

Bumstead's Well

BOOK ONE

### R E Swirsky

Bumstead's Well is a book of Fiction. All characters involved in the story are the imagination of the author, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 R E Swirsky

Smashword Edition: First Edition June 2014

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN 978-0-9878574-6-0

### Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Late August Nine Years Ago

Chapter 2: Day one - The Well

Chapter 3: Day one - Amy Gardwinder

Chapter 4: Day one - Alone

Chapter 5: Day one - Joy Ride

Chapter 6: Day one - The Accident

Chapter 7: Day one - Sirens

Chapter 8: Day one - Dean Daly

Chapter 9: Day one - About Aaron

Chapter 10: Day two - Chris Pattison

Chapter 11: Day two - Morning

Chapter 12: Day two - The Morgue

Chapter 13: Day two - Phone Calls

Chapter 14: Day two - Overdue

Chapter 15: Day three - Dreams

Chapter 16: Day three - The Gathering

Chapter 17: Day three - The Rope

Chapter 18: Day three - Arlene

Chapter 19: Day three - Rope Burn

Chapter 20: Day three - Dementia

Chapter 21: Day three - Staircase

Chapter 22: Day four - Return of the Crow

Chapter 23: Day four - Crushed

Chapter 24: Day four - Vincent's Phone

Chapter 25: Day four - The Sixth Bottle

Chapter 26: Day four - Dementia Returns

Chapter 27: Day four - Hope Returns

Chapter 28: Day four - Falling

Chapter 29: Day five - Another Night

Chapter 30: Day five - Closed Casket

Chapter 31: Day five - Exposure

Chapter 32: Day five - Billy Huckleberry

Chapter 33: Day five - The Funeral

Chapter 34: Day five - Buried Alive?

Chapter 35: Day five - Resurrection

Chapter 36: Day five - Hospital

Chapter 37: Day six - Anna

Chapter 38: Day six - That Thing!

Chapter 39: Day six - Investigation Begins

Chapter 40: Day six - Conversation With Mom

Chapter 41: Day six - Photos at the Well

Chapter 42: Day six - Bumstead's Well

Chapter 43: Day six - Aaron's Mother

Chapter 44: Day six - Dementia again

Chapter 45: Day six - Gramps

Chapter 46: Day six - Calling Dr. Hamil

Chapter 47: Day six - Ghosts

Chapter 48: Day seven - Drowning

Chapter 49: Day seven - Confrontation at the Well

Chapter 50: Day seven - Jet's Dark Side

Chapter 51: Day seven - She Walks Along the River

Chapter 52: Day seven - Jet's Ghost

Chapter 53: Day seven - Richie Cunningham

Chapter 54: Day ten - There's Something in the Well

Chapter 55: Day twelve - Wreck Beach

Chapter 56: Day thirteen - About Jet

Chapter 57: Day thirteen - Steelwood

Chapter 58: Day thirteen - The Skull

Chapter 59: Day thirteen - Jet's Condo

Chapter 60: Day thirteen - You Already took Your Pills!

Chapter 61: Day thirteen - Bones

Chapter 62: Day thirteen - About Mother

Chapter 63: Day thirteen - False Alarm

Chapter 64: Day thirteen - Dean Visits the Well Again

Chapter 65: Day thirteen - The Extraction

Chapter 66: Day fourteen - The Body

Chapter 67: Day fourteen - "Get Rid of it, Chris"

Chapter 68: Day fourteen - Dean's Phone

Chapter 69: Day fifteen - Blood on the Rope

Chapter 70: Day fifteen - Down the Well

Chapter 71: Day fifteen - Summing up the Situation

Chapter 72: Day fifteen - Just Another Phone Call

Chapter 73: Day fifteen - Who is Joey Klondike?

Chapter 74: Day fifteen - Waiting for Joey

Chapter 75: Day fifteen - Reflections

Chapter 76: Day fifteen - "How is Arlene"

Chapter 77: Day fifteen - Jet

Chapter 78: Day fifteen - "OK. Let's talk about Arlene."

Chapter 79: Day fifteen - Dean Connects the Pieces

Chapter 80: Day fifteen - Vincent Calls Home

Chapter 81: Day fifteen - Photograph

Chapter 82: Day fifteen - Crematorium

Chapter 83: Day sixteen - What Crime?

Chapter 84: Day sixteen - Anita

Chapter 85: Day sixteen - "It's me..."

Other Books by R E Swirsky

BUMSTEAD'S WELL

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1 Late August : Nine Years Ago

"Hurry it up!"

"But Mom," Vincent whined. He was only ten years old and had no idea what the fuss was all about. There were multiple strange people moving about everywhere inside his home. Some grabbed furniture and packed up trinkets. Others removed pictures and tapestries from the wall of the small cluttered two-bedroom house. Each item was carefully documented and logged before it was placed into a box. Multiple boxes filled the two moving trucks parked on the rain-drizzled front driveway.

"Vincent!" his mother screamed. "I told you to grab your best clothes and get them into those suitcases. Now move it!" She grabbed him by the arm and thrust him back into his bedroom. "Now, come on. Let's go! He'll be here soon!"

"Who will? And why are those guys taking all our stuff?"

"You know who, Vincent. Roo, that's who."

"I don't even like Roo!" Vincent snapped back at his mother. "He teases me all the time. And he punches me. Especially when you're not around."

"He doesn't punch you. And it doesn't matter anyway. In a little while, you'll never have to see Roo again."

"Huh?" Vincent questioned.

"Now stay in your room until you finish packing up your stuff."

One of the men from Randolf's Auction House suddenly hailed his mother, and she moved briskly down the hall to the front of the small rental house to see what he wanted.

"Are we really supposed to take everything?" the man queried. It was an unusual request.

"Do you have the check?" she asked, ignoring his question . "Randolph said you would bring the check with you."

"I have it here." He patted his chest pocket, reached inside with two fingers, and handed her the folded check.

She looked at the check and was satisfied. "You need to take everything. Everything has to go." She turned and motioned to her two packed suitcases by the front door and over to Vincent's bedroom. "Except for the suitcases. We are taking those with us."

The man frowned and looked over to the room at the end of the short hallway where Vincent stood hanging onto the doorframe with one hand and his mouth hanging open. "What about the boy's toys and books in there?"

"He has his suitcases. Whatever he wants to take he'll pack himself." She looked over to where the man was staring and could see Vincent still had not placed anything into either of the two suitcases sitting on the bed behind him.

"Vincent! You better start moving your ass! We're leaving as soon as Roo arrives, and if you're not packed, you're leaving with nothing."

The man spoke up hesitantly. "You realize that except for the furniture and antiques on this list, the rest of this stuff is just going straight into the dump. People will always snap up the antiques. But people just don't buy these kinds of household items at an auction."

"Randolph said he would take it all away. I really don't care what he does with it once it's out of here."

"Okay, ma'am," he replied defensively. "I just thought you should know. You really should take as much as you can because it'll all just end up going in the trash if you leave it." He looked down at Vincent and glanced at the toys scattered about the room behind him. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say more, but shut it quickly. He shrugged and walked quietly over to where the others were busy packing up items.

Raindrops continued to sputter down outside, and the accompanying grey sky cast its depressing mood deep inside the home. Vincent tried not to cry. He spun around and looked at all of the toys sprinkled about on his shelves, the pile of books in the bookcase, and his many games, Lego blocks, and other toys strewn across the floor. There was no way he could get all off his clothes and belongings into the two suitcases. Was she mad? Was most of his stuff really going to end up in the dump?

He ran to the door and hollered, "Why are these guys taking everything, Mom? Why are they taking all of our stuff?"

She ignored him.

"Mom!"

"Roo's on his way! You better make a move soon."

"I hate you!" Vincent shouted. He slammed his bedroom door. "I'm not going anywhere!" he yelled at the closed door. "Especially with that fucking asshole, Roo!"

Vincent could hear his mother's thundering stomps as she made a beeline back to his room. He cowered and shuffled himself a few steps back from the door. She burst open the door and grabbed him by the neck.

"You listen to me, you little bastard! Don't you ever fucking swear at me! Do you hear me?"

She dragged him by the neck over to his bed where his suitcases still sat empty.

"Where did you even learn to talk like that?" she said without waiting for him to answer. She released her grasp and shoved him onto the bed in one motion.

Vincent grabbed his neck. He forced a cough. "You don't have to choke me!"

"I didn't choke you," she said quietly. She looked over her shoulder down the hall. The workers continued to work fastidiously removing all of the contents. No one seemed to take any notice.

"Yes you did," he whimpered. "You choked me."

"Stop saying that. I didn't choke you." She opened up one of the suitcases and began filling it with clothes from one of his dresser drawers. "Look. You better put in what you really want to take because you are only taking these two suitcases. I'll help you pack."

"Taking them where? Where are we going, Mom?"

She ignored his question and pulled out a pair of long johns from the dresser. "You want these?" she asked with a strange and unexpected sweetness in her voice.

"Mom? Why won't you answer me?"

She stared back and smiled blankly as she continued to hold the long johns up in front of him.

Vincent scowled at her, grabbed the long johns, and tossed them off into the corner. He pushed her away hard and quickly rummaged through the drawers himself. He picked out his favourite clothes and hastily stuffed them into the two suitcases. He scrounged through his video games, books, Lego, sci-fi action figures, Star Wars toys, and various other objects too numerous to mention. Vincent picked out a few items and placed them in with the clothes.

A familiar gruff rumbling sound outside the front of the small house pulled his mom's attention away from watching him fill his suitcases. She turned and dashed out of the room. It was the unmistakable sound from an older pickup truck with a badly rusted muffler: Roo's truck. Vincent's heart fell.

He stopped packing and stared at the row of stuffed animals that sat along the long single shelf above his bed. He grabbed the one he named "Bee" when he was only two years old. Bee was once large, white, and fluffy, but the old bear was now ragged and patched. His left ear, attached by only a few thin threads, hung loosely away from his body. Vincent and Bee were inseparable when he was a toddler. Wherever Vincent went, Bee also went. At ten years old, Vincent knew it was best not to admit he still had such an attachment to an old scruffy teddy bear, but today it felt like Bee was the only real friend he had left in the entire world. He hugged Bee tight and shoved him inside the suitcase with the rest of his things.

"Vincent!" his mother called with an impatient tone. "Roo's here! It's time to go!"

CHAPTER 2 Day One - Friday 6:13 PM

The three young men leaned over and peered down into the abandoned well on the decaying Bumstead farm on the outskirts of town. Vincent rubbed his eyes. Even with his hands pressed up to the sides of his face to block out the sunlight, he couldn't see the bottom.

The well resembled every other well in the valley, but a terrible horror left its mark on this one many decades ago. Vincent's grandfather would have warned him to stay clear and to go find a different well to play around. Unfortunately, Vincent's grandfather didn't know where Vincent was or what he was about to do.

"Let's go, Vinnie. It's time," his new friend, Aaron, said boldly.

Vincent met Aaron only three weeks ago at the Garden Centre where he worked in the summer. If not for his cocky attitude, Aaron, with his short, ash-blonde hair and wiry frame, could pass for Vincent's brother. It was enough to cause Roger, Vincent's childhood friend, to comment on the uncanny resemblance, even though Aaron's bold mannerism was in stark contrast to Vincent's naturally shy and timid nature.

"Just a second," Vincent replied. He stepped away from the well, grabbed a rock the size of his fist, and released it down into the well. All three young men leaned in to hear it strike the bottom. There was no splash. Just a barely audible, goopy sounding "thunk."

"See," Roger said and punched Vincent softly on the shoulder. "I told you there was no water down there." Roger was short and stalky with a wooly black mop of hair that was always in need of a good clipping. "Now hop up, and drop down inside onto the stool."

Vincent hesitated. He looked down at his feet and then at Aaron's. "Can you give me your boots, Aaron?"

"My boots?"

Vincent nodded. "If I'm going down there, I don't want to wreck my new Sketchers. Gramps just bought these for me three weeks ago. He'll kill me if I bring them back all muddied and ruined."

Aaron feigned annoyance and rolled his eyes. He knelt on the ground and began to untie the heavy work boots he wore while he laid sod. "You really should have thought of that before you picked us up today."

"It's just for tonight. You'll have them back tomorrow." He looked down at his shorts and scratched at his cheek. "Can you give me your jeans too, while you're at it?"

"You are kidding, right?" He looked up at Vincent and shook his head.

It was Vincent's turn to shrug. "No, I'm not kidding. I only have these shorts on. It's gonna be cold and dirty down there."

Aaron laughed. "You are the one who accepted the dare, Vinnie. Not me. Are you going to turn pansy and back out now?"

The dare was to spend twenty-four hours in the bottom of the well.

"Can you just give me your jeans, please? You're about the same size as me, and I'm sorry I didn't come prepared, but I wear shorts to work every day. Just give me your jeans, and I'll go down like I said I would."

"Jesus, Vinnie. You are such a pain sometimes." Aaron was the only one who ever called Vincent by that name. Vincent hated it when other people called him "Vinnie," but when Aaron said it he didn't mind.

"Anything else of mine you want?" Aaron asked sarcastically.

Vincent shook his head, rested his buttocks upon the top edge of the well, and began to remove his Sketchers and shorts to swap with Aaron.

Vincent hopped up and stood on the smooth, perfectly placed capstones that lined the top and looked down into the well where the rope descended a few feet inside the circle of stones. The small stool at the end of the rope twirled about in the shadows like something paranormal.

"You sure it's safe?" he asked nervously.

"Sure. I knotted the rope around each leg," Aaron replied. "You just stand on the stool and hold tight to the rope. I'll have you at the bottom in no time."

Vincent Pattison cautiously lowered his thin frame through the limestone-capped opening. He stretched down with his feet to the stool that kept swinging off to the side each time he touched it. He fussed with his feet until he was confident both were securely wedged onto the stool that was somehow bound by the rope Aaron wrapped around it. He then gripped tightly to the fuzzy hemp rope with one hand and the grasped the lip of the well head with the other. He stared down into the darkness below his feet. His heart raced. He squinted, eagerly looking for anything below him.

The rope lurched downwards, and Vincent suddenly felt himself dropping past the stones that lined the top of the well and into the dark chasm below. He grabbed the hemp rope with both hands.

"Whoa, Aaron! Not so fast!"

Aaron laughed and continued to feed the rope around one of the large poles that were stuck into the ground along opposite sides of the well. The two poles were all that was left of the small roof structure that once covered the well.

Vincent continued to drop in small short jerks.

Roger's shaggy-haired silhouette suddenly appeared in the opening above Vincent. The inside of the well dimmed.

"How is it down there?" Roger hollered.

"Cold!" he said sharply.

Vincent was wearing the same short sleeve T-shirt he wore to work at the greenhouse where he helped load customers' vehicles with their purchases. It was nearing the end of the summer break, and an uncommon cool spell swept into the valley. The light drizzle that fell throughout the morning finally stopped and left the countryside moist, cool, and humid. Fresh goose bumps broke out and crawled slowly across Vincent's exposed forearms.

"I'm going to need a jacket down here!" he yelled. He gazed into the abyss below him.

"A what?" Roger asked.

Vincent glanced up. "A jacket! Or a coat! It's really cool down here! I'm not sure how cold it'll be at the bottom."

"Do you want me to get your hoodie from your truck?"

Vincent didn't expect it to be that much colder down inside the well. "How about Aaron's coat instead?" he replied. "I think the one he takes to work is still in my truck."

Aaron's coat was heavy denim lined with a thick layer of fleece.

"Just a sec," Roger said. He disappeared from the opening above.

The rope continued to jerk downward, and Vincent looked about anxiously. He cast his eyes upon the dark stone walls, and the earthy smell caused even more goose bumps to speckle his arms. A misty grey light bounced off the outer edges of the moisture covered stones. The moisture worried him. He hoped this was a dry well, but the goopy sounding "thunk" from earlier now had him worrying.

The well darkened once again as Roger returned into the opening. "I've got Aaron's coat and your hoodie. Do you want both?"

"Nah, just the coat. Give my hoodie to Aaron."

Roger disappeared again, and the well brightened.

The boys stumbled upon the well a week ago. It was a blistering hot week at work, and Aaron insisted they needed to cut loose and find a secluded place to party. It needed to be somewhere private where they could build a small fire and hang out with the flat of Big Rock beer he purchased. Roger suggested the old Bumstead farm along the river a few miles beyond Head Park. It was close enough to town, boasted a thick forest of evergreens and poplars near the river for privacy, and had many valleys, dips, and old building foundations to explore. No one would ever know they were out there.

Vincent discovered the well as they chugged back on beer and horsed about amongst the remains of the once prosperous farm. It was an odd, cube-shaped, wooden box, with two large poles protruding from the corners, that drew his attention toward the poplar trees near where the original farm house once stood. They soon ripped away the grey, rotted wood and the old, stone-cased well was revealed.

There was an immediate air of mystery that hung suspended in the night as the stones were suddenly suffused with moonlight when the boards were pulled away. The way it appeared to have been purposely concealed for many decades was disturbing. The boys fell quickly into fabricating dark tales centred upon the old well. A roaring fire soon followed, and the nefarious chatter continued as the last remnants of the sunset finally faded away behind the mountains to the west. Stories of disease and contaminated water morphed into purposeful poisoning of the water and ended up in tales of death and murder. Aaron told the most ghastly tale of the night. It was a horrifying tale of unwanted newborns being scurried away in secrecy under darkness of the night and tossed down into the icy water to silence their tiny cries.

As the hours passed and more beer was consumed, Vincent became fearful of the well. Glancing over at it as the firelight danced upon its rough exterior sent shivers up his spine. His fear was strong, but it wasn't enough to prevent him from energetically proclaiming that he wasn't the least bit afraid of the well. In order to prove it, he boldly accepted Aaron's challenge to spend one night alone at the bottom the following weekend. Even as the words left his lips, he wanted to take them back, but his liquor-induced pride wouldn't let him.

After a number of uncomfortable minutes of spinning in circles and jerking about in short spurts on his way down, Vincent felt a strange elation as the stool lurched sideways and the rope slackened. He was planted firmly on the bottom. He expected fear and trepidation to run madly through his veins, but he wasn't afraid at all for the moment. He stepped off the old broken stool and his thoughts quickly turned to having completed some great accomplishment. He imagined no one had stepped foot down here for a hundred years or more. For an instant he thought he knew how Neil Armstrong felt when he stepped off the ladder and onto the moon. "One small step for man, one giant step for..."

But before he could finish the thought, his foot slipped out from beneath him and his buttocks and one elbow sank into one inch of slime-covered mud.

"Damn it!" he shouted as he grabbed firmly to the rope and righted himself.

"You okay down there?" Roger asked.

"Yeah, I'm okay. It's just bloody muddy down here, that's all."

He tried to flick the mud away from his hands, but it wouldn't come off. He resorted to wiping the thick, pasty mud free on one of the legs of Aaron's jeans.

"At least it's not full of water," Roger hollered back.

"Yeah, right," Vincent replied unimpressed.

The well darkened even more as Aaron popped his head alongside Roger's atop the well.

"You okay?" he called down.

"I'm fine!" Vincent shouted up. He was annoyed.

Both Roger and Aaron laughed.

"I'm gonna lower the other stuff down now," Aaron yelled.

By other stuff, Aaron meant the food, water, and fleece-lined denim coat, which was now stuffed inside Aaron's work duffle bag.

Vincent stepped away from the stool and let go of the rope. Aaron pulled the rope and stool back up to the top, set the bag atop the stool, wrapped it within the rope, and lowered both back down to Vincent. It was very dark at the bottom of the well and Vincent fumbled with the knots a few moments before he was able to remove the bag. He placed the bag onto the muddy surface in a spot he thought was the driest, but it was difficult to tell if there even was such a thing as a dry spot in this pit. He quickly removed Aaron's coat from inside the bag and slipped it on.

Suddenly, without warning, the rope tightened and the stool lurched upwards a few inches from the bottom.

"Hey! What the hell?" Vincent shouted. He grabbed at the rope with both hands and jumped onto the stool before Aaron could pull it up any higher. Immediately Aaron stopped pulling on the rope and tucked his head into the opening.

"No stool, Vinnie!" Aaron shouted down. "You are only allowed clothes, food, and water."

"C'mon! I didn't know it was going to be this muddy down here. Please, Aaron! Leave the stool!"

"No stool. You agreed to the terms. Now let go of the rope."

"No!" He remained standing on the stool as it spun around in circles suspended four inches above the bottom. "Roger, talk to Aaron. We didn't know it was going to be this muddy down here. What am I supposed to do, sit in the mud all night? Leave the stool down here. Please, Aaron."

"Just a sec." Roger and Aaron laughed and disappeared. A few minutes passed by before the two heads popped back into view.

"Okay. You can have the stool, but no rope."

"What? No rope?"

"No rope. Get off the stool and untie it," Aaron demanded.

"No way!"

"Untie the rope or I'm going to untie this end up here and drop the entire rope down inside."

"No! Don't do that! C'mon already you guys! What do you think I'm going to do? Climb up the rope if you leave it there?"

Roger said something that made Aaron laugh, but Vincent couldn't make out the words. The two disappeared again for a few moments.

"Okay, you win," Aaron said as he loosened the rope and the stool dropped down and sunk into the mud. "You can keep the rope and the stool."

"I've seen you in gym class, and you certainly can't climb a rope," Roger added.

"Ha, Ha. Very funny," Vincent replied, but he knew it was true.

"We'll tie it off up here to the pole. And don't you dare get my coat dirty down there," Aaron called down as he donned Vincent's hoodie.

Vincent eyed where he rubbed the mud on the jeans, and even in the darkness, he could see more already mashed deep into the shoulder of Aaron's coat. He had only just put it on. There was no way anything was going to stay clean down here.

"I'll try to keep it clean."

"You better!" Aaron shouted.

Two flashes lit up the inside of the well. The two boys began to snicker uncontrollably. "Look at the poor boy trapped down in the well! How will we ever get him out?"

"Is that my phone? Aaron? That better not be my phone!"

Roger stuck his head deep inside the well. "It is, and he just posted the photos onto your Facebook page!"

"He did not!" Vincent cried out.

"He did! I saw him!" Roger said.

Aaron cackled again. "You'll have to wait and see now, won't you? Little boy in the well." Another flash lit the space around Vincent.

"Fuck you, Aaron!" he said. He thrust a finger upwards and pointed at Aaron. "You're dead if you post that!"

"Scared your girlfriend might see it?" he replied. "Oh that's right: you don't have a girlfriend." He laughed again.

"I do too!" Vincent shouted, but he knew it was a lie. He didn't have the courage to ask her out yet, and it weighed heavily on his mind since he arrived home from University for the summer.

"Who? This Anna girl from British Columbia you talk about? You don't even have a picture of her."

"So? That doesn't mean she isn't real."

"Little lost boy in the well!" Aaron taunted again. "Look at the little lost boy in the well!" The banter continued for the next hour as the sun slowly receded even further behind the mountains.

