Snapdragon Book II: In the Land of the Dragon Page 6

  “I don’t know, honey.”

  Masie turned back to Sheriff Bimsley. “That’s so…weird. Seth wouldn’t do anything like that without telling anybody. He wouldn’t go off, especially after everything’s that’s happened. We have to find them! We have to look for them!”

  Frank Bimsley nodded. “We will. But, miss? They never said anything to you, or made any suggestions about going off together?”

  “No. No. I wish I could…”

  “It’s okay. If I find anything, I’ll let you know. You’ve been very helpful as it is. It looks like they all went off together on some damn fool errand. God knows why.”

  “I feel so stupid,” Mrs. Auburn said. “I feel so helpless.”

  If anything, the kids were still alive. That was his gut reaction. And he didn’t think they wanted to be found, which would explain why they hadn’t left a note. It was the first time since this nightmare began that Frank’s mind wasn’t screaming at him.

  “Mom,” Masie said, suddenly alarmed. “Sheriff? You don’t think—” She shook her head. “They went off looking for—”

  The same thought had occurred to Frank, but he didn’t want to believe it. If they were together, if what he thought was true, they were, undoubtedly, in more danger than they realized. What did a bunch kids know about defeating a nightmare of this magnitude? Frank thought about the brougham and quickly banished it from his mind.

  “Masie,” Mrs. Auburn whispered. “No. Why? He wouldn’t…not Seth. That’s crazy!”

  Masie did not reply, and Frank wondered—for the hundredth time—what was happening to this town.

  “Why would he go away and not tell us?” Mrs. Auburn said. “It’s not like him.”

  “They wouldn’t do that, would they?” Masie said. “Sheriff? Why would a bunch of kids go off searching for this thing?”

  Bimsley had a few ideas, but refused to voice them aloud.

  Because it’s not real, he thought. That’s why. Because this thing, whatever it is, isn’t human, and only kids believe it, and only kids think they can do anything about it. And you know something…I think they may be right. As much as I hate to say it, as much danger as I think they’re in, I wonder if those kids aren’t onto something.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But I intend to find out.” Frank paused and tried to think it through. “Is there anything else you can tell me? What about this…Gavin? Would there be some animosity between him and the others where he wasn’t invited?”

  Masie shook her head. “No. Not at all. That’s what’s so weird. Seth felt sorry for him actually. He told me Gavin was staying with one of the other kids that night. Eddie, I think. Gavin and his mother don’t get along. You didn’t get a report about him missing?”

  Bimsley shook his head. “No, but I can check on it.” Frank looked at the names written on the piece of paper and sighed. “You’ve been very helpful, both of you. I want you to know I think they’re okay…as okay as they can be without getting themselves into more trouble. I believe they’ve concocted some crazy scheme to go after this thing. They know something about what’s going on here. Maybe they think they can find it. Sounds half-cocked to me. But these kids don’t sound like troublemakers, not your Seth, and not the others from what their parents have told me. They believe something. I’m not sure what it is, but I’ll be honest…I’ve been at my wit’s end over this thing. Something’s going on around here, and it isn’t pretty. I want you to try and stay calm and be as patient as possible. I know that’s asking a lot. And if you remember anything at all, please call me. I’ll fill you in as much as I can. Okay?”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Auburn said, though she sounded defeated.

  Bimsley looked down at a pair of discarded tennis shoes. He thought about Sadie McCall in his racecar pajamas. He reached into his pocket and handed Mrs. Auburn his card.

  She took it and said, “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Bimsley said. He put on his Stetson and tipped it toward Mrs. Auburn. He nodded at Masie.

  Frank stepped out of the room, moved into the living room, and opened the front door. He nodded, said goodbye, and closed it behind him. How many lives, how many families? He’d been meaning to stop by the McCall’s, too, and he still hadn’t done that.

  Once in the patrol car, Bimsley made a call to the station.

  Anders picked up. “Sheriff?”

  “Anders,” Bimsley said. “I need the address for a Gavin Lolly. If you can’t find it, call the school and get the records.”

