afraid. If I’d only known and understood what real fear was back then, we could’ve just packed a few things and gotten into that old car and gone. It would’ve been so easy.”
“We were children, it would’ve been disastrous.”
“No. This is disastrous. Here and now. This.”
From somewhere deep within the storm came the faint sound of a train whistle.
“Let me rest a while,” he said a moment later. “We’ll leave at nightfall.”
Again, I asked where we were going.
This time he told me. “To the beginning. And to the end.”
* * * *
In winter, daylight dies without warning. As dusk rolled in late that afternoon, closing on Sheppard Beach and swallowing everything in its path, the rain kept coming, no longer a mist but again a steady downpour.
Caleb, dressed in a pair of jeans and a shirt several sizes too big for him, emerged from Maggie’s apartment looking like a child that had raided his father’s wardrobe. He was cleaner and more alert than before, but his wounds could not be washed away so easily. His was still the fragile and devastated appearance of a bruised and battered junkie sliding steadily toward death, and it broke my heart.
But then, my heart had grown accustomed to such things.
Caleb offered an awkward thank you to Maggie, who kept her distance behind the bar while doing her best to seem unaffected and bored. “Yes,” I added, extending my hand. “Thanks, Maggie. For everything.”
She took my hand. “If I thought it’d do you any good, I’d wish you luck.”
We left without saying much else. My last memory of Maggie was of her standing behind that bar staring down into a mug of coffee long since cold, her false eyelashes batting about like tiny wings.
Caleb and I moved down the strip side-by-side toward the parking lot. One hand pulled my suitcase along behind us and the other I kept locked on Caleb’s arm to be certain he remained upright. He was a little stronger than he’d been earlier but still moved gingerly and with obvious difficulty. Several times his breathing grew heavy and he coughed, but it subsided quickly and we moved on.
Once we reached the car, I got him into the passenger seat and strapped him in with the seatbelt. I threw my suitcase in the trunk then slid behind the wheel.
“The rain,” he said, smiling gently. “It felt nice, didn’t it?”
I frantically searched for some trace of who Caleb had once been, but he was already gone, a ghost leading me through a dark and bloody passage I could only hope to escape myself. He was close enough to touch and as far away as a memory could ever be, a character from a different life, a separate dream.
Before I could ask him where we were headed, he said, “The last victim was an old man. He was murdered in his house. It’s by the beach, not far from here. The Ragman, he—he’ll return to that place. And he’ll be looking for us.”
I grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment, slid it next to my seat and started the engine. “Tell me how to get there.”
He did.
In less than five minutes we were parked along the side of a narrow beach road bookended by sand dunes. Caleb had taken me all the way around to the opposite end of the beach, about as far as one could get from the strip without actually leaving the waterfront. In the distance were the ruins of what Sheppard Beach had once been, and several modest cottages in various stages of disrepair scattered about a nearby hillside overlooking the ocean. One in particular, sandwiched between two large dunes, was ringed with bright yellow police tape that billowed in the wind as if purposely left there to lure us in. The terrain was uneven and tough, and I wasn’t certain Caleb could make it. Evidently he sensed this. “Don’t worry,” he said wearily, “I can do it.” With a guilt-ridden sigh, he looked out at the sand. “I’ve been here before.”
* * * *
As dusk died, we stood before the murder scene in the wind and rain. I had the
“We were children, it would’ve been disastrous.”
“No. This is disastrous. Here and now. This.”
From somewhere deep within the storm came the faint sound of a train whistle.
“Let me rest a while,” he said a moment later. “We’ll leave at nightfall.”
Again, I asked where we were going.
This time he told me. “To the beginning. And to the end.”
* * * *
In winter, daylight dies without warning. As dusk rolled in late that afternoon, closing on Sheppard Beach and swallowing everything in its path, the rain kept coming, no longer a mist but again a steady downpour.
Caleb, dressed in a pair of jeans and a shirt several sizes too big for him, emerged from Maggie’s apartment looking like a child that had raided his father’s wardrobe. He was cleaner and more alert than before, but his wounds could not be washed away so easily. His was still the fragile and devastated appearance of a bruised and battered junkie sliding steadily toward death, and it broke my heart.
But then, my heart had grown accustomed to such things.
Caleb offered an awkward thank you to Maggie, who kept her distance behind the bar while doing her best to seem unaffected and bored. “Yes,” I added, extending my hand. “Thanks, Maggie. For everything.”
She took my hand. “If I thought it’d do you any good, I’d wish you luck.”
We left without saying much else. My last memory of Maggie was of her standing behind that bar staring down into a mug of coffee long since cold, her false eyelashes batting about like tiny wings.
Caleb and I moved down the strip side-by-side toward the parking lot. One hand pulled my suitcase along behind us and the other I kept locked on Caleb’s arm to be certain he remained upright. He was a little stronger than he’d been earlier but still moved gingerly and with obvious difficulty. Several times his breathing grew heavy and he coughed, but it subsided quickly and we moved on.
Once we reached the car, I got him into the passenger seat and strapped him in with the seatbelt. I threw my suitcase in the trunk then slid behind the wheel.
“The rain,” he said, smiling gently. “It felt nice, didn’t it?”
I frantically searched for some trace of who Caleb had once been, but he was already gone, a ghost leading me through a dark and bloody passage I could only hope to escape myself. He was close enough to touch and as far away as a memory could ever be, a character from a different life, a separate dream.
Before I could ask him where we were headed, he said, “The last victim was an old man. He was murdered in his house. It’s by the beach, not far from here. The Ragman, he—he’ll return to that place. And he’ll be looking for us.”
I grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment, slid it next to my seat and started the engine. “Tell me how to get there.”
He did.
In less than five minutes we were parked along the side of a narrow beach road bookended by sand dunes. Caleb had taken me all the way around to the opposite end of the beach, about as far as one could get from the strip without actually leaving the waterfront. In the distance were the ruins of what Sheppard Beach had once been, and several modest cottages in various stages of disrepair scattered about a nearby hillside overlooking the ocean. One in particular, sandwiched between two large dunes, was ringed with bright yellow police tape that billowed in the wind as if purposely left there to lure us in. The terrain was uneven and tough, and I wasn’t certain Caleb could make it. Evidently he sensed this. “Don’t worry,” he said wearily, “I can do it.” With a guilt-ridden sigh, he looked out at the sand. “I’ve been here before.”
* * * *
As dusk died, we stood before the murder scene in the wind and rain. I had the
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