The Space Between (14 page)

But he managed to calm down, taking deep breaths and reminding himself he was back where he belonged. He looked around the hall to anchor himself in the reality with which he was familiar. Isaac knew it would be foolish to return so soon, unarmed and acting mostly on speculation. The father would likely be raging about in
Elizabeth
's room, thirsty for blood and waiting for his return. Isaac would be no good to her dead, and his return might only taunt and aggravate
Obediah
. It would only jeopardize her safety even further. If her father suspected what the two of them had done just before he had arrived, it would not bode well for her.

So Isaac gave himself time to go over what had happened. He needed to decide on the best course of action but had no clue what that might be at the moment. The latest drama was too recent to allow for rationalization. He felt like a coward, as if he had betrayed her by leaving and hoping for the best. Looking at it that way, it only made his previous escape seem like much of the same cowardice. When his thoughts began repeating themselves, he went to bed, still clothed and catching his breath.

He had many dreams that evening, most of which he wouldn't remember in the morning. It was possible there weren't many, that his constant waking or turning in the sheets was just a residual effect of the excitement. But he did dream of Emily a few times, mostly of their last few seconds together. He saw her life taken from her, pinched out between plastic and steel. And each time he knew it was coming, but could do nothing to stop it. He was in the driver's seat thinking
It's going to happen right up here, right past this street
, but sat there helpless as his hands turned the steering wheel.

It began with Emily's smile, glowing in the dingy interior of his old
Toyota
, her face dotted with raindrop shadows. The slow swing of headlights crossing from his side of the car to hers. The deliberate slump in her happy countenance, her features dropping into an expression of interest then confusion. The brief look of terror in her eyes before Isaac looked back toward the road to see the truck that had crossed the median on I-20 in a flurry of mud and grass. The sensation of his leg tightening, pressing down on the brake pedal with all of his strength. Floating, spinning, watching the twin beams of fate move clockwise to Emily's side before merging with a sudden, brilliant flash of light that swallowed his world until he awoke in a hospital bed with only his pain to keep him company.

He dreamed that he slept again, this time waking up on the couch in the hospital waiting room after finally crashing from too much worry and caffeine. He couldn't move. He knew as soon as he did, the doctor would come in the room to tell Emily's parents that she was gone. And he would have to relive that sudden drop, that endless descent into a grief that offered no hope for salvation. The panic rose to a level Isaac could no longer tolerate, and he tried to rise from where he lay, wanting nothing but to flee before the doctor could corner him.

He'd also dreamed that Emily was still alive and had accompanied him to the
Willoughby
house. She followed him around as he showed her the place, explaining how great it would be to get away from the city, build his own recording studio, and still be close enough to
Atlanta
for her to not feel too isolated. At the end of the tour they had ended up at the top of the stairs. The look on her face was one of pity, melancholy, and just a touch of amusement. She placed one hand against his cheek, then turned and walked down the dark hall to the bedroom door. She looked back once before reaching out toward the wall and grabbing a knob Isaac couldn't see. When she did, her face blurred, taking on
Elizabeth
's visage for a moment before shifting back. He stood there, dumbfounded and a little scared. He couldn't quite get a fix on who she was exactly.

She turned the knob and a bright seam cracked open to reveal the doorway, the light spilling out across her face and into the hall. Isaac ran to her, one arm stretched out as he screamed for her to stop. He'd suddenly remembered why she shouldn't be in that house to begin with. Her presence had just been
accepted
. But as she stepped toward the threshold, it had all come back to him. He choked on her name, tears spilling down his face. His legs felt weighted down, as if the air had taken on the consistency of oil, causing him to exert all of his strength for each step, and he couldn't move quickly enough. He could only reach out as she disappeared.

Isaac woke early the next morning, his eyes puffy and his face cool with drying tears. He ran some cold water into his hands, holding them against his eyelids until he didn't feel as though he were going to be squinting his way through the day. Downstairs in the kitchen, he started some coffee. It wasn't until he sat at the small table to wait that he realized he had left the journal with
Elizabeth
. At first he just shook his head, kicking himself mentally before realizing she probably needed it more than he did. The book essentially belonged to her, but it would also hopefully serve as a reminder of just how serious her situation was. If he couldn't get back to help her, maybe she would take the writing of her mother to heart and seek help on her own before it was too late.

