Payton Hidden Away (10 page)

I wake up on the floor of my
hotel room. The front door is wide open. The moon has risen, and the stars are
out. The heat of the day is gone, having been replaced with a cool breeze. Ants
are eating me alive, crawling over my exposed legs and taking mini bites of
tender flesh as though I’ve already died. I get to my feet, brush the ants off
and shut the door before drawing the chain and locking the deadbolt. Turning
around, I survey the room. “Ritchie?” I call out, but my room does not answer.
I check the closet and the bathroom and under the bed just to be sure, but my
‘friend’ is nowhere to be seen.

The light in the
bathroom is flickering as I lean forward over the sink for a better look. The
reflection staring back is unenviable. I haven’t aged well. Haunted eyes and
sunken cheeks aside, I look older than I am. I scoop water into my palms,
gargle and spit before rinsing away the dried blood while hoping that by noon
it won’t matter anymore. It’ll just be a bruise, a memory lying just beneath
the surface. It’ll be one of those bruises you can’t see but it aches anyway.
It’ll linger for days until I stop thumbing it just to see if it still hurts.

Ritchie doesn’t
want me here. That much is obvious, but I never expected him to cold-cock me
without so much as a ‘hello.’ And now that Kristie and I have had our first
argument, I get the feeling she’s not all that crazy about the ‘new and
improved’ Tony Abbott either. I’m not wanted, so I’m not staying. I should
never have come in the first place.

Why did you
come back
?

That’s the
question of the day. And I suppose I’ll figure out the answer in the morning or
tomorrow or maybe the day after that. All I know for now is that I’m exhausted,
disappointed, and frightened. I shut out the light and crawl beneath the
sandpaper-like sheets on top of a brick-hard mattress. I don’t feel safe here
the way I should feel what with the door bolted and the windows locked. But it is
what it is, and what it is ain’t all that great.

Silence. Not a sound. No
neighbors or birds or running toilets or cars passing by. I’m in a bubble, the
world around me holding its breath. Sitting up, the only sound is that of the
course sheets rubbing together as I slide them aside and swing my legs over the
edge of the bed before rubbing life into my eyes.

Thursday.

I should pack my
things and go. Just go. Forget the phone call. Forget about Kristie and Joanne.
Forget all of it and just go. Payton is dying. Five years from now it’ll be
dead. Just like in those old spaghetti westerns, there’ll be sagebrush whipping
through empty streets, windows boarded over.

I button my
shirt, buckle my belt and tie my shoes. My suitcase is packed, and in five minutes
I’ll be on Route 89 on my way back to the airport. Nobody wants me here anyway.
I tuck the suitcase into the trunk before slamming it loud enough to announce
my intentions to the entire world. One last look around confirms my sour
supposition that no one will even notice once I’m gone.

“Dust in the
wind,” I murmur as I take the wheel, fire up the engine and peel out of the
parking lot onto the main drag. No traffic. No cars. No life. It feels like the
rest of the world forgot Payton County even exists. As the residents die off or
move away, I imagine things will continue to deteriorate until there’s nothing
left but a fading sign:

For Sale

Payton
County

A fine collection of memories

…and other assorted shit

The street light
turns red, so I slow to a stop. Across the way on the opposite corner, a young
boy is playing on his red skateboard. He’s practicing 360s, reminding me of
when I was that age. I never owned a skateboard, but I remember playing on this
corner. Ritchie was always at my side, and the future always looked infinite.

Looking in
either direction, there is no traffic, no cars—no shops open for business. The
entire town of Payton belongs to me and the boy, and as far as he’s concerned,
I don’t even exist. He’s in his own little world while doing his own thing. I
envy both his youth and unintended indifference toward everything else.

The light
remains red, and it seems to have been so for the last twenty minutes. There
are no cars. There’s no traffic. It’s just me vs. the goddamn light that’s been
red forever. Growing steadily impatient, I’m stuck waiting for the dumb thing
to turn so I can get the hell out of Dodge.

Still red.

I impatiently
drum the wheel with my thumbs before looking both ways again. I’ve been sitting
here for at least two minutes, and I’m about to risk driving through when I
notice another car approaching from the west, sailing over the hill at a quick
clip. The light for oncoming traffic must have finally turned yellow, because I
hear the car rev its engine before lurching forward, a plum of blue smoke
puffing from the rear exhaust. The front end lifts slightly as the vehicle’s
speed increases. Out of the corner of my eye I see a flash of red jump into the
road. The boy’s on the curb, nursing a bloody elbow while his skateboard slows
to a stop in the middle of the street. The boy scrambles to his feet, and
knowing how boys think, I already know what’s coming.

