She stops as she turns the corner and sees the antique shop.
Four cop cars (city, county, state troopers).
Ambulance.
Coroner.
Yellow crime scene tape.
A stretcher with black body bag is rolled out of the shop toward the meat wagon.
Ashley gasps, her lungs shrink.
I’m a murderer.
No!
Out comes Jonas Silage, alive and well. As well as could be expected for such a sick individual.
Ashley scurries past and onto her bus, where she gets the pieces of the story from various gossiping kids.
“Shot him dead with a shotgun.”
“Nah, it was a knife – he sliced the kid from ear to ear.”
“Yep, it was a knife, I know cuz my dad is dating the dispatcher.”
“He won’t spend a day in jail – perfectly legal to kill a prowler on your property. Self defense.”
“Who was he?”
“He wasn’t from around here – probably a drifter looking for something valuable to hock.”
“That Silage dude’s had a lot happen to him in the last week.”
“Well, he’s a weirdo, I think.”
“A weirdo who’s good with a knife.”
Ashley leans her forehead against the cold windowand stares beyond the passing trees at the little glimpses of ocean that flit past.
She knows she’s responsible for this.
#
Lunch time.
The school cafeteria’s abuzz with talk of the dead kid at Silage Antiques in Yachats. Typical small town talk – nobody would care in a real city. But everyone loves a mystery in a small town.
Turns out the guy was from Federal Way, Washington, and was not in need of money at all.
Why would he break into the antique store? Why would a guy whose 2007 Acura SUV was found two blocks away need to steal anything? The crime makes no sense.
Except to Ashley. She knows exactly what he was doing there.
Her bidding.
Paid for with her mother’s credit card.
She quickly stands and puts her tray on a trash can. It falls to the floor as she scoots to the rest room and locks herself in a stall. She starts to hyperventilate.
She’s going to go to jail. Or her mom will. Or both of them. And that guy is DEAD.
DEAD.
She opens her laptop and reaches out to the world, but none of her contacts are online.
She is alone.
#
After school, Ashley walks back past the Silage shop. The activity of this morning is gone – only the yellow tape remains.
And the eyes.
She can’t see them, but she can feel them, somewhere deep within the store.
Black.
Peering out at her.
She looks straight ahead and walks faster.
Her hand is so shaky it takes her ten seconds to unlock the front door.
She bursts in and slams it shut, locks the bolt and slides the chain.
Drops her backpack next to the piano, opens the lid, and pours out her soul into the keys.
Misery. Anxiety. Abject fear.
Other, darker sounds begin to emanate from the instrument. From her.
A sense of power. Control.
Then it passes, and she reverts to a more chaotic rhythm and melancholy melody.
Hopelessness.
Where had that fleeting sense of strength come from?
She stops abruptly. A reflection in the glass of a framed photo on the piano stops her heart.
She whips her head around in time to see him duck away from the window.
Silage is gone.
But he was there.
Watching her.
Listening to her bear her soul – a mordant incision into her private world.
He must know she was involved in the break in.
Ashley runs to her room and closes the door.
She grabs her cell and sits on her bed, her feet curled under her, rocking, waiting.
She hears the door open downstairs. Footsteps up the stairs.
She dials 9-1-1.
Her doorknob turns.
“Hi honey.”
“Mom!”
Ashley bursts into tears as she cancels the call before it can connect.
“What’s wrong?” Mom rushes to her bed and sits beside her, holds her.
“Oh Mom!” Ashley sobs. “He was watching me! While I played!”
“Who was watching you play?”
“Silage! Jonas Silage!”
“Oh honey, I don’t think so. He’s been at the police station all day dealing with - with what happened. You must be creeped out by the whole idea of prowlers in our neighborhood. I know I am.”
“But I saw him.”
“Look, I know he isn’t around here because I passed the police station coming home and his car was still there.”
Ashley knows better – she saw what she saw. But she wipes her face and sucks in ragged breath. “Fine. Um, do you work tonight?”
“No, it’s Thursday.”
“Good. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
#
DING –
Tanner89 is ONLINE.
Tanner89 is requesting a private chat. YES / NO.
Ashley hears the “ding” from the bathroom, finishes squeezing a zit, and turns out the bathroom light, closes her own door and sits on the bed.
She clicks “yes.”
Tanner89: My guy is dead.
Ashes2Ashes: I know.
Tanner89: This is not good.
Ashes2Ashes: I know.
Tanner89: It’ll never trace back to you, though – my guy is invisible – completely under the radar.
Ashes2Ashes: K – but
Tanner89: Is JS still bothering you, or was his experience with my guy enough for him?
Ashes2Ashes: He peeped in my window tonight.
The cursor blinks for ten full seconds.
Tanner89: I’ve got one more option for you. Now that blood has been spilled, I may as well offer you this. You do realize you are in deep, right?
Ashes2Ashes: Yes. What’s the offer?
