The missing person poster sat on the armrest between Timothy and Marshall. Neither could bear to look at Allison's picture. They drove back to town in silence, each man's brain swirling in a morass of thoughts and scenarios. When they reached 432, Timothy turned left, heading back towards town.
"Where are you going now?" Marshall questioned.
"I need answers," Timothy replied as he pulled the car back into the parking space beside Norris Gifts and Curios.
Timothy snatched the poster and quickly exited the car. Marshall soon followed, catching up with him at the front door to the antique shop. The woman with the pink and blue hair looked up from behind the counter and smiled at them as they entered.
"Back again so soon," she said, her teeth shining at Timothy.
"Have you ever seen this girl before?" Timothy asked, laying the poster on the glass-topped counter hard enough to make the valuables locked underneath rattle.
The woman picked up the missing person's poster and stared at it. Her demeanor instantly went sour.
"Of course, I know her," she said, her tone flattened. "Where did you find this?"
"How do you know her?"
"She was my friend," the woman answered. "Where did you find this?"
"On the community board at Adventureland," Timothy answered.
"You know you're not supposed to go in there, right?"
"How long did you know her?" Timothy asked.
"What's with the third degree?" The woman with pink and blue hair questioned.
"She was my sister," Timothy replied. "And I want to know what happened to her."
The woman dropped the sheet and looked at Timothy closely. She squinted her eyes and then smiled again.
"I can see a resemblance, now that you say that. She mentioned you a few times."
"What did she say?"
"Mainly that she missed you."
"Were you good friends?"
"She wasn't here long enough to be good friends with anybody. She took a liking to me, and I to her. It was a real kick in the ass when she vanished. They looked for a long time, but everybody has moved on."
"Could we maybe meet and talk later?" Timothy asked the woman. "I have so many questions."
"Sure," the woman said eagerly. "Do you know McCallum's?"
"No," Timothy replied with a smile of his own. "But it can't be hard to find."
"It's not. I close at five. Meet me there at six?"
"You sure you don't mind? Us being strangers and all?"
"Amanda's disappearance bothers me. Always has. You might be able to help figure out what the fuck happened."
"I hope that's true."
"Six o'clock. McCallum's."
"We'll be there."
Timothy turned to look at Marshall, who had been quietly watching from behind. He smiled, then turned back to the woman.
"By the way," he said. "What's your name?"
"Betsy."
"Nice to meet you, Betsy."
"And you?"
"I'm Tim, and this is Marshall."
"Nice to meet you, gentlemen."
"See you later," Timothy said as they walked out the door.
They weren't ten steps out of Norris Gifts and Curios before Marshall burst into a fit of barely contained laughter.
"What?" Timothy questioned.
"You're one smooth son of a bitch, you know that?"
McCallum's turned out to be within walking distance of Norris Gifts and Curios. It was stereotypical honky tonk with cigarette ash-stained wood panel walls, old neon signs that bathed the room in their haunting fluorescence, and 90's country music blaring from an old Wurlitzer jukebox. In a word, it was a dive, but the kind of dive that attracted serious drinkers and past-timers alike. It was also the only bar left in Trinity where one could smoke inside.
Thus, when Timothy and Marshall entered a little after six, they were greeted by clouds of smoke that hung low and grew more stale by the second. They found Betsy sitting on a barstool near the far end of the bar. She was wearing a tank top that exposed the myriad of tattoos that covered both of her arms and chest. They were all over the place in both theme and size, but we're all consistent in their black coloring. They stood starkly against her pale white skin. She also had a nose ring that was not visible at the antique store. In her uniform, she had been homely and cute, but out of it, Timothy found her to be more attractive than he had initially thought.
When they approached, Betsy looked up from her Corona with lime and smiled at the two men. Timothy noted that even the smile was cuter in this environment.
"You made it," she said as they pulled up stools next to her.
"It wasn't hard to find," Timothy said, noting the ashtray sitting before her and mentally adding to the negative column in his brain. Timothy didn't like smokers.
"Welcome to the best bar in town," she said, spreading her arms to signal the homey atmosphere and revealing more tattoos in the process.
"You could fool me," Marshall said, struggling to hide his discomfort.
