sailed over the handlebars. Palm-first onto the pavement. He was on me in a flash.

“You think I’m gonna let you make a fool outta me?” he asked, rolling me over with a nudge of his foot. “You think you and that girlfriend of yours are so smart?” He hit me. I didn’t even try to stop him.

“I asked you a question.” He hit me again. Tears spilled down my cheeks. “What’sa matter? Cat got your tongue?”

Behind us, I heard the slam of a door, and footsteps approaching. “Hey!” someone shouted. “Get off of him!”

Billy straightened. I didn’t get up.

“What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“We’re just having some fun,” Billy said. “Ask him, he’ll tell you.”

“The hell you are.” He glanced at my bike. Front wheel bent. Spokes snapped like twigs. “You could have killed him.”

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Sure you didn’t. Only now you’ve got a problem. See, you so much as set foot on this street again, I’m calling the cops, you hear me? You don’t come anywhere near him.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Don’t shrug me off, William. Not unless you want me to take this up with your father.”

Billy blanched.

“I thought so,” the man replied. “Now’s the time for you to leave.”

Billy shot me a look of pure venom and took off down the street. The man turned his attention to me. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Tim, is it?”

“Yeah.”

He extended a hand to help me up. I took it. “Name’s Murray,” he said. “Ryan Murray. I teach up at the high school. Had a couple of run-ins with William and his brothers last year. Not the friendliest bunch.”

“Yeah.”

“You know this isn’t going to keep him from you forever.”

“I know.”

“You okay to make it home?” I nodded. “Okay, then. I suggest next time, you be prepared. Kids like him, there’s always going to be a next time.”

Next time, sure. He’d have to find me first.

The path stretched out before me, disappearing into the weeds. Narrow, but well-worn. I’d stood here dozens of times before, hundreds maybe, but today it looked different. Today, it looked possible.

After my run-in with Billy, I’d dragged my bike toward home, watching from behind a neighbor’s bushes until my parents left for work. I stashed the bike in the garage, piling toys and junk atop it so my parents wouldn’t see. Then I came back. To the path, and the safety it afforded. I was sure I could just melt into the forest and disappear. I had no idea how true that nearly was.

I took a breath and set out down the trail. It was scarcely wider than the shoeprints I left behind. Brambles dug at my clothes, my skin. The air was thick with dust and pollen. I pressed on, coughing.

As the canopy grew thicker overhead, the weeds began to dwindle. Eventually, they receded completely, the ground covered instead by a thick mat of leaves. It was cooler here by maybe ten degrees, and the air was fragrant with sap. Somewhere, in the distance, I could hear the trickle of running water. It was beautiful here, nothing at all like the orderly grid of suburban streets just a hundred yards away. This was something different. This was the world behind the world.

I wandered for hours, exploring every culvert and hill. I found a stream, and alongside it, an old, abandoned rail-line, so overgrown I might not have noticed it but for the broad swath of daylight that cut through the canopy above. I was dying to follow it, but the sky was tinged with red, and I knew before long it would be too dark to find my way. I headed home, resolving to come back tomorrow.

And come back I did, the next day, and the next one, and the one after that. Dealing with my parents was easy. Every morning, a different story — swimming at Ben’s, dinner at the Mercers’, kickball at the school with Steve. They were so happy I was getting out of the house they never bothered to question me, and anyway, I’d never lied to them before.

On the fourth day, I found the shack.

It was a squat, windowless structure maybe eight feet square, perched on the slope between the old train tracks and the stream. Its pitched roof was covered in moldering shingles, and its walls were boards of rough, unpainted wood, grayed with age. Sunlight shone through the gaps between them.

I approached it cautiously. There was no latch on the door, just empty space where a knob should be. I touched the door and it swung inward on its hinge. I stepped inside. The sudden darkness was a shock after the glaring afternoon sun, and it took my eyes a moment to adjust. Eventually, shapes emerged from the darkness.

Along the far wall was a cot, atop which were a host of ratty, threadbare blankets, all folded and stacked in perfect squares. A lantern sat unlit beside it. Beside me, just inside the door, was a set of dishes, chipped and yellowed and arranged along the wall in order according to size. A large aluminum pot hung on a nail above them. In the corner was a stack of newspapers, desiccated and brown. There must have been a thousand of them. I took one off the top. It was a Washington Post, dated seven years ago.

“I don’t remember havin’ no boy.”

The voice was like a blade against a whetstone. I wheeled around, dropping the paper. Silhouetted in the doorway was a man, near as wide as the door itself. His hair was an unruly tangle of salt and pepper, falling to his shoulders in accidental dreadlocks and framing his likewise-bearded face. Despite the heat, he wore a thick coat and heavy canvas pants. In one hand, he held a knife.