CHAPTER 3 Day One - Friday 8:47 PM

Amy Gardwinder was in a very bad mood, but it wasn't due to the delay from picking up her new truck and semi-trailer. The small white Sentra that pulled out in front of her just shortly after she turned onto highway 63 more than an hour ago had her blood boiling.

Tonight was Friday, her son's 10th birthday, and she desperately wanted to make it back home to the acreage on the outskirts of Bluffington for his party. She already accepted that she'd have to go back into Calgary on Monday to unload her cargo, but until the Sentra pulled in front of her, she was confident she would be home in time to catch most of her son's party.

It was a management decision to purchase all new trucks that ran on Compress Natural Gas (CNG) instead of the usual diesel fuel. As far as Amy was concerned, there was nothing wrong with her old truck, and she really didn't give a second thought to this new rig.

"The CNG will save the company thousands of dollars in fuel each month, and it just makes economic sense," she was told. New filling stations were popping up at various locations across North America, and Calgary just received its first at the Flying J Truck Stop only blocks away from the trailer compound.

She was far behind her usual schedule tonight hauling the fully-loaded twenty-two tons of water purification tanks she picked up from Indianapolis back to Calgary. She drove for three solid days, stopped and rested as required, and even topped up her new fuel cylinders just three hours ago at the CNG fuelling station in Medicine Hat. The trucks new fuel range was significantly less than diesel, which caused more frequent stops and delays than she anticipated. There was no cheating the new GPS tracking on the new trucks; it logged every minute the truck was in motion, and there was no way she could make up any more time than she already had.

"C'mon, you bastard! Move it!"

Amy pulled on the cord for two short bursts from her horn. She ran one hand through her hair in frustration.

"Pull over already, or pick up your God damned speed!" she hollered.

The car could have waited for her to pass by before it pulled out onto the highway. There was nothing but wide open, straight sections of highway for hours before, but just as Amy was about to enter the Foothills, with their twists and turns that crawled up and down tree covered hills all of the way back home to Bluffington, the car lurched out onto the highway. She was forced to slam on her brakes or crawl right up and over the rear end of the car. She hoped it would pull off on some side road, but it remained right in front of her the entire time.

The road turned quickly to the left, and the car's brake lights unnecessarily lit up and caused Amy's big rig to creep forward precariously close to the bumper once again.

"Damn you!" she cursed. She slammed her fist onto the console and dropped down one more gear. Her engine screamed as it retarded her speed even more, and Amy's frustration screamed with it.

There would be little opportunity to pass this car on her way back to her acreage on the edge of town. She picked up her cell phone and called her husband, telling him to start the party without her. It was getting late, and she still had a good hour of driving left.

Amy followed the white car mile after mile as the road twisted its way through the valley. The little white car stuck like glue to the centre line and refused to move any faster than ten miles an hour below the speed limit.

CHAPTER 4 Day One - Friday 9:11 PM

"...and Aaron, my Gramps can't know you're driving my truck!"

Aaron jingled Vincent's truck keys. "He won't. I'll drive it straight back and park it behind the hotel. No one will even see us."

"Gramps would kill me if he knew I let someone else drive it. He'd probably take it away from me."

" _Gramps will kill me if I let someone else drive my truck_ ," Aaron mocked in a taunting voice. "Just relax for once, Vinnie. He'll have no idea. You just chill out down there, and we'll see you back here in twenty-four hours."

"You mean twenty-four hours from when I first got down here," he corrected.

"Right. That's what I meant." Roger and Aaron looked at each other and giggled.

The two friends soon departed and left Vincent alone and feeling unsettled. He tired quickly of their laughing and giggling. It seemed like they had an ulterior motive about this dare. He listened to the sound of his truck as it started up, and he followed the sound until it faded away and mixed in with the other sounds that trickled down the well.

He zipped Aaron's coat tight to his neck, sat down onto the small stool, and leaned his back awkwardly against the hard, uneven stones.

"What the hell am I doing down here?" he asked himself. "Me and my big mouth. Stupid alcohol!"

The sky cleared as the night air cooled, and Vincent prepared himself for a very long night. He untied the rope from the stool. He tried to move the rope off to one side, but it just swung back to the centre.

"Humph," he grunted. His eyes followed the rope up to the top to where it dropped through the edge of the small opening above him. "Holy crap. That's far. This is probably the stupidest thing I've done in my entire life."

Vincent felt foolish for letting himself get talked into this. He was slyly outwitted by his two friends last Friday night. Now he found himself packed up and corralled like some beast down at the bottom of the well. It stirred many emotions deep inside him.

He continued to stare up to the top, and he quickly became anxious as there was nothing he could do about his current situation. He was currently imprisoned and at the mercy of his friends. His mind ran amuck: what if they didn't come back? The thought horrified him, and it dredged up a tragic memory from his past that he wished he could forget.

Vincent was only ten years old when his mother hastily packed him with his two small suitcases out of his home, dropped him at his grandparents' doorstep, and walked out of his life forever without explanation. Her actions left him with a devastating wound. The night ended with him whimpering and shivering on the stoop of his grandparent's home while he tried to comprehend what he did to deserve it. Now isolated at the bottom of the well, with no way out, he was reminded way too much of how he felt that night. Even the damp coolness in the air was reminiscent of that horrible memory.

He could easily touch the walls on either side with his elbows still bent. He tried not to think about how confined the space was, but it was impossible. He drew his fingers down across the rough-edged stones to make sure they were real. It was like a small, sunken jail...or tomb. It was only four to five feet across at best. He quickly retracted his thought of the word tomb and looked up. He estimated he was fifty to fifty-five feet below ground.

A foreboding from the fireside stories of last weekend slowly swooped down the well and swirled about within him. These thoughts were not much better. He very much needed a distraction to prevent his mind from sliding back into the dark places he would rather not visit.

He reached for the duffle bag and opened it up to see what was inside. It was much too dark to see anything clearly so he felt around with only his hands and immediately felt a number of water bottles on one side. He counted five bottles. The crinkle of thin plastic bags beside the water was easily recognizable as potato chips and the stiff heavy plastic pouches on the other side was surely beef jerky and pepperoni sticks. The last item was a small rectangular box that had to be crackers. Aaron was always purchasing boxes of crackers to nibble on. He pulled out one of the bottles of water, opened it, and immediately chugged back half of the bottle. He then pulled out one of the bags of chips and tore the bag open with his teeth.

"Dinner. Yum yum," he said, mockingly.

He gazed up to the tiny opening above him and nibbled away at chip pieces as the hairs on his neck slowly stood on end. The lingering fears that accompanied him to the bottom of the well settled in for the night, circled around him, and prepared to feast.

Vincent had good reason to fear. What he did by putting himself into this predicament had farther-reaching implications than he could ever have imagined. He had unknowingly set a series of events into action that would ultimately change his life, and the lives of those dear to him, forever.

CHAPTER 5 Day One - Friday 9:23 PM

Aaron cracked up with laughter as he steered Vincent's Toyota truck down the short, gravel road leading out of the Bumstead property. "What a doofus."

Roger laughed uneasily alongside him. "I wouldn't do that."

"Do what?"

"Spend a night down there. There's no way you would ever catch me going down inside someplace like that overnight."

"I told you he'd do it though, didn't I? He only did it because I dared him to. He tries to act like he isn't scared. He wants to show us that he can be a tough guy. That's why I pushed him. He's always so cautious, and this will be good for him. Pop him out of his bubble for once."

Roger didn't reply right away. He pointed his thumb up over his shoulder at the window behind him. "I'm not sure we should really leave him down there all night, Aaron." His discomfort leaving his best friend down in the well was clear. "We really should go back in a bit to check on him."

"It's one night, that's all. He was the one trying to act like a big man last Friday."

"Still," Roger replied and looked back over his shoulder at the trees behind him.

"What could possibly happen in one night? We'll come back and check on him in the morning, first thing," Aaron chortled and ignored Roger's sudden concern for his friend's wellbeing. "But, I did tell you he'd do it, didn't I?"

Roger forced a discomforted smile. "Yeah, you did. It's just..."

"We live on the edge, you and I. Not curled up on some couch in granddaddy's big mansion, studying and playing it safe all of the time."

Roger frowned. He lived in the same affluent neighbourhood as Vincent, just across the street in what most would consider another mansion, and he was enrolled at University like Vincent. "I guess so," he replied.

They reached the end of the dirt road, and Aaron looked to his left and right down the deserted highway. "Which way?" Aaron asked.

"Huh?" Roger replied confused. He pointed to his right. "Town's that way, Aaron."

A roguish grin erupted across Aaron's face. The outer edges of his eyebrows tipped upwards, and his eyes twitched about with a strange anxiety that Roger had seen before. His grin widened even more. "We can go back to town like we promised, or... we could go for a quick spin into Calgary. What do you say?"

"Naw... I don't think so, Aaron," Roger replied. He was dismayed that Aaron would even suggest such a thing. "Vincent's really protective about this truck. I'm surprised he even let us drive it back to town. We really shouldn't."

"C'mon. It'll be fun. He'll never know, and no one from town will even see us."

Roger rolled his eyes as he thought it over. He knew it was wrong, but he liked Aaron for his thirst to dance upon the edges of unspoken boundaries.

Aaron pushed. "What harm could it do? It would just be for an hour or two, and no one will ever know. Vincent certainly won't. I'll even buy you a burger up at Five Guys."

Roger smiled at the thought of a Five Guys burger. "Okay, but I really want to be home before midnight. You may not have to work in the morning, but I do." He looked at his watch. It was already very late in the evening, and he knew there was no chance they would actually be home before midnight. He sighed heavily and glanced out the back window to where Vincent was deep below the ground somewhere beyond the trees.

"Wicked!" Aaron shouted. He slammed hard on the gas and the tires spun out, lurching the small truck out onto the highway. The beam from the headlights danced crazily upon the trees opposite the road as Aaron turned out onto the highway and headed towards Calgary.

Roger grabbed onto the armrest to steady himself as the truck rocked to the side. "Jesus, Aaron! Slow down!"

Aaron continued to laugh. "Let's see how fast this baby of Vincent's will go."

CHAPTER 6 Day One - Friday 9:27 PM

Another twenty minutes passed after the sun settled behind the mountains to the west directly in front of Amy Gardwinder. She knew every dip, turn, rise, and fall of this road she had driven hundreds of times. She could think only of the single short section of straight roadway between here and Bluffington, and the anticipation of making it home for her son burned deep in her belly. It was probably just long enough to pass this asinine white car if she was fortunate enough to avoid any oncoming traffic.

The two machines turned one behind the other around a corner. First up slowly to the right and then back down to the left.

Amy shifted anxiously in her seat as the straight section of highway slowly came into view. Her heart pounded, and she could feel her blood pressure climb when she saw there was no oncoming traffic. Amy pushed in the clutch, dropped down two gears, and slammed hard on the pedal. The engine screamed in response, and the big rig lurched forward. The truck, with its twenty-two tons of cargo, crawled up rapidly behind the small, white Sentra. The safe, but potentially explosive, CNG fuel powered the truck forward easily. In seconds, Amy had her signal turned on and began to overtake the small car.

She grinned with delight as she eased the truck into the oncoming lane and hammered even harder onto the gas.

"Gotcha you bastard!" she said to the small white car.

Slowly the big truck moved up alongside the white Sentra. The frail-looking elderly man hunched forward over his steering wheel and seemed unaware that Amy's truck was even beside him. She gave her horn a quick blast, and the old man jolted upright and turned towards her. His weathered eyes gawked wide in an obvious fright. Amy thrust her middle finger up in the air at the old man and followed up with a sneer. The old man frowned and turned away quickly, hunching back forward over his own steering wheel.

The straight section of road ended abruptly ahead and Amy knew she'd have to be quick if she was going to make it past the small car safely. She watched eagerly in her mirror as the white car slowly fell back and soon appeared tiny and distorted. Amy was sure it was far enough back and pulled her rig carefully back into the right lane just as the straight section ended and the road began its sharp, right, downward turn.

Amy grimaced and clutched tightly to the wheel. She knew immediately as she started the turn that she was going much faster than she would have on any other trip home. She felt the uncomfortable and sudden shift and tug of the trailer behind her. She hoped she was wrong, but she had felt that same shift and tug only once before, shortly after she had first obtained her trucker's license. It did not end well that time.

The wheels on the right side of the trailer slowly lifted into the air behind her as the corner tightened. Amy fought hard to control the big rig, and for a moment, she thought she was going to make it. But she felt another heavy lurch and the cab bounced from side to side as the water-filled resin tanks in the trailer shifted to the opposite side. Amy knew there was no stopping the shifting trailer from toppling over. She hoped that it would just lie down softly onto its side, but the trailer slammed down hard and pulled the cab with it into an immediate full roll. The trailer seemed to disintegrate on the first tumble. The cages inside broke apart, and the fibreglass water purification tanks flew through the air like mini torpedoes. The tanks tumbled and crashed, and many of them burst apart as they hit the pavement and spilled their contents of water and resin beads across the road.

When it was over, Amy's new truck lay stretched across both lanes of the highway with many of its wheels still spinning. The cab lay goosenecked on its side with its underbelly exposed in the direction from which she came, and the trailer lay fractured. It was an awful mess. The trailer was destroyed, and the road was now covered with millions of tiny, orange beads of water purification resin. Many were carried as far as four hundred feet down the steep incline to the dip in the road. Most of the cracked tanks bounced or rolled off into the ditches on both sides of the highway.

Amy staggered about in a daze over to the side of the road and stared in disbelief at her new truck. She wondered how she managed to escape from the carnage. The cab was badly busted and crumpled. Its windshield lay off to the side in shards. Amy thought she must have unbuckled herself and crawled out through the front after the windshield fell away, but she didn't remember any of it.

She wobbled a few steps until she finally collapsed onto her knees in the tall, dry grass at the side of the road. The sound of her heart pounding in her chest blocked out every other sound. Her chin hurt, and she touched it. She pulled her hand away with a puddle of blood painted across it.

She looked back up the hill in the direction from which she came and saw that the little white car had already pulled off to the side of the road. The old man stood on the edge of the highway, rubbed his wiry hands through his thinning grey hair, and stared down at the scene. He began to amble his way slowly down the steep hill towards her and the wreckage.

Amy was deep in shock. She turned her gaze the other direction up ahead to where the dip in the road ended, rose steeply up, and disappeared around another corner. She could hear a vehicle coming towards her.

A small Toyota pickup truck emerged around the corner towards the crash site. Amy continued to stare in awe as the small, blue, 4x4 truck, with its oversized steel winch protruding from the front bumper, came speeding around the corner and down the hill. Though the sun was settling itself behind the mountains, she could still make out the faces of the two boys inside. She saw how their laughing faces changed to looks of sudden shock and horror the moment they spotted the crashed semi-trailer that lay stretched across their path.

She would remember forever the fear she saw etched into their youthful faces. The small truck came down the hill and slammed on its brakes much too late. The truck crossed on top of the millions of tiny beads of resin that were strewn across the road. Although the brakes locked up the wheels, the vehicle flowed across the orange, wet surface as if it was skating on a million tiny ball bearings. It bounced a number of the empty fibreglass tanks off its bumper into the ditch on the way as it headed towards the overturned semi truck.

The small truck crashed directly between the rear of the cab and the front of the overturned trailer, striking directly into the exposed double array of Compressed Natural Gas cylinders mounted in two columns behind the overturned cab.

These CNG tanks are normally indestructible, but in an effort to win the contract for outfitting this fleet of trucks, the small company purchased refurbished CNG tanks from India to cut costs. The supplier guaranteed that these Class 2 tanks met all of the required US safety specifications, but it maliciously substituted, unknowingly to the purchaser, used previously damaged CNG tanks that were destined for disposal. The damaged tanks were reclaimed, repainted, and made to look like brand new, certified tanks.

The Toyota's steel winch punctured deep into the already compromised top tank. A massive explosive eruption climbed high into the air in a mushroom-shaped fireball that immediately consumed both trucks.

Amy felt the hot blast of the explosion from where she knelt in the grass at the side of the road. The hot, flaming air rushed across her body as it incinerated everything within twenty feet of the ruptured tank. Her hair whipped across her face, and the incredulous heat from the short blast stole away all of the tender moisture on her exposed face and hands. It left her skin scorched dry as if she had touched the sun. At first, she was confused; diesel fuel rarely explodes. She forgot she was running on a new, unfamiliar fuel.

The CNG fireball erupted into the air and fully encompassed the crushed Toyota in its fury for a few seconds before settling to a localized fire between the entangled vehicles. Amy saw the air bags deploy and burst when the small truck first crashed into her rig, and for a moment she was sure one of the boys was still alive. She saw an arm reach up and out of the firestorm through the shattered driver's side window. She refused to believe it was the arm of one of the occupants; it quickly resembled a charred stick with pieces of burnt flesh and clothing falling to the ground below the window. She turned away and buried her face in her hands.

CHAPTER 7 Day One - Friday 9:41 PM

The shimmering, soft blue light that caressed the edges of the stones near the top of the well told Vincent that the sun had just disappeared behind the Rockies to the west. The moon had eked itself out from behind the clouds. Just enough light bounced to the bottom of the well to allow him to make out the shape of his hands, feet, and backpack.

Vincent lifted one thumb up above his head at arm's length toward the opening above him and closed one eye. One thumb didn't quite cover the opening. He lifted his other thumb and placed it next to the first and the two thumbs just blocked the well opening from view. He really was a long way down.

The near silence was the most un-nerving part of being alone in the bottom of a well. He shortened his breathing and listened eagerly for any sound from up above.

A short dull boom he heard off in the distance grabbed his attention. He didn't recognize the sound. It seemed unnatural and caused him to suddenly turn his ear upwards. He heard the occasional bird calls, then the crickets, and finally some bullfrogs out on some pond nearby. But as he tuned his ears beyond the local sounds and really listened, he began to hear a subtle, distant hum that he recognized instantly. The continuous sound of rubber tires travelling down the multiple roads and highways in the valley far in the distance overlapped with the occasional barking dog. He could even hear the engines of the big rigs as they geared up and down, climbing and descending the many hills out on the highway. He probably could have heard the same sounds on any night from anywhere in the valley, but he never had a reason to listen before tonight.

Vincent then heard the distinctive sound of a single siren somewhere far away in the distance. It started low at first and increased in volume only slightly as the minutes passed. A second siren followed a few seconds later, then a third, and then a fourth.

His heart suddenly began to race away. "No way," he said. "Aaron, you didn't! You didn't really post those photos!" He stood up and felt the blood drain away from his face as his anxiety rocketed.

"I am going to look so stupid sitting here at the bottom of this well!"

Vincent imagined photos of him down in the well were plastered all across the net, and word of his plight finally reached the authorities who were on their way to rescue him. The strange mix of duelling sirens slowly increased until it was the only sound he could hear.

"Shit no! No, no, no! Please, don't come here. Please no, please no."

Just as quickly as the sirens started, they suddenly stopped one by one. He waited and listened hard for footfalls and shouts from up above, but as the minutes passed he soon realized they weren't coming for him after all. The relief was overwhelming.

Where did all of those sirens rush to? They sounded awfully close. He soon attached the sirens to some accident somewhere out on the winding highway not far from where he was sequestered. He waited for a siren to scream one more time as it raced victims back to the hospital, but the final siren never came.

Vincent sighed and leaned back against the stones. He looked up at the small opening and slipped back into restlessness as the prickles on the back of his neck returned.

"Why the hell did I ever agree to do this?" he whispered aloud.

CHAPTER 8 Day One - Friday 10:11 PM

Detective Dean Daly, along with his new partner, Officer Jet Wu, arrived shortly after the fire truck. He immediately hoped he was wrong when he recognized the blue Toyota with its front end buried deep into the backside of the cab. A white cloud of steam ascended high into the air from where they continued to spray down the fire that raged between the two vehicles. The CNG fuel tank burned off rapidly and left a smaller localized fire in the engine compartment that was quickly extinguished. Bobby Stamos had already begun to wash down the resin off the road.

Dean stepped out from his vehicle and nearly fell as his feet slipped on many of the tiny beads of resin that still coated the area where he parked. Jet came out the other side and couldn't help but snicker as Dean got back on his feet. Dean ignored him and looked over towards the wreckage.

Bobby turned off his hose when he noticed Dean and Jet's arrival.

"It's a bad one," Bobby yelled.

"Ayuh," Dean shouted back. He hiked up the slacks that had slipped down his thick waist as he stared at the scene in front of him. Bad was not the word he would have chosen. "Horrific" was a more fitting word. Even from where he stood, he could see the blackened, almost skeletal, remains of the two bodies inside the truck. It was obvious the fire was intense; the sudden, intense heat blackened everything within twenty feet of the impact zone. The two victims died a horrible death: first trapped and then burnt to death. It was almost instantaneous; they breathed in searing fumes that torched their lungs in one single breath as the intense heat from the fire immediately seared and ignited their skin and clothing for a few short seconds. Dean approached slowly. He didn't really want to look at the victims, but it was a necessary part of his job.

"Whoa. I've never seen anything like this before," Jet said.

The two of them ignored the woman on the side of the road being interrogated by one of the many officers. Dean focused his attention on the pickup. Both occupants were dead.

"Those are CNG fuel tanks. I've never heard of them exploding like that before."

"It looks like only one of them ruptured," Jet added.

"One was enough."

He had to wait until the fire was cold enough before he and Jet were allowed to approach the vehicle. The engine and dash of the small truck was pushed backwards and trapped both occupants. The blast of the fire itself stayed mostly on top the small truck, but with the windshield destroyed, the two occupants suffered the wrath of the fireball to their torso, arms, and head. The deflated airbags and demolished windshield left them exposed to the tremendous heat and fumes.

The skin on the victims' faces and arms were blackened and shrivelled, and their hair was scorched back to the scalp. From the chest up, the two bodies were unrecognizable. Dean turned away and swallowed hard.

His supper didn't want to stay down when he ate it two hours ago, and Dean fought hard to ignore the burrito's request to fight its way back up a second time.

"Shit," he said to Bobby. Bobby nodded.

"This looks like that boy, uh... Chris Pattison's boy. His Grandson, Vincent. This looks like his truck."

"You think you know who that is in there?" Jet asked. Jet was new to town. He transferred from the vice squad on the east end of downtown Vancouver only three months ago due to an ongoing internal investigation for alleged misconduct.

Bobby's eyes caught Dean's. "He does have that big winch on the front, doesn't he? I've seen it around town."

"Ayuh," Dean replied. The three men turned towards the two partially-charred bodies inside the vehicle. Dean ran the plates on the vehicle and confirmed whom he suspected to be the registered owner and one of the victims.

CHAPTER 9 Day One - Friday 10:42 PM

Vincent Pattison tried to sleep, but it was nearly impossible on the short, uneven stool with a wall of odd shaped rocks protruding into his back. He couldn't rest his head comfortably against the rough stones and there was barely even enough space to fully stretch out his legs.

Why he had even agreed to Aaron's dare now agitated him more than he wanted to admit. He knew it was more than just the liquor talking that night. He yearned to be bold like Aaron from the first time they met, but now he questioned his own judgement.