"So, you're bad cop, right?" Betsy said, pointing to Marshall.
"That's me," he quipped in return.
The bartender came by, and the two men ordered Blue Moons.
"So, Amanda was your older or younger sister?" Betsy asked Timothy.
"Can we go ahead and stop calling her Amanda, please?" Marshall asked.
"What do you mean?" Betsy asked Marshall before immediately turning to Timothy and asking, "What's he talking about?"
"Well," Timothy said, straightening his posture and taking a sip of his newly arrived beer. "The first thing you have to know is that her name is not Amanda."
"It's not?" She asked, her eyes wide with shock.
"No," Timothy replied, shaking his head.
"What is it?"
"Allison. Allison Fletcher."
"Wow," Betsy replied before miming that her mind was blown.
She took the final swig of her beer and signaled to the bartender across the bar for another. The bartender nodded in reply and quickly brought her another Corona with lime. She took a quick swig and then asked.
"Was she really from Kentucky?"
"Nope," Timothy and Marshall replied in unison while shaking their heads.
"Damn!" Betsy said and took another swig.
"We're from about four hours south of here," Timothy said.
"She lived there her whole life," Marshall added. "That is before she disappeared."
"How did you know her?" Betsy asked Marshall.
"She was my girlfriend."
"Ah."
"That is, until she broke it off for some reason. She disappeared not long after."
"How long were you together?"
"Since high school."
"Damn."
"How did you meet her?" Marshall asked Betsy.
"She came into my shop. I can't remember what it was she was looking for, but we just hit it off. This was probably five years ago now, maybe? Things were already dropping off rapidly around here, so it was rare to find new, like-minded faces. She would come by with a man, an older man, from time to time. He was a nice fella, but I never knew the nature of their relationship. When she came in alone, she was different, more open. We hung out a few times but never got really deep. I think it was only four or five months later that she just up and vanished. That man put up those flyers that you found, but not a trace of her was ever found."
"How long did they search?" Timothy asked.
"Not long, to be honest. The park closed and sorta took all the attention away from the missing girl. You know, with people losing their jobs and all."
"When was the last time you saw her?" Marshall questioned.
"I don't really remember, to be honest. She wasn't someone I saw daily, or with any strong intent, you know? We were friends but not, like, besties. So, at some point, I realized that I hadn't seen her in a long time. Then I saw the posters around town and understood what the fuck was going on."
"What about the man?" Marshall continued. "Who was he?"
"You are bad cop!" Betsy said with a mischievous grin before downing the rest of her beer. "His name was Luther. He left town after they closed the investigation. Seemed pretty broken up by the whole thing, if I'm being honest."
"Do you know where he went?"
"Hold on a minute," Betsy said, lifting a finger to hold his train of thought. "I want to know your story now."
"Well," Timothy said before clearing his throat. "Around the same time that your Amanda showed up here in Trinity, our Allison disappeared. There was an investigation and suspicion, but no trace of her. Then the police nabbed Richard Crandall."
"The I-10 killer?" Betsy asked with excitement.
"The very same. He confessed to killing her and another girl before moving to Arkansas, where he killed all those people that he got caught for."
"It seemed like a logical conclusion to the mystery," Marshall chimed in. "But there was no body. And he never said what he did with her. Still, I believed it. I believed it because they told me to. I believed it because I needed to."
"I never did," Timothy continued. "Crandall is a glory hog, out for the gratification of his massive ego. Collecting random missing people to add to his numbers would fit his m.o. perfectly. I tried to figure out all that I could. I searched for years, collected a mountain of research, and still came to nothing. Marshall moved on. Everybody moved on. Except for me. I just couldn't move on. She was my sister, you know? She was the only thing that I really had in this world. My only family. My only connection. So, the trail went cold, and I went into a hole."
"So, what changed?" Betsy asked, enthralled by the drama of Timothy's story.
"New evidence has come to light," Marshall replied before Timothy could mention his dream. "And it led us here."
"And what evidence is that?"
"The wood carvings," Timothy said, understanding Marshall's desire not to scare her off with his dreams.
"And now this," Marshall added, pointing to the missing person poster still sitting on the bar.
"So, there you have it," Timothy said.