He clambered into the shack. I retreated, pressing myself tight to the far wall. “An’ if I did,” he continued, snatching the newspaper from the floor and returning it to its stack, “I imagine I’da taught him better than to mess with my things.”

“I–I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t think anybody actually lived — I mean, I thought this place was abandoned.”

He sized me up, his face inches from mine. His skin was dark as coffee, his features disappearing in the gloom. “Yeah, I expect that’s true,” he said. He turned and headed for the door, snatching the pot from its nail. “I got lunch on if you’re hungry.”

He left the shack and disappeared from view. I hesitated, unsure. After a moment, I followed.

He was around the side of the shack, tending to a small campfire. Strung up beside him were a half-dozen catfish. As I approached, he took one down and sliced it open. He dug out the innards with a flick of his knife, wiped the blade on the thigh of his pants, and then set about filleting the fish.

“You eatin’?” he asked.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Suit yourself,” he said. The fillets hissed as they hit the pan. “You got a name?”

“Tim,” I replied.

“Take a seat, Tim. Name’s Isaac. Don’t get many visitors around here. Makes you special, I guess.”

I sat down, the campfire between us. Isaac tended to his lunch. By the afternoon light, I saw his jacket was a faded green, all holes and frayed seams, with a V of darker green at the shoulder.

“Were you in the army?” I asked.

“I think so sometimes,” he replied. “Other times, I ain’t so sure. Got these memories kickin’ around. Places, names, a coupla faces. Only I ain’t sure if they’re mine, or if I picked ‘em up by mistake.”

“I’m sorry I touched your stuff.”

“Didn’t take nothin’, did you?” he asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, right?”

“No.”

He smiled. “Then me an’ you are just fine.”

“How long have you been out here?” I asked.

“Awhile,” he replied. “Don’t really know how long, to own the truth. Time don’t pass the same out here. Used to be when I needed something I’d wander out into the world, but folks didn’t take too kindly to havin’ me around, so I stopped. Few years ago, I guess that was.”

“You miss anything? From the world, I mean.”

“I got everything I need right here,” he replied.

“Still,” I said, “there’s gotta be something you miss, right?”

“I ain’t had a MoonPie in a damn sight.”

I laughed.

“What about you? How come you’re runnin’ about in the woods all alone?”

“It’s complicated.”

“The world is that.”

“There’s this kid. Out there, waiting for me. I run into him, I’m dead.”

“You’re tougher than you think,” he said, removing the pot from the flames and taking a taste. “But you wanna hide from the world, it makes no nevermind to me. I’m happy for the company.”

“Come on, Isaac, where’re we going?”

“You’ll see.”

We’d been walking for half an hour, following the stream as it parted ways with the train tracks and cut upward through the hills. What had started as a shallow incline had grown steeper and more uneven with every passing step. I was sweating and thirsty and my legs were burning. Isaac seemed unfazed by the hike — he strolled along beside me, nibbling contentedly at his MoonPie until all that was left of it was a constellation of crumbs in his beard and a smile on his face.

This was my third visit in as many weeks. Every time, I brought a MoonPie. And every time, when he finished, he smoothed out the cellophane wrapper, folded it in half and then in half again, and tucked it in his pocket. Twice now I’d watched in silence. But curiosity won out, and I wasn’t going to make it three.

“Why do you do that?” I asked, breaking stride and doubling over, my hands on my knees.

“Do what?” he asked.

“The wrappers. Why do you save them?”

“Docs used to say it’s somethin’ broke,” he said, tapping a finger to his temple, “but I never gave that much truck. I just like savin’ stuff, I guess. Keeps me from forgettin’. Come on, it’s just a little further.”

We continued on, cresting a small ridge and sidestepping our way down a steep, fern-covered slope. When we reached the bottom, Isaac swept aside a tangle of underbrush and turned to me. “What do you think?”

We stood at the edge of a lush, green valley, wide at one end and narrow at the other. Much of the valley was taken up by the stream, which pooled, clear and cool, the width of the valley mouth. At the narrow end, a cascade of water fell maybe twenty feet, feeding the pool.

“It’s amazing,” I said. Isaac smiled.

“There’s a cave back behind it,” he said, gesturing toward the waterfall. “Ain’t more’n a few feet deep, an’ a little wet for an old fogy like me, but I expect a strapping young man like yourself’d find it to his liking.”

I was off in a flash. Isaac hunkered down on the shore of the pond, pulled some line and a hook from his jacket, and set about overturning rocks, hunting for worms.