  “Gavin Lolly?”

  “Yeah,” Bimsley said.

  “Get back with you, Sheriff,” Anders said.

  “Make it fast,” Bimsley said, and started the car, putting the c.b. in place. He shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. Enjoying the taste, Bimsley waited for Anders to get back to him.

  Two minutes later, Anders’ voice came over the radio:

  “Sheriff?”

  Bimsley picked up. “Yeah?”

  “Got your address here.”

  “Let’s have it,” Frank said.

  iv

  Jamey Argason had never met Malcolm’s grandfather, but from what he’d heard, he was a bit reluctant to introduce himself. No, he was downright terrified. What would the old man think of a black man—and a total stranger at that—coming to his door with news about his missing grandson?

  He had to play it cool, show the man his good side, use some humor, perhaps. Of course, Jamey couldn’t find anything humorous in the situation, so maybe joking wasn’t the best approach.

  Jamey pulled up in front of Algernon’s house and parked the truck. He stepped outside, closing the door. The wind was brisk and cold against his face, the sky cloudy. He buried his hands in the pockets of his fleece and hurried up the steps of the Queen Anne.

  Confronting the old man wasn’t what terrified Jamey Argason. It was Malcolm’s story. Would the old man believe him? Did he, Jamey Argason, for that matter? It was one thing to tell the old man that he knew the boy, but telling Malcolm’s story was going to take some cleverness he wasn’t sure he had.

  He’d heard the latest news. He’d heard Malcolm’s name.

  We have to do something!

  The boy was doing something. That was certain. He and his friends had taken matters into their own hands and gone off after this thing, whatever it was. A damn fool’s errand, if ever there was one, but part of him—a tiny part, even a fatherly part—thought the boy was pretty damn brave for taking any action at all. He just hoped the boy didn’t get himself killed.

  “Turning into a believer yourself, aye, Jamey?” he said, and raised his fist, pausing at the door. A gust of wind made the leaves across the porch scatter and settle around him.

  Jamey took a deep breath, readied himself, and thought about the best way to approach the situation. He pulled his hand down. His heart beat rapidly, palms sweaty despite the chill.

  “Oh, boy,” Jamey said. “This could get nasty.”

  He raised his hand and knocked loudly. He closed his eyes. Too late now.

  Knocking brought it all back. A similar thing had happened to him seven-years ago, the reason he’d moved to Ellishome.

  Because you ran from it, he thought. You ran as fast as you could. Can’t catch me. Lost my home and family to the Gingerbread Man. Relocated. Found a place to call home.

  Ellishome seemed the perfect refuge, a sanctuary, only Ellishome was no longer the same. Ellishome had become a midnight monster on a black horse.

  He supposed it was the reason he’d taken to Malcolm the way he had. The knock reminded him of that moment seven-years ago when his wife and boy had been killed. The only difference now, of course, was that Jamey wasn’t a police officer.

  He’d been installing new cabinets in the kitchen. His boy, Kendall, had done exceptionally well that year in school, and Jamey had promised him two new video games for the PlayStation. Jamey decided, however, to stay home and finish the cabinets, while Anne t
ook Kendall into town. Anne kissed Jamey goodbye, and said she would be back before dinner. Jamey planned on making spaghetti when they came back. Five o’clock approached. Six. Seven. The spaghetti was done. Jamey sat at the dining room table with the cabinets finished and ate his dinner alone. At 8:30, there was a knock at the door. When he opened it, and the police officer took off his hat, Jamey already knew it wad bad.

  An oncoming van, running a red light, had demolished the side of Anne’s Honda, five teenagers high on crystal methamphetamines. Kendall had died instantly. Anne joined him two and half hours later.

  The horror of this had never quite sunk in. There had been no tears, at least for a while, only a numb, trance-like state of shock, a silent world of nothingness, where everything seemed untouchable and unreal—like a bad dream he was moving through but couldn’t wake from.