"So many questions," Betsy said in a daze.
"Back to you, now," Marshall said. "What about this Luther guy? Where'd he go?"
"Don't know," she said, sadly. "He just left town like they always do. It's a strange feature of Trinity. People just vanish. Most times they appear in other places with new lives, but sometimes they just go away, never to return. I mean, that damn national forest has claimed more than a few herself. Hikers and whatnot just up and disappear. It's so dense in parts that a body could remain centuries before being discovered."
"What do you think happened to her?" Timothy asked.
"I used to think she was there in the forest. But now? I don't know what to believe."
"She's got to be here," Timothy said. "I just know it!"
"If she's out in that forest, you'll never find her. You might as well give it all up now."
"I can't do that."
"Then let me help you guys. I don't know what I can add beyond the contacts at the shop, but that might help us out of this blind alley."
"Any help would be amazing," Timothy said with a smile.
"Come by tomorrow. I'll make some calls."
"Deal."
They paid their tabs and exited the bar together. As they walked to their cars, Betsy discreetly slipped a folded sheet of paper into Timothy's hand. He grabbed it and looked at the pretty girl with the multi-colored hair. She winked and smiled just wide enough not to arouse suspicion.
"I'll see you all tomorrow, yeah?" Betsy called the two men from her car.
"Absolutely," Timothy replied, feeling the crisp edges of the paper that held Betsy's phone number.
It started differently that night. Timothy noticed immediately that his lucidity was stronger than usual. And he was not in the bedroom.
He was outside the house, standing at a new vantage point. He looked below and saw the grass below his feet swaying in the wind. It was overgrown and wispy. That place was untouched, tucked away from view in the density of the forest. He moved forward, approaching the rickety fence and running his fingers along the bike rack. The rust felt rough under his fingertips. Timothy looked and saw that the bluff was empty. She had not come, or at least had not yet arrived.
Timothy pushed forward to the front door and opened it. The living room was the same as always. The fireplace sat untouched and cloaked in dust while the old paintings and the wood carvings hung where they always did. It was the clearest picture of the room he had yet seen. He walked towards the fireplace slowly, taking in all of the new details in the room as he moved. There was a photograph on the mantle above the fireplace. Timothy felt his heart racing as he approached it. In the picture, he could see Allison wrapped in the arms of an older man. It was not a lover's embrace, but she looked happy. Timothy reached out for the photograph but felt his lucidity rapidly decreasing. He tried to shout, to protest, but it was no use. The force of the dream had him at last. In a moment, he was back outside, only now he was lakeside, standing next to the bluff. He could see Allison, her skin a pale blue. He saw the edge of her profile peaking out from behind her long black hair. Without looking at him, she pointed to the grass behind him. Timothy turned and saw several freshly buried graves dotting the land. He looked back at her, but she was gone. The wind blew cold off the lake. Timothy looked back at the cabin. A light was on in the kitchen. He could see a hulking form through the window. It was looking at him. Waiting.
Timothy rose from his bed in a pool of sweat. The clock next to him read that it was ten minutes until one in the morning. He looked over at Marshall, who was deep in the throes of restful dreaming, and then lay back on his pillow. His mind was racing with new questions. Who was the man? Was it Luther? Why had the dream changed? Was it because he was near? It was too many questions for his mind to contemplate sleep. He sat up and reached for his wallet. Within lay the folded piece of paper that Betsy had handed him. He withdrew it and unfolded it for the first time. It said:
If you want to talk without bad cop around, here's my number…
Timothy reached for his cell phone and slowly typed her number into the recipient field of a new text message. After that, he clicked the new message bubble and began typing.
Timothy: Hello, Betsy, this is Tim from tonight. Are you still up?
He waited for a moment as his message sat waiting to be read. A few minutes passed before the gray "delivered" beneath his text bubble changed to "read 1:02 a.m." A new bubble appeared with three dancing dots before a reply was suddenly before him.
Betsy: I had a feeling I might hear from you.
Timothy: I guess that answers my question.
Betsy: Yes, I'm still up.
Timothy: Is it too late to take you up on your offer?
Betsy: Now?
Timothy: There's more that I haven't told you.