We spent the whole day out there, Isaac fishing, me exploring. By evening, I was soaked and exhausted. I lay on the bank of the stream, drying myself by the heat of the sun. Isaac filleted his day’s catch, humming tunelessly to himself as knife parted flesh.

“I should be heading home,” I said. “Mom’s expecting me for dinner.”

“Be dark soon,” he replied. “I’ll walk you back.”

“I’m not an infant, Isaac.”

“Never said you were. But these woods ain’t safe.”

“I can handle myself.”

“All right,” he replied. “But do an old man a favor and stick to the stream, okay?”

“Okay. See you later, Isaac.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I expect you will.”

It was stupid, I thought. Sticking to the stream. If I had my bearings right, town was due east of here, and the stream was taking me southeast. When I hit Isaac’s shack, I’d have to head north, and I wouldn’t get home for an hour. I was sure I could shave off a few minutes if I just cut through the woods. And what was the harm? Isaac would never know the difference.

Once I cleared the gully, I put the sun behind me and plunged into the forest. It was cooler in the shade of the trees, and I shivered, my clothes still damp from the spray of the fall. I trudged exhausted through the woods, the ever-deepening shadows pointing the way. It wasn’t long before I came to the lean-to.

It wasn’t much to look at, just a rotten, sagging piece of plywood propped against a tree. But its right angles stood out against the chaotic backdrop of the forest, and I knew I had to see what it was.

The first thing I noticed was the smell — a tang like pennies in the back of my throat. I approached slowly. The ground under the lean-to had been brushed clear of leaves, the dirt beneath tamped down and littered with bits of fur. Tacked to the underside of the board were yellowed scraps of newspaper, stained with flecks of brown.

I crouched beside the lean-to, peering at the clippings. The text was difficult to read by the failing light. The headlines, though, were clear enough. Animal Disappearances Plague Richmond Community. Predation Suspected in Recent Animal Deaths. Pet Problem Escalates: Sheriff Says Coyotes.

I felt sick. I scrambled backward, away from the lean-to. My shoulder connected with something behind me, and I screamed.

“You weren’t meant to see this.”

It was Isaac. I screamed again and backed away. He grabbed me by the shoulders. Strong, unyielding. I kicked at him. He didn’t let go.

“This ain’t mine, boy, you hear me? This ain’t mine.”

“Then whose?” I fought his grip. It was like iron.

“Damn it, kid, if I wanted to hurt you, I’da done it before now.”

“Whose is it?”

“Don’t know. Not yet. But I will. An’ until I do, you’re not to come near this place, you hear me?”

I nodded. He let me go.

“You an’ me,” he said, “we’re okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “We’re okay.”

“All right,” he said. “Then let’s get you home.”

I didn’t venture into the woods again that week, or at all the week after. I hung close to my house, shooting hoops in the driveway or skateboarding in the street, careful never to venture farther than a couple of blocks away, for fear that Billy was waiting. But as summer stretched on into August, the heat became unbearable, and I became listless and bored. I’d lie about, daydreaming about the vast expanses of unexplored forest, of the cool spray of the waterfall against my face, and of Isaac, fishing away the days alone.

Isaac. He must think I was scared of him. I don’t know — maybe I should have been. That place and the things that had gone on there were too terrifying to contemplate. Most nights since, I’d awoken with a scream on my lips and a taste like pennies in the back of my throat. But Isaac was a good man. I refused to believe he was capable of such horrors.

I decided I had to apologize. I snatched a MoonPie from the cupboard and set out for the woods. When I got to Isaac’s shack, though, he was nowhere to be seen. I checked out all his favorite fishing holes, but there was no sign of him. I hiked the length of the stream to the waterfall, scanning the underbrush for any sign I was being watched, but there was no stalker in the woods, and there was no Isaac, either. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, I turned toward home, defeated. I was still a hundred yards from the street when I heard the calls.

“Timothy! TIMOTHY!”

My mother, panicked and shrill. I was sure I’d been caught. I started toward the street, and then thought better of it, pushing through the underbrush and into the Bennett’s backyard. I sprinted from yard to yard, the houses screening me from view of the street, my mother screaming all the while. I ducked onto a cross-street and rounded the corner. She spotted me immediately.

“Timothy, where have you been! I called the Mercers and they said they hadn’t seen you all day—”

“I went up to the school with Ben to play some kickball,” I said. She grabbed me and held me so tight I thought my ribs would crack. “What’s going on?”

“Just come inside, okay?”

“Mom, what’s going on?”

“Inside.”

She dragged me into the house. Dad was on the phone, pacing. When he saw us come through the door, he stopped.

“Never mind,” he said into the receiver, “we found him.” He hung up the phone. “Where the hell have you been? Your mother was worried sick about you.”