And then an idea hit Isaac like a thump on the head.

If she is from another time, from the past...

The chair toppled over as he jumped to his feet. He grabbed his jacket from a hook on the foyer wall, sliding into it as he jogged outside and down the porch stairs. He didn't bother shutting the door behind him. He was halfway across the backyard before he realized he still had water on the stove. It was no matter; what he needed to find out would only take a few minutes.

The sun had yet to top the trees, so night still hung around inside the barn like an old drunk slumped at the bar long after last call. Isaac lit the lamp and walked quickly toward the corner of the building. His muscles began to feel sluggish and cold, but he pushed through it and soon found himself stepping down the ladder that dropped into the hidden room. He positioned himself once again, leaning out as far as he could to slide his hand along the ledge. He felt nothing and pulled himself back to let his arm rest a moment before trying again. Still nothing but dust and dirt.

Damn.

Isaac began to climb back up then paused, trying again. Still nothing. This created a whole new set of questions. Where was the journal now? Had he imagined it to begin with? He knew that was not likely. Walter had seen it, so unless his subconscious had made up that whole episode (or invented Walter, for that matter), the journal was real. If Isaac had left it in the past, wouldn't it have ended up back here on the ledge? That made sense. Unless, of course, Isaac was
changing
the past.

The idea of that scared the hell out of him. It was bad enough he could barely get his head around any of the possibilities, but to think he was actively changing what had already happened was too much for him to believe, especially considering that changing a single thing in the past might affect far more than you would expect.

He shut down that avenue of thought. It was too easy to become mired in the possibilities, and he had enough fear and guilt to deal with. Isaac grabbed the lamp and went back up the ladder. He shut the door behind him, not bothering to hide the entrance from anyone who might be curious enough to take a look around. Would it matter if someone did? It wasn't as though he had any crimes to cover up. That seemed to be
Obediah's
bag, one that Isaac hoped he wouldn't find tied around his neck as he sank further into the mystery at hand.

Back in the kitchen, Isaac sat with his eyes glazed over and fixed on the surface of the table as he sipped coffee. He was trying to sort through his thoughts and feelings without letting himself get caught up in searching for answers that probably weren't there. He knew he might never be able to explain Elizabeth or
Obediah
, the door or the journal, but that didn't matter at this point. He needed resolution, a way to settle the matter. Whatever that entailed, he knew it would involve getting
Elizabeth
away from her father.

Isaac would need to rely on things he could trust to get the solid answers he wanted, things that were part of
his
reality. There was Harold, of course; Isaac still had hope that the old man had more to give if he could just get it out of him. Janice at the courthouse might prove to be a valuable source of information, and he would hopefully know that for sure tomorrow. Then there was the house and property itself. There was a lot of land he'd yet to explore, and the house might hide more secrets than he imagined, especially with an attic still to investigate. A house as old as this might have many a hidden cubby here or there.

He remembered mentioning dinner to Walter, and planned to make good on that, but it left him the whole morning and afternoon to do some digging. Perhaps his neighbor could shed some light on these new developments. Engaging Harold again would be a tricky matter; Isaac wasn't even sure if he could get the man alone or in a position to talk again. Albert might come in handy for that, if it was possible to include him without giving the whole, twisted story of what was happening (or what had already happened) behind the doors of the
Willoughby
house. Tomorrow he could look for one or both of the men at the diner and try to arrange something.

This day would be best spent taking a closer look at what was right in front of him. Though he was anxious to get started, he forced himself to choke down a light breakfast before changing clothes. It was almost ten by the time he called Walter, who gladly accepted the invitation to dinner, even offering to bring his harmonica in case his host felt like playing a few songs. It would be a welcome distraction and it helped ease the tension building in Isaac's tired, sore muscles.

As the front lawn seemed capable of hiding very little, Isaac began his excursion behind the house. He stuck to the edge of the open yard at first, looking off into the woods for anything out of the ordinary as he followed the wall of trees and low bushes. It could be a small, broken down shack or a rusted-out pickup. Anything but more trees would be plenty enough to send him scurrying through the tangle of plants to investigate.

He saw nothing on either side of the yard, however, and worked his way back toward the barn. It was possible he missed something in there, but he would save it for later. He felt he'd already squeezed its secrets out when he pried away the bench covering the hidden room's entrance. He could picture no other possibilities in his mind, and circling the structure didn't shed any new light on the matter. Still, he wasn't ready to rule it out just yet.

