Genesis. Volume 2

October 1, 1986. Brookfield. Basement of Grandma Jenny's house. Noon. The garage on Third Street had been shut down over the summer. A neighbor complained about the teenagers; the police came twice. Now they gathered in Grandma Jenny's basement instead. The old woman never asked why they needed the keys. She just handed over the ring and went back upstairs to clatter pots and pans. The basement smelled of coal and old furniture. Shelves of jam jars lined the walls; a rusty stove stood in the corner. In the middle sat a folding table covered in envelopes. Lisa was sitting on an upturned crate, sorting through the mail. Arthur came in a minute after her. He tossed the yellow ticket with the number 3 onto the table. "Found it in the balloon," he said. "Didn't tell you on the way. Was thinking." Lisa picked up the ticket, turning it over in her fingers. "About what?" "About what it means. Three. The first one was Eric's. The second—Amber's. The third—whose?" "No one's," Lisa put the ticket back down. "We never found Derek's body. And Bryce—he gave him back. Maybe the numbers aren't about deaths at all." "Then what are they about?" "I don't know." Arthur sat down on another crate, elbows propped on his knees. "Are you going to show Mom?" "No." Lisa didn't ask why. She just nodded. She'd been going through the envelopes for an hour. Most of the letters were short—"I saw it," "help us," "a girl went missing in our town." She sorted them into three piles: empty, suspicious, important. In the important pile lay three letters. Lisa picked up the first envelope. "From Chicago. Claire. She says she found two more survivors. The Palace Theater. She's afraid to go there alone." "Chicago can wait," Arthur said. "What else?" The second envelope. No return address, postmarked Detroit. Inside—a newspaper clipping: a missing boy, Marcus, seventeen. Below the clipping, a pencil note: "I remember the clown. Help me." "He's alive," Lisa said. "Since he wrote it." "Or someone wrote it for him. Like back then, in the mansion. The boy in the basement." She remembered that boy. Gray face, translucent skin. He'd vanished when they left. Arthur said—for good. "We'll check it out," Lisa set the envelope aside. "Same as with Claire. We'll go, we'll talk." "We don't have money." "Emma saved all summer. Enough for a bus to Detroit and back." Arthur paused, tapping his fingers on the crate. "Third envelope. Where's it from?" Postmarked New York. Inside—a blank sheet, with only one phrase in the middle: "The dagger is in the circus. But don't take it without the map." "What map?" Arthur asked. "No idea. Maybe Elias sent it." "Or it's a trap." Lisa pushed the envelope to the edge of the table. "When are we going to Detroit?" "In two weeks. We'll tell our parents it's an art contest. I'll come up with something." "You always come up with something." "Someone has to," she shrugged. Lisa looked at the ticket with the number 3. It lay on the table, yellow, thinned at the creases. "What do we do with it?" "Leave it here," Arthur stood up. "As a reminder." He walked over to the wall where a map of Brookfield was pinned and stuck the ticket next to two others—just as yellow, with the numbers 1 and 2. "Three," he said. "Who's next?" Lisa didn't answer. She was staring at the envelope from Detroit. At the name—Marcus. She tried to picture his face. She couldn't. She picked up a pencil and started drawing on a blank sheet. "What are you doing?" Arthur asked. "A portrait. Of someone we haven't met yet." "Why?" "So we don't forget." The lines came out sharp, almost angry. A boy with a shaved head, empty eyes. Beneath the drawing she wrote: "Marcus. Detroit. Help." "Now we definitely won't forget," Lisa said. Arthur shifted his gaze from the drawing to the map, from the map to the tickets. "Call Emma. Tell her we're meeting tomorrow. All of us." "Jenny too?" "Jenny too. We're a network now." Lisa nodded and packed the envelopes into her backpack. The basement fell quiet. Only the stove crackled, and upstairs Grandma Jenny was moving something heavy—probably a pot. "Arthur." He stood by the map, his back to her. "Yeah?" "Do you remember how we found the name? Thomas Crowley." "I remember." "And who told us about the cemetery?" Arthur froze. Slowly, he turned around. "The boy," he said. "The one in the basement." "What was his name?" "He didn't give one." "Do you remember his face?" Arthur wanted to say yes. He opened his mouth—and faltered. "I forgot," he breathed. "Me too," Lisa looked at her drawing, but she wasn't speaking to him—she was speaking into the table. "I forgot his face. And his voice. And what he looked like. Only the words: 'The name is carved in stone.'" She put down the pencil. It rolled across the table and stopped against a jar of glue. "What if we start forgetting not just faces, but why we're here?" Arthur didn't answer. He stared at the three yellow tickets pinned to the map. "Then you'll remind me," he said at last. "I'll remind you." "And if we both forget?" "Then there'll be no one left to remember." Lisa stood up, slung her backpack over her shoulder. "Let's go home. We have to get up early tomorrow." They walked out of the basement. On the porch stood Grandma Jenny—small, hunched, in a dark headscarf. She looked at Lisa, then at Arthur. Her eyes were pale, almost transparent. "Did you find what you were looking for?" "Not yet," Arthur said. "Keep looking. Just don't lose yourselves." The door closed. The lock clicked. Lisa and Arthur walked down the street. The wind tore yellow leaves from the trees, flung them underfoot, swept them across the asphalt. Lisa shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. "Arthur." "Yeah?" "You tore the balloon down. What was inside?" He walked on, staring straight ahead. "Nothing," he said. "Empty." Lisa didn't believe him. But she didn't ask again.