House of Fallen Trees

CHAPTER THREE

She had learned long ago that when companionship is lacking — you have no lover, no friend, no dog, no cat, no canary — a candle flame makes for better company than some might think.

Every flame, she’d discovered, has its own unique personality. Some are wild and strong, anxious to take over the world if you let them. Others are shy, barely wanting to make themselves known, quick to extinguish their own lives the moment your back is turned. But most are somewhere in the middle — content, lazy and relaxed, flickering brightly now and then, like a dog lifting its head to listen to a far off siren, or a cat, tail slowly thumping in an absentminded half-doze.

Her laptop open on the bed beside her, completely forgotten, Karen stared into the candle flame on her night table, wineglass in hand, corked bottle standing stoically on the floor, three quarters empty.

She drained the last of her glass, contemplating what she had learned about the town of Fallen Trees, Washington. After spending nearly an hour searching the Internet for information, she wasn’t left with much. The town, established in 1899, had been built in the middle of a vast forest, in a clearing most probably caused by a forest fire speculated to have occurred at least a century prior to the first settlers coming upon it.

Though the town population had never grown much beyond a few hundred occupants, those few made a good living mining the nearby hills for copper and silver, a rarity in the Northwest. The locals were intensely secretive about the location of said mines, refusing to allow outsiders in on their profits and keeping the discovery of the mines among the initial settling families, said to number only in single digits.

Nowadays, Fallen Trees wasn’t much larger than it had been in those first decades of inhabitance. Getting to and from the town proved to be a more difficult task than most cared to endure, as it was hard miles over a mountain pass and for not much reward upon arrival.

From what Karen could gather, there was a bar in town that served as a meeting hall when the single church was in use. A doctor’s office (with one doctor), a general store, which doubled as a post office, and a small radio station with only enough bandwidth to reach the town borders on each side. As far as she could tell, Fallen Trees didn’t have a single motel, nor was there any mention of a school of any type. But surely there must be a school. Every town had children. Unless, of course, they bussed their kids to the next biggest town, which was called Indigo Bend and had a whopping thousand residents.

That was it. The end result of all her web digging, which, given the town and its lack of a library, was more than one would expect to find on such a flyspeck on a map.

Leaning over the side of the bed, Karen retrieved the wine bottle, yanked the cork out with her teeth, and poured herself another glass.

Once the bottle was safely back on the floor, she reclined against the propped up pillows and took a long satisfying swallow.

Sean.

Her baby brother, two years her junior, missing and almost certainly dead at twenty-seven.

For the thousandth time, she wondered what had become of him. Had he been murdered and if so, why? Was it one of those gay-bashing things? Had he simply wandered off to get lost in the woods and die of exposure? Before he’d gone missing, had he been happy? She had to assume so, since he’d had a longtime lover with whom he’d planned to start a business.

“More than you can say, Lewis,” she slurred, raising her glass to give herself a toast. “At least he had someone.”

Slurping more wine, she thought back to her conversation with Rory. It would be impossible to tell what a person was really like from a short telephone conversation, but she still tried to imagine him. What he looked like, the kind of person he was. Was he kind and gentle or rough and unemotional?

She had to give him credit for even calling her. If everything he said was true, he could have gone about his merry business, building up his B&B and she’d never have been the wiser.

So, he had honesty going for him, at least. Doing what Sean would have wanted, evidently. Which was strange in itself. Why would Sean will her his half of a business? Why not just will it to Rory?

It wasn’t like she needed the money. She already had plenty. Not to mention, she had absolutely no idea whatsoever about running a B&B. The thought had never even occurred to her. She could barely keep her checkbook balanced and that was something she was sure Sean knew about her. Hell…back when they were kids, she used to bribe him to do her math homework for her.

Beside her, the candle flame danced joyfully. She glanced at it, brow furrowed. “What are you so happy about? You don’t have much longer to live.”

But maybe that was worth dancing about. Not the dying, but the living. Dance while you have the chance.

She chuckled, the rhyme so unlike her. She was not an optimist by nature, though she didn’t exactly consider herself a pessimist either. She just was. “Too deep,” she croaked. “I just might need another bottle if I keep up all this deep thinking. Can’t have any deep thinking.”

She killed the contents of her glass, as if it were the same as killing the contents of her mind. She didn’t want to think about this stuff anymore. Didn’t want to dwell on Sean and what had become of him. Lord knew, she’d already done enough of that and it had gotten her nowhere except in a plush chair opposite a fucking shrink. “Definitely need more wine.”