The light for
oncoming traffic turns red as mine turns green. I can see the driver of the
other car, but he can’t see me—or the boy. He’s messing with his cell phone and
about to plow right through the intersection.

The kid dashes
into the road.

I mash the
gas-pedal, my rental car loyally leaping forward.

The boy looks up
with fear—eyes wide. The driver of the Buick finally reacts, white-knuckling
the steering wheel as his tires scream. My Impala rushes into the intersection.

This is going to
hurt like a—

The impact is
worse than I expected. My head whips to the side, smacking the window. There’s
a flash of white accompanied by what seems like a delayed resounding thud and
the crumpling of metal. My car is shoved sideways despite the ambitious tires
that continue to spin. I feel the car lean the way a sailboat leans when it
catches a sharp breeze, and I’m sure I’m going over.

Then everything
stops. The rental is up on two wheels—leaning sharply to the side, the engine
still running. For some reason the tires have stopped trying to turn. The
passenger side is crumpled, the seat pointed inward instead of facing forward,
the window shattered, and pieces of glass are still falling like rain into my
hair and lap.

I’m wedged in,
and ironically that’s what I’m thinking about instead of wondering whether or
not I’m still in one piece. Something warm and sticky is trickling along the
right side of my face, so that can’t be good. Undoing the seatbelt, I manage to
inch myself out of the bucket seat and crawl up and out of the passenger-side
window. I know I should stay put until help arrives, but getting out of the car
seems like a better idea than just sitting there waiting for the car to catch
on fire or something. Besides, I need to know if the boy is okay. I need to be
doing something other than sitting and wondering why I intentionally drove into
the path of an oncoming car. Somehow, I’ve managed to strand myself here, and
despite the strong taste of blood on my tongue and the pain in my ribs, I’m
already wondering if my actions were motivated by something on a subconscious
level.

The morning air
is still chilly as I pull myself from the car and collapse onto the hood of the
Buick. I hear sirens in the distance, the pain starting to grip me like an iron
fist. My leg doesn’t feel right, and blood is running into my eye.

I peer through
the front windshield of the Buick to find the driver slumped over the wheel.
Steam is rising around me from the car’s ruined engine, and I can hear the
stampeding feet of approaching bystanders. Someone is crying, and it sounds
like the voice of a child. Suddenly, the town has woken up.

“Mister, are you
okay?” a man in boxers and a wife-beater is asking.

“I’ve been
better.”

The police are
here. Their screaming sirens are making my ears bleed, and their flashers—at
least from what I can still see—are beautiful red and green against a light
blue backdrop.

“What happened
here?”

“I saw the whole
thing!” a woman shrieks. “He saved that boy’s life!”

“She’s right,”
the man in boxers says. “Jimmy woulda run that kid over.”

“Is he okay?” I
ask.

“Jesus, he’s
bleeding bad,” an officer says. “Dispatch, we got injuries on the corner of
Main and Lincoln. Send an ambulance. 11-41.”

“Roger that
11-41. Ambulance is en route.”

“How’s the kid?”
I repeat. Blood is running over my lips and into my mouth

“The boy’s
fine,” the officer says.

“Hey, I
recognize him,” someone else says.

I lay my head on
the hot hood of the Buick and close my eyes. I can feel sleep coming.

“Stay with me,”
the officer says, shaking me by the shoulder. “Come on. Eyes up here. Focus on
me.”

But sleep’s
coming whether he wants it to or not.

“Isn’t that Tony
Abbott?”

“Come on, son.
Eyes on me.”

“What the hell’s
Tony Abbott doing here?”

I’m probably
dying. Later today it’ll likely be either Kristine or Ritchie who ID’s my body.
Maybe then they’ll feel bad. After all, I didn’t have to come back. I did it
for them. And this is what I get.

I’m not dead. That much I’ve
figured out. I
am
irritable. But that’s to be expected. Beyond that, I
don’t have a handle on much of anything else. The room is empty except for me
and this chirpy equipment what with all its blinking lights. I’m lying in the
world’s most uncomfortable bed and hooked up to what I think is an EKG. I guess
white means clean, so this must be a hospital room, but it does make me wonder
about perceptions and stereotypes. Do people get better faster just because
everything is white? No. So, even hospitals are liars. Hospitals and doctors
and nurses and the people around you who are supposed to care. Paint the walls blood
red for all I care. Just tell the truth.

“He’s awake.”

Tilting my head
the other way, I find that I’m not alone. Kristie is here with her mother. Mrs.
Lambert is dressed nice, but she looks different. She looks old, and she’s
dressed old. Then again, it’s been twenty years, so I guess we’re all old.

