He gripped the warm mug of coffee between his hands. Most days it comforted him.
Most days.
Truth was, he’d felt more comfortable at the police station. He felt nauseous every time he looked at his desk where the computer used to sit. He kept expecting it’d make him feel better to look and see that the computer was no longer there. It didn’t. Not even with the knowledge that the computer had been broken down to tiny pieces and burnt to ashes in his fireplace. He’d tried covering the desk with a blanket, but it hadn’t helped. Even leaving the cabin and going out to ice fish did little to reassure him.
His mailbox was the other disconcerting thing he couldn’t stop thinking about. He knew he should be checking it. If he was getting any more letters, he should be gathering them as evidence for the police (even if he’d concluded they’d be of no help). Every time he’d be about to check his mailbox, he’d break down and couldn’t do it.
One night, he awoke to see a strange, vibrant glow, and nearly lost his mind. But light from his bedside lamp was all it was. He sighed, muttering to himself that he must surely be going mad.
The next few days were slow and unremarkable. He was doing another crossword puzzle when the phone rang. He jumped out of his chair.
The second and third rings shuddered through the room; the fourth ring spurred him into action, and his hand was almost on the phone at the fifth ring when something stopped him. By the sixth ring, he knew what that something was, and the seventh ring had him backing away from the phone.
It was his mystery mail sender. It had to be. His breath gathered tightly in his throat for the next three rings, until it died away and he could breathe again. Slowly, he gathered his pencil and crossword book and sat back down on the couch.
The phone rang twice more throughout the day. He thought of unplugging the phone, but didn’t, as the phone might well go the same path of the computer and keep ringing even after it was unplugged. He might go insane if that happened.
He thought of destroying the phone, but what good would it do? This person would only find yet another way to contact him, and make Neville destroy each and every last one of his possessions in the process. No, better to wait it out. He was determined to give this person no further satisfaction.
The phone rang again the next morning. This time, he stopped what he was doing, dressed up snugly, and left the house with his fishing gear. He picked a different spot at the other side of the lake to fish at. For once, and probably the only time in his life, he was thankful to the howling wind for drowning out the sound of his phone. Even then, he could swear the sound was still faintly audible from inside the house.
He caught few fish that day, yet stayed outside longer than ever. The cold and his hunger gnawed at him ruthlessly. Until at last, as the sun was setting, he knew he’d have to go back inside. Either he risk hearing his phone ring once again, or else he’d freeze or starve to death out here near the lake. It was a more difficult choice than it should’ve been.
After storing his fish away, he waiting anxiously for the phone to ring again. When the sky was black and it still hadn’t rung, he permitted himself to sleep off the day’s events.
The morning after that, the phone still didn’t ring. Instead, there was a knock at the door. When the knocking came again, he was scrambling towards his bedroom. As he dove under the bed, the knocking came up a third time. He waited it out, biting his fingernails.
After the fourth knock, something within him changed. Here he was, cowering under his bed like a child hiding from some imaginary monster. He wasn’t going to have it any more.
He flung open the door, prepared for the worst.
It was a large man outside, walking away from the cabin door towards his car. He stopped, and turned around when he heard the door open. It was Antonio. All at once, the anger deflated from Neville.
Antonio walked back up to the house. “Ah, there you are. I was about to give up contacting you. I tried phoning you several times, but there was no answer.”
“Oh, that was you who kept calling?”
“Mmm-hmmmm,” Antonio said.
Neville’s face flushed.
“Can I come in?” Antonio asked.
“Yes…”
Flustered, Neville let Antonio in.
“I didn’t hear you calling so much because I was away from the house. I was out ice fishing, you see.”
“How did you know someone was calling the house if you didn’t hear the phone ringing?” Antonio asked with a raised eyebrow. “You said you were out ice fishing.”
Neville felt even more like a moron, but Antonio waved it aside. “Doesn’t matter. We’re here now. But what does matter are these. You might want to sit down first,” he cautioned.
Neville sat down. The moment he did, Antonio handed him the letters. Neville took them with great reluctance, and read the first letter.
Dear Neville,
I know you are not as ease, but you do not need to worry. The end is near, and the beginning will come soon after.
An iron hand reached into his stomach and tightly squeezed his insides. He read the next two letters, which both had similar vague and threatening messages.
“We monitored the post office for any incoming letters that had no return addresses or otherwise looked suspicious. And we found these three. Of course, we weren’t able to trace who sent these letters, or where they came from, but we’re working on it.”
Neville stared, transfixed at the letters.