Aaron was the smoothest of talkers. He was the kind of talker who could always find his way out of trouble, and too many times, he found a way to get others into trouble. Aaron had a strange need to always be one-up on anything anyone else did, and he could spin forth an unbelievable tale on the spot that would have those around him laughing and amazed and believing it was all true. Accepting Aaron's dare was Vincent's way of trying to keep up with him.

Vincent heaved a heavy sigh and wondered again why he agreed to such a stupid dare. It was cramped and dark at the bottom of the well, and it didn't smell very nice. There was certainly nothing to be gained by spending a night down here. Even being able to boast about it later seemed silly now.

He stared at the dark walls that surrounded him. The musty smell that lingered about and snuck in with each breath reminded him of something very old and rotten. He suspected there was a similar rotten part somewhere deep inside Aaron that was the unspoken fetidness directing Aaron's edgy attitude. Vincent had wanted to find that same edginess in himself. He wanted to see it, and he wanted to feel it. Even just once. He was feeling something tonight, but he wasn't sure what it was or whether or not he even liked it.

Their friendship sprouted instantly one afternoon when Aaron arrived at the Greenhouse to pick up another load of sod with his landscaping company's truck. It wasn't much: Aaron called out to one of Vincent's co-workers at the Greenhouse, "Move your ass and get the product out to the dock so Vinnie can load it!"

Vincent always had difficulty trying to get this particular co-worker to move with any sense of urgency. It frustrated him at times. He just wasn't very good at being assertive.

The two laughed hard once the co-worker disappeared to get the product, and the bond between them was immediate.

Aaron soon confessed many things to Vincent about his life, including the many details of his troubles before moving to Bluffington only two months prior with his mother. He said his father was a "dip shit" he could not stand to be around; Aaron had a drug possession charge pending back in Grande Prairie, and his mother said Aaron's new girlfriend was "a little slut," and "nothing but trouble."

Skipping town was a topic of conversation Aaron fell back on nearly every other day, especially after a few beers. Aaron hated that his mother took him away from his girlfriend. He boasted that she was pregnant, and he wanted to "man-up" and be there. He confided the daily fights he had with his mother to Vincent; he told Vincent how he promised her she would come home one day and he would be gone. Vincent simply brushed off Aaron's rants about leaving as nonsense spewed by a drunk, and he sometimes questioned if Aaron really even had a girlfriend back in Grande Prairie.

The sky darkened to near blackness above. Vincent tugged at the zipper on Aaron's coat to keep out the chill, but it was already as high as it could go. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets and forced his eyes closed in an effort to sleep. He trembled and hoped it was just from the chill in the air.

CHAPTER 10 Day Two - Saturday 12:14 AM

It was shortly after midnight when Chris Pattison opened his front door to Detective Dean Daly and another officer he didn't recognize.

He knew immediately by the look on Detective Daly's face that there was a problem. His first thought went to his wife Anita. Dean whispered something to the other officer who nodded and quickly turned away leaving Chris alone with Dean. Chris ignored Dean for the moment and watched as the officer walked by the squad car parked in his drive and continued out across the road to where Roger, his grandson Vincent's best friend, lived with his mother and grandparents. His grandson was sleeping over there tonight.

"Anita's asleep," Chris said.

The detective glanced down at his watch and apologized. It was well after midnight. "I know it's late, but this can't wait until morning, Chris."

Everyone in the valley knew Chris and Anita. Chris was born and raised in the very house he stood in now. The house remained one of the largest landmark homes in Bluffington; it spread over three lightly forested acres that backed onto the river on the north side and the grounds of Bluffington University to the west. For many decades, the house grounds were kept and maintained in a park-like manner, but over the past few years, Chris let the grounds grow old and tired.

Chris motioned Dean inside. "I'm not waking her. She's not well." He looked across the street to see the other officer ringing the doorbell at the neighbours' across the road as he closed the door.

Chris was 83, retired, a heavy smoker, and he was still deeply in love with his wife. Anita was 77, and unlike Chris, she had never smoked even one cigarette in her entire life. After nearly sixty years, she still harped on Chris daily to quit the nasty habit. Anita suffered from early onset dementia, and it took all of Chris' energy each day to watch over and take care of her. Monitoring her daily pills for her high blood pressure took its toll on him. He'd even taken to recording when she took her pills each day in a log book. Tonight Chris was up late with Anita who woke up two hours ago with complaints of pains in her chest. She had been complaining about severe chest pains every other day for weeks now, but after multiple trips to the hospital, sometimes twice in the same day, the doctors found nothing wrong with her. She was completely healthy and at no risk of a heart attack. These symptoms are simply a part of her progressing dementia and the accompanying stress she was under, they said. Chris was not taking any chances with his wife, and tonight he would stay up to watch her sleep until she settled, even if he had to stay up all night.

The detective stepped only as far inside the home as was necessary and got right to it. "I really am sorry about this, Chris. It's about Vincent."

"What's the little bugger done?" Chris asked. A small smirk cut into the corners of his wrinkled mouth.

Chris was very proud of his grandson. He and Anita raised the boy since his mother abandoned him on their doorstep nine years ago. As furious as he and Anita were at their daughter, they couldn't be angry at the boy. They took him in as their own and raised him with all the love and care they could muster. Truth be told, having to give up an easy retirement to raise one more child was a blessing. Chris would often say that if it were not for Vincent, he and Anita may not still be alive; they would have just withered away into a premature death. The boy reignited a spark and purpose inside both of them.

Detective Dean Daly did not return the smile. He shuffled his feet, and his face drew closed and uncompromising. He was there for a serious purpose.

"I am so sorry, Chris. I really am. I wish I didn't have to be here tonight."

Chris' grin slipped away as he realized this was much more than a trivial brush with the law that brought detective Daly to his doorstep at this time of night. He swayed unbalanced to the side and reached out with one hand to stabilize himself against the staircase railing.

"Vincent was killed tonight. Out on the highway just past the Bumstead farm."

"My God, no," Chris replied softly.

"His friend Roger was with him. He died as well."

Chris staggered, and Dean quickly stepped forward and helped lower Chris to the stairs to sit.

Chris was speechless, but his face screamed in agony for answers.

"It wasn't Vincent's fault. A semi overturned near the Bumstead farm. The boys came down around the corner, and there was nothing they could do."

"Anita..." Chris tried to whisper softly, but his voice was jagged and broken. He looked up the stairs in the direction of where she lay sleeping.

CHAPTER 11 Day Two - Saturday 6:37 AM

"Caw!"

A large, black crow rested itself on the stone well cap to let Vincent know the sun was about to rise. Vincent covered his ears with his hands, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep some more, but the crow insisted that Vincent wake up.

"Caw! Caw!"

"Go away!" he shouted, but the incessant crowing wouldn't stop. Vincent finally scrounged through the muddy bottom for any rock he could find. He found one and threw the rock up towards the opening, but it only made it half way up before hitting the side and falling back down.

"Shut up!" he screamed out and rummaged for another rock.

The crow continued to caw away. After a number of feeble attempts, Vincent was finally able to throw one rock close enough to the top to scare the crow away.

"Good riddance!" he shouted.

Only a few moments passed before the crow returned to start all over again.

"C'mon already! Get out of here!" he shouted. "Just go away! Please!" But the crow remained.

Vincent covered his ears and buried his head between his legs. The crow finally left just as the sun touched and lit the edge of the well head with a soft orange glow.

"Finally! Stupid bird!"

Vincent stretched one leg out as best he could. He didn't realize sleep could make a body so damned stiff and sore. He went to relieve himself on the opposite wall from where he sat but stopped before his bladder let loose. He thought about how confined the space really was. He didn't want to sit with the smell of urine all day. He grabbed one of the two empty water bottles he finished and urinated inside the bottle. He recapped the bottle and set it aside along the wall.

After pacing around for a few minutes to stretch his legs and get his blood circulating, he stopped. The space was much too small to pace; all he accomplished was making himself dizzy. He sat back down and opened up a fresh bottle of water and the second bag of chips.

"I guess this is breakfast."

Vincent nibbled slowly on the chips. He was pleased with himself for surviving the night in the well. The sunrise was a huge relief. He woke repeatedly throughout the night and was terrified for all kinds of unreasonable reasons that seem silly and foolish in daylight. There was no boogey man ready to jump in the well from above and no any huge spiders or snakes ready to crawl out from the mud or from between the stones in the middle of the night to attack him. He woke once in the darkness and screamed when he felt what could only be the tiny hand of an infant corpse brushing across his neck, but it was just the tag inside the back of Aaron's coat.

"See, Aaron," he said and chuckled. "Staying down here overnight wasn't so hard." He was proud that he had succeeded and looked forward to his friends' return.

"There ain't no boogey man."

Many thoughts crossed his mind as he recessed deep down inside the well. In only a few weeks, he would be returning back to University on the coast. He missed his new friends from the University and one very special girl, Anna, in particular. Even though he boasted to both Roger and Aaron about her, she wasn't officially his girlfriend. He hoped that when he returned to University in a few weeks he could finally change that. They hung out together in their free time, and they relied heavily on each other for support when feeling lonesome or homesick. Vincent was determined to express his feelings for her before he jumped on the bus for home at the end of the term, but his nerves got the best of him. He merely said goodbye to her with a simple handshake that left him feeling stupid and disappointed in himself as he boarded the bus home.

He thought about his Grams and Gramps and still wondered why they insisted he enroll at a University across the mountains in Vancouver rather than right here in town. The Pattison house backed right onto the Bluffington University property, but his Grams insisted he would obtain the best education by moving to another. And his Gramps agreed.

Vincent never argued with his Gramps. Vincent never really argued with anyone. He was submissive by nature and folded under pressure whenever confronted by any of his peers. It bothered him greatly at times, but he would conceal his shame and embarrassment as best he could. He tried to make himself invisible. If his Gramps was disappointed in his meekness, he never showed it or mentioned it.

"You will be fine out here, Vincent," his Gramps said when he dropped him off at his dorm on his first day. "Just remember one thing when things start to get tough out here: It only takes going one more step past where others often stop. I'm not talking about being stronger, smarter, or better than those around you. God knows you'll be up to your neck surrounded by those characters, but that's not what I'm talking about. It's one step, Vincent. That's it. Keep your eyes open, and watch what others are doing. You'll know what I mean when you see it. Go one step further, and you will find success in whatever you decide to do."

Gramps was wise, and Vincent trusted his words more than anything. Gramps was his rock.

Vincent sat back, stared up at the blue sky, and waited.

CHAPTER 12 Day Two - Saturday 10:22 AM

"It just can't be our Vincent. He can't really be gone," Anita cried.

Chris held her tight. Anita was as sharp as ever today. Today she was the woman he married so long ago. Even in her current pain and loss from the death of their grandson, he liked her better this way. A part of him wished she wasn't so sharp so she wouldn't remember this moment, but he realized it really didn't matter. As soon as she relapsed, he would have to repeat this scene all over again. She would undoubtedly ask where Vincent is, set a plate at the table for him, or wonder why he didn't sleep in his bed the night before, and Chris would have to set her straight each time. He dreaded the thought of having to relive this day for the months and years to come.

"Hush darling. We've been over this already. Detective Dean confirmed it was Vincent's truck."

Anita howled again and dug her frail and wrinkled fingers deep into Chris' arms. He winced and tried not to cry, but the tears came anyway.

Early in the afternoon, Detective Dean Daly called the house and asked Chris to come to the police station in order to identify Vincent's body. Chris arrived at the morgue alone, and Dean took him inside. It was clear to Chris that Dean was not at all impressed Chris drove himself down to the morgue.

"I have to warn you before we go inside... the accident was very bad."

Chris knew it was going to be bad. "Deaths by car accidents always are," he said frankly. He nodded to Dean indicating he was prepared to go inside.

"No, Chris. This is worse than any normal car accident. There was a huge fireball. Your grandson was badly burnt."

"I've probably seen worse," Chris stated. He tilted his head towards the door and ushered Dean with one hand to lead the way.

Chris may have very well seen worse. He was on the front lines in Korea when he was only slightly older than Vincent; he saw many of his young friends die an early death as they tried to defend a numbered hill from attack by the North Koreans. The defence of the hill was supposed to be sure and simple with the labyrinth of deep trenches dug into the hilltop that allowed them free passage to and from everywhere across their defensive line; but their defence fell apart quickly when the enemy unsuspectedly attacked with heavy air and ground forces. Hell rained down on the troops, and the ensuing terror and panic had many of the young men fleeing down the trenches in all directions and cut down to a bloody mess by ground forces.

To this day, Chris believes that much of the artillery that fell on them that day was friendly, but the official report said otherwise. When the battle was finally over, they neither gained nor lost ground, but many of his close friends were dead and many more were missing. Those that were lucky enough to survive were badly injured. Many were missing arms and legs. Some were blinded and horribly disfigured. Chris was fortunate enough to escape completely unscathed. When he returned home, many people called him a hero. "Hero" was a word he soon despised, and he escaped to the dark side of the world to hide himself away and distance himself as far as he could from his family and their title for him. For two long years, he worked over at Bumstead's lumber mill on the outskirts of town before he eventually resurfaced to join his father in the construction business. Many say there are secrets still buried in the dark corners of the Pattison mansion regarding the historic tragedy that occurred at the Bumstead farm, decades ago, just weeks after he quit. They also say Chris' name is buried at the root of many of those secrets. But as each year passes, there are fewer and fewer left alive who can still make such accusations.

Dean led Chris into the brightly lit room where the medical examiner waited. The room smelled of sterility and was lined with polished steel trays, carts, and cabinets waiting tranquilly surrounded by white walls and polished grey floors. In the centre of the room rested two trolleys standing parallel to each other. A single body covered by a freshly bleached sheet lay atop each of the trolleys.

"It's bad, Chris," Dean reiterated. "I'm told the toxicology samples have been taken..."

The medical examiner nodded. "We've taken blood tests," he said.

"But other than that, he's in pretty much the same condition as when he was brought in last night."

Chris squeezed his fingers across his mouth and pinched his lips. He wanted to say something, but he was at a loss for words. He really didn't want to look under the sheet, but he had to see for himself that it was really Vincent.

Dean nodded to the examiner who reached forward and pulled the sheet up from the feet. He carefully folded the sheet over itself until only the head remained covered.

Chris fumbled in his coat pocket for his glasses and rested them precariously near the lower tip of his nose. Chris noticed the shoes first. He purchased those shoes for Vincent three weeks ago. He knew they were Vincent's by the colour of the fabric and soles. Vincent insisted he wanted the flashy bright Sketchers with the orange fabric and soles with bright orange rims. Chris thought they were loud and unappealing at the time, but he stifled his opinion and bought them for Vincent anyway.

Chris started to nod; he knew this was indeed the body of his grandson, and he had so far only seen the shoes. He looked further up the body and continued nodding. He recognized Vincent's grey shorts with the white trim immediately. He was wearing them when he left the house for work on Friday morning. They were now spoiled with a deep burgundy colour of dried blood and black ash. He could see the remains of the boy's crushed thighs and pelvis under the stained and ragged shorts. The exposed portion of his legs above the knees were bloodied, broken, and strangely disfigured.

"And here's what we found on him." He motioned to the examiner who passed a small tray over to Chris.

Chris nodded again as he picked up the black-faced ROOTS watch he bought Vincent for Christmas one year past. He rubbed some of the crash scene grime away from the watch face with his thumb.

"This is Vincent's," he said. He dropped the watch back into the tray and looked at the iPhone, headset, keys, wallet, and other items. From what he could tell, all of the items appeared to belong to his grandson. A few items he didn't recognize, but it didn't sway him from his belief. He saw an extra set of keys, a few pens, note pad, CDs, sunglasses, and phone charger. With the exception of the keys, the items were probably all Vincent's. The extra set of keys most likely belonged to the greenhouse.

He looked back down to the table at the charred arms and hands that rested on each side of the cart. The intense fire engulfed both boys from the chest up, but only the front of the bodies were charred. The back of the boy's shirt and hoodie were still untouched, and there was no doubt in Chris' mind that this was his grandson Vincent. He didn't recognize the shirt, but the hoodie, shorts, shoes, and other items convinced him that this was most definitely his grandson.

He did not want to see anymore. As Chris removed his glasses and turned to leave, Dean grabbed him lightly by the arm.

"Chris, I need you to take a look at his face."

Chris shook his head and waved his long thin arm in front of him. "No, that's not necessary. This is Vincent. Those are his clothes and watch. It's him. I've seen enough."

"I'm sorry, Chris. You have to. It's procedure. Just one look, and then we can go."

Chris let out an uncharacteristic whimper as Dean moved him back towards the body. The examiner pulled up the rest of the sheet and revealed the charred and disfigured face.

"My God," he whispered. "Vincent. My poor boy."

He stepped forward and reached out with one hand to touch his grandson, but he hesitated; his hand hovered inches over the boy's eyes and forehead. He reset his glasses on his face and looked deep into the blackened skin. He studied the horrific image in front of him and started to sway. Dean grabbed firmly onto his arm to steady him.

"I'm okay!" he huffed and pulled himself from Dean's grasp. The boy's lips and nose were almost completely gone. His eyelids, eyelashes, and eyebrows were burnt away along with most of the hair on his head. He looked at where the boy's eyes once glistened with excitement and saw a bubbled yellowy mess. The shrivelled and gnarled skin that remained on his face bore very little resemblance to the boy he grew to love so very much.

He stepped back and pointed to the other stainless steel trolley.

"That one is Roger?"

"Ayuh. Officer Wu brought his mother Katie down earlier to identify the body."

He looked back at the corpse that was supposedly his grandson. "It's him. It's my Vincent. And what it is... is a God damned shame."

CHAPTER 13 Day Two - Saturday 1:55 PM

It was mid-afternoon before Chris finally corralled enough gumption to walk across the road to offer his condolences to Roger's mother, Katie, in person. He listened astutely as she broke down repeatedly throughout her circuitous retelling of Roger's death. She told him Roger's funeral was set for Wednesday in order to wait for family members to arrive from abroad. Chris responded simply that Vincent would be buried at the Crawford cemetery on Tuesday around noon. There was some comfort in knowing that the funerals would not be held on the same day. He hugged Katie tenderly before he returned home to check on Anita.

He saw Anita seated alone in the front room with the phone up to her ear talking feverishly to someone on the other end. He nodded at her, but he wasn't sure if she even saw him. He retreated out onto the patio where he lit up a cigarette and thought about his Grandson.

Anita managed to make only one phone call alone in the other room before she broke down and went out to the patio with the cordless phone outstretched in one hand and a short list of names in the other. She insisted that Chris make the rest of the calls. He nodded and stared despondently down at the phone that was now resting in his palm.

Taking her phone calls in private was something Anita always did; she would shoo him away each time and tell him she didn't need him eavesdropping on her private calls. Over the years, it had become habit for him to leave the room whenever she was on the phone. She would only have to pick up the handset and stare at him from across the room, and he would smile and remove himself from her company. It was one of the many little peculiar things she did. It defined her, and he loved her for it.

He stared down at the phone again and puffed away. If he was ever in desperate need of a cigarette, it was now. The patio allowed him the sheltered comfort of chain smoking without Anita telling him he had enough cigarettes for the day.

He set the phone down and scowled at the damn thing. He hated talking on the phone. Anita was the one who always contacted family members when it came to these kinds of things. But things quickly fell away from convention these past few months as her dementia progressed faster than what anyone expected. It was clear that he would have to make all of the heartbreaking calls himself.

He sat, smoked a few more cigarettes, and sipped at his tea that already grew cold as he prepared himself. Through the patio doors to the great room, he could see his wife watching the news on CNN in peace. She stopped crying a while ago, and as far as he could tell, she had relapsed and was now back comfortably in her own reconstructed world once again with no recollection of Vincent's death. He was not about to go inside to ask her.

Chris picked up the list of names and studied each one. He spoke with his son, Charlie, and oldest daughter, Jennifer, first thing this morning. Both wanted to drop what they were doing to come over immediately, but Chris shut them down right then and there. He needed to be alone and didn't want the fuss of anyone around him and Anita. He could handle what needed to be done, and he promised he would call them if he needed assistance. Maybe tomorrow or, better yet, Monday. Monday they can come by, but absolutely not today, he told them.

He knew the next call he needed to make was to Vincent's mother. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he last spoke to this particular daughter. But Chris believed in many things, and one of them was family. He often appeared to be a miserable old man who stomped through life with little emotion. He seemed cold, harsh, and uncaring. But that was the complete opposite of how he truly felt. It didn't matter that he found the actions of his daughter against her own son despicable. He thought she deserved to know her son was dead.

Although they had not spoken in well over nine years, he knew exactly where Arlene was. He always knew. He made a point of keeping tabs on all of her movements since the day she dashed off to Vancouver. Anita had no idea he kept tabs on their daughter, but there were a lot of things he did that Anita never knew about. Chris believed that his obligations and rights as patriarch of the family included the unchallenged pursuit of information regarding anything he thought warranted an investigation into any descendant of his. Knowing where each of his children was and what exactly they were doing was one of these obligatory actions, and if money was available for such investigations, then money certainly could and should be used for such things. And Chris had no shortage of money. Every three or four months, Chris made one call, and within a week, he had another update on his daughter.

His fourty-eight year old daughter, Arlene, answered on the first ring.

"Hello?" she said.

His first thought was her voice sounded frail as if she had been crying, but it was so utterly soft and breathy, almost sensual, that he quickly reconsidered. 'Sensual' was the wrong word. The correct word evaded him, but he knew it would come to him in time.

"Arlene, it's time we finally had a talk."

She recognized his voice immediately. Her voice brightened with a discomfited excitement he had not expected. She quickly fell into a rambling of questions about him and her mother. He answered her questions and was immediately annoyed.

"Enough about us," he interrupted. "There is a reason I'm calling. It's about your son, Vincent."

It bothered him that she had not immediately asked about Vincent, and she didn't seem at all embarrassed by what she did done all those years ago.

"Vincent. Yes, how is my boy? I bet he's so tall now. How's he doing at school?"

She talked as if she had done no wrong and asked her questions easily as if she was still actively engaged in his life.

"Oh, he's done with school," Chris replied. "In fact, he's been out near you in Vancouver all of the last two years at University."

She hesitated a moment, possibly surprised or deliberately searching for the right words. Her voice suddenly broke as if she was trying not to cry. "I uh... That's what I meant... University..."

"Arlene, just stop it! I'm only calling because Vincent was killed last night. I just thought you should know."

She stammered again. "What? Killed? By whom... how...?"

Chris paused to light up another smoke before continuing. He then told her as many of the details he thought she needed. He tried not to break down, but he couldn't keep the quiver from mixing in with his words. It hurt to repeat it aloud; his beloved grandson was dead.

Arlene started to cry, and Chris attempted to console her, but he did it reluctantly. He thought her despair and pain sounded rehearsed, and he wanted to just hang up the phone. The call came to a quick close with Arlene promising that she would be out on the very first plane in the morning to help with as much as she could. Chris insisted that he would pick up the check.

