The Space Between (18 page)

"Anyway, I slipped that wallet back in the pocket, just in case Mr. Willoughby had spotted it already. After he'd finished burying the body he had me fetch a scrap piece of granite and haul it up here. He never did say anything to me about it. When we finished he put a hand on my neck, like a dad would do to his son. But the way he looked at me then, squeezing my neck just a bit, I knew it'd be best to keep my mouth shut about what happened that day."

Several minutes of silence passed before Isaac realized Harold had stopped speaking and was looking back toward the gravesite. Isaac was trembling so violently he felt he was on the verge of a seizure. It was definitely cold outside, especially with the sun now far below the opposite range of hills. But it was not nearly cool enough to warrant such a reaction from his body. He stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and cleared his throat.

"It wasn't too long after that I helped Mr. Willoughby board over
Elizabeth
's window," Harold continued. "I felt like I'd betrayed her in some way. I suppose I did."

"What about Mary Jane, Harold?" Isaac asked, surprised at the tremor in his own voice. He felt as if he were about to open a door clearly marked "Keep Out."

Harold met this gaze. The sorrow permeated every wrinkle and pore of the old man's face, and Isaac had the overwhelming urge to apologize.

"As scary as
Obediah
was to a little boy, I still knew he was a man." He was now staring at the ground, blinking rapidly as if trying to keep his eyes dry. "But he was a man of God, and I never could quite convince myself he wasn't right, that God wasn't really on his side. I can handle having a man as an enemy, have for many years. But not God."

"But how can you say that? Would a man of God do those things?"

"I don't know!" Harold barked, still looking at the ground but clenching his fists. He quickly lowered his voice and glanced at Isaac. "Some things are best forgotten. Can't you understand that?"

Isaac nodded, moved by the old man's emotion and obvious hurt. "Is that everything?" he asked.

"Isn't that enough?" Harold responded before turning away to begin his descent toward the barn.

For a moment, Isaac considered staying there on the hill. He awaited some incredible shift in events, some amazing revelation that would come to pass now that he knew who lay under that polished piece of stone. But the wind whipped up again, and he imagined himself kneeling there, his hands clawing at the earth until his fingers scraped against some fragment of himself. That was enough to turn him around, falling in quickly behind Harold and following the bobbing circle of light.

§

Albert was back out on the porch when they returned, the lines on his face deep with worry. His visage visibly loosened when he caught sight of Isaac and Harold, and he stood to meet them at the steps. Isaac ascended the stairs, a weak smile squirming on his pale lips. He passed Albert without speaking and started inside, pausing at the front door. When he turned around he already had the attention of both men. Harold looked a bit worse for the wear, and Albert seemed ready to speak but not necessarily sure of what to say.

"I just want to thank you two," Isaac said, his voice soft and weary. "I'm sorry if I've caused any trouble between you. Harold..." and he stopped, looking at the old man. He said nothing else, however, and simply walked into the house, shutting the door behind him.

Isaac stood inside the foyer. He could hear the low mumbling of the two men outside. Albert's footsteps sounded off on the steps and the crunch of gravel followed. The truck's engine rumbled into life, and Isaac waited where he stood until it faded off into the distance. With only the sounds of the house settling around him and his uneven breathing, he walked into the kitchen and sat down.

He considered having another drink, but his stomach was far too twitchy to risk it. Food wasn't even a consideration, though he knew his belly was empty and dinner was past due. It would be hard to eat with that cold sensation running through every fiber of his body. He clenched his fists on the table in front of him, hoping to distract himself from that feeling. It did no good; it was as if his insides had been sucked dry of all blood, muscle and tissue, then filled with an icy slush. He imagined he would bleed ice crystals were he to cut himself.

It didn't help that his thoughts were frantic with the recent revelation upon the hill. Isaac kept hoping for someone to poke a camera around the corner of the kitchen and let him in on the joke. That was the only explanation he could come up with at this point, that he was part of some new reality television show starring unsuspecting semi-celebrities. And the budget for said show must be tremendous, thus allowing for all of those fine actors and amazing special effects. Any minute now his sister would round that corner with a big, guilty smile on her face and tell him how it was just innocent payback for the dead frog he'd put in her bed when they were kids.

Any minute now...