Tanner89: I have another guy. Well, I have a guy who has a guy. With that many brokers, the price will go up some. But you’ll get every penny’s worth.
Ashes2Ashes: I hope so. So far, seems like I’ve been wasting my money.
Tanner89: For $10k, JS will be gone forever. And this one is guaranteed.
Ashes2Ashes: 10k?? That’ll wipe my mom out!
Tanner89: Or, you can let JS wipe YOU out. Your choice.
Ashley rested her head in her hands for a few moments.
Tanner89: Limited time offer . . . your card expires tomorrow.
Ashes2Ashes: Do it.
BLIP BLIP –
Tanner89 is OFFLINE.
Ashley flops back on her bed. She can’t believe that she just bought a hit.
You can buy anything online.
#
Ashley passes the antique store, walking to the bus. It’s Friday. Halloween.
She sees some kids in costumes – skeletons and ghosts, and the perennial Spiderman.
She gets on the bus, feels like everyone is watching her.
Watching the girl who hires hitmen. Some costume.
A short email this morning from Tanner stated that the job would be done by Saturday night. Apparently it took some time to import the right talent. Ashley decides she’s okay with that. It’s only two more days.
#
Mom works every Friday night – no restaurant worker gets that shift off. That leaves Ashley at home to answer all the trick-or-treaters.
It’s a pretty light year – only six doorbells with a total of ten kids. Must be the rain.
Ten o’clock.
Doorbell rings.
She opens it and stares into the face of Jonas Silage.
“Trick or t
reat.” He quickly scopes out the inside of the house from the doorway as the stunned Ashley finally slams the door in his face and bolts it.
She runs to her room and throws herself on her bed and sobs. She can’t wait for Mom to come home.
That night, Mom doesn’t come home.
#
Mom is usually home by three at the latest on a busy Friday night. By four, Ashley is ready to call the police.
Instead, the phone rings, and she jumps out of her skin.
“Ashley Lane?” A clear male voice asks.
“Yes,” she answers timidly.
“This is Captain Will Michaels with Oregon State Police, Criminal Investigation Division.”
Ashley starts shaking.
They’ve found out. They know she hired a murderer.
“Yes? Um, how can I help you?” she says, struggling to maintain control in her voice.
“It’s your mother. She’s in the hospital. A car will be coming to pick you up and take you to Samaritan Pacific Communities Hospital.”
“What happened?”
“We’d rather talk to you about it in person. Just stay put and we’ll be there shortly.”
#
The waiting is torture, but eventually there’s a knock at the door. Ashley sneaks a look out the crack in the living room curtains, sees the car, and unlocks the door.
A tall State Trooper with a deep voice escorts her to the cruiser.
She arrives at the small red brick hospital, enters under the white arch labeled “Vistors Entry.” She’s taken to her mother’s room on floor two.
Ashley falls on her knees beside her battered mother: oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, dark bruises under her eyes and cuts on her cheeks. She doesn’t look like her mother, she looks like pain.
“She’s in a coma now,” says the nurse.
“What happened?” Ashley is getting agitated with the lack of answers.
Captain Michaels enters the room and guides Ashley to the hard plastic chairs just outside the room.
“Ashley, I’m the one who called you. We found your mother outside her workplace near her car. She was attacked and left for dead.”
Ashley wants to vomit. Tears spring from her eyes.
Captain Michaels moves a hand as if to put it on her shoulder but pulls it back as if thinking better of touching her.
“Did you catch him?” she says through her tears.
“No, but he left a note. I’m going to read it to you; it may help us to track down the suspect. It says, ‘play for me again, Ashes. Don’t disappoint me.’ Do you know what that means?”
Ashley cries for a full minute.
She can’t say anything now – not now that she’s in so deep. A man died because of her. And now this.
“No,” she finally says. “I have no idea what that means.”
#
Ashley stays with Mom in the hospital until Sunday morning. By now, Jonas Silage should be dead.
She needs to get home and get online, find out what’s going on.
She realizes the credit card company is going to wonder what’s going on, too, and takes her Mom’s cell phone with her. If they call, she’ll pretend to be her mom and say the charge is authorized.
#
Ashley returns home to her deathly silent house. Her grandma is supposed to arrive from Omaha Tuesday to help out. Until then, the house is cold, quiet, dark.
Ashley walks through and puts on every light, closes every curtain, locks every door.
Nothing seems real.
She sees her laptop on the bed, and the strange reality of her life reaches out and grabs her by the throat.
She’s heard no news of Silage’s death, and until it’s confirmed, she just won’t feel safe.
She needs information. She needs to touch her world. She opens her laptop and boots up.
Two days of email are stacked up in her inbox.
A note from Tanner89.
Ashes2Ashes,
Bad news. We’ve been ripped off. My guy’s guy made off with the payment. The job is a no-go, and you’re out the 10k (and I’m out my commission). Sorry. This never happens. I still can’t believe it myself.
You’re on your own now. Do not reply to this message – just delete it and empty your trash. Do not contact me again. It’s for both of our own safety.