Chris felt unsettled after talking to his youngest daughter, but he was glad she was coming for the funeral. At least she had the dignity to pay her respect to her son and face the rest of the family after what she did.

The list of names was long, but the first and most difficult call was over with. There were many calls to make to many different people. Most people he called he knew, but some he didn't. He called his children Charlie and Jennifer again to give them the details of the funeral. They both passed the news down to their own children, Vincent's cousins, as promised.

He thought about his call to Arlene and then reconsidered his insistence about none of his children coming over and said that they all, including the grandchildren, must come over after all. "Tomorrow would be best," he told them. "Come over for brunch." He then called Anita's two sisters who also promised to relay the news down their own family lines.

The calling tired him immensely. By the time he got to the end of the list, calling Vincent's closest friends, teachers, coaches and coworkers, he repeated the story without any emotion. He was numb.

Chris went inside to check on Anita and brought her her evening tea. She frowned when he put the tea on the coffee table in front of her.

"Where's the biscuit?" she asked and looked at Chris as if he was the one who lost his mind. She always had her evening tea with a biscuit.

CHAPTER 14 Day Two - Saturday 7:42 PM

Time passed slowly in the well, and as the afternoon sun moved over to the evening and threatened to disappear for one more day, Vincent felt despair growing deep inside his belly. His friends certainly should have been back by now.

As word spread across the valley that Vincent and his best friend Roger were killed in the fiery crash a few miles from the old Bumstead property, his Grandfather was in the midst of funeral arrangements for the following Tuesday. The fact that it was actually Aaron's body, not Vincent's, that was recovered from the driver seat of the crash was of ill consequence; no one was about to miss Aaron or even bother to search for him. Not even Aaron's mother. Come Sunday morning, when he still hadn't returned home, she would simply assume he ran off to Grande Prairie, true to his word. She was not about to chase after him this time. Aaron was a big boy, and she was all set to just let him go.

Vincent's neck was stiff from cranking his head upwards to watch for any sign of his friends. He twisted his sore neck up to the opening once again and called, "Aaron!"

He waited for an answer, but no answer came.

"Roger! I know you guys are up there!" he hollered. He hoped they really were up there waiting and simply playing games with him.

"Aaron! Come on now! I've done my time. Pull me up!" He tugged lightly on the rope.

Still nothing.

"Aaron!" he called again.

He cussed quietly to himself at the bottom of the well.

The soft blue colour in the sky deepened to a heavy royal blue.

"They couldn't have forgotten. They just couldn't have," he whispered. "I am such an idiot for doing this." He stared back up to the hole and concluded that the sun had surely set by now.

"Assholes," he uttered. He felt the panic inside bubbling just below the surface. He wanted to cry but refrained. If they were just playing with him and trying to freak him out, it was working.

He stood up, grabbed the bag and felt inside for the water bottles. There were only two left.

"Really? I drank three bottles of water?"

He rummaged about in the increasing darkness in search for the other bottles. When he found them all, one was almost empty, and the two resting against the opposite wall were filled with urine. His mind started to spin away at an uncontrollable pace as he counted the bottles of water again.

"Roger wouldn't leave me down here another night. No way. Not you, Roger."

He reached back into the bag and pulled out the four remaining pepperoni sticks and the half-eaten box of crackers. That was it for the food.

Vincent jumped up in the air, grasped onto the rope that still dangled down the centre of the well, and screamed with all his lungs could deliver. "Help! Anybody! I'm down in the well! Help me!"

He listened, but no reply came. He screamed and called out frequently over the next hour. There was to be no reply tonight; there would be no reply tomorrow; and there would be no reply the next day.

CHAPTER 15 Day Three - Sunday 4:12 AM

Vincent woke from a sound that ripped him out of a terrifying dream. In the dream, his grandfather stumbled through the forest screaming for help as he was pursued by three faceless, human-like creatures. Two of the dark-skinned, faceless beasts easily caught his fragile grandfather as the third smaller one limped along and struggled to keep up. The two stronger ones plucked the old man up off the ground and tossed him onto their shoulders; he hollered and grappled about in attempt to free himself.

The creatures cackled unintelligibly and continued to run through the forest tossing the limp old man back and forth between them. They finally stopped where the forest opened into a large clearing. They waited impatiently for the smaller, limping creature to catch up. Once it arrived, the three arranged themselves into a small triangle around a pile of damp stones that lay stacked in the centre. Each one extended an ash coloured arm inwards and pointed down towards the pile of stones. The two holding his grandfather suddenly heaved him up high into the air where he floated momentarily before falling onto the pile of stones. Instead of crashing hard, he passed through the stones as if they were dust and dropped deep into the earth below. Deeper and deeper he descended into the ground. Vincent could see roots, bones, worms, and other objects protruding from the broken soil as his grandfather passed deeper and deeper into the earth.

The sound he thought was his grandfather's body slamming into the bottom of the pit was what woke him.

The terror of his dream seemed acutely real for a moment as he opened his eyes and saw nothing but complete blackness swallowing him up. He searched desperately for the light but there was no light to see. Dense, heavy clouds had chased away the stars as Vincent slept, and even the small opening of the well that usually hovered dimly above him vanished within the thick layer of cumulous clouds.

A crack of thunder and flash of lightning ripped across the sky above him, and for a fraction of a second, the well, with its tower of rocks reaching up on all sides of him, was revealed.

Vincent groaned. He hoped he was still inside the dream. He pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the wall of stone. His heart pounded and beads of sweat dribbled down his temples. He waited for another flash to light up the inside of the well. His foggy mind told him he was awake, but a part of him still expected to see his Gramps crumpled at his feet.

Another flash of lighting followed by a clap of thunder was just enough to put his mind in touch with reality. The bottom of the well lie empty under the momentary blue flash; only the stool, a few water bottles, and Aaron's bag rested on the surface of the mud.

The dream faded quickly, and he was left with only one thought that lingered on and floated about in the damp darkness. He was concerned about his grandfather. He was only supposed to be sleeping over at Roger's house for one night. His grandparents must be worried sick about him by now. This was the second night he wasn't home. His heart was crushed under the thought that he had foolishly let them down and left them wrought with worry.

He remained standing and stared up into the blackness above. He thought about how his Gram and Gramps would react when he didn't showed up at home this evening. The thought came immediately, and with it came a disturbed relief. They would call Roger.

"Of course they would," he whispered.

A simple phone call to Roger would resolve everything.

"Of course they will call Roger. I told them I was sleeping over at Roger's. It was only supposed to be for Friday night. One night. This is night number two. They just mustn't have called him yet."

He wondered again why Roger didn't show up. "Aaron must have gotten to him. Why else would Roger leave me here?" It didn't make sense to Vincent.

"Morning is not far away. They'll call Roger first thing in the morning when they see I didn't come home," he said aloud to reassure himself.

He repeated it louder. "They'll call him in the morning, and I'll get out of here."

Sleep came slowly, but it was a restless sleep. His belly rumbled often and mimicked the thunder above. He awoke a second time when he heard the rain start to fall from the sky, and he felt along the stones in the wall and the earth beneath his feet for seeping water. Both remained only as damp as when he first arrived. He soon drifted off and dreamed the well was filling with water. Hours passed as the water seeped its way into the well in his dream, and a new hope flourished inside him; he was a strong and confident swimmer. The rain continued to pour down, and soon the water filled the well from the bottom at an enormous pace and lifted Vincent up towards the surface. He was elated to be so close to freedom. He reached out with one arm and brushed his fingers along the edge of the smooth stones that capped the wall and waited for the water to push him up higher. Just as his hand reached out through the opening and gripped firmly to the outside edge of one of the stones, the dream was interrupted.

"Caw!"

The crow from yesterday returned and proudly began to announce to the silly boy in the well that the sun was about to rise. Another day was about to begin.

CHAPTER 16 Day Three - Sunday 10:54 AM

A strange air hovered inside the Pattison home on Sunday as the house filled with numerous family members. It felt more like a celebration than an act of mourning; Anita and Chris hadn't had the complete family together on any single occasion for nearly a decade. The last occasion was Easter dinner ten years ago, just months before Vincent turned up unexpectedly onto their doorstep and became a permanent resident of their home.

The buzz of conversation filled the house and Anita eagerly puttered about in the kitchen preparing an array of sandwiches and snacks for everyone. She always glowed when she entertained family, and today was no exception. She was incisive, witty, and was well aware of the reason behind the gathering. She knew precisely when to listen and when to offer comfort. The weight of Vincent's passing lay beneath the surface of every conversation; it caused the energy in the room to shift and change frequently between hearty laughter and quiet moments of tears and hugs as members shared personal memories of Vincent.

Chris was up early and out the door to the airport well before anyone had arrived. He left early on purpose; he did not want to have to explain where he was going and why to anyone. He was deeply distressed over Vincent's death; he knew if he told his son and older daughter that he was picking up their sister, they may not be at the house when he returned from the airport with Arlene. Anita agreed completely with Chris' assessment of his children. Strangely, no one asked Anita where Chris was when they arrived.

Charlie and his wife, Barbara, arrived first with their son Darrel and his very pregnant girlfriend, Sandra. Charlie owned Mt. Head Lock and Key, the only real locksmith in the valley. Barbara provided assistance at the office when it was needed, but she preferred to be a stay at home mother and wife.

Chris' oldest daughter, Jennifer, was thin and lean like her mother. She arrived fret with worry about how her mother and father were faring and was only kept calm by Graham, her short but stalky husband, who insisted her parents were made of a tougher fabric than most. Their only daughter, April, slipped quietly into the room and sat on the couch in the corner. April, now twenty-five years old, returned home from Medicine Hat as soon as she heard the news about her cousin. She was working at her summer job in the Hat between college semesters.

Jennifer worked in the records department at the University and would often stop in to see her mother on her way home after work. If any one of their children thought he or she understood their mother and father best, it was Jennifer. But things recently changed; Chris pulled her aside and asked her to refrain from popping in unexpectedly. He said it was very draining on Anita these days. He insisted that Anita needed her rest and that popping in unannounced was upsetting her schedule. Jennifer was crushed by her father's request, but she consented. It had been nearly three weeks since she last dropped in to see her parents.

Anita kept everyone engaged as she waited for Chris to return from the airport. She secretly worried about how her children would react and prepared herself for what would surely become a very uncomfortable afternoon for everyone.

CHAPTER 17 Day Three - Sunday 11:32 AM

As Vincent's family gathered to grieve his passing, Vincent came to the conclusion that no one was ever coming for him. He didn't understand why his friends left him down in the bottom of a well. Was it a cruel joke? He didn't think it was very funny. His mind raced over numerous altercations he had with both of his friends in an attempt to find some logic to explain why they would do such a thing to him, but he thought of none.

His belly rumbled from hunger, and he could feel his intestines curling and knotting inside him as each hour passed. He had no food left and only one full bottle of water remained. He was terribly thirsty but he wasn't about to touch the last bottle just yet.

Vincent stared at the rope and followed it up to the top. He knew this was his only lifeline.

"Aaron said he tied it off up there. To what I don't know. Probably one of the posts."

Vincent reached up as high on the rope as he could and grabbed a firm hold with both hands.

"Okay, Aaron, you asshole! This better be tied off damn well!"

He lifted his feet off the ground and curled his knees up tight to his chest leaving his entire body suspended a few feet above the muddy surface. He held himself suspended and waited to see if the rope would pull free and send him crashing down into the mud. After a few minutes of hanging in the air, he reached out with one hand and pushed himself away from the wall to swing back and forth and twirl about.

The rope appeared to be reasonably secured.

He dropped his feet back into the mud and stared up at the opening once more. It was a long way to the surface: fifty feet or more. Could he climb up a rope that high?

He tried to block out all of his failed attempts in high school where he never, even once, succeeded in reaching the top of the climbing rope in the gymnasium during gym class. That rope was only twenty-eight feet to the top. This one was nearly twice that height.

CHAPTER 18 Day Three - Sunday 11:45 AM

Talk in the Pattison home remained focused on Sandra and her ever-expanding belly. Anita's first great-grandchild was due in only five months. Anita teased Darrel about how plain Sandra's hands looked these days.

"Maybe some jewelry would enhance the beauty of those slender fingers. Just look at those poor hands."

"Huh? What are you even talking about? There's nothing wrong with her hands."

Anita smiled and laughed heartily. Sandra joined in.

"A ring, you dumb ass!" Darrel's mother, Barbara, replied. She laughed with the others.

Darrel's face quickly became flushed. He avoided eye contact and mumbled quietly, "She don't need no ring."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Sandra replied. "What do you mean I don't need a ring?"

All talk halted suddenly as the front door opened and Chris crossed the threshold into the room with Arlene.

"Hi, everyone," Arlene said nervously as she closed the door behind her. She forced a smile and scanned the many eyes fixed on her small frame.

Jaws dropped open in surprise, and all eyes swept across her from head to toe. Her clothes were simple. She wore faded, black sweat pants that hung from her spindly hips like a dirty diaper and a plain, grey T-shirt that was two sizes too large.

One uncontrolled gasp erupted from Charlie and was followed by an awkward hush that fell upon all who were gathered in the room. Chris expected as much; he hardly recognized his own daughter when she walked up to him at the airport baggage claim. He was busy searching the many faces of the people that entered the concourse, and he looked right past her.

Chris expected Arlene to look like the long, dark-haired, and slightly over-weight daughter he last saw nine years ago, but she had changed immeasurably. She was only thirty-nine when he last saw her. Now, at forty-eight, she had lost a large amount of weight and appeared much too thin and frail for his liking. Chris thought she could hardly weigh more than one hundred pounds. Her once rich, dark hair that flowed down succulently across her shoulders and down over her full, perfectly-balanced breasts was now cut shoulder length and wrenched back into a small pony tail. It was thin, flat, and appeared oily on her skull. Her breasts lost their energy, and what he could see under her baggy top drooped low into her midsection. Her skin was almost pure white and pasty as if it hadn't been touched by sunlight for many years. Her eyes appeared sunken deep inside the sockets as if death was rehearsing on her.

Chris stood there at the airport restlessly searching the crowd for any sign of her when she tapped his arm and beamed up at him.

"It couldn't be, could it?" he thought. His eyes denied that this gaunt, almost revolting, figure could possibly be his daughter.

He now felt ashamed for instinctively recoiling and stepping away from her. Her eyebrows were strangely non-existent and in their place were two penciled-in, almost comical looking, lines. If not for the loose, ill-fitting clothes she wore, her image screamed _prostitute._ It was all he could to hold himself back from gasping at the time. It was only after searching deep into her mottled charcoal and blue eyes, surrounded by far too much make-up, that he spotted the identifiable scar across the bridge of her nose from her fall at one of his construction sites when she was eleven. He was finally convinced that this really was his Arlene.

Chris raised his hands in the air and instructed everyone to remain seated. He sensed the immediate tension rise in the room. Even though he had retired long ago, Chris never lost his ability to command a room when dissension was aroused. The skill became necessary for him early on when he took over the family businesses.

"I know none of you expected to see Arlene here today, but God damn it, Vincent was her son. I expect each one of you to hold your tongues and give Arlene some respect while she's here. I called her up and asked her to come out, and I don't want to see any bullshit from any one of you over the next few days. Do I make myself clear?"

"Really, dad?" Charlie replied immediately. "You want me to bite my tongue after what she did?"

"God damn it, yes! Look at you mother. She's not well and doesn't need the lot of you starting something that's going to upset her."

Everyone turned towards Anita who stood by the door to the kitchen rolling one hand over the other. She smiled sheepishly and nodded her agreement.

"I'm sorry, Arlene, but I told you this is what you should expect from this bunch," Chris said.

Charlie shrugged his shoulders. "I'm just saying..."

"You'll say nothing!" Chris interjected. "Not in front of your mother and certainly not in front of your child."

Charlie looked briefly at his son and then at his wife. He snickered. "Darrel's not a kid anymore, dad. He's twenty-seven."

Chris raised his hands in the air in frustration. "I don't care how damn old he is! You'll say nothing about the past while Arlene is here. Now come, Arlene. Have a seat." He ushered Arlene over towards a vacant spot on the edge of the couch.

Arlene ignored her father's instruction and instead made her way across the room towards her mother. She stopped next to her mother, and a few tears crawled slowly down her cheeks.

"Mom," she said. "I missed you so much." She opened her arms out wide.

Anita responded by hugging her daughter tightly. "It is so good to see you here right in front of me. It's been much too long." They wept as the others in the room stared in disbelief and confusion at Chris and Anita's sudden acceptance of this reclusive member of the family.

CHAPTER 19 Day Three - Sunday 12:05 PM

Vincent sat on his knees and pressed his palms down deep into the cool mud.

"Shit! This hurts so freaking much! Oh my god! Oh my God!"

After a few minutes, he lifted his painful hands from the mud and brought them up close to his face. He tried to see how much damage had been done, but it was much too dark for him to see anything. He knew that if he could see his hands, he'd see a deep red colour of the rope burns etched into his palms and fingers.

"What the hell was I doing thinking I could climb up there? Jesus, I'm so stupid!"

He made it nearly a third of the way up the rope on his third try before his arms gave out and he slipped down, burning his hands in the process.

"Damn, this hurts!"

His pushed his hands back into the mud again and the cooling relief returned to his palms. He'd have to figure a different way to get to the top.

His feet were the problem. He had the same problem in high school. He had no idea how to use his feet to lock himself onto the rope to prevent himself from sliding downward each time he slid his arms up higher. He was using only arm power, one hand over the other, and he just did not have the arm strength. He made it about fifteen feet easily, but he struggled above that.

He even tried stretching his legs out to the sides so the tips of Aaron's boots sat on the ridges of the stones in the wall as he pushed himself higher, but the boots were too bulky, and his feet kept slipping off the stones.

He sat down on the stool and pulled the last bottle of water out from the bag. He cracked it opened and carefully rinsed the mud from each palm being certain to not use any more water than necessary. He pressed each of his sore, but now clean, palms to his lips and was pleased to discover that at least the skin, though roughened badly, was not broken and bloody on either hand.

As the fresh water on his palms touched his lips, his stomach reacted with a terrible cramp that felt as if he had been bitten from the inside. He couldn't hold back any longer. He grabbed the bottle and quickly slugged back two large swallows. The water flowed down the back of his throat, and he nearly swooned with delight; water never tasted so good. He placed the cap back on and held the bottle high above his head and could see that nearly half the bottle was gone.

"So good! Oh, man! That was so damned good!"

He placed the bottle back into the bag and shoved the bag back against the wall. As he let go of the bag, his fingers brushed across a small metal tag.

A zipper?

This was Aaron's bag. He pulled the bag back, and felt around the outside of the bag for the tag he touched. He soon discovered two zippered pockets, one on each end. He unzipped the first one and shoved his hand deep inside. His fingers touched something and he wrapped his hand around it. Aaron's wallet.

"What a Moron," Vincent called out and laughed.

He let go of the wallet and found some other papers inside. Then his hands fell on Aaron's cell phone.

"No way!" he shouted with excitement. He quickly fiddled with the phone and the screen lit up. He could barely contain himself with delight as he carefully keyed in his home number and hit SEND. He held the phone pressed tight to his ear and waited. Seconds passed by, but he heard nothing.

"What the...?" He dropped the phone from his ear and looked at the display. "NO SIGNAL" flashed in front of him.

"Shit!" He stood up and lifted the phone high above his head, but it was no better. There just wasn't any signal this far down the well.

"Damn it!" he yelled. He turned the phone off to conserve the battery and shoved it back into the pocket. He felt around some more, but there was nothing else inside. It disturbed him that Aaron hadn't come back for his wallet and cell phone. He let the thought go as he'd given both his own phone and wallet over to Aaron.

He unzipped the other pocket and reached down to the bottom.

"Ouch!" He quickly pulled his hand from the pocket and stuck his fingers into his mouth. He could taste blood. There was something sharp in the pocket. He sucked on his finger for a moment and rolled his tongue across the cut surface. It was definitely a cut, but it was small and superficial.

He reached back into the pocket, careful of whatever broke his skin, and pulled out a wooden-handled knife almost eight inches long. He could feel that the knife had a wide and durable serrated blade that curved down slightly at the tip. Vincent immediately recognized the blade. This was the knife Aaron showed him a few weeks ago. It was the one he used at work to slice and cut sod.

Vincent's mood shifted.

With Aaron's knife in hand, he held a firm and solid hope of rescue. But it wasn't hope for rescue from above him. He turned and placed one hand on the cold stones that lined the well and felt around until his fingers landed on the gap between two stones. The knife slipped easily into the gap between the stones, which were dry laid so water could easily flow in and fill the well. He chipped away vigorously between the rocks, and in a few minutes he could feel one of the smaller stones loosening where it rested in the wall.

He snickered quietly.

"How great is this? Thank you, Aaron. It's not as good a working phone, but thank you anyway, you idiot."

He had a plan.

CHAPTER 20 Day Three - Sunday 3:10 PM

The mood inside the Pattison home turned sour like a wake no one wanted to attend. Arlene's return, and not the loss of Vincent, had altered the mood. It stifled any remaining uplift to the spirit that existed earlier. Charlie simply refused to acknowledge Arlene's presence for the first half hour and only spoke to his wife and sister. His sister, Jennifer also made no attempt to reach out to Arlene. Both spouses awkwardly followed suit. The grandchildren remained quietly puzzled by the whole thing.

Anita did her best by popping in and out of the kitchen offering snacks and drinks. She spoke frequently to everyone and encouraged conversation. She made a point of engaging Arlene; there was an obvious invisible wall in the room.

Darrel finally brought Arlene's return back as the central topic of discussion. He focused his attention directly at his aunt.

"Excuse me, Auntie Arlene. I wanted to ask..."

"Auntie Arlene?" his father, Charlie, interrupted with a forced laugh. "She's no Aunt of yours! She's a terrible disgrace!"

Chris's face soured at Charlie's outburst, and he prepared to jump to Arlene's defence again.

"Shut it, Dad!" Darrel shouted back at his father. "If no one else here is going to talk to her or tell me what this is about, I'm asking her myself." Before his father or anyone else could interrupt again, he turned back to Arlene and asked his question.

"Is all of this tension because you left Vincent here with Gramma all those years ago?"

Arlene's eyes grew wide as she regarded those around her nervously. Everyone stared at her with an array of inquisitive expressions. This was the offensive elephant in the room that tied up everyone's tongues. They all watched and waited for her answer.

She pursed her lips tight, sighed, and turned her eyes to Chris and Anita.

"I never wanted to burden either of you with Vincent. You must know that." She cleared her throat and continued. "I was going through a lot at the time..."

"A lot of drugs you mean," Charlie interrupted.

"Charlie, just hush!" Anita called out.

"Yeah. Stop it already," Darrel added.

"Sorry, but that's how I remember it too," Jennifer piped in and nodded her head. She looked over Darrel's girlfriend, Sandra, who was unconsciously rubbing one hand over her expanding belly. "You were always jumping from one bed to the next and dragging poor little Vincent along with you. He was only a toddler."

Arlene scowled back. "It wasn't like that, and you know it. I only had three different boyfriends after Scott took off on me before Vincent was born. Three!" She shoved three fingers in the air to make her point.