Isaac gave up after fifteen minutes of sitting there, still hearing nothing but the house and occasional hum of the central heating. A sense of being lost was creeping up on him. Here he was, alone in an old house, miles from his home and family. His only friends at the moment couldn't necessarily be trusted, and he still wasn't sure just how sane he was. The woman he once loved was lost to him forever, and Elizabeth, a woman he could see himself loving, was a lifetime or two away, nestled down in the arms of danger. And, just to complicate matters, he had good reason to believe his own grave lay on the hillside behind the house.

That premise in itself seemed preposterous. But, then again, not much of what happened on the
Willoughby
property seemed to follow the normal rules of life and death. If he hadn't
felt
it was true when Harold told him, Isaac would never have believed such a ridiculous story. And every time he considered the best way to prove that Harold was the crazy one, Isaac could feel the threat of a massive panic attack. He didn't think he'd be able to break more than two inches of that stony, mountain dirt before collapsing into a shivering pile of useless muscle and bone.

No, Isaac knew Harold had been telling the truth. But the worst part wasn't knowing his body was lying under several feet of cold dirt and had been for the past three-quarters of a century. The worst part was knowing that if he went back to save
Elizabeth
, and time allowed no leeway when it came to history playing itself out, then he would be sacrificing himself to do so. He would be dying for the woman he was falling in love with.

He knew he could grab his few belongings and leave this place. Nothing but his own conscience was forcing him to return to
Elizabeth
in an attempt to save her. If he didn't try to help her then she
might
die at the hands of her father. But if he did, then he was most likely signing his own death warrant.

Unless...

He could argue that rules were being broken left and right in this place. Who's to say he couldn't break some on his own and succeed in bringing her back with him? Did he really have to die, or was it inevitable only if he failed? Did the grave necessarily prove he would fail?

Isaac's head was beginning to hurt. That train of thought was going nowhere, but it was still unstoppable. He moved toward the refrigerator, the thought of drowning out that inner voice with beer again a welcome suggestion. He stopped himself upon hearing the sound of Walter's truck passing nearby. Jogging to the front door, he opened it in time to see taillights disappear up the hill.

Without wasting a thought on whether he should wait, Isaac grabbed his car keys and ran outside. He jumped in the driver's seat and had the engine started before he'd even closed the car door. With a spray of gravel that peppered the porch, he was on his way to have a chat with his neighbor. He would force the man to talk, just as he'd done with Harold. Hopefully, the answers he got from Walter wouldn't be nearly as disturbing.

Walter was at the cabin's front door. He was working a key into the deadbolt when Isaac came ripping up the driveway, the Mustang's rear end fishtailing on the last curve. The old man finished unlocking the door then bent over to retrieve something. As Isaac jumped from his car and approached, he saw that his neighbor was carrying flattened cardboard boxes. He stomped up the stairs, stopping only a foot or two from Walter.

"Going somewhere?"

The look on his neighbor's face let Isaac know his current state of contempt was not lost on the man. Walter tried to play it off with a smile and a soft laugh, but the waver in his voice was unmistakable.

"I'm just doing a little organizing, packing up some donations to give to Goodwill." He paused, possibly expecting a response from Isaac. The younger man simply stood there, staring at him. "It's a little late for a visit. You checking up on me?"

The joke fell flat between them, Isaac's stare incinerating it in mid-flight. Walter adjusted the boxes in his hand and made no move to enter the cabin. Isaac nodded toward the door.

"Just stopping by. Come on, I'll help you."

Before Walter could protest, Isaac reached down and grabbed the boxes then pushed past him and into the cabin. As he entered, he reached over and flicked on the lights. Had he been looking, he would have seen the way Walter flinched as the room lit up, as if a pesky insect had stung him on the neck.

Isaac looked around the room then back at Walter. "Looks like the Goodwill is going to have a great week. You decide to keep anything for yourself?"

The room was mostly bare but for the furniture and a few half-full boxes scattered about. It was obvious to anyone who might happen upon the scene that someone was either moving in or out. As Walter had seemed quite comfortably settled during Isaac's last visit, Isaac could only guess that it was the latter.

"Look, I was going to tell you-"

"Tell me what?" Isaac interrupted. His voice was sharp enough to cut through steel. "What is it you were going to tell me, Walter? That you were moving? I'm sure there's an interesting reason behind that, but how about telling me what I
need
to know? How about telling me just what the hell you were doing here in the first place?"

He had turned completely around to face Walter, taking a few steps closer. He hoped that catching the man in a lie and being as intimidating as possible would speed up the discovery process. Walter didn't look very scared, however. In fact, he just sighed and looked down at the floor. Less than a minute passed in silence, but that was far too long for Isaac's current disposition.