Kristie reaches
across the bed and takes my hand. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I return.

It’s a pretty
deep conversation.

“I’m sorry,” she
whispers, a tear slipping over her cheek. “About last night.”

The only thing I
remember about last night is getting punched in the face, and that had nothing
to do with her. “Me too,” I manage. My jaw hurts when I talk.

“You saved that
kid,” Kristie says as she wipes her eyes. She leans over and kisses me on the
tip of my nose. “He’s alive because of you.” She beams. “You’re a hero.”

I don’t feel
like a hero. I feel like a coward.

Kristie pats my
hand.

Mrs. Lambert is
unsmiling. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Like I’ve been
in a car accident.”

Kristie giggles,
but I expected a giggle. I was at least hoping for a courtesy smile from Mrs.
Lambert, but she offers nothing but a stoic glare as if I just killed her favorite
cat.

“Well,” Mrs.
Lambert says, standing. She’s put on some weight, and her hair has grayed. She
hasn’t aged well. “I’ll leave you two alone so you can pick up where you left
off messing up my daughter’s life.”

“Oh my god,”
Kristie gripes. “What did we talk about?”

“Welcome home,
Tony.”

“The outpouring
of support thus far has been overwhelming.”

Mrs. Lambert hesitates,
the wheels turning in her mind. She looks like she’s about to walk away when
she suddenly turns. “Where’s my daughter?” she demands.

“Mom…” Kristie
begs.

“I have no
idea,” I say.

“You were the
last one to see her.”

“Was I?”

The air is dry,
so dry you can almost hear the static electricity. It’s like a crackle, hanging
in the air.

“It’s too
coincidental that you left the same day she disappeared. Did you kill her?”

“Mom!”

“Where’d you
bury her?”

“I have no idea
where she is,” I repeat, matching her glare.

“I hope that’s
true,” she says, an unfriendly smile on her lips. “For your sake.”

“Mom…”

Mrs. Lambert
scowls at me before sending a warning glance in her daughter’s direction and
marching away. Kristie sits on the edge of the bed and gently brushes the bangs
from my eyes the way she did when we were young. “Sorry about that,” she says.
“She tends to hold grudges.”

“She’s right
to.”

The soft tips of
her fingers gently brush the stitched cut over my left eye, and I flinch. She
withdraws quickly, gritting her teeth, her eyes apologetic. “Sorry.”

“Me too,” I say.
“About yesterday, I mean.”

“What are we
going to do with you, Anthony Abbott?” She smiles. “Triple A.”

I smirk.

“And just where
did you think you were you going? Leaving town?”

I shake my head.
“Just out for a drive.”

“Out for a
drive.” She shakes her head. “Right.”

“The boy’s
okay?”

“Not a scratch.”

“What about the
rental? You think they’ll be able to buff it out?”

She snorts. “No,
you’re pretty much stranded.”

I nod. “Figures.
This whole trip was a bad idea.”

She frowns. “So
you
were
leaving.”

“Nobody wants me
here.”

She stares at me.
“I want you here. I asked you here.” She leans over and kisses me on the
forehead. “You need rest.”

“You’re
leaving?”

She sits down
and scooches the chair closer. “I’m not going anywhere.” She crosses her bare
legs. I try not to notice, and when I do, I pretend that I don’t.

“Still looking,”
she says with a smile.

“It’s hard not
to.”

“I always liked
that.” She smiles. “It was different with you. Not like with other guys.”

“I hate to burst
your bubble, but we’re all pretty much the same.”

“You were
different. It felt different.”

I shift
uncomfortably.

“So, what
happened?” she asks. “Why’d you run?”

“Which time?
Twenty years ago or this morning?”

“Twenty years
ago.”

“Well, first of
all, I didn’t run. That was the day I was scheduled to leave. I know we talked
about it.”

“Yeah,” she says
quietly. “We talked about it.”

“I had that job
lined up and an apartment on campus waiting for me.”

“You never even
said goodbye.”

“I don’t
remember that.”

“What
do
you remember, Tony?”

“Hardly
anything.”

“Like amnesia?”

“Like I don’t
remember. Some of it’s coming back. Like when I run into people I knew or see
things from my past, but there’s this…” I tap my skull before swirling my
finger in cuckoo circles. “It’s like there’s a blank spot.”

“That’s a
terrible answer.”

“Well, there you
go.”

She shakes her
head, biting her lower lip before turning on me. “Joanne’s dead.”

“And you know
this how? Because you found that old hearing aid of hers?”

“I know it
because I’m her twin sister.”