Both Charlie and Jennifer chuckled simultaneously at her response.

"And all three were drug dealers," Charlie replied.

"They weren't drug dealers."

"Whatever. All I know is there was always drugs within arms reach of that little boy. Great environment to raise a child."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Vincent was never around drugs."

Charlie chuckled at her denial.

"And then I dropped him off at mom and dad's, didn't I? Didn't I? Why do you think I did that, huh?"

"You abandoned him, Arlene!" Charlie shouted. "You abandoned your own kid. You just dumped him off on mom and dad's doorstep so you could go get high with your newest boyfriend! What was his name? Boo or something?"

"That drug dealer was called Roo," Jennifer added.

Chris had heard enough. "Okay, let's just stop this kind of talk right now! What's done is done. Vincent was not ever a burden to your mother and I, and he was never deprived of anything growing up under this roof. No good can come from drudging all of this history up today. I want this discussion to end right here and right now."

Charlie shook his head side to side. He was disgusted by his father's quickness to forgive.

"We are all here to remember Vincent. We should be acting like a family, not fighting like enemies," Chris added.

"We're not fighting."

"Well, it sure as hell sounds like it to me!"

The debate continued for a while as Arlene tried to defend herself. She felt she was right to drop off her son for his own good, as she was not in any position to care for him. Her siblings could not readily accept it, and Chris continued to do his best to mediate.

As Chris continued to demand order and civility from his children, Anita stood at the doorway to the kitchen seemingly uninterested in the present conversation. She was soon preoccupied and was busy counting the family members on her fingers. She counted them once, and then recounted, careful to point at each one as the heated discussion continued. Her face lit up with an expression of awe and comprehension, and she waved her arm to get Chris' attention.

"Chris! Chris!" she shouted excitedly. "Get the camera!"

"What?" he hollered back irritated by the strange request that seem to come out of nowhere. "Camera? What the hell for?"

Anita waved her hand around, pointing at everyone in the room as if counting them all over once again.

"Just get the camera!" She was clearly excited.

Chris frowned as he recognized what was happening with his wife and immediately understood why she had been counting those present in the room.

"It's been so long since we've had everybody here in the same room at the same time, Chris. Just hurry up and go get the camera."

The discussion ceased and everyone stared curiously at Anita.

"Oh, and then go run upstairs and get Vincent. He's probably in his bedroom or maybe in the shower. I want to get a photo with the whole family together before anyone leaves."

She smiled and waited patiently.

Chris ambled his way over to his wife. As he made his way across the room, he could feel all of his children's eyes on him. There was no more hiding the fact that Anita's dementia was much worse than he let his children know these past few months.

CHAPTER 21 Day Three - Sunday 8:49 PM

The sun had nearly set by the time Vincent had the stones for the first two footholds removed. Removing the stones from the wall was more difficult than Vincent imagined as he only had his fingers and the knife to free the stones from the wall. Just like the first two footholds, trying to free up any stone for the third one let him know his planned escape was indeed a difficult challenge. The stones were all irregular in shape and size, and the stone he wanted to remove was caught behind the two adjacent stones and required the removal of these few smaller ones on each side. The task took nearly two hours to complete.

The difficulty with the third step made him frown. His hands were sore from the rope burn, his arms ached terribly, and he could feel the soreness that always preceded blisters already developing on his fingers and palms. Wrestling each stone out with only his bare fingers made his fingertips raw. The next stones, and all those thereafter, would be even more difficult to remove; they would require him to stand with his feet in the footholds of the wall while one hand was gripped tightly onto the rope.

He'd decided early on that the steps in the wall would be best arranged in alternating steps on opposite sides of the well so he could hold onto the rope in the centre with one foot anchored on each side for balance. He also decided it might be best to spiral the steps to reduce the likely hood of causing a collapse by removing too many stones in one area one above the other. He had learned about collapsing walls somewhere, but for the life of him he couldn't recall where or when. Maybe it was at work at the Garden Centre. He just knew he didn't want to risk a collapse of the stones lining the well.

Vincent carefully tucked the knife into his back pocket, grabbed onto the rope with both hands, and hoisted himself up onto the wall. His palms and fingers were still tender from his earlier attempt to climb the rope, but he hung on tight and ignored the discomfort. It was uncomfortable to stand with his feet in the wall. He had to stretch his legs far apart to suspend himself and he could feel the immediate pull on his groin and the strain on muscles he rarely used as one foot sat much higher than the other in the wall.

"They never taught this kind of stuff in gym class," he said. "I am going to be so flipping sore by the time I make it out of here. But at least I'll be out." He laughed quietly with a strained optimism and set his eyes back upon the wall to pick the next stone to remove.

With one sore hand still gripped onto the rope, he used the other to lift the knife gently from his back pocket by the blade. He selected his next rock and began to scrape and dig away between the stones. It took over an hour to loosen the two stones needed for this notch, but it was the quickest process he'd managed so far. He had to shift his hands multiple times and change his leg positions often as the cramping in his muscles became unbearable very quickly. He pulled at the loosened rocks with his bare fingers and scraped and pulled until they came free. He let each rock fall and crack loudly against the other stones.

"One more foothold down."

Vincent carefully dropped himself down to the bottom and rested on the small stool. His mood had remained positive all evening, and he forced a smile. He looked up the side of the well and counted how many steps would be required to make it to the top.

"Seriously?"

He didn't like the number and recounted again. He then figured at least an hour for each foothold. He heaved a heavy sigh. He wasn't sure he had the strength to last that long. He had only ingested less than a cup of water today and had consumed absolutely no food. Could he really last another full day on only the half bottle of water that remained? His mouth immediately went dry as he thought of the water, and his belly churned to remind him that he'd missed another dinner. He knew the effects of dehydration and hunger would surely begin to show by morning, but he there was nothing he could do about it expect pray that he could make it out while he still had the energy and the will.

Vincent's mood slowly turned sour as his mind raced repeatedly over the multitude of obstacles that lay in front of him. It finally crashed.

"This is fucking impossible," he whispered. He peered through the darkness at his scraped and sore hands.

Vincent was beyond angry at his friends for what they did to him, but he had already resigned himself to the situation. He wanted to release his anger in some kind of outburst, but he had no energy to waste. He also wanted to cry. How could he possibly be so stupid? How could he let this happen? It was his own fault. Nobody pushed him down the well. He looked up at the darkening sky once more and tried to cry, but the tears just wouldn't come.

Tomorrow he would work hard on the stones. Tomorrow he would try to climb up the crazy staircase to freedom. Tomorrow he would find his two friends and do something very bad to each of them. He didn't know what he would do, but he knew he would hunt them down once he was out.

He remembered how Aaron and Roger snickered at him from the top, and he couldn't help but think they had planned to leave him down here. "...and you will pay for not coming back. Both of you! Why would you do this to me? Why?"

He closed his eyes, and he could feel that sleep was readily waiting for him. He was so very tired. He welcomed his dreams that allowed him release from his vengeful thoughts.

CHAPTER 22 Day Four - Monday 6:45 AM

The sound of an unwelcome friend's return woke Vincent up.

"Caw! Caw!" the black crow called from the top of the well.

Vincent stirred and groaned. Another long day was about to kick off by the return of the irritating crow. He covered his ears with his hands, but it was not enough to block out the incessant crowing.

After twenty minutes of non-stopping cawing, Vincent stood up and screamed at the top of his lungs. "Shut up! Shut up, damn it! Just shut up!"

The crowing stopped abruptly, and Vincent stared up in surprise at the sudden silence. The crow danced around the edge of the well, turned inward, and dropped its head down inside the well. The crow peered at him from above.

"Caw!"

"Caw yourself, you stupid bird!"

"Caw!"

The crow remained unmoving at the edge.

"Just shut it already!"

"Caw!"

"Are you mocking me? Huh? Do you really think I want to be down here?"

"Caw! Caw!" The crow bounced its tiny head up and down as if to answer Vincent.

Vincent rose from the stool and tilted his head to the side. Was he just imagining the crow? He rubbed his eyes, leaned back against the stones, and stared back up. The crow was still there.

"Really? You're really going to just sit there and taunt me while I'm stuck down here?"

The crow shuffled along the edge and stared down at Vincent.

"Instead of bugging me like this, why don't you just go piss off and get someone to help get me out of here? I mean it! Just get out of here and leave me alone if you're not going to help me! Just go! Get outta here!" He thrust his fist into the air at the crow.

The crow danced along the edge for a moment and then flapped its wings and flew away.

Vincent stared up bewildered; he thought for a second that the crow understood every word he just said. He waited a few minutes for the crow to return like yesterday, but it didn't come back.

"Hmph. I guess I told him," he said. He continued to look for bird's return. The only thing that came was the sun, which cast the same orange glow as the last two mornings on the ridge of the well opening.

Vincent sat back down on the stool and an unexpected shiver snaked its way through his body. He wrapped his arms tight around his chest to hold in the heat. He knew it wasn't any colder this morning than it was any other morning. The temperature at the bottom of the well remained constant the entire time he sat inside the well, and he knew this morning was no different. Aaron's coat had certainly been more than sufficient to keep him warm up until now.

Vincent removed one hand, unzipped the coat and slid his hand inside. His normally flat stomach was sunken, and he could feel the noticeable drop under his bottom rib.

"Really?" he asked himself aloud. "I can't be that starving already."

He shivered again and tried not to worry that the dehydration was the cause of his shivering. The vision of the one remaining half bottle of water popped into his mind, but he tried to ignore its persistence.

It was normal for Vincent every morning to feel the need to urinate upon waking, and this morning was no different though he had consumed very little water the day before. It was still much too dark to see anything at the bottom of the well, so he went only by feel to empty out what he could from his bladder. He sensed immediately that there was little to expel, and what dribbled into the bottle burned badly as it passed.

"Shit," he whispered and zipped back up. He was so very thirsty. The image of the half bottle of water pounded away at his will.

"Not yet," he mumbled. The severity of his situation was becoming impossible to ignore. He wanted to cry, but knew he wouldn't be able to stop if he started. A single tear slipped down his cheek, and he immediately wiped it away.

He stared up the long chimney at the sky up above. The thirst was driving him mad, and he mulled over exactly when he should consume this very last portion of his water. He still had a lot of work to do today; a lot of hard sweaty work.

"I'll wait. I'll wait until I make it half way up. That would probably be best."

Vincent counted up the wall to the top again. Could he really make it all of the way out today? It felt like an insurmountable task. He grabbed Aaron's knife and was soon wedged upon the wall where he jabbed and picked in the cracks to find a loose stone that would soon become foothold number five.

CHAPTER 23 Day Four - Monday 7:15 AM

Chris felt oddly relieved to have Arlene back in the house. It had been a very long time since he had allowed himself to lie in bed and let Anita rise on her own without him. When he rose earlier, just after the sun broke the horizon, Arlene was already up and had the kettle on to boil. She was quick to usher him back to bed. She insisted he get some much needed rest while she was there. She would look after her mother once she rose.

The muffled sounds of Arlene and Anita deep in discussion stole their way up to the master bedroom where Chris lay awake wondering what exactly had become of his children. He listened hard but could only catch the odd word here and there or an occasional outburst of shrill laughter from Arlene that was sometimes reciprocated by Anita.

He was tired in a way that could only came with age. He spent too many years worrying about making sure each of his children had a solid future ahead. In the end, he was unable to control it. Try as he might, they made their own choices and disappointed him repeatedly.

Arlene was his favourite child from the very day she was born. He doted on her, and though he tried to deny it, he knew he did this at the expense of his other two children. Having her back in the house brought back many old memories of her as a toddler when she would creep quietly down the hall and slip into bed with him and Anita. It was something he had never tolerated from his other two children. Anita tried to discourage Arlene, but Chris always overruled Anita when it came to his favourite child.

She was his favourite in ways that could only be counted by him and Arlene.

He reluctantly recalled the moment it changed between them. It happened so suddenly. She was sixteen and frequently slept over at her friend's house on the weekends. The sleepovers at Marriana's seemed harmless at the time. Chris would drop her off on a Friday night and return the next day to pick her up the very moment she called. He loved his little girl and was always at her beck and call. She was always full of giggles and smiles as she told Chris how much fun she had the moment she entered the car. She'd kiss him on the cheek and thank him again for picking her up.

Jennifer finally let the truth escape one afternoon after Chris rushed out again to pick up Arlene from across town. He drove right past Jennifer on his way back home with Arlene without stopping while Jennifer walked herself home from shopping at the drugstore in town. Chris claimed he didn't see her. Jennifer was furious and ripped into her father and Arlene the moment she entered the house.

"Another sleepover at Marriana's, hey, Arlene?" Jennifer shouted as she walked through the front door.

Arlene's eyes grew big. "Yes, why?"

Jennifer smiled maliciously at Arlene and then looked at her father. "Do you even know where Marriana lives, dad?"

Chris' attention was aroused.

Arlene squirmed about nervously. "He knows where."

"Does he really?"

Arlene shook her head and pleaded for Jennifer to say anything more.

Chris frowned as he listened to his two daughters argue. He didn't understand what it was all about.

"Dad, you really do know where Marriana lives, don't you?"

"I just picked Arlene up from Marriana's. Of course I know where she lives."

Arlene lunged herself across the room and threw herself at Jennifer. The two girls fell to the floor and began to scuffle about, wrestling and pulling hair. Arlene tried to cover Jennifer's mouth with her hand and she screamed obscenities at her. Jennifer fended off the blows of her younger sister and feigned laughter to taunt her even further as they rolled about.

"Damn it, you two! Stop this fighting right now! Jennifer, get the hell off of Arlene." He reached in and pulled Jennifer away from Arlene.

"Marriana doesn't even live where you picked Arlene up this morning!" Jennifer shouted.

"Shut up, Jennifer! Don't you dare say any more! Just don't! Please don't!"

"What the hell is going on here?" Chris shouted.

"It's Marriana's brother, Tommy, who rents that house you picked her up at today. She hasn't been sleeping over with Marriana! Marriana still lives up on Sherman's Hill with her parents!"

Chris held one of each of his daughter's wrists in each hand. He tried to comprehend what he had just heard. He let go of Jennifer and stared dumbstruck at his favourite daughter, Arlene.

"Tommy Puck?" He shook his head in disbelief. "The sleepovers are with Tommy Puck?" This town just wasn't that big, and Chris knew all about Marriana Puck's long-haired, eighteen year old brother, Tommy.

Arlene cowered and looked away from her father.

Chris released his grip on his daughter and stepped back. He looked at her from top to bottom. His disbelief turned into shame and disgust.

"Is this true? Really? That drunken, lazy-ass son of Peter Puck?"

Arlene met his eyes but offered no reply in defence against Jennifer's accusation. Chris could see the truth buried deep in the emotionless black pools of her eyes.

"Damn you!" he said. He raised his hand in the air to back hand her across the face, but he stopped. This was his little girl. She had always been his pride and joy. He always thought she was so absolutely perfect and they shared so much between them. He felt like such a fool. She was nothing but a decorated boiled egg that had been left out on the counter for too many days.

Chris put his hand up to cover his mouth in attempt to stifle the words that threatened to come out. He said nothing in the end. He knew it was too late. Many thoughts crossed through his mind that day. Arlene chose her path, and he was no longer a part of her life.

In the years that followed, Chris treated her much differently. In public, he appeared to have all the love and admiration for her that he always had, but in private, he avoided her. It hurt deeply that she had so easily fooled him. He didn't trust her. She had feigned her love for him, and it cut him like a knife.

Arlene broke off the relationship with Tommy Puck immediately in hopes that it would allow her back into her father's good graces, but Chris denied the intimacy they once shared. He never told Anita about Tommy, and he never asked his wife if she knew about Tommy. Life moved on, and Arlene grew up into a woman who he saw only ever pretending to care. Chris, of course, knew about the string of young men she slept with thereafter as he began to keep tabs on her. He also knew there were drugs involved wherever she went, but he still said nothing.

Anita did her best to help Arlene settle down after high school graduation, but it was a difficult task. Jennifer and Charlie both went off to university and college, but Arlene continued to live in the shadows. She bounced from boyfriend to boyfriend as the years passed by. At twenty-nine, she became pregnant by her newest boyfriend Scott. Anita knew it was imperative to step in to help Arlene set up a decent home with Scott, so she opened up her purse and rented a small house for the two of them. Arlene soon benefited unlike the other children from gifts from Anita that were meant to give Arlene solid roots and a firm foundation to raise a child with Scott. Chris once again said nothing as Anita invested her time and money in the most foolish of ways. But Anita was not able to anchor Arlene and Scott, and a few weeks before the child was born, Scott disappeared. None of them ever heard from him again.

Anita continued to shell out money and gifts for Arlene after Scott ran off. Anita loved antiques, and Arlene mimicked her mother's love. The small rental home was soon outfitted with antique chairs, dressers and anything else she could find that Arlene showed an interest in. If the two were out shopping and Arlene cast her eyes upon a rare coil oil lamp that was made of cultured marble, it would be sitting on the mantle in the small rental within the day. Antique tapestries lined the wall, hump back oak trunks sat in every corner, Queen Anne mahogany chairs sat around the oak table, and numerous other articles filled every empty space of the small house. The china cabinet soon sparkled with the royal blue and bright orange glassware that was the envy of the true collectors. Anita even provided Arlene with her grandmother's handmade crochet bedcover that was well over one hundred years old simply because it made the master bedroom look like the image from a magazine cover. It was laid upon the Grape Victorian bed for which Anita shelled out over $1800.

Little Vincent grew up quickly, and Anita showered the grandchild with gifts, clothes and anything Arlene needed or asked for. Chris stepped aside and let Arlene become Anita's little project. The relationship between him and Arlene remained the same: cold and distant. Chris knew of Arlene's dark side, and he blamed himself for helping her foster it. He suspected that even with Anita's influence, Arlene's lust for drugs and bad men would never cease. Chris saw very little of young Vincent as Arlene kept herself and her son hidden from his large house with the exception of the family gatherings Anita organized.

But despite all of Anita's efforts to help her daughter, every expensive item in the small rental home suddenly vanished in a single day. Arlene had surrendered it all at a fraction of its worth in a hasty lump-sum deal with Randal's auction house. Anita was furious. Her anger was not due to the loss of her time and the investment of tens of thousands of dollars, but it was because she realized little Vincent had truthfully been nothing more than a burden to Arlene. She felt terribly deceived and disappointed. It was an unfathomable act of selfishness and heartlessness to abandon her son on their doorstep. She wanted desperately to understand how and why Arlene could have committed such an act. She had her suspicions, and she vowed to Chris that she would get to the bottom of it.

Chris said nothing through the entire event because he expected nothing different from his daughter. When Anita approached Chris to discuss the subject, he closed her off. Arlene would not be a topic of discussion between them again. If Anita wanted to find out why their youngest daughter committed such a vile act, she would have to find someone else to join her quest or give it up altogether. Chris wanted nothing more to do with Arlene. Anita finally quit trying. For nearly ten full years, Arlene's name was not mentioned in his presence.

Now Arlene was back.

CHAPTER 24 Day Four - Monday 12:25 PM

Vincent readied himself to release another large stone to the pile as he closed in on the half-way point. His feet throbbed terribly from bracing his weight deep in the holes where the stones once rested. He shifted positions again until his left foot wedged into the higher hole in the wall. He didn't know so many places on his feet could hurt so much at once.

No part of his body was immune from the pain the relentless climbing, reaching, and stretching inflicted on him. There was no place soft to comfortably rest his tired and aching body when he returned to the bottom. His groin suffered the worst; the pain and aches started deep inside his thighs and traveled through all the muscles and tendons down to his knees, ankles, and feet. His legs spasmodically wobbled and trembled as he kept them stretched far across the void from side to side. He held on as long as he could before he was forced to shift positions . His fingers were scraped right to the very tip and worn raw to the point of bleeding in places. They felt swollen and fat. His arms and shoulders fared no better, and it hurt more each time to raise them above his head while holding tight to the rope. Dry dirt rubbed into the scrapes and open sores added to the discomfort.

"You, my friend, are very stubborn," he said to his current stone. The stone was larger than most he already removed, and it would not come free even though it appeared nothing was holding it in place. "I name you Darrel." He forced out a small laugh.

Vincent had resorted to talking to the stones. Gramps often used Darrel as the example of what not to do if you aspired to succeed in life. He called Darrel stubborn because he refused to agree to his father's repeated requests to accept a position at the family business. Darrel finally succumbed to his father's plea to join him, and now they work side by side. Vincent thought they seemed to get along well.

Another fifteen minutes of tugging finally freed the stone named Darrel. Vincent let it fall like the others to the bottom. He heard it smack another stone on the bottom and bounce off somewhere. He looked up towards the opening above and was pleased. He was very close to the half-way point and decided he was close enough to treat himself to a short rest. He desperately wanted to devour what remained of his water. His throat was parched, and it was difficult to swallow.

He descended with the help of the rope, stumbled over the stones that now covered much of the bottom of the well, and sat down on the stool.

He grabbed Aaron's bag and tugged it towards him, but it refused to move.

"What the..."

He yanked harder and the bag suddenly lurched forward. The rock he'd named Darrel and let fall to the bottom had been resting on the end of the bag. It tumbled off to the side with Vincent's pull.

Vincent reached his hand deep inside the open bag and felt around for his last half bottle of water.

"Hell no," he said in disbelief.

He stopped moving and slowly pulled out his hand. It was wet.

"Oh, God! Please no!" he shouted. He reached back inside, felt around with his fingers until he grabbed hold of the bottle, and snatched it out from the bag. He didn't have to even look at the bottle to know it was empty.

"You are fucking kidding me!" he shouted.

The stone named Darrel crushed and cracked the bottle allowing the remaining water to escape and soak through the fabric of Aaron's duffel bag.

Vincent devoured the few drops that remained in the bottle. He opened the bag and searched for pooled water he could suck up, but there was only dampness inside.

"I can't..."

Vincent buried his head in his hands and wept. He tried to swallow, but his throat closed in on itself and caused him to wheeze and cough in short spasms. He bent over and forced himself to breathe shallow, short breathes until he recovered.

"I'm so sorry, Gramps. You too, Gram. Please forgive me," he whispered in a raspy tone. "Forgive me."

Water was essential. With all of his water gone, it seemed all hope was siphoned off with it. It was early in the afternoon, and he'd only made it half way up the wall. He doubted if he could even climb back up the rope in his present state. A vision of falling from the rope and fracturing a number of bones suddenly replaced his once blind optimism of escaping to freedom.

He was doomed.

CHAPTER 25 Day Four - Monday 12:53 PM

Chris remained seated in the front room and let Arlene help Anita clear the lunch dishes. There was something odd about the way Arlene eased right into caring and tending to his wife. They got along so very well, almost as if they had never been separated for all those years. He couldn't imagine his other two children being this attentive, but they each had their own busy life and family to look after.