"I know you didn't buy this land. And I know your last name is
Willoughby
." A small laugh burst from his mouth as he looked around the room. "You didn't even give me a fake last name, did you? Jesus..."

He knew there was no use in putting any blame on himself, but Isaac was suddenly feeling quite foolish. It was the old man's disarming disposition. He had to wonder just how far that shtick had gotten Walter in life.

"I've had about enough mystery for one lifetime," he continued, looking back at Walter. He stepped even closer and stooped a bit so that Walter, still directing his gaze toward the floor, could see his face. "I talked to Harold this evening, did you know that? He finally came clean, particularly about that little gravesite on the hill."

This definitely grabbed Walter's attention. His head snapped up, his eyes meeting Isaac's. There was so much fear in them that Isaac couldn't help but feel a twinge of it himself. It was brief, however, and his anger soon took control again.

"That's right. I know all about it. So tell me, what family secret is so big that you have to lie to me about it? Even better, why the hell did you bring
me
into this mess? Money? Are you screwed up in the head, Walter? Fill me in on the punch line because I could really use a good laugh right about now."

He was still holding Isaac's gaze, but his eyes were swimming in tears. This only made Isaac angrier, and he had to step away from the old man, resisting the urge to hit him. He walked into the kitchen, turned, and then swung his fist around to knock a box from the counter. It fell to the floor, scattering a few pans and cooking utensils across the room. The noise caused Walter to flinch again, but he continued watching his young neighbor.

Isaac placed his palms on the counter and leaned forward, trying to calm himself. His anger was getting out of control and Walter's silence was not helping the situation. Either the old man was stupid or he was just trying to piss Isaac off even more, which was also stupid. He just stood there, staring back at Isaac with that hangdog expression that might have once convinced Isaac to relax. But things were different now. The truth was making itself known and Isaac was quickly realizing he could only trust himself. For what little that was worth, at least his sanity seemed to be less in question.

"There isn't much I can tell you that you don't already know," Walter said suddenly, startling Isaac. "I know you
ain't
happy about things as they are, but I don't think I could have done things any other way."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Isaac asked and moved quickly toward him, stopping himself, afraid of what he might do upon reaching him.

"I'm saying I don't think I could have done things any other way and lived with myself. I have a family, Isaac. I have a responsibility to them. Sometimes you have to just let things play out the way they were meant to, even if it means losing something important."

Isaac closed his eyes and lowered his head, shaking it as he laughed. "I swear to God if you don't start making some sense..."

"I'm making plenty of goddamned sense if you'd just listen!" Walter barked. The tone of his voice indicated he was on the border of rage himself, just as frustrated with Isaac as Isaac was with him. It was surprising, but Isaac refused to let it sway his own mood.

"You don't want to test me any more than you already have," Isaac warned.

Walter looked away. He blinked and tears rolled down his dry, wrinkled face before dropping from his chin to the floor. After a few shaky breaths, he walked over and sat on the arm of the couch, burying his face in the palms of his hands. Isaac thought he was about to start sobbing, but instead Walter looked back up at him. There was a peculiar softness to his gaze, but the message was stern and serious.

"Sometimes people do things because they have to. That's just the way it is. I'm here because I have to be, just like you. Maybe you don't understand that, but I think if you took a few minutes and stopped being so paranoid then maybe you would."

Isaac remained silent and continued to listen.

"No one is forcing me to be here, just like no one forced you to check out the house. That's not what I'm talking about. I
have
to be here because of who I am, who I want to be, for my family. The same goes for you, Isaac. No one is twisting your arm to go back to that house, but you have to decide who it is you are."

"Your bullshit isn't going to fly this time," Isaac said.

Walter suddenly stood and advanced on him. It seemed like a threatening gesture at first, but when Isaac saw the sadness permeating his entire being, he relaxed. Walter reached out and grabbed his shoulders, making sure the younger man was paying attention.

"Do I look like a man out to get you? Do I, really?" Isaac carefully examined Walter's features but said nothing. "I know what's happening down there. You've told me, but I had an idea to begin with. But when it comes down to it, I'm just as confused as you are. I don't know if me being here has made things worse or better, just that I have to be. I'm afraid if I say too much or too little, then I'll lose everything. And as much as I hate to say so, my part in this is
over
. It's all on you now."

Walter was crying freely and it was taking everything Isaac had to resist feeling sorry for him.