“I was playing kickball up at the school. What’s the matter?”

“It’s the Ashbrook girl,” Mom said. “She’s gone missing.”

“She hasn’t gone missing,” Dad snapped. “She was taken. They found her bike on the side of the road, coupla blocks from her house. Looked like there was a struggle. Half the town’s looking for her. For you, too, thanks to your mother. You gave us a hell of a scare, kiddo.”

I sat down heavily on the sofa. My stomach churned. Alison had been taken.

“Do they know when she disappeared?”

“Sometime this afternoon,” Mom replied.

“Nobody saw anything?”

“No,” she said. “But the police have been brought in. I’m sure she’ll be just fine.”

Fine, right. But I knew different. I couldn’t let it happen.

“They should search the woods,” I said.

“Honey, I’m sure they’re doing everything they possibly can to find your friend,” she replied, but I cut her off.

“There’s a lean-to a couple miles west of here,” I said. “It’s covered in newspaper clippings of the animals that went missing.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dad said, angry.

“They have to search the lean-to. Whoever killed those animals may have Alison. If I’m right, he means to kill her, too.”

“When were you out in those woods?”

“That’s where I’ve been going. Not to Ben’s. Not to Steve’s. Not for a while. You have to listen to me. We don’t have much time.”

Dad slapped me, hard. My face stung, and tears welled in my eyes, but I bit them back.

“You expect us to listen to you when you’ve been lying to us all summer? When you’ve been sneaking off to God-knows-where?”

“David, don’t,” Mom said.

“He brought this on himself,” he replied. “We trusted him and he lied to us.”

“Punish me if you want,” I said, shaking with rage. “But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s out there and if they don’t find her she’s going to die.”

“I’ve heard all I need to hear from you,” Dad replied. “You scared us half to death. Go to your room, and don’t come out until I say you can, you hear me?”

I looked at Mom. She looked away.

Without a word, I climbed the stairs to my room.

I crouched low to the ground, invisible in the darkness. Ahead was the lean-to, black in the failing light.

I hefted the pocketknife in my hand. It wasn’t much, but it’d have to do. I wondered if my parents had noticed yet. The empty room, the screen pried open. I hoped they had. They knew where I’d be going, and angry or not, they’d have to follow.

I crept toward the lean-to, knife held ready. My heart thudded in my chest. At the edge of the plywood, I stopped, listening. There was no telltale sound, no flicker of lamplight. I wondered if I’d been wrong. I half hoped I was. With a breath, I wheeled around the corner, knife held high.

There, lying on the ground, was Alison. Her hands and feet were bound with duct tape. A thick strip of tape sealed shut her mouth. Her eyes flitted behind closed lids. She was still alive.

“Alison,” I whispered, shaking her gently. “Alison, it’s me, Tim. I’m here to rescue you.”

From behind me, I heard the snap of a twig in the darkness. Sudden, close. I spun, slashing wildly. Blade caught fabric, and my attacker screamed in pain. Too late I saw the rock in his hand, swinging toward me. It connected with my temple, and I went down.

My vision swam. I forced myself to my knees, tried to stand. Then the rock came down again, and everything went dark.

I woke by degrees. My head throbbed. My stomach roiled. My tongue felt too big for my mouth. Alison lay beside me, unconscious and still bound. I flexed my arms beneath me. They were leaden and stiff, but free.

I lifted my head and looked around. A lantern flickered in the center of the room. Beside me was a set of chipped, yellowed plates, arranged according to size. Hunched over the cot at the far end of the room was Isaac, his back to me. As I watched, he lifted his arms above his head, fists clenched together, and brought them down, hard.

I climbed unsteadily to my feet. On the cot lay a boy. Isaac raised his fists and brought them down again. They slammed into the boy’s rib cage with a dull thud. I winced. He raised his arms again.

“Isaac,” I said. The word felt foreign in my mouth.

“You’re not meant to see this,” he growled, not turning.

“Isaac, leave him alone,” I said, creeping closer. Isaac’s knife lay beside him on the floor, glinting in the lamplight.

“You’re not meant to see this!” he shouted, spinning toward me. I lunged for the knife. Isaac just watched.

“Get away from him,” I said, brandishing the knife before me.

“Tim—”

“Now, Isaac.”

Isaac backed away. I circled toward the cot, my eyes never leaving Isaac. Once he moved beyond arm’s reach, I turned my attention to the boy.

Billy McMahon lay still on the cot, eyes closed. His nose was bloodied and crooked, and he wasn’t breathing. Across his chest was a single shallow gash, streaking his shirt with blood. The gash of a pocketknife.