“What about the
letter?”

“Fuck the
letter. I know it. I
feel
it.”

“Then what do
you need me for?”

“I need to know
how. And I need to know who.”

“I don’t have
any idea. I can’t even remember the name of the street I grew up on. I
barely—.”

“It was a long—”

“I barely
remember you.”

She stops, leans
back, draws a breath.

“I had to think
real hard about it when you called me,” I whisper. “I couldn’t remember your
face. I barely remembered who you were. All there is, is some
vague…recollection at best—like a picture out of focus. Something happened that
summer. I get it. And I know I was here when it happened, but I don’t…” I shake
my head. “I just don’t remember what.”

She’s rigid. “If
you’re telling the truth, then you’re talking about repressed memories. Yet you
said some of it’s coming back.”

“In bits and
pieces.”

“Why would you
have blocked it?”

“I have no
idea.”

“Were you
involved?”

“I don’t know.
And neither do you. We don’t even know if there was something to be involved in.”

She looks upset.

“I’m sorry,” I
say.

“Yeah, I get it.
You’re sorry, I’m sorry, we’re all very, very sorry.”

“I mean it. I
never said it, but I’m sorry about your sister.”

Kristie smiles,
but it’s forced. I mourned Joanne, and I moved on. Kristie hasn’t. Apparently,
no one else in this spook-show town has either. The people here are stuck in a
dead zone mourning a girl who disappeared too long ago to remember why.

Kristie is
taking her time. “If my sister was murdered, then she was murdered here. Not in
some other city or state. It happened
here
, and somebody in this town
knows something.”

“That’s a big
‘if.’”

“Which is why I
called you.”

“What possible
difference can I make?”

“You knew her as
well as anyone, but you haven’t been here all these years since. You haven’t
stood by, the more obvious clues passing right under your nose. You haven’t
been here searching for that needle in the haystack.”

I need a drink.
Tea. Water. Anything. My lips are parched.

“I want you to
help me,” she says. “Help me find my sister.”

“Your sister’s
gone. I don’t know what I can even do.”

“Just help me.”

“If she’s alive,
then she’s not here. And if she’s dead, then what difference does it make?”

“It makes a
difference because she’s my sister. I need to know. I
deserve
to know.
Jesus, just…
help
me.” Kristie’s not backing down. “I’m tired, Tony. I’m
tired of waiting, and I’m tired of not knowing. I need some kind of closure so
I can sleep at night.”

“She’s been gone
for two decades. Even if you’re right, the best possible outcome you can hope
for is finding her body.”

Kristie looks
down, biting her lower lip.

“Are you sure
that’s what you want?” I ask. “Right now, you can imagine anything you want to.
You can imagine she’s living in sunny California with her own view of the
ocean. You can imagine her happily married with a couple of kids and a growing
retirement fund. The moment you find a body, every last bit of hope you’ve been
clinging to disappears.”

“I want to find
my sister.” She sniffs, drawing a deep breath. “Yes, we’re twins. You wouldn’t…
couldn’t
know what that means. I know she’s dead. I know it. I let go of
hope
a
long time ago, but you have to understand that I can’t just let
her
go.”
She looks up at me. “I need answers.”

I close my eyes
feeling way in over my head. I’m not sure I can do this—even for her. “I want
to see the letter.”

“You’ll stay then?”

“In case you
hadn’t noticed, my only ride out of town was totaled this morning.”

“Ironically
enough, you might be right. They even stopped running the bus route through
here years ago.”

“Of course they
did.”

She pats my
hand. “They’re going to discharge you tonight. I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t have a home.”

She shakes her
head. “My place.”

I frown.

She leans over
again, and I’m expecting another kiss on the nose or maybe the forehead, but
her soft lips touch mine, and she tastes exactly the same as she did when we
were kids with nothing but time on our hands. My heart starts to thud like a
sledgehammer, and it’s the same feeling—the same exact feeling. She pulls away,
and I look up at her.

She knows.

“I won’t be
far,” she whispers. Her eyes dance to the empty glass next to my bed. “You’re
out of water. I’ll let the nurse know.”

“Thanks.”

She drapes her
purse over her shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ll be back a little later.”

I nod.

“Guess I still
got the touch, huh?” She winks.

I offer a weak
smile before rolling onto my side and shutting my eyes. I need a few hours to
forget about her and this town. And I need a few hours to remember everything
else. She finally leaves me to listen to the intercom summoning Dr. So-and-so
to report to room such-and-such. After awhile, the sounds of life and death
happening around me become comforting. No stress, no worries. Here I’m safe. So
long as the robotic voices continue to call out over the intercom.