His thoughts drifted out to Vancouver and what he knew about his estranged daughter. After arriving in the lower mainland with her boyfriend Roo, the two immersed themselves deep into the drug crowd: selling, buying, using, and carting. They did anything to make a buck to keep them in supply, so long as it wasn't a real job. He discovered that Arlene briefly worked the till at Shopper's Drug Mart, and his hopes for his daughter rose, but it was short lived. Having to get up early and work according to someone else's schedule was just not in Arlene's playbook.

Then something happened, and Roo was suddenly no longer in the picture. Even his private eyes failed to find where and why he disappeared. Rumour had it that he was murdered in a drug deal gone bad, but no trace of him or his body was ever found. Roo was gone and Arlene soon resorted to turning tricks on the street all on her own. "Candy Q" was the name she settled on for her new career. Her phoney ID listed her as Candace Youngman from Thunder Bay, Ontario, born eleven years later than her true birthdate.

The doorbell rang and broke Chris' train of thought. He shuffled quickly to the door.

"I've got it," he called out.

He opened the door to Detective Daly and Officer Wu.

"Who is it dear," Anita asked and poked her head out from the kitchen.

"It's just Dean. You finish up in the kitchen with Arlene. I'll deal with this."

Anita nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Sorry for the intrusion, Chris, but I wanted to stop by." He motioned to the young officer standing next to him. "You have met our newest officer, haven't you?" Dean asked.

"Can't say we've formally met," Chris replied looking at the young Asian officer.

The officer leaned forward with his arm extended. "Good evening Mr. Pattison. I'm Officer Jet Wu. I'm sort of tied to Dean's hip most days. I was here the day after the accident."

Chris shook his hand. "Oh, that's right," he replied and pointed across the room in the direction of the house across the road where Vincent's friend Roger lived.

Officer Wu smiled brightly, something he seemed to do often. His bold white teeth softened the hardness of his chiseled, athletic profile.

"This is what I stopped by for." Dean held forward a small paper bag.

"What's this?" Chris asked curiously, as he reached for the bag.

"Vincent's belongings. You didn't take them from the morgue on Saturday after you signed for them. I just thought I'd save you the trip."

Chris looked inside and saw one clear Ziploc bag containing all of the items he already saw in the tray at the morgue.

"You didn't have to come all the way over here just for this."

"I know. But we've known each other a long time, Chris. It's the least I could do."

Chris nodded. "Not so long really. Five years is all."

Chris and Anita had always made a point of helping out in the community at fundraisers and benefits, and Dean was often present with the police presence at those events.

Dean smiled. "It seems like longer."

"Vincent's funeral is tomorrow at ten down at Barclay's," Chris said. "You are welcome to come."

Dean shook his head. "No, I really can't. I try to distance myself from funerals... for the locals. I know too many people around here now, and I just..."

"I understand," Chris replied before Dean finished. Chris looked back into the paper bag. "What about his truck?"

"Ayuh. The truck is... well... You can imagine it what it's like. We had it towed to our lot. I'll release it to the salvage company as soon as the insurance company gives me the go ahead."

Chris nodded again. "But what I meant... Was there anything else of Vincent's inside the truck? Personal things, I mean."

Dean glanced over at Jet, frowned, and shook his head. "That truck was bust up pretty bad, Chris. What you have there in the bag is all we got of Vincent's. Why? Is there something missing?"

"No, No. I just wondered, that's all. I thought maybe there was something that could explain why this happened to him."

"Mrs. Gardwinder flipped her rig and blocked both lanes of the highway. That's why this happened. The road comes right out of that straight section into that tight corner. We've had a lot of accident's down there. You know the one, Chris, out past the Bumstead farm. There have been petitions to get that corner straightened three times in the past ten years, but the municipality turns it down every time it comes up. They say they don't have the funds."

"They've turned it down because no one's ever been killed there before. That's why," Chris said. He was suddenly very upset. He realized this tragedy could have been prevented if only that section of road had been straightened.

"You are right about that."

"If it was one of their kids killed in an accident out there, I'd bet the Goddamned funding would be available!" he shouted. "I've a mind to take a photo of Vincent's torched body down to that bloody office and pin it to one of their Goddamned foreheads! Damn it! And if you see any of those bastards, you can tell them they killed my grandson by sitting on their bloody asses! What the hell do we pay them for? You tell me, Dean!"

Dean lowered his eyes. Jet stepped back, and his smile disappeared for the first time since they arrived.

Chris knew he had crossed the line with the outburst. "I'm sorry, Dean. I don't mean to take it out on you. I'm just so upset over this whole thing."

"I understand," he replied. "We only came out to deliver Vincent's items. We really should be going."

"Well, I do appreciate you both coming out. Anita does too."

"You just take care of yourself and that lovely wife of yours," he replied. "If you need anything, just call." Dean extended his hand to Chris.

Chris accepted his hand and shook it briefly. He stood at the door and watched Dean and Jet until the police car disappeared down the road.

It really hurt Chris to lose Vincent so quickly. It seemed like only days ago that he was a youngster learning to skate and play basketball. He looked up onto the mantle where Vincent's graduation picture still rested. Until this outburst on Dean, he had kept his emotions locked inside. He reminded himself it was for Anita's sake. But he did miss that boy so dearly.

Chris plopped himself down into his armchair, opened up the paper bag, and pulled out the Ziploc bag. He removed each item one by one, looked at each for a moment, and then dropped them back inside. When he pulled out Vincent's smart phone, he held it in his hands and hesitated. He knew nothing about these new phones. He and Anita still had only a landline in the house with a set of cordless phones. He pressed the power button and waited for the screen to load. In seconds, the main screen with a background photo and icons in front appeared. The background was a photo of Vincent and Roger out along some River. The two boys were holding fishing rods and one fish each. Their huge grins stretched from ear to ear.

He touched the screen to make the phone do something. Anything. This phone seemed to be the only part of Vincent that was still alive, but he couldn't get the screen to change at all.

"Smart phone, my ass," Chris mumbled.

One finger passed across a phone book icon and the screen suddenly changed to a list of Vincent's friends. He wished he had seen this list before, but he wasn't about to make any more phone calls. He looked at the list of names. Aaron, Anna, David, and more.

"Anna," he said.

Anna was a girl's name. Vincent had never mentioned anyone named Anna. He looked through the list and recognized some of the names. It pained him that he hadn't taken the time to talk more often with his grandson recently.

He fussed with the screen, pushing and poking at it, but he couldn't make the list disappear. He could only make it scroll up and down. He read slowly through the names again.

"Anna," he repeated. Anna was the only girl's name in the list he didn't recognize.

He finally turned the device off and back on. There was another icon named ALBUM. He touched it. Immediately the screen filled with a fresh new photo. It was a picture of Roger and another boy Chris didn't know at all. There was an odd resemblance to Vincent in the other boy that disturbed him momentarily: same blonde hair and haircut, same big smile, and same wiry frame. But he knew it was the hoodie that set him off. Vincent had one exactly like it. He pondered over this young friend of Vincent's and wondered why he never brought him over to the house. He realized there was a lot about his grandson's young life that he knew very little about.

His hands trembled as he studied the photo. It was taken late into the evening in some forest. Huge trees and rolling hills surrounded the two boys as they grinned wide for the camera.

His thoughts turned to Roger, and he couldn't take his eyes off the photo. Roger was such a great friend of Vincent's since the day Vincent had arrived on their doorstep. He was more adventurous than Vincent, and Chris always thought he was a positive influence on his grandson for that very reason. The two boys were practically inseparable for the past nine years; they shared sleepovers, trips, parties, and too many other events to name. He realized he owed Roger's mother another phone call.

"Chris?" Anita called out from the other room distracting him.

"Yes, dear?" he called back. He could hear Anita and Arlene approaching down the short hall from the kitchen. He peeled his eyes away from the photo and hastily tossed the phone back into the bag and into a drawer on the side table next to him before they entered the room.

"What did that detective want?" Anita asked.

"Oh, nothing really. He just wanted to see how we were doing, that's all."

Anita smiled. "He is such a nice man, isn't he?"

Chris nodded. "Yes, darling. Very nice."

He decided not to produce any of Vincent's belongings for now. Arlene's presence in the house kept him on guard. He still had a lingering distrust for her. If there were photos of Vincent's life on that phone, then they would just stay there on that phone until he was sure Arlene deserved to see them. He promised himself he would sit down and show Anita in private later.

Chris wouldn't remember the small bag of items he shoved inside the drawer for another week.

CHAPTER 26 Day Four - Monday 2:01 PM

Vincent let the tears roll down his cheeks. He looked up the tall chimney-like hole at the small patch of light blue sky. For more than an hour, he brooded in his own despair. He was distraught over the loss of his water and felt like all was lost.

He continued to stare up and a dark blotch high up in the wall that wasn't there before caught his attention. It was the very place where he removed the stone named Darrel before coming back down to the bottom. He couldn't break his gaze. It seemed a very long way up the wall. As he stared at the space that once held the stone, it struck him that the dark blotch was actually much farther up the wall than he thought he'd climbed. He couldn't believe that he had really made it that far up the wall.

He sat up straight, wiped his eyes and looked again at the dark spot above him. The absence of the stones that high up the wall spoke loudly to him.

"I'm over half way," he whispered.

It hurt to swallow, but he swallowed anyway.

"I am actually _over_ half way," he uttered with an air of disbelief. "And it's still only the afternoon." The words came out barely audible.

He forced his tired body up onto its feet and leaned against the wall. He counted how many more stones he would have to remove to make it to the top.

Gramps words returned to him. "Just one more step."

He reached out for the rope. "I have to try for you, Gramps. I just have to."

He slowly ascended the rope once again. He grabbed firmly onto the rope, wedged one foot into the first hole, and reached across with the other foot for the next hole. It was much harder now to climb up the rope. Each reach up the rope hurt him; the blisters that developed on both palms were ripped open and stinging terribly. Every stretch to the next foothold tired him. He had to pause every few steps to regain his momentum, but he pushed himself up, foothold by foothold, higher and higher up through the well. It took him nearly ten minutes to make it to where the dark blotch that had reignited his hope rested. He settled with his feet straddled precariously from side to side across the void as comfortable and securely as possible ready to start digging out the next stone.

He reached with one hand to his back pocket where he always tucked the knife.

"Shit!" he cried out. His hand fell on an empty pocket. He'd forgotten to pocket the knife before ascending the rope.

Vincent released an anguish-filled cry. His tired body screamed at him, and it wanted to just let go of the rope and crash down onto the stones below.

"How bloody stupid!" he cursed. He tried not to cry and slowly worked his way back down his crude staircase to pick up the knife. When he was back at the bottom, he rested for a full five minutes and held back the tears that threatened to burst out.

It took Vincent another ten minutes before he was back up the rope with his feet planted so he could begin digging out the next stone. He removed one of his hands from the rope, pulled the knife out, and began to chip away. He ignored the burning pain from the open wounds in his palms and knuckles.

The stones were becoming easier to remove each time he ascended higher. This next stone came free easily and filled Vincent with a crazy excitement that he might actually make it out before nightfall if he could quicken his pace.

Vincent eventually loosened the stone enough that he was sure he could pull it free. He shifted his feet position once more so he could stand directly in front of the stone, grasp it, and drop it to the bottom. He was still in the process of planting his feet securely in the holes with tired and scarred hands holding as best as he could to both the rope and the knife when the knife slipped out from his fingers and tumbled down into the black below.

"Aw, c'mon! How many effin times!" he shouted.

He cursed as he freed the stone with his fingers and let it fall to the bottom. He then began his descent down the rope once again to retrieve the knife. Worry and fear swirled about in his mind with each step downward. He worked hard to keep his focus as best he could and was unaware that he whimpered like an injured beast the entire way down. Even the fibres of the rope seemed to pierce the tender parts of his hands like miniature torture devices. His body ached and his throat was parched in a way he had never experienced before.

Once in the darkness at the bottom, he scrounged around the pile of rocks trying to locate the knife. It was difficult to see anything clearly and he had to resort to searching by feel only in and under the boulders that lay on the bottom. He started on the ground right in front of where he stood and felt around the first of the many rocks he had tossed down into the mud. He shifted the rock and felt underneath, but his hands stuck into more mud. He moved to his left and felt down behind the rocks that were stacked against the wall. His hand landed upon one of the empty water bottles. He picked it up and tossed it behind him. It bounced off the wall into the pile of stones. He continued to shuffle the stones about as he searched for the knife.

Vincent moved in a clockwise rotation, looking in front, behind, and under each stone, but he could not locate the knife anywhere. It was a painfully slow process in his weakened state. He came across two more empty water bottles. He tossed them aside angrily at the wall in frustration and both bounced back at him; one hit his leg, as if to taunt him.

He soon began to panic. Without the knife, he was a goner. He shuffled another stone and cursed aloud. He tumbled the stone to the side and discovered yet another water bottle. Maybe it was the same one he had just thrown, but he couldn't tell.

"Fuck me!" His voice cracked as his throat threatened to close up again. He continued to shuffle stone after stone about in no orderly fashion.

"It has to be here somewhere!"

He scampered some more and moved another stone when his hand landed on one more water bottle. He grabbed onto it and prepared to toss it aside but stopped abruptly.

Vincent stood up quickly, dumbfounded. The water bottle he held in his hand was heavy. It was full.

"Really?" he whispered. He frowned momentarily in confusion.

He leaned back against the wall and lifted the bottle up until it blocked the sky above. This bottle really was full.

"I miscounted the bottles," he uttered with a hearty relief. "There must have been six in the bag."

Vincent laughed and let his body slide down the wall until he was sitting atop one of the stones that was pressed into the mud. He leaned back against the wall with his knees bent and kept both hands wrapped tightly around the precious water bottle.

He laughed giddily and caressed the bottle. He let himself believe it was true.

Vincent opened the bottle and chugged back two huge mouthfuls, swallowing as fast he could.

The moment the liquid touched his tongue and went down his throat, he was taken aback by the strange, salty taste, and he thought at first it was only because he was so parched, but the second swallow and the accompanying smell he found when he pulled the bottle away from his lips told him how mistaken he really was.

"Arrrgh! Phew! Sppspst!" All kinds of noises came out of Vincent's mouth as he tried to spit and rid himself of the taste.

It was urine. Vincent drank from one of the two bottles he had filled with his own urine.

CHAPTER 27 Day Four - Monday 2:25 PM

By mid-afternoon Chris had tired of answering the phone, so he slipped away into his study where he was allowed to smoke as much as he wanted. It was the only room in the entire house where Anita allowed him to smoke and only because he had agreed to install the positive ventilation system.

Hiding in his study was the best way he knew to deal with his current situation. He was greatly aggravated at having to listen to people he didn't know offer condolences and say they understood how he must be feeling. How in the hell did any of them know how he felt? He wanted to yell at them but held his tongue. Whenever the phone rang throughout the afternoon, he pretended he didn't hear it and let it ring until someone in a room on the other side of the large house answered.

By evening, Chris was confident he wouldn't have to answer any more of the incoming calls and returned to the great room where he found Anita and Arlene discussing what to make for dinner. The phone rang again, and Chris was surprised that Arlene, and not Anita, was up quick to her feet to answer it after the first ring.

"Hello," she said softly. She answered with the same breathy tone that Chris first mistook for being sensual when he called her. Listening to her voice once again, he knew it was not even remotely sensual. Her voice had a childlike quality to it: an underlying giddiness and forced innocence. It was as if she pretended to be a child talking to another child. _Childlike_ was the correct term.

"I'm Vincent's mommy," she said in her light breathy way to the caller. Her words horrified Chris. He didn't expect Arlene to answer the phone in his home, let alone assert herself on friends and family in this manner.

There was a short pause during which she looked at Chris and Anita before replying. "I've been away for a number of years, that's all. I came back as soon as I heard."

Chris realized that it wasn't Anita who had been answering the calls while he smoked away in his study. Arlene was settling herself in, and Anita certainly seemed to have no problem with her eagerness to step forward.

"That's so sweet of you to say," she said. "I know Vincent spoke very highly of you. Thanks so much for calling."

Chris reeled as Arlene hung up the phone. Arlene knew none of Vincent's friends or acquaintances, and it offended him greatly that she could insinuate as much with such frivolity. He tried to keep his voice calm.

"Arlene, who was that?"

"It was some Mr. Radisson. He said he was Vincent's math teacher from grade twelve."

"Uh huh," Chris replied. He knew Jimmy Radisson.

"He just wanted to say how sorry he was to hear about Vincent, that's all. He probably gave Vincent some bad grades and is feeling bad about it now."

Chris was visibly upset. "Arlene, you can't just tell people what Vincent thought about them. You never even knew Vincent, and you certainly don't know Jimmy Radisson."

"Sorry, Dad, but I'm sure that's just what he wanted to hear," she replied. She was confused as to why Chris seemed upset over her actions.

"Damn it, Arlene! You can't just walk in here and pretend like you've never left! And stop pretending that Vincent told you things about people he knew. You don't know Vincent, so stop acting like you do!"

Anita frowned at Chris. "Arlene's just trying to help out, Chris. She is his mother after all."

She turned to her daughter, Arlene. "You didn't mean to disrupt things, did you, dear?"

"Of course not, Mom. I am really just trying to help."

"And you are, dear." She turned to Chris and smiled. It was a tight smile accompanied by an inquisitive stare. She held it for a few full seconds before turning away.

Chris wanted to rebut, but he recognized that particular stare and bit his tongue. He and Anita shared an understanding that kept their marriage strong over the decades: to recognize and know when to push back and when to back off. If it was important enough to Anita that he should hold his silence, then he would hold his silence for her. That particular stare was her clear instruction to him to back off the issue. It seemed to him that Anita was appreciative of Arlene's presence, and if what Arlene did since she arrived pleased Anita, he would force himself to tolerate it for her sake. He was just very uncomfortable with it.

"And did you hear, Chris?"

"Hear what," he said quietly. He was still trying to hold back his true feelings.

"Arlene's living in Vancouver now."

Chris frowned. Such a coherent moment followed by a total collapse. He hated dementia. It callously picked away at her memory and showed itself with irregularity and at the most unexpected times.

Anita continued to ask Arlene about her trip from Vancouver. She asked Arlene about it yesterday when she first arrived. Chris listened to Arlene repeat the details of her not so interesting journey in the same as she told it yesterday. She repeated it to her mother as if she was telling it to her for the very first time.

Anita laughed and smiled as she listened to Arlene. She soon became anxious and looked about the room as if something was missing. She reached out towards Chris and touched him gently.

"I haven't seen Vincent around at all today. Did he even go to work today, Chris?" she asked him.

Chris heaved a heavy sigh and shook his head. "No. He didn't go to work today, Anita." He stepped forward, pulled her into his arms, and held her tight.

She pushed herself away from Chris. "Can you go see if he's upstairs? We'll be starting dinner soon."

"He's not upstairs," he said softly. He tried not to cry.

"Well then where is he? We need to tell him his mom has come back."

Chris closed his eyes. He reached out to her again and hugged her gently. When he opened them back up, he noticed Arlene staring at the them.

"Is there anything I can do?" she whispered.

"No," he replied. "There is nothing any of us can do."

Anita slowly pulled herself away from Chris again. "So who is going to go find Vincent?

CHAPTER 28 Day Four - Monday 5:37 PM

It was impossible to erase the salty taste.

"I can't believe I actually did that." He stared at the half-empty bottle. As he waited for the taste to dissolve, he realized it was really only moderately disgusting and had practically no taste whatsoever. He couldn't deny that the ache in his belly had receded and he knew he had to consume the rest of the bottle.

He fought hard to push aside the image of drinking his own urine. His body didn't care at all about what it was he was drinking and simply screamed that it wanted more. He decided quickly, pinched his nose, and chugged back the rest of the bottle. He almost puked and retched after each swallow but only because he knew he was drinking his own urine. It really did not taste as bad as he first thought. There was another bottle somewhere, and after entirely finishing the first bottle, he knew he could drink that second one if needed.

Vincent remained seated on the muddy surface and waited for the uncomfortable salty taste to fade away enough for him to focus back on what it was he was fighting for.

His desperateness in the search for Aaron's knife stormed its way back in. Vincent lifted himself off the mud covered stone and placed his butt down onto the stool to reason out what to do about the missing knife. The knife must be around somewhere.

He was sure he had overturned every single rock and felt across every square inch of the muddy bottom.

"Where else could it be?"

He lifted Aaron's bag and set it off to the side to look underneath. He really didn't want to start moving every single stone one by one all over again. And then, for no specific reason, he slipped his hand inside the end pocket of the bag. All he found was Aaron's phone, which he had forgotten completely about. He pulled it out and performed a quick inspection. He knew immediately it was broken as his fingers slipped across the shattered glass face. The stone he named Darrel did more damage than just the destruction of the water bottle. He pressed the button to turn it on, but nothing happened.

"Fuck! Aaron's gonna be so pissed about this," he said. "But that's just too effin bad! If you would've come back for me, you'd have your damn phone!" He shouted. He wanted to crush Aaron's phone and smash it to bits but he just placed it back in the end compartment to save his energy.

He plunged his hand down in the middle compartment of the bag and ran his hand across the bottom. He expected to find nothing inside but his hand fell on the handle of the knife immediately. He cursed.

"For fuck sakes! Seriously? What were the odds of it falling exactly into the bag?" he asked himself, but he dared not think too hard. If not for the search for the knife, he may not have accidentally drank his own urine and gained the much needed liquid for his survival.

Vincent felt a new resurgence of energy. He tucked the knife into his back pocket, hoisted himself up onto the rope, and ascended up the wall to remove the next stone. He had lost a good amount of daylight but pressed higher and higher towards the opening.

As each stone fell away to the bottom, the newly created footholds brought him closer to the surface and into a brighter part of the well. Up near the top, frequent gusts of fresh air wafted down to where he was poised, and he welcomed each breath. It carried the promise that he would soon be free of the musty dankness that lived at the bottom.

He worked as hard as he dared and was exceedingly careful. A fall from this height would certainly leave his body crumpled horribly upon the stones below, but the darkness crept upon him quicker than he had hoped. His hands felt raw and stung everywhere, but he continued to claw away. He was soon forced to stop and descend to the bottom for what he was sure would be his last night.

"Only about four more footholds to go," he mumbled quietly as he made his way carefully down to the bottom. "Only four more and I should be able to reach up to the top."

He rested his tired body against the stony wall, craned his neck, and lifted his beaten hands up at the tiny hole above him. To leave a friend to die like this was a treacherous and despicable act.

"Aaron, I don't know why you did this to me. I will certainly never forgive you. This I promise. And Roger, we've known each other since we were ten. How could you ever be a part of something as cruel as this? You were my best friend! You and me! It was always just you and me!"

He punched a fist weakly into the air. "Why? Why, Roger? Why? You will both wish you were dead when I finally get out of here."

CHAPTER 29 Day Five - Tuesday 5:57 AM

It was nearly impossible for Vincent to sleep leaning against the stones for another night. Every part of his body now ached, and every rock that touched his body caused irritation deep down to the very bone. He drifted off and on throughout the night, restlessly looking skyward for any sign of morning. When it finally came and the sky was bright enough for him to see, he stood up and immediately went dizzy. He leaned back against the wall and waited for the spell to pass. He reached his hand under his shirt and felt across his disappearing waist and protruding rib cage.