"I have to leave now. I can't ask you to do what might go against your character, because it would be wrong and because...I just can't. No matter how much I want to."

Isaac was beginning to feel a little light-headed. He'd stormed up to the cabin to give Walter a piece of his mind and, if his neighbor failed to cooperate, a spot of trouble. Now he stood there letting the old man's tears erode his armor, break down his anger. He was letting Walter get to him, which was especially bad considering his neighbor was still not giving up anything Isaac didn't already know. All he had to show for his anger were more riddles and heartache.

He pushed Walter away and the old man broke into a sob. Then, without even thinking about it, Isaac stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. His neighbor's sobs grew louder as his face pressed against Isaac's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Walter mumbled and Isaac could only hold him there.

As the older man regained his composure, Isaac stepped away and held eye contact with him for a moment more. It seemed to be understood that this was the last time the two men would see each other. Besides losing what could have been a best friend or the icing on his next album, Isaac couldn't help but feel a deeper loss. Walter was someone special. How else could Isaac simply walk away with no more information than when he'd arrived that evening, his anger swinging limply in sync with his stride back to his car?

§

Isaac sat cross-legged in front of the unmarked headstone. After more than an hour huddled under a blanket, his blood still ran cold and his muscles suffered the occasional bout of trembling. He felt slightly more comfortable than when he first sat down on the cold, hard ground. There had been a time or two when he thought he might slip into unconsciousness, that empty feeling devouring every inch of his body. But the feeling would dissipate, and he was able to remain awake and aware, losing himself in his thoughts between episodes of near hysteria.

After leaving Walter's, Isaac had gone back to the house and tried to sleep. He knew before he even laid his head on the pillow that it would be futile, but he attempted it anyway. At least he'd had the foresight to leave his clothes on so when he got back out of bed a half an hour later, he didn't have to bother with dressing again. He had hoped to clear his mind and wake up with a better perspective on things, a more logical approach to saving
Elizabeth
without risking everything. Once he was back on his feet he realized that sleep was not in his immediate future, nor would it likely visit him until he had handled his responsibilities as he currently saw them.

Elizabeth
was his main concern. It was more obvious now that he would only have one more chance to get her away from
Obediah
. Even without considering the implications of the grave he now sat upon, Isaac felt certain his next visit would be his last. If he succeeded, he would bring her back with him or, at the very least, lead her to safety. No matter what Harold had told him a few hours earlier in this very spot, a small part of Isaac still believed he could survive the attempt. It
had
to be possible; why else would he even be given a choice? Was this his chance for redemption?

After getting out of bed, he had spent a few minutes thinking about how best to approach things. It would no doubt be a "get in, get out" type of mission. If
Elizabeth
's reaction to him followed the pattern, he would not be able to rely on her feelings for him when it came to convincing her to step through that door. He would need to be ready for resistance, even an all-out struggle. Isaac considered using the element of surprise in his favor. He hated the thought of scaring her, but worse was the thought of abandoning her once again, most likely for good, and leaving her there to suffer a fate similar to her mother's.

Then, of course, there was the matter of
Obediah
. If this was indeed meant to be Isaac's last journey through the door, then
Obediah
shouldn't be expecting him. Perhaps surprise would work in his favor in that matter, as well. Still, it would be best if he armed himself, just in case. It was one of the few moments when Isaac wished he'd been a little more of a gun enthusiast than he was. He'd fired rifles on occasion as a child and a handgun only once: when his sister had taken him to the shooting range to show off her new piece. It was fun, but not so much to make him want to rush out and buy one himself. If he'd thought he could spare the time, Isaac could wait until morning and run out to pick up a rifle.

He settled on a large kitchen knife. It was sturdy, sharp, and practically new. In fact, he was quite sure the only time it had been used was the night before when he'd prepared dinner for Walter. Now it sat on the kitchen table, waiting for his return from the gravesite. Isaac spent a good while thinking about what else he should bring, but it only came down to the knife. He cringed at the idea of needing to use it, even more so at the thought of needing it to intimidate
Elizabeth
into coming with him. And if he did have to resort to such tactics, how would she respond to him once they came back through? Would she still be scared to death of him, or would something "click" in her mind, bringing back all those memories that were there at some point in her life?

These were the things Isaac considered as he sat atop his grave. Yes, he'd slowly accepted that Harold had been telling the whole truth. Besides not being able to think of a reason why the man would lie, Isaac couldn't easily dismiss the sickening dread he had experienced when faced with the fact. It felt too real to not ring true.