  In the weeks that followed, Jamey forgot about the cabinets, packed his bags, applied for a business loan, was accepted—and on a journey through the western slopes—discovered the bucolic town of Ellishome, Colorado. He’d decided to stay, leasing the empty shop on Main Street and returning to a trade his grandfather had taught him years ago. Since their deaths, Jamey could not remember uttering a single world to a single soul in all that time, except in matters of business. It had been a quiet, trance-like period, which had lasted about a year, as if the accident had turned him mute. Slowly, of course, he did begin to speak, and with more regularity and humor. Eventually, he was able to put the pain of that loss behind him, more than seven-years-ago now.

  Approaching his fifties, Ellishome had done him good.

  Standing on the porch of the Queen Anne, the blustery day returned, and the memory of his wife and son retreated into the past where it belonged.

  Jamey inspected the place, and noticed the house looked different. The leaves on the porch were newly fallen. The windows sparkled. The dust and grime were gone, and the porch had been swept clean, at least over the last few days. The leaves he remembered molding in the corners of the porch were gone now. In its place was a rocking chair and a bright red cooler.

  Jamey shivered with the wind. Waiting, he rocked back and forth on his heels. His nerves were frazzled, and his mind reeled. He still had no idea what he was going to say.

  He was about to knock again, when the door swung open. Malcolm’s grandfather looked tired. White hair in disarray, eyes wild and expectant. Jamey knew that look.

  The man wore a blue and yellow-checkered flannel, a white cotton T-shirt underneath, Wrangler jeans, a brown belt, and gray tennis shoes with Velcro straps. Jamey’s father had worn the same kind of shoes. He couldn’t tie the laces because his hands shook all the time. Jamey wondered if the same were true for Algernon.

  “Oh,” the old man said. “Hello.”

  Jamey tried his friendliest smile. He nodded a single time. “Mr. Alister. My name’s Jamey Argason. I own the butcher shop in town—”

  “Thought you might be—” the man said, and stopped, shaking his head.

  “Yes,” Jamey said, as if reading his mind. “I’m sorry. That’s why I’m here, though…about your boy.”

  “You know where Malcolm is?” the man said, brightening.

  Jamey took a deep breath. “I’m afraid not. But I do know your boy. I’ve met him a couple of times in town. Good kid. I wanted to talk to you about him, if that’s okay.” Jamey waited, his heart hammering, palms gathering sweat.

  The life went out of Algernon Alister; his shoulders slumped, the shine in his eyes replaced by doubt and skepticism. “You knew Malcolm?” the old man said, his eyes narrowing.

  “Well, not as well as I would’ve liked,” Jamey said, and realized how terribly this could’ve been interpreted—the very thing he was trying to avoid. “I do have reason to believe your son—your grandson is okay. He came into the store a couple of times. I think he took to me pretty well. I certainly took to him. He’s a good kid, Mr. Alister.”

  The boy’s grandfather only looked more confused.

  “Hmmm,” Mr. Alister said, and pulled the door open wider. “I guess you’d better come in.”

  Jamey stepped inside, surprised he’d made it this far, and surveyed the house…not as lavish and luxuriant as he’d imagined. Its simplicity actually surprised him.

  Algernon motioned Jamey toward the reading area. An empty fireplace loomed dark and cold. The old man acknowledged Jamey’s inspection of the house:

  “We were trying to bring the place back to life a little bit,” he said. “I sort of…omitted everything I used to own. Haven’t got around to making it anything but livable for now. I’d like to bring in some pictures eventually. But…until then…”

  Jamey nodded.

  “Come over and sit down,” the old man said. “And please call me Algernon. Or Al. Sometimes, Malcolm says I got the name of a dragon, so I stick to Al. Can I get you anything? I was about to make some cocoa.”

  “No, thank you,” Jamey said. “I just wanted to talk to you about your boy.”

  Algernon motioned Jamey to a chair. Jamey could picture Malcolm sitting here reading to his grandfather and vice-versa. Algernon sat opposite Jamey with considerable care. He inspected a coffee mug on the table beside him, realized it was empty, and set it down again. A stack of books sat on the floor. Algernon raised his eyebrows.