"This is really bad," he mumbled softly.

He sat back down and pulled out the other bottle of urine he located before going to sleep, and without thinking too hard, opened up the bottle, pinched his nose and gulped back a few good swallows. He resealed the bottle and wiped the dribble across his arm.

"Yuk!"

He tried to spit out the remnants of the urine, but he could not produce any saliva.

He tried standing again, slowly this time. Some light-headedness still returned, but it wasn't as bad. He grabbed hold of the rope and very slowly lifted his foot up into the first notch in the wall and hoisted himself up into the next hole.

"Oh my God," he said, as he wrestled himself up onto the wall. He could not believe how little energy he had left. It was going to take him much longer to climb the rope like this. He checked his back pocket for the knife. It was there, though he didn't even remember picking it up, and that was only minutes ago.

"I've only got to make it a few more hours. Just two more hours, maybe three."

He reached and slid his blistered and battered hands higher up the rope. Some of the wounds on his finger tips and palms split open immediately and began to weep blood. He ignored the pain and continued sliding his hands up the rope with each step higher. He continued the process for a long period of time, stopping every three or four footholds to catch his breath and when he felt the light-headedness worsen. His light-headedness scared him.

By the time he was up to where he removed the previous stone, the sun was fully up, and less than eight feet separated him from the top. He welcomed the fresh air that gusted down.

He pondered for a moment why the crow didn't return this morning like it had every other. It bothered him. Was it a sign?

He carefully pulled out the knife ready to dig out the last few stones, but the wall up here in the light of day appeared much different from what he had worked on last night in the darkness. Up until now, all of the stones were free-laid to allow water to flow freely between the stones. But up near the top, the stones were laid differently.

"What the hell is this?" he called out dumbfounded. They appeared to be set in some kind of cement or mortar.

He scraped the blade lightly across the mortar and the knife seemed only to scratch the surface.

"No way," he said. He couldn't believe his eyes. He scratched even harder with his knife, lifted the knife away, and then studied the impression left behind. Barely a trace of a scratch marked the mortar between the stones.

"Arrgh!" he shouted.

Vincent looked up at the blue sky above him. It was inconceivable that he could be so close to his own deliverance and yet was unable to continue. He wanted to cry. He tucked the knife back into his pocket and reached up with one hand as high as he could towards the opening while keeping the other holding onto the rope but that only brought him two feet closer to freedom. He remained there with that one hand stretched up as high as he could possibly make it go, reaching and stretching and wishing.

He suddenly thought of Aaron's cell phone as he looked up at his outstretched arm. He realized if the stone named Darrel hadn't crushed the phone, he would be making his call to freedom at this very moment. It was another crushing thought that suddenly weakened him. His arm dropped limply and his weight shifted completely to his left foot.

Suddenly, the wall supporting his left foot gave way. A great number of stones broke free and tumbled down. His foot slipped with the stones and he began to plummet down the rope.

"No!" he screamed.

He was falling.

CHAPTER 30 Day Five - Tuesday 7:22 AM

"...of course the casket is going to be closed," Sandra said to Darrel. "He was burnt pretty badly wasn't he?" She looked at Chris. He could only nod his agreement. His mouth was full of hash browns.

"I thought they always made them up. You know, with makeup and stuff to make them look okay," Darrel replied.

Charlie and Barbara arrived at first light, followed closely by Darrel and Sandra, to help with whatever they could in preparation for the funeral and gathering afterwards. The funeral was set to start in only a few hours and Anita, with Arlene's assistance, prepared a hearty breakfast for everyone. The conversation evolved quickly from the gathering later in the day to the funeral and Vincent's death.

"I don't think they can do much with burns," Anita said. "I would rather remember him just as he looked the last time I saw him."

"No one needs to see him the way I saw him," Chris added.

Darrel was helping himself to seconds of the bacon and toast. He asked, "Did they do an autopsy on him?" No one had asked that question before.

"Do we really have to talk about autopsies while we're still eating, Darrel?" Arlene piped up. Darrel sneered back. He, like the rest of his family, had accepted the fact that Arlene was staying at the house, but he did his minimal best to tolerate her presence.

Charlie stopped chewing. "They didn't really do an autopsy on him, did they?"

"No autopsy," Chris replied. "Autopsies are only required automatically for suspicious deaths. If he was under a doctor's care and died as a result of cancer there's no autopsy required. However, If he died from some unknown biological cause or sometimes even an unordinary suicide then the autopsy is required."

"Suicide?" Barbara questioned and looked around the room at everyone.

"This was a car crash. Simple as that," Chris replied.

"And so? Did you ask for one? An autopsy?"

"What the hell for? He died in a car accident," Chris answered. "Everyone knows how he died. It was bad enough on the outside. What's an autopsy going to show us on the inside?"

"Can you just stop talking about autopsies?" Arlene insisted. "I am still trying to eat over here!"

Darrel pointed his finger at her and chuckled. He turned to Chris. "Well, just maybe the boys were high on something and..."

"Darrel, please," Barbara responded. She was embarrassed by her son's suggestion. "That was really unnecessary. He's not even been laid to rest yet."

"I'm just saying, maybe there's a reason they didn't stop in time and slammed into that truck at full speed."

Chris raised his arms to slow everybody down. "Okay, okay. Listen up, everyone. First, there were tiny beads of this resin stuff all over the road. That stuff made it impossible for Vincent to stop his pickup. Second, there was no autopsy done because I did not want one done. But there was toxicology tests performed on both boys. The police took blood and urine samples."

Darrel snickered. "How do you get a dead guy to pee in a bottle?" He began to laugh. "Do you squeeze it out?"

"That really isn't funny, Darrel," Sandra replied. Both Barbara and Arlene frowned their disapproval at Darrel.

"You're sick," Arlene said.

Darrel simply shrugged and continued to smile.

"They poke a needle into the bladder, that's how, Darrel," Chris said directly. "I'm told they test for all kinds of drugs to see if there was anything present at the time of death. These results won't be back for about a week, so for now we are going to lay him to rest believing Vincent was not high on any kind of drug. I certainly don't think Vincent was using anything."

"Liquor maybe?" Darrel asked. "He's eighteen, on a Friday night. If it was me..."

"But it wasn't you, Darrel. It was Vincent," Barbara responded. "Would you stop this negative talk already? If you can't say anything nice about Vincent..."

"What did I say? I'm just saying..."

Chris nodded at Darrel. "Maybe he did have a drink or two, Darrel. But Dean never mentioned them finding any liquor bottles in his truck. I am sure Dean would have told me if he found something."

"Fair enough."

"Either way, we have to bury the boy in a few hours. And I know I'll miss him every single day." He started to tear up.

"We all will, dad," Charlie added. He looked at Arlene expecting her to add some comment, but Arlene simply looked away and furled her brow.

CHAPTER 31 Day Five - Tuesday 7:27 AM

"No!" he screamed as he continued to fall.

Vincent squeezed the one already tender and blistered hand he had around the rope as hard as he possibly could to stop his descent and flung his feet wildly apart out to the sides against the stones of the wall, hoping to catch a foothold and slow his fall. His feet pressed and banged against the jutting stones.

Both hands screamed in agony as the rope tore into his tender palms. He pushed both feet awkwardly out to the sides as hard as he could. They banged and bounced until his left foot miraculously wedged against some protuberance from the jagged rocks and stopped his descent.

He had only dropped about twenty feet, but Vincent felt like he was about to hit the bottom. He could feel the burn on the inside right of his groin and knew he had damaged something. His right leg remained poised at a right angle to his body. His foot was nearly above his shoulder.

He searched frantically for any of the footholds in the wall and quickly spotted one of them. His left foot was precariously resting on the ridge of an opening. He shifted his weight and slid his foot fully into the hole and then pulled his right leg down from the wall and set it in one of the other footholds.

Vincent gasped. The pain in his groin and torn up palms was excruciating, but the fear he had just experienced was much worse. He had now become desperate, and all logic and reason left him. The fear of being trapped in the well forever consumed him. Adrenalin pounded through his veins and his heart felt like it was about to explode. He feverishly pushed himself back up the steps as high as he could towards the top. There was only one way out: up.

He stared for a few moments into the hole where the many stones broke free and fell away. The wall had certainly begun to collapse. A three-foot-wide, cavernous hole now appeared above where the foothold once was. He looked into the shadows inside the hole and didn't like what he saw. It was wet, earthy, and utterly revolting. He blocked the vision from his mind. This wasn't the time to allow such deviant thoughts to infringe upon what little focus still remained. Death was now much closer than he had ever imagined. He dropped his head and gazed down to the dark bottom. He could see clearly what was down there and what rested down there scared him deeply. He became dizzy again, and the well seemed to spin beneath him. He closed his eyes and tried to think of what it he was he was supposed to be doing.

"Focus," he whispered. "Just focus."

The fear of certain death at the bottom was overwhelming. He knew now that if anything forced him back down to the bottom, he was certainly never going to ascend back up the rope again.

"Jesus, I'm scared. I am so scared right now. Gramps, I'm sorry. I am so sorry for all of this."

He tried to cry, but no tears came.

He squeezed his sore, blistering hands into the rope once more. He cringed from the pain. The skin was torn open on both palms and fresh blood eked out from his clenched fingers and down his wrists.

"I am not going to die down here! I'm just not!"

He thrust one hand upwards and clutched higher onto the rope with all of his might. The pain screamed through the cuts and bleeding blisters, but he did not care.

"I'm not staying in here anymore!"

He retracted his lower foot away from the foothold in the wall, let it dangle below him, and reached higher up the rope again with his other hand.

"Unh," he moaned from the unbearable pain.

Again he reached up, and his other foot fell away from the wall so he was left to dangle freely from the rope by just his hands.

He grimaced, squeezed with all of his might, and then reached up again.

His early unsuccessful attempts to climb the rope thundered in his thoughts. He shut his eyes, smiled despairingly from the pain, and coaxed himself upwards.

He clawed two more grasps higher.

Roger's doubt in his ability to climb the gym class rope popped into his head.

"Fuck off, Roger," he whispered through his clenched teeth.

He tried to turn the negativity into something positive and reminded himself that he had nearly made it a third of the way up the entire length of the rope before he fell. This was only eight feet.

He reached up again while his feet continued to dangle below his body. He had little arm strength left, but Vincent refused to give in. He could feel the blood dribble down his wrists from the broken blisters, the reopened cuts, and abrasions on his knuckles and finger tips, but there was no going back to the darkness. It was make it up to the top or die trying.

His upper hand slipped from the blood that flowed from his wounds, and he felt himself lurch down a few inches. He screamed out, gripped even tighter, and stared at his hand until he was sure it was not slipping down anymore.

He stretched his one arm up as high as he could above the other once more, and just like in his dream, his fingers touched the opening of the limestone stones that capped off the top of the well. But there was nothing to hold onto. He grabbed feverishly back onto the rope and pulled himself higher once more until the back of his head touched the underside lip of one of the stones and both of his hands rested only inches below where the rope dropped over the edge.

Vincent began to laugh and cry at the same time. He was spent.

"Gramps," he whispered under his breath. "It's just... one... more..." He extended one arm up and through the opening above and scrambled his bleeding fingers across the top of the stones until he grasped onto the outer ridge. He hung there for a few moments, unmoving, with one hand stretched out from the well opening. He clung to the outer edge of the stone until he compiled his last bits of energy from his withered body and pulled himself free.

Moments later, Vincent lay on his back atop the open earth with the hot August sun burning strong against his withered and exhausted body.

CHAPTER 32 Day Five - Tuesday 9:50 AM

"Can you say that again, Billy?" Millie asked into her headset.

Millie was the dispatcher at the police station. She had been the dispatcher for the past twelve years, and she made it her point of knowing who was doing what, with who, and where they were doing it. She loved the switchboard and the gossip that went with it. Billy Huckleberry's story baffled her.

"Uh huh," she said. "But that's impossible, Billy. They're burying that poor kid today. Probably right now. I'd be there myself if I could have had someone cover my shift for me."

Dean Daly walked into the office to finish closing up the paperwork on a reported break-in from last night when he overheard Millie. He dropped his radio and keys on the desk and listened curiously.

"Take it easy, Billy. Dean just walked in here. I think you should probably talk to him," she said looking at Dean. "Not me! Uh huh. You'll have to tell him yourself, but he's not going to believe it either. That kid you got there is pulling a stunt, and it's really not very funny."

"What's all this about?" Dean asked.

Millie covered the microphone with one hand. "You are not going to believe this one. It's Billy. I'll send him over on line three."

"Just keep calm, Billy," she said after removing her hand. I'm patching you through to Dean right now."

Dean waited until the light blinked and then picked up. "Detective Daly."

"Hi Dean. It's Billy Huckleberry."

Billy was the local owner and operator of Huckleberry towing. Billy had a contract with the RCMP. Dean knew him well.

"What you got, Billy?"

"You're not going to believe this, but I got a kid out here with me that's in quite a state."

"Uh huh, I'm listening."

"Well, I was on my way back from a tow out on 63 and I seen this kid off in the trees. I wasn't going to stop but he spotted me passing by and started waving his arms high in the air, and so of course I slow down to get a better look. I watch him as he staggers out from the trees, stumbles, and then falls face down in the ditch. Even from where I was out on the highway I could see he looked like hell, man...all messed up. And you know me, Dean, I've got my First Aid and deal with a lot of trauma, so of course I stop..." He pauses. "Hold on a sec."

Dean waited. He could hear Billy calling out loudly to someone in the background. A few minutes passed before Billy returned.

"You still there, Dean?"

"Yeah, I'm still here, Billy."

"Oh, good. Well, I'm out near where we towed that blue Toyota from the other night, and... Shit! Sorry, but this kids really got me freaked out right now. I'm just not exactly sure what I should be doing with him. I really think you need to come out here."

"Just take it easy, and tell me what the problem is."

"When I got to him, he was still lying face down. Just laying there looking like a dead man. But then I notice something odd. It's hot as shit out here today and he's wearing a heavy fleece coat. I speak to him, and he just moans. I know he's not hurt that bad as he just walked out from the bushes so I turn him over and this kid is a mess. I mean a real mess, Dean. He's covered in dirt and mud from head to toe like he's been rolled in it. Even his hairs all matted with mud. And here's the worst part: His hands are raw like meat. His fingers and knuckles are chewed up. Full of cuts and scrapes. And he's full of blood. His hands have all kinds of wounds, and some of his fingernails are broken. Even on his palms, I can see they've been bleeding a lot. He's got blood on his arms, clothes and even smeared across his face. I don't know what to make of it, and so I ask him what happened to him. He puts his fingers to his mouth and whispers out only one word. Water."

Dean can hear the stress in Billy's breathing and waits for Billy to continue.

"You still there?" Billy asks.

"I'm still listening. Carry on."

"Shit, Dean. He can barely speak, this kid. His voice is all raspy and wheezy like. I seen this before, Dean, and this has all of the signs of severe dehydration. He scrawny as hell, too, so I don't think he's eaten for a while neither. So I run over to my truck and grab him one out of my flat of water bottles that I keep in there all the time. He sucks the entire bottle back like he hasn't had a drink in a week. I sit him up and try to get him to talk. He starts smiling this crazy happy smile, and you know what he says to me, Dean?"

"No, I don't, Billy. What does he say?"

"This creeps me out so bad, cause I'm looking at his hands, trying to figure out what he did to get them all cut up and beat like that. It almost looks to me like he's clawed his way out of somewhere. He just says 'bones.' One word, 'bones.' And then I ask, 'What did you say?' He stares back at me. 'Down in the ground,' he says. I asked him what his name is, and he says it's Vincent. I almost laugh. There's only one other Vincent I know, and that's because of that big crash on Friday. I then ask him where he came from, and he just points to the ground and he's still got this crazy grin stuck on his face.

"What did you just say his name was?"

"So he finally spit it out, did he?" Millie commented from across the room.

Dean frowned at Millie and waved one arm at her to hush.

"Vincent. And all I can think of is he's clawed his way out from a grave. I'm thinking he's been buried alive! Someone's buried this poor kid alive!'

"Did he say what his last name was?"

"Pattison. He said his name was Vincent Pattison. Dean, this kid is saying..."

"I know! I get it! I'm coming out there right now, Billy. You just stay put and keep that boy right there. You hear me? He mustn't go anywhere until I get out there. And you be sure to leave him looking just as he is now unless he needs medical attention. Does he need medical attention? An ambulance?"

"I think he's mostly fine really. He was limping sort of when he came out from wherever he came from and the cuts and amount of blood I see make it look mostly like just abrasions and minor cuts. I don't see any serious bleeding right now. He looks dehydrated. I'll check him over real good while you make your way out. You'll see me on the side of the road by the Bumstead property."

"I'm on my way."

Dean hung up the phone and grabbed his keys and radio. "Millie, where is the Pattison boy being interred?"

"Now, why would I know that, Dean?"

Dean forced a smile at her. Millie really didn't get around much. She was slightly overweight with a bum knee that kept her seated most of the time, but she had ears that could snare a line of gossip from across any room. "Millie, you know everything that goes on in this little town of ours," he jested. "Really, I need to know. It's important."

"The Crawford cemetery. Up on top of the hill with the rest of that lot." She looked at the clock on the wall. "I expect the family will be heading up there shortly."

Dean made note of the time. "Do you know where Jet is at?"

"Maria Webster's got him out at her place. Something about the neighbour's dog again. You want me to get him on the radio?"

"No, no. I'll take care of this one myself. I'll call you in a while. Please keep what you know about this boy Billy's got just between you and me for now, if you don't mind. Just have Jet call me when he's done."

"As you wish, boss," she replied.

Dean knew Millie well. He doubted this story would stay quiet for very long.

CHAPTER 33 Day Five - Tuesday 10:37 AM

Chris stood off to the side, away from the gathering crowd, so he could puff away on a much-needed cigarette. He picked a spot beneath one of the many decades-old elm trees simply to keep out of the searing August sun as much as possible. The mourners continued to arrive at the cemetery in preparation for Vincent's burial. Each new arrival blended quickly into one of the many scattered groups on the small tree-covered hill that held the last one hundred years of deceased Pattisons. It would take a few minutes before the rest of the attendees finished parking their cars and made their way up to the top of the grassy hill. Chris spotted his son with his wife under their own elm tree, and he could not help but turn his ear to listen in on their disturbing conversation.

"...and sitting up there at the front like that," Charlie uttered with disgust. "Who does she think she's trying to fool? I'm not fooled. Let me tell you that much."

"Well, Vincent is her son," Barbara replied. "Where would you have her sit? At the back? She is Vincent's mother and you'd like to see her sitting at the back?"

"Well maybe not right at the very back. And what was with that black veil? She was the only one dressed like that today at the church. I don't buy it for a second. No one shows that much grief for a son they never knew." He gestured sarcastically with his hands. "And remember that display of constant sobbing."

"Maybe she is grieving, Charlie. Maybe she's grieving about leaving him ten years ago and now regrets it deeply because she never got to know him."

"Bullcrap, I call that! Look, here she comes," he said and pointed. "And she's still wearing that silly veil."

"Shhh. Keep your voice down. People are looking."

"You saw her shoulders going up and down as if she was crying. I bet she wasn't even crying. She was probably laughing under that veil. Laughing about how she's got everybody fooled."

"Your mom says she has been a real help around the house."

"See! That's exactly what I'm talking about. She's just playing it up and fooling them all."

Barbara shook her head. There was no arguing with her husband today. "All I know is your mom says she has been a big help. Your dad's actually getting to sleep through the night and now even has time for afternoon naps if he wants. She is helping. That's a big house to look after with just the two of them alone now."

Chris had heard enough. He crushed his cigarette into the grass and moved away from his son towards where Anita stood with her sister's family who came down from Edmonton.

It bothered him dearly that he wasn't the only one who didn't believe in Arlene's sincerity. But she certainly had been very helpful since she arrived. Her current attentive behaviour to Anita contradicted his expectations. He had expected so much less from his youngest daughter. He knew what she had been up to; he tracked her and inquired for updates from his paid watchers every few months. But it was her recent rekindling of an old relationship with one character named Joey Klondike that disturbed him the most. How they suddenly hooked up permanently, he didn't understand, but Joey Klondike's past use of his daughter left a fowl taste in his mouth. Arlene had not mentioned Joey's name once since she arrived. Chris almost expected to see Joey at her side when he picked her up at the airport. He already decided that he may never tell Anita what he knew, about Joey Klondike and Arlene's activities in general. With her progressing dementia, he knew it wouldn't be long before she would have difficulty remembering many more things than just what happened yesterday. She would soon forget friends, cousins, grandkids, and one day, she would forget him. He wanted to make sure she remained unburdened by such things.

The many groups suddenly fell silent as the hearse with Vincent's body advanced slowly up the long, elm-tree-lined road. The funeral director began pointing and ushering people to take their places.

CHAPTER 34 Day Five - Tuesday 10:41 AM

Billy Huckleberry was kneeling over the young man when Dean approached. He was just like Billy had described; dirty, disheveled, and bloodied. Other than bringing him to a sitting position, it was obvious that Billy had not moved him from where he had collapsed in the tall dry grass that lined the ditch. The hot August sun blared down from the sky, but the young man shivered in front of Billy.

"How is he?" he asked.

Billy responded with a quick nod towards Dean and kept his attention focused on the young man. "I think he's going to be okay. He has a slight fever, and like I said before, I really think he's suffering from bad dehydration. This boy really needs to go straight to the hospital. I've given him some water, but he could have kidney damage if he was dehydrated for too long. He says he's been down there for four days."

Dean's brain did the math. He didn't like that four days meant Friday. Dean dropped to one knee, and looked hard at the lad in front of him. "You okay, son?"

The young man smiled back and coughed.

Billy said "down there." Down where exactly? He didn't want to ask that question just yet.

He certainly looked about the right age. The fact that he also fit the description of Vincent Pattison conflicted with a desperate pounding in his brain that clicked away as it counted down the minutes until another young man, also named Vincent Pattison, was to be lowered into a grave on a hill not far from where he knelt.

"What's your name, son?"

"Vincent," he replied in a weak raspy voice. "I just want to go home. Can you take me home?"

Dean shook his head. "Not just yet. My friend Billy here says you've been buried somewhere for the last for days. Is this true?"

The young man nodded. "Four days, down..." he said weakly and coughed. He pointed to the trees behind him. "Can you take me home, please?"

Dean looked down at the young man's hands. Billy had cleaned them up, but Dean could see the cuts, the rawness, and the broken fingernails. "You mind if I take a few photographs first?"

"I really just want to go home."

Dean stood up, pulled out his smart phone, and pointed at it. "My camera. I don't like the company issued units." He proceeded to take pictures of the young man where he sat and asked more questions that he thought needed answering.

"So tell me, Vincent..." He called him by that name even though he thought it couldn't possibly be true. In the few years he knew Chris, he had only ever met Vincent a few times. He vaguely resembled the image from his memory. He snapped a few more pictures of Vincent's battered hands.