Betsy: Can't it wait 'til tomorrow?
Timothy: Not if you don't want bad cop…
Betsy: You know, a normal girl would be suspicious…
Timothy: I would be, too.
Betsy: I might as well hear you out. I must admit the intrigue is pushing me on.
Timothy: Where do you want to meet?
Betsy: Meet me at Adventureland. Twenty minutes?
Timothy: I'll be there.
He looked over at Marshall, who was on his stomach, snoring into his pillow, and assured himself that he had been stirred. He slipped out of bed and quietly donned his clothes. Within minutes, he was out the door and headed up 432 towards the ruins of Adventureland.
He found Betsy, who was now wrapped in a wool-lined coat, sitting in her car near the edge of the parking lot. He pulled up beside her and shut off his engine. She did the same, and they both exited.
"So," she said as she approached him. "What is so important that you dragged me out of bed?"
"You were in bed?"
"Well, I wasn't yet, but it is one in the fucking morning and it's cold as shit!"
"Well, I was until I wasn't."
"How profound," she replied sarcastically.
"Hear me out," he said in seriousness.
"I'm all ears," she replied, wrapping her arms around her to warm herself.
"It wasn't just the wood carvings that brought us here."
"Clearly not. There has to be more to the story."
"It's more about how we thought of the wood carvings, or at least how I thought of them."
"Well?"
"About three months ago, I started to have this dream. There's a house in the woods with a bluff overlooking a lake. I always start in the house and move out. It's always the same two rooms, and then I'm outside. Once I'm outside, I can see her on the bluff. I try to cry out, but wake before I can make a sound. For three months, it was the exact same."
"Sounds like something a psychoanalyst might be able to decipher."
"I went to an analyst, and he was no good. That is, until this week when I mentioned the wood carvings in my description of the dream. I had not mentioned them before. It was new. It was a clue. So, we followed it here."
"You and bad cop?"
"Marshall."
"Does he have the dream too?"
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"It is a little nuts, I'm not going to lie."
"Well, I'd never seen one. I mentioned it to Marshall and stirred a repressed memory of coming to your shop with her and buying one. It was a gift for her friend."
"And you never saw one before?" She asked, suddenly drawn back in.
"I knew nothing about 'em. It wasn't something she'd be into. She bought it for a friend."
"What friend?"
"Who knows? Maybe Luther?"
"Okay, so you had these dreams that brought you here. I admit, as crazy as it sounds, they did lead you to the right place. She was here, at least for some time."
"I had the dream again tonight. That's why I texted you."
"Was it any different?"
"It was incredibly different. More vivid. My ability to lucid dream and explore was stronger."
"What did you see?"
"I saw the man. I saw Luther."
"How do you know it was him?"
"There was a photo of them on the mantle above the fireplace."
Betsy lifts her hands in disbelief and turns to walk away.
"I know this sounds crazy, but I think he may still be here, living off the grid somewhere in that forest. I think she's there too."
"This is crazy, Tim. I'm supposed to believe that your dreams are some kind of premonition. This isn't some Stephen King novel. I know that kind of shit doesn't exist in real life!"
"So do I!" Timothy protested. "And yet, here I am."
"This is kinda spooky, Tim," Betsy said, walking back to her car. "Maybe I'm not ready to get involved in all this."
"Look, if you want to bow out, we will leave you alone and you'll never hear anything of it, but if not, then what I just told you is the God's honest truth. I don't know why in the hell it is, but it is."
"I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll keep helping me."
"You know, a normal girl would be fleeing in terror right now."
"I'm very aware you are not a normal girl."
"I am, though!"
"I get that."
"I gotta go," she said, quickly slipping into her car and switching on the engine.
Timothy stood and watched as she drove away, cursing himself for letting a stranger in. He knew the chances were high that she would have that same reaction, but he chose to believe in her ability to suspend belief and be open to the unexplainable. Now his biggest lead was scared off along with his largest resource. He turned back and started walking lazily toward the front entrance of Adventureland. It looked ghostly in the moonlight. The luminous white that beamed down from above cast an eerie shade upon the rusted hulks of the old rides. Without really knowing why, Timothy walked right up to the gate and slipped through the hole in the fence.