She leaned over and poured the remains of the bottle into her glass, knowing perfectly well what they said about people who drank alone. Though what choice did she have? She was a loner; always had been, always would be. An anti-social hermit who liked it that way. People were so bothersome…so demanding of her time and energy. Time and energy she didn’t care to share. All she needed was her words, her characters. They gave her trouble sometimes, sure, but all-in-all they made for better company than anyone in the real world ever had.

She’d always lived inside her head best and saw no reason to change. Sean had been the lively one. The vivacious one, outgoing and funny. Smart and handsome. The two of them had been like night and day, yin and yang. She had to laugh now, bitterly, wondering not for the first time if her parents wished it had been her who’d disappeared. “Sorry, Mom,” she said loudly, her own voice startling her. “Sorry Daddy-O.”

She was half-tempted to call them up right now, in the middle of the damn night to announce to them that their precious baby boy was a homosexual. Wouldn’t that stick in their craw nicely?

Then she froze, wondering just what the hell had gotten into her. Why was she thinking all these ugly negative thoughts? Yes, her parents had favored Sean. Sadly, parents often cared for their sons over their daughters. It was a simple, though unfortunate, fact of life.

But it was the wine, of course, bringing out the ugly in her. The sour bitch on wheels, who dutifully kept her mouth shut and resented them all the more because of it.

“Put on a happy face!” she shouted abruptly, clambering off the bed, being careful not to spill her drink.

Maybe what she needed was some fresh air. Perhaps she should go for a walk. Any fool knew women had long ago lost the privilege of enjoying a night walk alone, but Karen didn’t give a shit about that right now. She would pity the poor fool who dared to fuck with her tonight.

Stumbling around her bedroom, she stepped into her favorite flip-flops and prepared to leave the condo, wineglass in hand. She was turning towards the doorway when the laptop on her bed bleated. She stopped, swaying slightly, and gazed down at the computer with curiosity. Someone had sent her an instant message.

Ignore it, she thought. Go on your walk. Pretend you didn’t hear it.

“That’s ridiculous,” she muttered. “It could be something important.” Though she couldn’t imagine what. Not many people had her screen name, but her publishers, agent, and editor were among those who did. As far as she could remember, her mom might have had it as well, though she was certain her parents were long since in bed by this time of night. Setting the glass on the bedside table, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the laptop to her, turning it so she could see the screen. The instant message was from someone calling themselves SeanL14. She gasped, clicking open the IM before she could think better of it. Her eyes widened as they scanned the words typed into the message box.

Two men have the carcass.

All she could do was stare at the words, suddenly completely sober, palms growing damp as her pulse thumped in her temple, her heart a tiny terrified bird in a cage of bones.

Bing.

New message.

But not a new message. The same one, repeated.

Two men have the carcass.

She wanted to respond to whoever was doing this, ask them who the fuck they were and what they wanted, but she was paralyzed. Had her dream of the other night not been a dream at all? Had it actually happened? That distant, cracking voice on the other end of the line, repeating the phrase she was looking at right now? Had that episode been real?

Bing.

The same five words again. And then again.

Bing. Bing. Bing.

Rapid fire, the message kept repeating, over and over until she was sure she would scream. She bared her teeth at the laptop. “Stop it,” she cried. “Stop it!”

And then it stopped.

She didn’t dare blink, didn’t dare breathe. Frozen and staring, everything else forgotten in that moment. There was only her and the computer. After nearly a full minute had passed, she slowly moved her hand towards the laptop, intending to slam it shut when it bleated at her again.

The message again, abbreviated this time, coming faster than she thought possible. Could anyone type that fast?

TWOMEN.

TWOMEN.

TWOMENTWOMENTWOMENTWOMENTWOMENTWOMENTWOMEN.

Over and over and over. Filling up the entirety of the message box. The computer’s beeping became a constant drone and then, finally, she found the strength to reach out and slam the thing closed.

The beeping stopped abruptly, casting her into complete silence, the candle flame still the only source of light in the room.

She released her pent up breath in a long slow whoosh that tasted bitter on her tongue.

Sometime later — maybe five minutes, maybe sixty — she stood, picked up the candle with its excited, happy flame and left the room, leaving the laptop behind, as well as the wine.

She didn’t feel like drinking anymore. Or walking in the crisp night air. She didn’t know what she wanted now, if anything, except to sleep. She was suddenly very tired. Exhausted, really. And her head was beginning to hurt with the first twangs of a hangover.

She had to sleep, though she had no intention of sleeping in that bedroom tonight. The couch would do just fine. She would sleep and then when she woke up, she would be clear-headed enough to figure out just what the hell was going on. Maybe figure out who was playing such an evil trick on her and why.

But, sleep first. Sleep was her friend, almost a lover, and now she needed to mate with it, become one and just disappear for a time.

Disappearing sounded perfect right now.