Isaac stopped at the rear of the building with his hands on his hips, having made a trip and a half around the barn. The sun was peeking over the tops of the trees on the hill in front of him. It was a steep slope which leveled out slightly before angling upward again. The last half of the climb looked insurmountable, and he had to wonder just how so many trees had ever taken root there. The forest that blanketed this small mountain was more formidable than the surrounding flatland, and the undergrowth was thick and wiry. He held one hand up to shield his eyes from the rising sun as he peered off into the shadows.

That was when Isaac saw the remains of a trail. At first he thought it was a natural path of drainage from rainwater working its way down the hill, but then he noticed how it wound its way up the slope, cutting back in the opposite direction as it slowly gained altitude. It was a subtle line, slicing through the fading colors of an autumn preparing for slumber. The trail stopped where the small mountain leveled out and did not seem to continue where the slope took up again.

As the trail approached him, it became harder to recognize. He took his time, occasionally forced to retrace the trail when he lost it. Finally, he tracked it all the way to the edge of the woods, directly in front of him. Knowing it was there made it easier to see, like finding hidden items in a picture once you knew what to look for. He stepped forward and noticed how the surface of the path was lower, and only slightly more beaten down than the rest of the forest floor.

Isaac took one last look behind him toward the barn and house beyond. A sudden, strange feeling swept over him, as if he was approaching a boundary that was not meant to be broken. He shivered in the late morning shadows and turned the collar of his jacket up against his neck. Facing the trees, he glanced up at the plateau. If there was anything to find on this mountain, that would be the place.

Thin, brittle branches reached out to him as he pushed his way through the woods. The thickening layer of leaves shifted and crackled under his feet. The sound was loud and unsettling on the otherwise silent hillside. Swatches of sunlight shot past him here and there, stinging his eyes whenever his face passed through them. It was difficult for him to keep an eye on the faint path while still avoiding a swipe across the cheek from a testy briar or limb. And if he wasn't careful where he stepped, his foot could easily roll out to one side atop a thick tree root or sharp stone, spraining an ankle.

By the time he reached the flat area, Isaac was winded. He leaned against one of the larger trees that had taken root there. He bent over to catch his breath, reminding himself once again that cardiovascular workouts weren't just for overweight people. Once he was sure his breakfast wasn't going to give him any trouble, he lifted his head and looked around the plateau.

It was an interesting formation of dirt and trees. He had to wonder if it were a natural occurrence or, if not, how and why someone would have done such a thing. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary except that there were fewer trees here. Even if it was natural, the plateau had obviously been cleared at some point. A flat area of land such as this would logically have
more
vegetation, as seedlings wouldn't have been working against the gravity of the slope as they fought for a hold in the soil.

It could have been used for anything, he supposed. It may have been home to an old moonshine still. But it
had
been used for something, and he couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was done or kept there was meant to be removed from view. Looking out toward the barn and house, it was obvious this place (as hard to spot this time of year as it was) would be impossible to see in the greener months.

Isaac walked around, kicking at the leaves and twigs lying around his feet. He moved along the edge, glancing toward the drop-off. The plateau began to curve back toward the hill, and he soon found himself standing with a steep rise of land and trees to his right. The ground cover was thicker here. Isaac was forced to high-step his way through, avoiding clumps of small, thorny vines waiting for him like little bear traps.

His foot came down on something hard, a spot of ground that offered no resistance to his weight. He stopped and looked down, seeing only more leaves and debris until he scraped at the ground with the heel of his boot and uncovered a flat stone. He had to stomp the surrounding bramble flat in order to kneel without risking thousands of stinging scratches.

The stone was smooth. In fact, it felt as though it had been polished once, but was now thick with the elements and time. He swept away the remaining ground cover until the shape of the rock took place. It was mostly rectangular, its corners and edges chipped here and there, worn soft by erosion. Isaac was quite sure something this shape was not a natural occurrence, especially considering how smooth it was. This had been put here, and he could think of only one reason someone might place such a stone in that manner.

