Henry Franks A Novel - By Peter Adam Salomon Page 0,45

Can’t you hear her?”

“No,” he said. “Only the wind.”

“It’s her,” Justine said. “There’s no wind. I can’t see all that well with the trees in the way and the lighting isn’t much help. She seems really hungry.”

“Why is my dad feeding a bag lady?”

“Go downstairs and ask her,” she said.

“I’m not dressed and half asleep,” Henry said. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“And there’s a bag lady eating dinner in your backyard. You don’t find that interesting?”

“Interesting, yes,” he said. “Worth getting dressed and—”

“She’s leaving!” Justine interrupted him. “Get dressed fast, we’ll follow her.”

“No,” he said, but he was speaking to nothing, the call disconnected. With a sigh, Henry pulled on a pair of jeans, shoved his phone in a pocket, and put on his sneakers. He hugged the wall on the way down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky areas in the middle, looking toward his father’s room. The light was on, bleeding out from the bottom.

Henry stepped outside. He closed the door softly behind him and was about to turn around when Justine spoke, sending his heart rate through the roof.

“Took you long enough,” she said, the words whisper-quiet.

“Did I mention it’s the middle of the night?”

“Come on,” Justine grabbed his arm. “She went this way.”

They walked between their houses, hand in hand. A faint path wound beneath the oak trees and they had to duck under the long tails of Spanish moss hanging from the branches. From somewhere in the marsh a frog croaked, the sound loud in the night. With each step they heard the squelch of their own feet breaking out of the muddy ground. The breeze was just enough to send the moss waving back and forth, distorting their vision and sending shadows to and fro as they squinted to see what might, or might not, be a footprint or two.

Though sounds seemed to carry oddly, this close to the marsh, the distant hissing was a constant companion. The deeper they went into the dark, the louder it seemed to grow. Their hands grew damp in the humid air and Justine let go in order to wipe her palms on her pants.

“This was a good idea, no?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice level.

“I think,” Justine said, taking his hand again, “that I’ve had better ones.”

“I didn’t take my pills tonight,” he said.

“And?”

“Alexandra.” Henry said the name out loud for the first time. “Her mother’s name was Alexandra.”

“Does that help?” she asked.

“I don’t know. This crazy person I know woke me up so that we could take a romantic moonlit stroll in the middle of the marsh.”

“There’s no moon,” Justine said. “And it would be more romantic if it weren’t so creepy. All that’s missing are violins.”

“You’re not helping,” Henry said. “And I have no idea where we are.”

Justine stopped and turned around, pointing back the way they’d come. “I think we live that way. Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Only one way to find out.” Justine wiped her hands once again, then ducked underneath a low-hanging branch, Spanish moss grasping after her as she headed down what might once have been a path.

“Wait up,” Henry said, rushing to catch up to her. He picked a piece of moss out of her hair and then took her hand.

The smell of ozone was heavy in the air, the first hints of another storm coming to the island. The mud soaked through their shoes, weighing them down, and the moon cast pale intermittent shadows as it played hide and seek with the clouds. The hissing was everywhere as they stepped around a giant oak tree. Moonlight broke through the clouds, casting odd shadows everywhere.

Henry pulled Justine to a stop before she could step out of the darkness and into the small clearing.

In the pale light, the bodies might only have been sleeping, except for the insects and the blood surrounding them.

Justine screamed and took a step back, the sound echoing through the marsh.

Henry pulled her toward him and she shivered in his arms, her teeth chattering despite the heat.

“I think they’re dead,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

A cloud passed in front of the moon and the clearing fell into darkness.

“Me too.” Henry took a deep breath, counted to ten, and exhaled. “Breathe,” he said.

And she did.

Together, they took a breath. And another, until she stopped shivering in his arms.

“Better?” Henry backed away so he could see her face. Tears had left faint trails on her cheeks and she wiped them away as he looked.

“A little, I think.”

Behind