Page 89 of Last Seen
He sees her and immediately stops the cart with a tiny screech. The people with him peer at her curiously.
“Hallo!” he calls to her, waving. “Are you lost? You look lost.”
“Um, no, I’m heading right in there.” She points at the sign, and he excuses himself from his group and gets out of the cart. He comes to her, hand extended. Though she assumes he’s in his late seventies, he’s strong and moves quickly, with no hint of age.
“I’m Miles Brockton. Founder of Brockville. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to our humble town.” His hand is huge and envelops hers like a baseball mitt. He smells like marijuana and patchouli and something else, dark and ineffable, like fresh mulch. Is he high? Maybe. But his eyes are clear.
“Halley James,” she says. “I have a meeting at the retreat.”
“You do? It’s not in session right now. You’re a writer?”
“I’m talking about writing with Tammy Boone.”
“Ah, Tammy. Wonderful lady. Well, if you know where you are, I won’t keep you. But please, make sure you stop in at one of the wellness centers when you’re done.” He eyes her critically. “You need a realignment. Fatigue is hard to combat on a trip, and you will feel like a million dollars afterward.”
“Oh, I don’t think I need a chiropractor.”
His smile is bright white and avuncular. “Not a physical realignment. Your energy is all off. I have a fabulous machine that gives off the exact kind of vibes you need to reset yourself. It’s a Tesla coil biocharger, and trust me, you won’t recognize yourself afterward.” He looks at his watch. She notices it is a simple black face with a single silver hand. It looks ridiculously expensive. “I’ll tell you what. Meet me there at ten, that’s an hour from now, and I will change your life.” He grins, looking even more like a Hollywood movie star, and she understands in that instant how Miles Brockton manages to get so many people to buy into his idea of how life should be led.
The problem is his enthusiasm is contagious; she can’t help but smile back. If there’s anything she needs right now, it’s a life change. And whatever a biocharger is sounds insane, but who cares. She’s a scientist. She’s naturally curious.
And she is intrigued by this man whom everyone speaks of as a guru. Noah didn’t seem to be as enamored of him, but even she can’t deny the man has a magnetism. Who has that sort of power over people? Is it power? Is it charm? Is he an emotional vampire, draining the people around him of their essence while growing stronger andmore in control? She envisions him in a laboratory cooking up some special sauce to feed to all the people in town so they are happy and compliant, then reminds herself she’s gotten very little rest and had a trauma and maybe her imagination is in overdrive.
“All right. I’ll see you there.”
His smile is even bigger now, and he smacks his big hands together. “Groovy. See you there.”
He turns back to his cart and the crowd of people inside. “Now, this is the infamous Brockville Writers’ Retreat, and what a treat for you to have just met one of our talented students!” He’s off, the cart whirring away, and she feels like a hurricane has just passed through.
She drives up the hill to the cabin. It looks more like a Swiss ski chalet, a beautiful cedar A-frame with smoked glass and a stacked stone chimney, wispy smoke from an already-lit fire rising in the mountain air. It’s not that chilly—she is wearing her sweater and jeans from the road yesterday and is comfortable—but she is entranced by the idea of a bunch of creatives sitting around a fire, talking about their work. Then she realizes her sister stood here once, looking at the same view, waiting her turn to go inside, and chills spread across her body.
She mounts the flagstone stairs and knocks on the door. It swings open, and at first glance, the interior is as cozy and elegant as she was expecting.
“Tammy?”
Something smells off, like meat left too long in the sun. She takes three steps in and slips on something red.
Blood. Blood, everywhere.
“Run, Halley Bear. Run!”
“Tammy! Tammy Boone? Are you here?”
Grabbing onto a chair, Halley rights herself, realizing what’s happening. She moves carefully around the puddle of blood. It streaks and whorls and eddies over the hardwoods, a dying crimson river. She can easily envision someone staggering from the door to the living space. Ahead there are couches and chairs in an approximation of acircle, and in the largest one, in the head of the circle facing the fire, is the outline of a body.
Sensory overload. There is so much red.
A white rug, and finger paint everywhere. Her mother is going to be so angry. She has to clean it up. But she can’t reach the paper towels on the counter. She drags a stool and climbs up. Rips them off. Hurries back to the living room. There is something big lying on the floor. She can’t look. She must clean up the paint.
She wipes and wipes and wipes and it smears, going deeper into the rug’s pile. She whimpers in frustration. Fear. Tears. It smells strange. Her head hurts so bad.
Voices. There are voices. The female voice shrieks. She can’t make out the words.
She looks at the mantel. The photo of the family has paint on it. The fireplace is red.
The doorbell rings, and rings, and rings again ...
Her head hurts so badly. She needs to answer the door. Needs to make the ringing stop.