“In the meantime,” Antonio continued, “I would like to take you into protective custody. I am concerned about you being here alone while there’s someone out there who may wish to harm you. I should have thought to mention this to you before, really, but that’s all the more reason to do it now. That first letter you showed us was ominous enough as it was.”
Even with the flatness of Antonio’s voice and his expression while he said all this, Neville detected a hint of genuine concern.
He hated to leave his cabin behind. But if it would mean being safer…
“Now, I know we discussed this already at the station,” Antonio said, “but can you think of any other useful information you give us?”
Neville shook his head. “Nope. Nothing beyond what I’ve already told you.”
“Can you think of anyone else who might know anything? We really don’t have any leads at the moment. Any outside help we could attain would be of tremendous value here.”
Now that was a trickier question. Neville had been so busy thinking of and worrying about himself, he’d thought little of who else he could ask for help, aside from the police. Though he had assumed that there would be nobody else.
“Think on it, all right?” said Antonio. “In the meantime, would you be ready to leave soon?”
“I guess so. Give me a moment to get my things packed up.” Neville forced his bum off the couch and puttered around the house, trying to think of what all he should bring with him. His fishing gear was all he’d miss, but he wouldn’t be using it anyway.
He grabbed an old, dusty suitcase from the interior of his old, dusty closet, and packed some bare essentials. Just as he was ready to leave, his eyes fell upon his safe. He stopped to wonder if he should bring any of his valuables with him, but quickly discarded the idea. There was no reason he should be lugging them around with him. He kept them in his safe for a reason, after all.
Whatever. He needed to be going. He was keeping Antonio waiting.
They went on a lonely ride down the mountain, all the way into the heart of Clovertown. It wasn’t until they breached the town’s borders that an idea crept into Neville’s head. He might be clutching at straws.
But maybe, just maybe, there was in fact someone they could go to for help.
The first thing they did was check Neville into a rather poor-quality motel, where he spent the night. The following morning, Neville discussed with Antonio in greater detail the idea of going to visit his son, Thomas. He had a house in Brookton, an eve
n smaller town near Clovertown, where he lived with his wife and daughter. Neville still had no idea what to make of the messages, so it seemed unlikely that Thomas would have any better of an idea. But, as Antonio had said, they had no leads and needed to start somewhere, so Antonio agreed to take Neville out to Brookton.
After a short drive, they reached Brookton. It took them a while to find Thomas’ house, as Neville had forgotten how to get there, much to his embarrassment. He was worried he’d forgotten completely.
Eventually, they veered down the right street by chance, and then the area began to look familiar. It was coming back to him now. After a little more navigating, they found Thomas’ house situated in a rather poor neighbourhood.
It was the strangest feeling. Here he was, standing in front of a place that was so familiar, yet so strange and foreign. How long ago was he last here? Another thing he couldn’t remember. Maybe that was for the better.
Neville knocked on the door, as scared as he’d been with all those messages, but for completely different reasons.
The door opened and there stood Thomas. He was as tall and muscular as Neville remembered. He was clean-shaven; his thick, black hair was close-cropped, almost to the point of being a buzz cut.
Thomas blinked, staring at his father blankly as if he failed to recognize him. Neville winced, preparing for the worst. Instead, Thomas’ face broke into a wide grin. He stepped forward and pulled his father into a bear hug, patting him on the back and nearly breaking his spine.
“I was gonna say that you shouldn’t have come unannounced, you know,” he said gruffly, “but I’m just happy you came by at all.” He released his hug and gripped Neville’s shoulders just as tightly. “It’s good to see you. Dare I ask what brings you here?”
Neville panted, his face beet red from trying to regain his breath.
“You been using that computer I got for you?” Thomas asked.
Neville shifted uncomfortably. “Uh…”
Thankfully, he was spared from having to answer when Thomas noticed Antonio standing there, as impassive as ever.
“Oy, who’s this?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Neville began meekly. “I –”
“My name is Antonio Mendez,” he said stiffly. “I’m here with your father on official police business.”
“I see.” Thomas looked crestfallen. “I shoulda known you didn’t come here just to say hi.”
“May we come in?” asked Antonio.
Thomas looked like he wanted to shut the door in their faces, but he instead opened it wider, begrudgingly.
Cecilia, Neville’s five-year-old granddaughter, stood peering at them when they stepped inside. Neville waved feebly. He hadn’t seen her in a long time, and couldn’t tell if she recognized him or not. She soon vanished from sight. Neville didn’t blame her.
By the time they were all sitting down, Thomas had transformed into a completely different man. Quiet, somber; much more like the man Neville remembered.