Isaac’s knife clattered to the floor beside me. “Billy?” I said.

“That’s what she called him,” Isaac said, nodding toward Alison, “right before he gagged her.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yeah.”

“You did this?”

He nodded. “I was waitin’ for dark,” he said. “Figured if he saw me comin’, he might hurt her. But then you showed up, an’ he...” Tears shone in Isaac’s eyes. “He was gonna kill you.”

I thought of Isaac, hunched over the boy. Fists against chest. Pounding out a rhythm. A heartbeat. “You were trying to save him, weren’t you?”

“Way I see it, he wasn’t mine to take.”

“Isaac, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I expect that’s true.”

Suddenly Isaac straightened, cocking his head. I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, and then froze. I heard it, too. Dogs. Distant, but approaching fast.

“Isaac, you have to go,” I said.

“The girl needs help,” he replied. He collected his knife from the floor and crouched over Alison, cutting her free.

“Isaac, they’ll be here soon. You have to get out of here, give me time to explain...”

It was too late. They were just outside the shack.

“We know you’re in there! Send out the children!”

“They ain’t gonna let me go,” Isaac said.

“I’ll tell them what happened. They’ll understand — they’ll have to.”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that,” I said.

“I do, an’ so do you.”

“Then I’ll stall them,” I said. “Buy you time to—”

“To what? Ain’t no other way outta here.”

“Damn it, Isaac, I don’t know!”

Outside, the dogs brayed. The man called out again. “Release the children now!”

“Look,” I said. “You have to let me try.”

Isaac smiled. “You’re a good man, Timothy.”

“Sure,” I said. “Now help me get her up.”

Isaac lifted Alison and handed her to me. I got my arms under her back and knees and held her tight.

“Tim?”

“Yeah?”

“Be safe.”

“You, too,” I replied.

I approached the door. “We’re coming out!” I shouted. I kicked open the door and stepped outside, stopping just beyond the threshold. A half-dozen lanterns pushed back the darkness. The search party was maybe twenty feet away, mostly uniformed, guns at the ready. My father was there, and Alison’s as well.

“Is the girl hurt?” shouted one of the officers.

“She’s out,” I replied, “but I think she’s okay.”

“Is there anyone else in the cabin?”

“Yes,” I replied. “But he had nothing to do with this.”

“Son, if you could just walk slowly toward us...”

“I can’t — not until you promise me he won’t be hurt!”

“Just step aside, son. Everything will be just fine.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” I replied. “It was Billy. Billy McMahon.”

“You lyin’ son of a bitch!” A man stumbled toward me, stopping midway between the shack and the search party. He was unshaven and reeked of whiskey. A lantern swung precariously in one hand. “Nobody talks about my boy like that!”

“Sir, step away from the cabin,” said an officer.

“The hell I will! You tell me where my boy is!”

“He’s dead.”

He charged me, screaming. A single shot rang out. Blood sprayed red from his shoulder, just a graze, but he spun and fell. The lantern shattered as it hit the ground.

The weeds were dry and brittle, and caught instantly. I stumbled backward toward the stream, Alison heavy in my arms. Flames engulfed the bank, cutting us off from the rescue party. Isaac’s shack went up like so much tinder.

I splashed into the water. Fire rained down as the canopy caught. Thick smoke seared my lungs. The entire forest was ablaze. My face stung from the heat. I heard nothing but the roar of the flames.

The stream was barely two feet deep. Not deep enough to stop the flames. I kept low to the surface, dragging Alison along behind.

The waterfall, I thought. Our only chance. I struggled on, choking on the acrid, poison air. I was dizzy. My vision went dark, and I slipped below the surface.

Fingers tangled in my hair. Yanking. My head broke the surface of the water. I gasped, suddenly alert. Beside me was Alison, wide-eyed and frightened, but awake. She put an arm around my shoulder, and together we pressed on as the world burned around us.

By the time we were found, we’d spent ten hours huddled together beneath the fall. Eighty acres burned that night, they told us. Had the wind shifted, it might have been eight hundred.

Billy’s father died in the blaze. Mom said better that than know the truth. I don’t know, maybe she was right. The truth is never quite as simple as we’d like it to be.

I sit and sip my tea, watching over the porch rail as the sky lightens in the east. Behind me, the screen door creaks. Alison steps out into the pre-dawn half-light wrapped in a bathrobe, her hair mussed from sleep. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks.

“Guess not,” I reply.

“Everything all right?”

I think back to that summer, so many years ago. And, weeks later, to that cool September morning when I found on my porch a single MoonPie wrapper, carefully folded and placed beneath a chipped and yellowed bowl.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I think it is.”