  “Well, this seems kind of weird,” Jamey said, shifting uncomfortably. “I heard some things in town today…Malcolm’s name. All I could think about was when he came to visit me. He’s a good kid. But I don’t have to tell you that.” Algernon nodded, as if he didn’t need to be told, either. “Your boy told me some pretty incredible stories. When I heard about him missing along with all those other kids, I didn’t know what else to do. I felt obligated to pay you a visit.”

  Algernon nodded, lacing his fingers together. He looked at a spot on the floor between his feet and nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

  Jamey took a deep breath. “I don’t know what scheme he and these friends of his have come up with. I just think…I don’t know…”

  “I went to the sheriff’s office earlier,” Algernon told Jamey. “He said it looked like a bunch of kids went off together. Camping gear missing, tents, backpacks, things of that sort. It doesn’t make sense. Sheriff Bimsley said the same thing to me. Not to worry. Kinda hard not to. I don’t know. I went to his room earlier, you know, to check on him because he never came upstairs. Doesn’t make sense. No sign of the boy. His bike is gone, too. He must have left last night. Or…” Algernon shook his head and put a trembling, liver-spotted hand to his temple. He closed his eyes, as if recollecting something from long ago.

  Jamey nodded. “I don’t know if Malcolm mentioned me,” he said, trying to stay on track. “I was worried about coming by, my being a total stranger and all showing up on your doorstep. Did the sheriff mention anything else besides these kids missing…anything about…this town?”

  Algernon narrowed his eyes. “Just his disappearance. Why? What do you mean?”

  Jamey thought about Malcolm’s story and wondered how to begin. He swallowed, clearing his throat, and looked into Algernon’s eyes. “Your grandson told me some pretty strange things. About what might be going on here in Ellishome. About the McCall boy and the others. He said he saw some…things. I’m not saying I believe them myself, you understand, but you could tell he was pretty serious about it. I think…I mean, I know he believed what he was telling me.” Jamey paused, letting the old man absorb all this before he continued.

  Algernon frowned. “I can’t imagine my grandson making up stories just to amuse himself. He reads plenty of them, sure, but he’s not the kind of boy to…how do you say it? ‘Pull a fast one.’”

  “Well…” Here goes, Jamey thought. “I thought the same thing. But…your grandson thinks he knows who killed that boy and the others. I’m convinced of it, and I know he is, too. He’s seen it…him. Whatever it is. I don’t know. But I think…I think your boy went off with these friends of his—the ones w
ho are missing—and are looking for this…thing. I know it sounds crazy. But…after hearing Malcolm’s story, and seeing him, I could feel it. That’s how I met him. He was in town and said this thing was chasing him. He was running down the alley and ran right into me. Gave me a good whallop on the head, too, sent us both sprawling. I could see he was scared…well, that’s not exactly right. That boy was terrified, more terrified than if some kids was chasing him. He didn’t want to leave the store, either. When I offered to give him a ride home, he told me the whole story. But there was something weird about it. I don’t know. Like I actually…believed him. I’m not trying to make you worry, Mr. Algernon. But…the boy wasn’t ‘pulling a fast one.’ I don’t know how I know that. I just do. With him and his friends missing, I thought it was obvious. I think I have to tell the sheriff, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. It was hard enough coming over here, knowing what I had to tell you. But I had to, and I hope you understand that. I had to tell you because if I didn’t, I don’t think I could live with myself.”

  Jamey thought of his own boy, the knock on the door…

  “The story is wacko, I know.”

  “You have my attention, Mr. Argason.”

  “Well,” Jamey said. “He said it was kids at first, you know, that was chasing him, but later, he asked if he could hang around the store for a while because he didn’t want to go home. I asked him about it later. That is, I said, ‘There wasn’t no kids chasing you now, was there?’ And he shook his head and said no. Then he told me what was chasing him.”