Antonio told the story, starting with everything Neville had already relayed to him in his office, and ended with Neville’s check-in at the Gates Motel. Antonio told it all in that quiet, neutral tone he was so good at. Neville was used to it already. What troubled him was his son’s reaction. Thomas was almost as impassive as Antonio through the whole thing. Neville hoped it was only shock or speechlessness, and not apathy.
“You have the letters?” Thomas asked when Antonio finished.
“Right here.” Antonio dug around in his coat pocket and handed them to Thomas. He squinted at the first letter and read it out loud. Which didn’t help. He flipped it to the back of the pile and read the second one out loud as well, and then did the same with the third letter.
“Well? What do you make of it?” Antonio asked.
Thomas flung the letters back at Antonio, as though they were contaminated. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you. I have no idea who sent these, or what it means. It does sound ominous.”
“What about the handwriting? Does it look familiar at all?” Antonio handed Thomas one of the letters back.
Thomas looked at it once more, though he spoke in a neutral, almost calm voice as he said, “No, I don’t recognize it.”
Antonio looked at Thomas quizzically, but then replied, “Very well. Is there any other information you can think of that might be helpful?”
Thomas stared numbly, shaking his head.
“I see. Well thank you for your time, then,” Antonio said. He stood up, handing Thomas his contact card. “Please keep us informed if you find out anything.” He turned to leave.
Neville, not sure what else to do, started to follow him.
“Wait, where are you going?” Thomas asked.
“You father is being kept under protective watch right now. With all these letters and messages, we are concerned he might be in some danger.”
“Oh,” Thomas said. “I guess that’s wise.” To Neville, he said, “You could at least stay for supper. Angela will be home from work in a couple hours. She and I could prepare you something. It’d be nice, you know, if you ate with us.”
Neville wanted badly to accept, and yet he shook his head anyway. “Some other time,” he said. He turned and followed Antonio out the door, then stopped and turned back. “Could I see my granddaughter? Just for a moment?”
Thomas nodded. He led Neville to Cecilia’s purple and pink bedroom, then left him there. Neville stood at the doorway, unable to rid himself of the feeling that he didn’t belong here.
Cecilia lay flat on her stomach, crayons held tightly in her little hands as she drew in the pages of a book.
Neville rapped gently on the side of the open door. Cecilia neither looked up, nor responded in any way. He tapped again. Still no response. “Can I come in?”
Still no response, so he invited himself in. He sat down on the carpet next to her. “What are you drawing?” he asked. Neville was about ready to give up and leave when she finally did speak.
“It’s a princess,” she answered in a tiny squeak of a voice. Now they were getting somewhere.
“A princess. Does she have a name?”
She kept doodling away and wouldn’t look up at him, and he wondered if she was just going to ignore him again. After a delay, she answered, “Yes. Her name is Princess Margo Beatrice Wickerwood the Fourth.”
“That’s… a very lovely name.”
“Thank you. I thought of it myself.” She smiled warmly.
He peeked over at her drawing to see a messy mishmash of pastel colours that was barely recognizable as a human being. “That’s… a very lovely drawing.”
“Thanks.” She smiled again.
Next to the ‘princess’ was a large green blob.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s the evil dragon who came to kidnap Princess Margo from her castle. But don’t worry. Prince Aslo will come and save her. I’ll draw him next.”
Neville almost replied, ‘That’s a very lovely dragon’, but thought better of it. Instead, he asked, “What’s the dragon’s name?”
“His name is Neville.”
He winced. “That’s a…nice name.”
“Thanks.” Another cute smile.
“Did you come up with that name too?” he tried to ask as innocently as possible.
“Naw. Daddy helped me pick it out.”
He winced again. “How did ‘Daddy’ help you with the name?”
She set the crayons down and put her drawing on hold to recall how Neville the ugly, green dragon had come to be, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. Her face lit up when she remembered.
“Oh, yes! It was yesterday. I was working on the same drawing.” She did a very proud gesture with her hands over her masterpiece. “I drew the dragon first. I told Dad what I was going to do; I told him the dragon was going to kidnap Princess Margo, but then Prince Aslo would come and save her.
“Dad asked if the dragon had a name, and I hadn’t thought of
that before. He told me the dragon should have a scary, ugly name, and told me to pick the first name I could think of. I couldn’t think of a name, so he told me to pick a name of someone that made me angry. I thought of some of the bullies at my school, but they’re all girls, and I didn’t want a girl’s name. I decided the dragon was a boy.
“I asked Dad to pick a name of someone that made him angry, and right away he said ‘Neville’. I asked him who Neville was, but he told me not to worry about it. But that sounded like a good dragon’s name, so I used it for my dragon.”
She looked up at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, sweetheart.” He put on a fake smile. “Everything’s peachy.”