He suddenly fell onto his rear, rocking back and forcing his hands out to catch himself. A few thorns pierced his palms, but he didn't notice. There was something dark welling up inside of him: a familiar, empty sickness that pulled down on his insides with an icy grip. He could feel his pulse quicken, the blood beginning to course through his veins like crushed ice. His breath left him while sitting there, his chest heaving uselessly until he feared his lungs would burst.

Somehow he managed to push up from the ground and begin moving toward the clearing and trailhead. He stumbled out from the thin layer of undergrowth, almost falling twice before grabbing hold of the same tree he'd rested against minutes earlier. His breath came back to him in a burst of sound and pain, his chest burning. Isaac pressed his face against the rough bark, his arms wrapping around the tree as he held himself up, waiting until his legs felt strong enough to support him again. When his lungs and heart caught up, he turned and put his back against the tree, sliding down into a sitting position.

What the hell just happened!

That was an excellent question and he only wished there was someone else around to answer it for him because he had no idea. Other than realizing he might be squatting atop the grave of Mary Jane Willoughby (he wasn't ready to even
think
of the other possibility), he couldn't understand why he had reacted in the way he had. In fact, it was so unexpected and unusual that Isaac had to wonder if it was something more physical in nature, maybe the culmination of all his stress finally paying off in one hell of a panic attack.

That was no panic attack
, he reasoned. And he should know. He'd had one just before his first big opening gig. One look at twenty-five thousand people waiting to hear him perform was all it took. That had been nothing like this. This felt as if he were about to be turned inside out, like something was dragging his soul kicking and screaming right out of him. It was another reason, he feared, that whoever might be lying under that stone was someone he
knew
. He didn't dare even think her name, and hoped (no matter how selfish and morbid it seemed to him) that it was actually her mother that lay there.

When Isaac suspected his legs would carry him safely back down the hill, he wasted no time in finding out. And when they did, he challenged them further by running all the way back to the house, where he collapsed into the kitchen chair until he felt he could open a bottle of beer without splashing it all over the place.

§

After giving himself a chance to calm down, Isaac pried his cell phone from his back pocket. The beer had helped him regain some composure, but hearing his sister's voice on the line brought him close to tears.

"Hi, sis."

"Isaac? Hi! I was a little worried. I've been trying to call you since yesterday. Where are you?"

He choked back the urge to break down before answering.

"I'm in Holden, taking a look around that place I told you about."

Sylvia paused and Isaac knew she could hear the tension in his voice.

"What's wrong, Isaac? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he lied. "Just a little under the weather."

Another pause.

"Did you find out anything? Do we have family down there?"

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He hated lying to Sylvia, but he knew if he told her even half of the truth it would worry her needlessly.

"Nope, not a thing. But it's really nice here. I think you'd like it."

"Well...okay. Listen, if you need anything, you just call me. You will, right?"

He bit his lower lip, wincing at the pain but grateful the tears didn't come just yet.

"Sure thing, sis."

Then the tears did come, in torrents and waves of sadness that lingered into the evening.

§

Isaac had held the discussion until both he and Walter were finished with dinner so that he could focus without being distracted. He noticed how Walter had been watching him most of the evening, and realized he wasn't doing such a good job of appearing calm. Fortunately, Walter seemed to sense that whatever was bothering his new young friend would be aired out. He'd already been given the whole incredible story so far, so it made sense he could be confided in again.

As Isaac took the plates to the sink, being careful not to spill the thick puddles of juice and blood from their steaks (they both liked them rare), Walter leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs behind the straps of his overalls. He watched Isaac rinsing the plates, but when his host reached for the dish soap his curiosity apparently got the best of him.

"Why don't you leave that for later? Come on over and have a beer with me, tell me what's on your mind."

Isaac sighed, setting the plates in the sink and turning to face his guest. Walter stood and walked over to the refrigerator, retrieving two of the beers from the six-pack he'd brought along, then returned to the table. Isaac joined him in short order, slumping down into his chair and draining half of his beer before he began telling the latest in the string of strange events during his visit. When he finished, he drank down the other half. Walter waited for him to return from the fridge with a fresh bottle before talking.

"I'm not sure what to tell you," he began. He was looking down at his hands as he spoke, spinning the bottle between his fingers. "I suppose as old as this place is, it could very well be Mary Jane's grave. Then again, it could belong to someone else, someone who lived here before the
Willoughbys
. Might even just be a rock some kid dragged up there, or scrap from some construction project."