MINUTE OF TRUTHIThe ground steadied across St. Charles. Mike Williams still sat in the storage room behind the front counter of the King’s Motel, watching continued coverage of the earthquake’s effects.“Authorities have reported that the River Bridge has been closed due to the earthquake’s destruction,” the reporter said. “All around St. Charles, especially downtown, we continue to receive reports of damages. While many people around the city are working to pick up the pieces, a few have questioned the possibility of an aftershock. We’ll have more on this later. We will also be on the scene with officers at the River Bridge for a full report on the additional difficulties this catastrophe could mean for the residents of St. Charles in the days and months ahead. Please stay tuned to this channel for further updates as they develop.”Around the River Bridge, blue lights whirled. Police guarded the River Bridge and turned away traffic as it arrived. Below, on both sides of the rive
TRAGEDYIAt the frontdesk of the King’s Motel, Mike Williams read a newspaper, absorbing further second-hand details of the quake’s impact along with all of the latest sports updates. The maid came in to work as usual but shrank away from cleaning one of the rooms. The guest there had screamed at her like a lunatic, she claimed.Annoyed, Mike dropped the newspaper and stood up. Since the maid couldn’t be bothered to do her job today, it fell on his shoulders.He snatched the maid’s cart from her and wheeled it to the room. The door stood slightly open, he noticed. He knocked. No one answered.“Anybody in there?” he called. He allowed five seconds for a response before he pushed the red door wide open and walked in.The room was vacant. The comforter lay halfway off the bed. The sheets were wrinkled.The clock radio on the bedside nightstand blared the news. He almost switched it off, but decided not to bother. At least it gave him something to listen to while he took his
1979CEMETERY WHISPERSEven before thecalamity that shook the city to its deepest foundations, St. Charles, a place of some charm and innocence during the late seventies, held its traces of dark history and secrets. As St. Charles expanded, becoming more actual city than town, its shadows subsisted. With industry and developments accelerating the city’s way of life, many of the old tales, such as those surrounding Marion Cemetery, were forgotten by most.“Be careful around Marion Cemetery,” a few of the city’s fading elderly used to say to their children. “Or the shadows might carry you away.”Dominguez remembered. Having seen almost a full century, he was a man of many secrets. Though his frame was frail and his mind aged, he remembered much.As the cemetery’s solitary gravedigger, Dominguez often strolled its outer perimeter during the dark hours. In his way, he walked the boundary of darkness and light.His occasional whispering to the shadows punctured the silence, for
LOSSIIn the spring of ’79, the efforts of Damon Sharpe’s research reached a pinnacle. He had in part been victorious, he believed, in his battle to unearth a truth obscured by time. He had only to look on it with his own eyes to verify the success as more than personal, though it remained a victory few recognized as authentic.The only things that made Damon different to his wife, Anne, were that she loved him and that he was who he was—and he had loved her, even if no one else seemed to remember her. Damon’s wife, they probably called her, the ones who knew he had a wife. The invisible woman. Spring became summer, which faded into early autumn. The leaves turned and fell.Anne lay among the sheets of the bed with her head against a flat white pillow. As the wall clock ticked away, she stared at the empty space on the other side of the bed.At the age of 38, her husband had died of a heart attack and Anne was alone with a house full of things, unfilled wishes, dreams, and remn
INTRUDERIWhen the manstepped in and saw her there, he froze. Their eyes locked.He was bald, with a flat nose and narrow eyes. The beginnings of a gray-speckled black beard lined his jaw. His frame filled out a navy-blue tee-shirt and black jacket.Anne broke away and ran. The intruder dashed after her. She reached the bedroom door and his hand twisted into the back of her shirt to jerk her backward. The clothing ripped. Thick gloved fingers seized her arm.Anne spun and struck. Her knuckles struck his tender windpipe and he released her, shocked and gasping. He clutched his throat. Anne bolted into the bedroom.She ran to the bag on the bed and grabbed for its strap but fumbled. The bald man charged through the bedroom doorway, running across the room toward her.She turned and popped a vicious kick at him. Her heel glanced from his shin, and his weight slammed her to the edge of the bed. In her struggling, she slipped down to the carpet below. Her head struck the edge
TAKING FLIGHTIThe St. Charles RegionalAirport was only semi-crowded today. Anne rushed across its expanse to the nearest pay phone she could find and dialed Ruben’s number again. This time, he answered.“This is Ruben Ramirez.”“Ruben, this is Anne.”“Anne. How are you?”“I’m at the airport. Can you meet me here?”“At the airport?”“Can you meet me here or not?”Ruben paused. Anne’s voice had remained neutral, but her delivery was concise. She didn’t care to squander the minutes away, not now. If anyone would understand, she thought, Ruben would.“All right,” Ruben said. “Tell me exactly where you will be and I’ll meet you there.”“There is a café here,” she said. “A small one in the airport. I think it must be new. I’ll be waiting for you there. Is your passport current?”“Excuse me?”“If it is, bring it.”“What is this about, Anne?”Finding a beginning wasn’t easy. With everything coursing through Anne’s mind, she ran the risk of spewing it out in an incomprehe
LIMAIRuben managed toconvince the random flyer next to Anne to trade seats with him. Soon, the plane hummed along the runway stretch, lurched upward, and lifted them into the skies.Anne wasn’t speaking much. Ruben had a glass of water and ignored the package of peanuts brought. Halfway through the flight, Anne’s near-silence abated.“Ruben,” she said to him, “Keller showed up at my husband’s funeral.”Ruben nodded. He kept his eyes on the back of the seat in front of him.“I know,” he said. “I was there.”“Of course,” Anne said with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”Ruben had seen what had happened with Keller. Everyone had. Anne wished he hadn’t, although she wasn’t ashamed of it.“It’s all right,” Ruben said quietly. “I realize we never spoke there. I was trying to give you some space. I could tell that was what you wanted. I tried to speak to you on your way out, but I don’t think you even heard me. You were already out the door and it was raining hard.”“Thank you for being t
STRANGERSIThe van ridewasn’t pleasant. The driver seemed to plow through every single bump and dip in the road. Anne’s bones jarred with each bounce. She clenched her teeth and fired a glare at Ruben, but he already knew her agitation. He kept looking out the window in the opposite direction.While Anne and Ruben sat in the back of the van, Raul was in a seat in front of them. He made occasional quiet exchanges with the other two at the front.The vehicle’s driver was a large man with a shaved head who spoke almost entirely in grunts. The other man, who sat in the passenger’s seat, was a skinny man with a bunched wad of dark curly hair on top of his head. The driver kept his eyes on the road. The other man kept turning his head toward the back of the van and looking at Anne a bit too often.Anne was grateful when they rolled into Huancayo. She climbed out with Ruben and Raul. Raul went to business with assembling supplies for their journey. Ruben went with him. Anne also d