The emptiness of the park was much more apparent in the darkness. The wind, which outside the gates had been blowing freely, lay calm and still amongst the closed shops and restaurants that populated the main thoroughfare. Not even the sound of another vehicle reached his ear. It sent a shiver down his spine to know he was alone in the old park.
He moved to the community board and began to scan the ratty, water-stained pages posted on the board, pulling pieces of the top layer off to find what lay beneath. There were two missing persons flyers for Amanda, just like the one they'd removed earlier. They stood starkly amongst the promotional posters and want ads that surrounded it. He thought to himself that his sister would have wanted to be on a milk carton and not a crumby flyer. The thought made him chuckle. It was nice to laugh about things. He let out a chuckle that reverberated against the empty storefronts and greeted him a second later in the form of a low growl. Timothy's heart jumped, and he instinctively clutched his chest. After the shock wore off, he cursed himself for being a scaredy cat.
At the fork in the road, Timothy chose to go left. The path wound around sculpted gardens that were overgrown but far from reclaimed. Even in the darkness, he could see that someone had trimmed them since the park had closed. The path then turned left and became a wooden plank bridge that crossed a small gully. There were weather-beaten Chinese lanterns still hanging from bent iron poles crossing the bridge in even formation. Timothy slowed his pace and walked with trepidation across the bridge. Though the wood creaked and groaned, it held firm as he crossed.
On the other side was a sign declaring that he had arrived on Fun Island. Beyond it was a large Tiki hut with another sign in matching font declaring "Do You Dare Brave The Log Jammer?" Timothy thought to himself Why yes, I do dare and proceeded to enter the winding cue towards the ride. Because many of the ropes that connected to the metal poles that made the cue were still hanging, he had to follow them along their circuitous route to the ride itself. The closer he got to it, the more putrid the scents that emanated from it. He got up to the front of the line and stopped. Three two-seater logs were sitting in position as if awaiting their passengers, floating in the stale water that still filled the track. Timothy approached one of the logs and looked in. Spider's web had all but taken over the space in which children used to be thrilled and amazed.
His phone buzzed loud enough to reverberate off the walls of the cue and scare the daylights out of Timothy again. He reached into his pocket and removed his phone. It was a text message from Marshall.
Marshall: Where the fuck did you go?
Timothy: Couldn't sleep.
Marshall: Tattoo girl?
Timothy left the last message unread and proceeded to make his way out of the queue, heading back to the front of the park. He wasn't ten steps into that journey before the sound of metal clanging pierced through the cool silence. It had come from behind, where bushes grew unfettered into the old walkway. Timothy froze, his back rigid in surprise and fright. He heard a rustling that was too forced to be the wind. He turned back a found a pair of dark eyes looking at him from across the cue. The figure was hunched and dark, its eyes mere slits. Timothy remained frozen in place, paralyzed by the eyes. The figure moved forward, accompanied by the sound of scraping. It rattled through the old tide like nails on a chalkboard. Timothy instinctively began backing up, unable to look away. The figure continued forward into a snatch of moonlight that slipped through the rotted wood panel roof. In the shrill moonlight, Timothy could the figure was a goblin of a man. His face was a mass of pockmarks, his clothing putrid and shit stained. He dragged his bent prosthetic right leg behind him as he walked, its metal end sharpened by eons of concrete scraping. He wore a long, dirty beard on his face and equally long dirty hair atop his head. Timothy could tell the clothing he wore was once army fatigues, though hardly recognizable beneath the layers of grime.
"What are you doing here?" The vagabond croaked in a gargle of a voice that echoed harshly off the walls.
The vagabond stopped in the light, waiting for Timothy to answer. He did not answer. The vagabond then pulled a large Bowie knife from a sheath Timothy had not previously seen. The way it glinted in light told him the vagabond was keeping it sharp.
"You really shouldn't be here," the man continued, twisting the knife lovingly.
Timothy needed no further prodding. He turned quickly and rushed out of the cue. The sound of the man's laughter accompanied him like some kind of twisted carnival sideshow. He ran with all the energy he had until he was back and the turnstiles. When he reached the gate, he thought he could still hear the laughing, but knew it was only his imagination scaring him.