Good luck. >Tanner89
Ashley stares at the screen in disbelief.
Nothing’s changed. She’s out ten thousand dollars. One man is dead. Mom is –
- she chokes on the thought.
She still can’t accept it. Still in shock. It just doesn’t seem real.
But he’s real. And he’s still alive.
Ashley steels herself and makes a decision. Perhaps it’s a crazy decision, since right now her world is a crazy nightmare.
She decides to take things into her own hands.
If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.
#
Ashley uses a web search to make a simple purchase online. It wasn’t that hard to find. It’s amazing what you can find online.
She pays the extra to have the pill shipped overnight.
#
Monday morning finds a small package in the mail.
Ashley skips school today - as is expected. After all, her mother is in the hospital.
For the first time in a long time, she puts on makeup, and slips into a dress.
Not her usual comfy attire, but she’s going for a look.
Something that will be . . . irresistible.
She grabs the contents of her package and makes her way to the Silage store.
The sign on the door says “CLOSED FOR REPAIRS,” but she knows he’s home, in the back somewhere.
If life – this moment – wasn’t already so surreal and detached from true life, she would feel downright silly in this dress and makeup.
If she didn’t feel like she was dreaming, she’d be scared stiff at approaching the lair of her stalker, the abode of the man who’d just attacked –
She pushes the thought away.
It’s only the thought, not the feeling that drives her actions now.
She goes around back to see if there’s a way in, her fear replaced by numbness around her heart.
The back door is ajar, and she slowly pushes it inward on its creaky hinges. It’s dark inside, but her eyes quickly adjust as she steps inside.
The house smells like fish and dirty socks.
She doesn’t care.
A tinny radio in another room plays a country tune from decades ago.
She rounds the corner into the tiny kitchen, where dishes are stacked in the sink and rusting pots hang from hooks on the wall. A number of flies are circling the counter and pitching on an open cube of butter.
Ashley steps through the kitchen and into a dining room. She hears snoring coming from another room.
Perfect. He’s asleep. Now she won’t have to bother trying to trick him into a meal. She can just do it and be done.
The snoring ends with a loud choking sound, and she hears Silage stir. The snoring resumes.
She enters his room and stands over him.
His twisted smirk climbs across his face, lifting his jowls slightly. Dreaming.
She suppresses her revulsion. She reaches her fingers between her breasts and pulls out a tiny green pill.
Cyanide.
You can buy anything online.
She carefully moves her hand toward his face, to drop it into his slightly open mouth.
She can feel his fetid breath on her wrist.
He grabs her forearm with lightning speed and holds it like an iron rod. She can’t move.
His eyes shoot open and he laughs the laugh he did that time with his brother the cop.
Like he’s invincible or something.
Or smart. Which he is not.
But he is strong.
Ashley winces and stops
struggling, realizing it’s doing no good.
“Just what are you up to, Ashley?”
He doesn’t see the pill.
The pill that was knocked to the floor somewhere when he grabbed her arm.
She doesn’t answer him. This is not part of the plan.
“Alright then, I’ll tell you what you’re up to. You’re going to play for me.”
He gets up without letting go of her wrist, and leads her to the next room, where a baby grand sits under a sheet.
He whips off the sheet with his free hand, tosses it aside and says, “Play. Play the Darkness. Play it again for me.”
He lets go of her wrist and she sits at the piano.
She starts off slow. A few little runs, some simple chords.
The momentum builds.
In her dreamlike state, her life a distant drama playing on the theater screen of a drive-in she’s passing in the bus, she feels the music calling her, pulling her, squeezing her more than ever – from the pit of her stomach, through to her extremities.
She composes in the moment – a growing crescendo of power – the notes ringing through the house, resonating, bouncing off some of the antiques and being absorbed by others.
The music speaks of anger, and power, and pain, and great sorrow. It speaks of solitude and loss. It speaks of death. Brooding.
It speaks of retribution and darkness and light.
It washes over her. Cleanses her. Empowers her.
She glances up at a gold-trimmed mirror across the room. She sees Silage standing behind her, rapt. His eyes are closed and he sways as if buffeted by the sound waves as they flow from the piano.
Ashley pounds the keys with even more resolve and passion, the music becoming a frenzy of madness and love and hate.
She looks again and sees that Silage has completely zoned out, in a world of his own. She keeps playing, but part of her mind starts to wonder how she can find that cyanide pill and get it into his slimy mouth.
“What are you doing?” he suddenly barks. “Bring it back! Play the Darkness!”
It’s like he can read her mind.
He’s reading her heart by listening to her music. When she pulls herself out of her creative place to plot her next move, he notices.
It troubles her deeply that someone so evil and disturbed could know her so intimately. Did she make things this way? Had she unwittingly invited blackness to know her soul when she’d reached out to the universe with her music all those nights? Had she touched evil with her seducing sounds? Had the Darkness been her siren song to the devil himself?