"...what's your last name?"

"Pattison."

"Ayuh. And your dad is?"

"My Gramps... I mean my grandfather is Chris Pattison. You know him."

Dean swallowed hard. He remembered how difficult it had been to tell Chris, and, even worse, how Chris had seemed to die a little inside. He worked hard to keep his composure.

"Do you drive, Vincent?"

"Uh huh."

"Where's your vehicle?" Dean quickly scanned the forest and out across the road. "I don't see your vehicle around anywhere."

"I lent my truck to a friend," he replied. "On Friday night."

"A truck?" Dean asked. "On Friday night?"

"Yeah. A Toyota."

Dean felt a lump in his throat, and he coughed to clear it. He really didn't like what he was hearing, and it meant that he needed to move quickly.

"Who did you lend it too?"

"Aaron," he said and frowned angrily.

"Why the angry look?"

"Because when I find Aaron, I'm going to beat the crap out of him. And Roger too!" he said.

"Shit," Dean replied softly at hearing Roger's name. He had heard enough.

"Billy!" he shouted.

Billy was busy returning his medical supplies to his truck. He turned to see what had Dean so agitated.

"Help me get this boy into my car! Now! We gotta move!"

"Why? What's up?"

Dean waited until Billy came alongside to help him walk Vincent over to his car. "He's not lying. I believe this boy may actually be Vincent Pattison."

"I am Vincent Pattison," Vincent barked out gruffly. He was clearly annoyed and confused by Dean's disbelief of who he claimed he was.

"Where exactly did you say you were the last four days, Vincent?"

"In the ground. I told you that already."

Billy nodded as if to say I told you so.

"Where exactly in the ground, Vincent? Could you show me where if you had to?"

"Uh huh. It's right there on the Bumstead farm. We found an old well. I was supposed to spend one night down there."

Dean shook his head. "A well?" He was suddenly very angry at Vincent, and he wanted to yell at him for being so bloody stupid. Because of their foolishness, a young man no one even knows is dead and is about to be buried in the plot marked for Vincent.

"Oh, a well. He was down in a well," Billy commented feeling sheepish for believing the young man had been buried alive. "He sure looked like he was buried alive to me. You know... the hands... I thought..."

Dean shook his head as the two led Vincent to his car. "You bloody stupid kids. Jesus Christ."

"What?" Vincent responded bewildered. "It was just a dare."

"Just a dare," Dean repeated.

"It was supposed to be for just twenty-four hours, but they never came back for me. They never came back!" He lifted up his raw hands, for Dean to see. "Why didn't they come back?" he asked. "I almost died down there..."

"Well, you're not dead. And Billy, please don't say anything about this young man to anyone until I call you later. I mean nothing. You tell no one what just happened here. Are you clear on this?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure, Dean," he replied looking confused.

"I'll explain it to you later. Right now I've got a serious problem that needs sorting, and I need this young man to sort it."

Once he secured Vincent in the back seat, Dean raced as fast as he safely could to where the interment was supposedly taking place. He would take the young man straight to the hospital afterwards.

CHAPTER 35 Day Five - Tuesday 11:13 AM

The crowd that congregated on the hill listened to the preacher's words, and many of them wept openly. The family members stood quietly side-by-side in deep sadness as the final preparations were made. The straps were readied about the coffin to lower it to its final resting place below the earth.

Anita fidgeted and tugged on Chris' arm as he stared down at the shiny black coffin that glistened brightly under the blistering August sun.

"Where's Vincent?" she asked softly. "He really should be here today with the rest of us."

Chris released an anguished sigh. He tried desperately to hold onto his patience, but Anita's sudden transition into dementia was breaking him. He didn't have any energy left to answer her.

"Chris? I asked you where Vincent is. He is coming, isn't he?"

Chris remained staring blankly at the coffin. He really hoped she would make it through today.

"Mom, it's okay," Arlene said and held onto her mother's arm.

"It's not okay," she whispered. "We are all here, and Vincent should be standing here with us too. Who's even being buried here today? I seemed to have forgotten. You know how my brain has been these days." She looked up at Chris. "Chris? Please remind me who's in that coffin," she demanded.

Chris tried to pull Anita close in to him so he could comfort her, but she pulled herself away. "Never mind!" she snapped. "It's Vincent I'm worried about right now. He must be here somewhere. I'll go find him myself," she said bluntly. She turned around and scanned through the crowd in searched of Vincent.

Chris spotted Arlene staring at him and he shook his head at her despondently.

"Vincent?" Anita whispered out towards the crowd.

"Mom, please," Charlie called out as his mother stepped away and moved out towards the crowd. He reached out to her but Arlene stepped in front of him, sneered, and grabbed her mother's hand before Charlie could reach her.

"Oh, that was nice, Arlene."

Arlene leered back at him, and he moved angrily towards her. Chris quickly grabbed Charlie's arm and pulled him back. "Just leave them be," he said sternly.

"Vincent?" Anita called out quietly.

"Jesus, Dad. Do something," Charlie demanded.

Chris winced. He wanted to do something, but he was too overwhelmed. He didn't know what to do. To have Anita's dementia return like this, today of all days, crushed him. He stayed planted where he stood, exposed and slightly embarrassed as he let Anita walk towards the centre aisle of the crowd with Arlene at her side in search of Vincent. He could only stand there with his eyes locked on the polished casket.

The preacher stopped his preparation and a perturbed expression crossed his face. He motioned at Chris with his eyes for some direction. It wasn't common for the mother and grandmother to walk away in the middle of an interment.

"I think we need a moment," Chris said. He hated the spectacle that his family was becoming and turned to stared at Anita as she searched through the crowd for Vincent. His heart was breaking all over again.

"Is Vincent here?" she called out louder and caused many in the crowd to talk in quiet whispers. "Has anyone seen Vincent?"

"Dad, you really should do something," Charlie said again.

"What is it you want me to do, Charlie? I can't make it stop."

"I didn't know it was this bad, Dad."

Chris nodded. "At times it is."

"Vincent!" Anita shrieked.

The entire crowd turned their attention towards Anita. Chris, followed by Charlie, began to head towards the aisle where Anita and Arlene were staring down the path towards the parking lot.

"It's Vincent!" Anita shouted excitedly. "I see him!" she said and pointed.

"Oh my God, Dad. We really need to do something. She's making a scene."

Chris looked down where Anita pointed, and he spotted Detective Daly coming up towards the group from the parking lot below. The detective stopped when he heard Anita's shriek, and he suddenly turned back towards the parking lot behind him and shouted, "I thought I told you stay in the Goddamned car!"

All eyes turned down towards the parking lot where a young, disheveled looking young man stood beside the patrol car beneath the many trees and looked up at the crowd gathered on top of the small hill.

"Grams!" the young man shouted up towards the group. He collapsed down onto his knees.

"Vincent!" Anita shouted back. "Where have you been? We've been waiting for you!"

"Grams." His voice was barely audible this far away. He started to cry. "I am so sorry!"

Chris swayed when he heard the distinct voice of his grandson calling out in a hoarse, raspy sound in the distance. The voice was unmistakable in his mind. He glanced once over his shoulder at the coffin and then returned his gaze to where the others were staring at the young man down at the bottom of the hill. The gathered crowd turned its gaze down the hill and a wave of dissenting chatter erupted.

"Vincent?" Chris whispered to himself. "How?"

"What the fuck?" Charlie uttered. He grabbed firmly onto his father who had stopped moving and seemed to be having trouble staying upright.

"My God," Arlene whispered to her mother. She pointed. "Is that really him? I thought..." She didn't finish the sentence and just stared blankly through her veil at the young man who struggled near the parking lot to get to back onto his feet.

Anita smiled brightly with her arms extended wide as she shuffled herself down the path as quick as she could. Arlene followed close behind.

Chris couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Vincent's in the coffin," he whispered to Charlie. "I identified him at the morgue. You remember, don't you?"

Charlie pointed down the hill. "That guy down there looks like Vincent."

"It can't be." Chris stared at the young man and began to move slowly onto the path to see for himself. Charlie held his arm and guided him.

The young man locked his eyes on Chris as Chris stepped onto the path. He screamed as loud as his broken voice would allow. "Gramps! I'm so sorry Gramps! I am, I am!" He tried to stand again but toppled again to his knees.

"Goddamned!" Chris uttered as his knees buckled. Charlie grabbed tight to his arm and pulled him back to his feet.

Dean moved back down the path to where the young man fell and quickly lifted him upright.

"Damn it, man! I told you stay in the car. This is exactly the scene I was trying to avoid."

Vincent ignored him and leaned on Dean's shoulder to stay firmly planted on his feet. He reached out with his arms towards his grandparents. He smiled continuously.

Dean led the young man slowly away from the car and up the path. He only wanted to confirm that this was really Vincent before he rushed him to the hospital, but there was no point in stopping this reunion now. The hospital would have to wait.

Anita and Arlene met them halfway down. Arlene's face was filled with a discomfited horror; Anita's was filled with delight. Vincent was still dirty and bloodied, but his Grams saw none of it. She only saw the grandson she had missed so much.

"It's you!" Arlene called out sharply towards Dean and Vincent. She suddenly stopped and covered her mouth with one hand. Her mother carried on the last few steps down the path to Vincent alone.

Vincent's smile broke only for a moment as both he and Dean looked over at the strange looking woman behind the veil who shouted. Vincent's smile easily returned as he engaged the brightness that was still etched on his Grams' face.

"I missed you so much, Grams. Don't be angry at me, please," he pleaded.

"Angry at you?" his Grams replied. She placed one hand under his chin and looked deep into his youthful eyes. "How could I ever be angry at you?" She brushed one hand across his mangy, blonde hair, and dust clouded the air between them.

"He's so dirty," Arlene whispered softly a few yards up the path behind Anita.

Vincent ignored the comment from the woman with the veil and cast his eyes beyond her up the path. "Gramps!" Chris was ambling down the path as fast as he was able. Vincent tried to lunge toward his Gramps.

"Hold on there a sec, boy." Detective Dean had a firm hold on Vincent's collar. "You just stay right here. Your Gramps will be down here in a second."

Chris arrived moments later, and Vincent disappeared under hugs and kisses from both of his grandparents.

"Jesus Christ," Dean whispered to himself. He turned his gaze toward the top of the hill where the glossy, black coffin still glistened brightly under the August sun. There was no doubt in his mind that Aaron was the one who now rested inside the coffin.

"Vincent?" Suddenly there was a new voice behind the group. The voice behind the question was soft, gentle, and quiet. Arlene and Charlie turned to see who asked the question. Neither recognized the young, slender, dark-haired female.

"Vincent?" she asked a second time. She bobbed her head to the side in attempt to catch a glimpse of the young man tucked under the arms of the two elderly people.

Vincent reacted immediately to the voice and popped his head out from under his grandparents' arms. "Anna?"

"Vincent! It really is you! I came as soon as I heard... I thought you..."

"Anna? What are you doing here?"

"So you're Anna," Arlene said.

Chris and Anita pulled back and stared at the girl who joined the group. They both looked at Arlene for an answer.

"You know her?" Chris asked.

"Anna?" Arlene replied. It was obvious she didn't like the sudden attention turned on her, and she backed away from the group a few steps. "Yes, I talked to Anna." Her voice was quiet and gentle. "She called on Sunday night and said she might come for the funeral. She said she was Vincent's girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" Chris and Anita replied at the same time.

"Funeral?" Vincent replied. "What funeral?"

The tension engulfed everyone. No one was prepared to offer an answer to Vincent's question.

Vincent, still surprised by Anna's presence, moved forward as he processed the words he heard from her. "Did you just say girlfriend? Anna? Really?" He smiled and opened his arms wide. "I didn't think... I mean we never..." Vincent blushed. "Grams and Gramps, this is Anna. She's... She's my girlfriend!" He kissed Anna on the cheek. He grabbed her hands and squeezed as best he could, while doing his best to ignore the pain from his cuts and abrasions.

"Vincent, what happened to you?" Charlie asked.

Vincent ignored his question. "I'm just so happy right now. You have no idea know how happy I am right now. I love all of you."

Dean interrupted. "I've really gotta get this him to the hospital. And you've got to sort this thing out here with the, uh..." He pointed up at the funeral director who watched them all from where the coffin teetered half-interred.

"Jesus, Dad," Charlie remarked. "Who is that, then?"

"Coffin?" Vincent looked up the hill. "Oh no! You said funeral. This is someone's funeral. And I've messed it all up. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to. Really I didn't."

Many more from the funeral crowd began to rise from their seats. "Dad, just get Vincent out of here," Charlie said as he watched people begin to shuffle down the path and grassy knoll towards them. "Now, please! You gotta go. You, mom, and Arlene, go with the policeman and take Vincent away. I can deal with this group. Jennifer and I will take care of things until we meet back at the house." Charlie turned away and headed up the path to cut-off the onlookers.

"You four all come with me." Dean said quickly. "Let's get Vincent to the hospital, and you can tell him what's really going on once we're in the car."

"What is going on?" Vincent asked. "Anna? Why are you here? What's happened?"

Dean grabbed Vincent by the arm and pulled him towards his car before Anna could answer. Anita and Chris followed behind.

"Anna? Hey? Will somebody tell me what's going on?"

"Just hush, son," Dean replied. "We'll tell you everything once we get in the car."

"C'mon, Arlene," Chris shouted over at Arlene. She was standing alone, seemingly reluctant to follow them.

"I'll take Anna back to the house!" Charlie hollered down. "She'll be there when you get home, Vincent."

"Arlene!" Chris shouted. He was annoyed at her odd behaviour. "Let's go. Now!"

"No... Uh," she stammered. "I can't..."

Dean suddenly turned back and stared at Arlene. He held his gaze on her for a moment before returning to the urgent business of removing Vincent from the situation before the crowd descended upon them.

"Maybe it's better if I take Anna back to the house instead," Arlene suddenly offered. "Charlie and Jennifer can deal with the rest of them up there," she said. Arlene moved towards Anna and grabbed her by the arm. "Come, Anna. Let's get out of here before that crowd comes down." She looked around anxiously at the scattering crowd. "Now where's our ride gone?" she mumbled under her breath as she searched the parking lot.

A middle-aged man seemed to appear out of nowhere. "Hi ladies. You two look like you're in need of a ride?" He had clearly overheard the conversation. "I have a ride right over yonder ready to go. I can take you two back up to your house if you need a ride." He looked up at the descending crowd.

"What?" Arlene called out. She was angered by his sudden appearance.

"My car. It's right there," he said and pointed. "I can get you both out of here right now. You seem anxious to leave, and I can take you both immediately."

"Are you crazy? Why would we go anywhere with you," Arlene replied and glared at him. "We don't even know you! Just go away!" she said and tugged Anna away from the man. She scanned manically through the crowd until she spotted Jennifer.

"Jennifer! Where's our driver?"

Chris watched the interaction between Arlene and the stranger. Arlene certainly walked to the beat of a different drummer, and his discomfort with her returned.

Dean closed the rear door after tucking Vincent inside and cast his attention over to Chris.

"That one with the veil over there. Is she your daughter?" he asked.

Chris sighed. "That, she is."

CHAPTER 36 Day Five - Tuesday 4:24 PM

Vincent leaned against soft pillows in the hospital bed with a drip of salt sugar solution and antibiotics seeping into his veins. The doctors and nurses finished scouring over his body hours ago, and his many cuts and abrasions were clean and neatly bandaged.

"You know..." Chris chuckled. "I never really did like those orange sneakers."

Vincent returned his smile. He knew his Gramps was just trying to cheer him up. He sobbed for the better part of an hour upon hearing that Aaron and Roger were dead.

"We just can't believe it, Vincent," his Grams said as she looked him over carefully. "We honestly thought it was you who died."

Vincent told them briefly what happened to him in the well when they rode with Dean to the hospital, and Chris and Anita recapped the horror of losing him, and all that transpired at home leading up to the funeral.

"Roger's funeral is tomorrow? I really want to go." He wiped at his eyes with his bandaged hands.

Anita nodded. "I know you do, dear. But only if the doctor says it's okay. We'll see."

"But, I have to. You see, don't you? If it wasn't for me..."

"You stop right there, Vincent," Chris interrupted. "It was just an accident. That's all it was."

"But if I hadn't given my keys to Aaron, then this wouldn't have happened."

His Gramps stared down at him. He had something to say. Gramps moved closer, patted his bandaged hand, and sighed.

"No, Chris," Anita said and shook her head at him.

"It needs to be said," he replied. "Aaron and Roger were not taking your truck back to town, Vincent."

"Huh?" He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You said Aaron was going to take your truck straight home after they left you at the well."

"Back to the alley behind where he lives, that's right. He promised me."

Vincent could see his grandfather's heart filling with anguish.

"They didn't head back to town, Vincent. They headed away from town. Towards Calgary."

Vincent was flabbergasted. Aaron lied to him. Was that what all of the snickering between those two was about the night they left him in the well? Did they plan a joy ride out in his truck even before he dropped himself down into the well? Aaron didn't have a vehicle, and Roger's was in the shop with a busted drive shaft. Was his stay in the well all a ruse?

"The accident happened only a few miles from where they found you on the highway. They were heading away from town towards Calgary when they crashed. This is certainly not your fault."

Vincent remembered the big boom and the many sirens he heard that first night in the well. It all made sense now.

"It was just an accident, that's all," Anita added. "That big truck flipped on that corner. There's nothing we can do to change what's already happened. Vincent doesn't want to hear all of this sad talk."

"But why would they lie to me like that? Roger wouldn't. He was my best friend." He shook his head in disbelief. "And I still want to go to his funeral. I have to say goodbye."

"We'll see, Vincent. We'll see."

The room fell into a serene silence. Anita and Chris settled into the stiff leather-wrapped, chrome chairs alongside his bed and were content with simply watching their grandson. He could see how happy his grandparents were just to be with him.

"Oh, who was that lady with you?" he asked his Grams.

"What lady?"

"The one at the cemetery who was with you on the path."

"I think he means Arlene," Chris replied.

"Oh," Anita replied hesitantly.

"Who is Arlene?" Vincent asked, but he knew who she was the moment the words left his lips. "You are kidding me, right?"

His Grams smiled at him. "She came as soon as she heard."

"She came when she heard I was dead."

"Now, that's not fair, Vincent."

Vincent scoffed. "Not fair? What's not fair? Waiting until I'm dead to come back into my life? I don't want to see her."

"You don't mean that," Anita replied.

"I do mean that! She has no right. And she's creepy."

"Now Vincent..." Chris said.

"She is! You can't tell me she's not creepy. She looked like a corpse hiding under that black veil like that, and I could barely even see her."

His gramps laughed and nodded. "She is odd, I must agree."

"She's more than odd."

"Just try and be nice to her," his Grams said. "She'll probably only be here for a few more days."

"I don't want to be nice. I just want things to go back to the way they were. Just you, Gramps, and me, that's all. I don't want anything to do with her. Not now. Not ever."

"In a few weeks you'll be back at school. You can do whatever you want about her then, but she will be back at the house when you get home."

"This is just stupid. So I have to see her even though I don't want to?"

"We are just asking that you be pleasant to her, that's all. And remember, Anna will be there too when you get home."

"Anna," Vincent sighed. His mood suddenly lifted. "She came all the way out here because of me."

"She really must like you," Anita said.

"She does..." He paused and smiled. "And I really do like her. I'm sorry for not telling you about her... I didn't really even ask her out before I left school. I can't wait to go home so I can see her. You'll like her."

Chris and Anita nodded and smiled back at him.

The doctor came into the room and examined Vincent briefly. He told them the results from the blood and urine tests came back looking better than expected. They would keep him overnight to ensure his fluid levels stabilized. He said Vincent should be well enough to go home first thing in the morning.

CHAPTER 37 Day Six - Wednesday 8:14 AM

The house was alive and buzzing with people who were invited to celebrate Vincent's resurrection over breakfast. After a brief session of polite introductions and greetings with a number of guests, and a polite, obligatory hug from his estranged mother, he squeezed himself away from the crowd and found Anna. He shuffled her outside into the gardens where they could be alone.

"I was so surprised to see you at the cemetery," he said.

Anna smiled and reached for his bandaged hands. "When I heard you died, I couldn't believe it. I almost dropped my phone. I just cried. I realized how much you really meant to me last year. I just had to come for your funeral. David Marx told me what happened."

"David. Yes, my Gramps would have called him. We shared a room at UBC last year. He grew up only three blocks from here."

"He knew from the start, back when you and I first met, that I had a crush on you. I'm sure that's why he called me."

Vincent smiled. "Really? He never mentioned anything to me about knowing you had a crush on me."

"Do you remember that day you and I first met? He was there with you. You went up to grab us a few drinks. I asked David if you had a girlfriend. He laughed hysterically and said, 'As if.' I didn't know you were that shy around girls. Since then, whenever David and I crossed paths in the hall, he made some teasing comment to me. He said if I didn't hurry up and find a way to make you ask me out then he was going to tell you."

"He was like that when we were in high school too. He is a good friend. Grams said he called earlier."

"He did? Is he stopping by?"

"No, he's working up in the oil fields. But he did tell me to say hi to you." Vincent smiled. "And then he told me I was a shmuck for going this far to fake being stuck in a well just to get you to make the first move." He laughed.

"Oh, brother." She giggled in response. "He was the one who gave me your mom's number."

"Grandparents you mean."

"No, I talked to your mom."

"At my grandparent's number."

"Well, your mom answered when I called. I didn't know what to say when she asked who I was, so I said I was your girlfriend."

Vincent pulled his hand away from Anna's. "What?"

"No, no!" She grabbed Vincent's bandaged hand back to her side. "I mean... I didn't know if she would tell me anything about what happened to you if she thought I was a complete stranger..." She paused for a moment. "I really do love you, Vincent."

He looked at her inquisitively. "You're not just saying that, I hope."

"No, Vincent! I've liked you for a long time now. Loved you actually. I just didn't know it until after I found out what happened. You and I spent almost all of our free time last semester together. I was always hoping you'd ask me out... You know... To make it real."

"I know." Vincent squeezed her hand back and shrugged. "I'm just not good at that stuff. I always get too nervous, and then I turn chicken."

Anna laughed. "You are cute."

"Thanks," he said. "I'm still so embarrassed about how I said goodbye to you in June. That was so bad."

"What do you mean? Why was it bad?" she asked.

"You know why," he said. "I shook your hand when we said goodbye. I got on the bus and waved at you through the window. I felt like such an idiot. Who shakes the hand of a girl he wants to be with when he's not going to see her for a couple of months? Who does that?"

Anna hugged Vincent. He loved how she smelled. He rubbed the backside of his hand where there was no bandage up the side of her arm and delighted in the softness of her skin.

"I wouldn't have been surprised if you found someone else over the summer. I wouldn't have liked it but... I would have just blamed my idiot-self."

"Well, Vincent... I'm here with you now." She brushed one hand through his soft blonde hair and kissed him softly on the lips. "And I want to be here beside you every minute of every day."

He returned her kiss. "Me too." He smiled and kissed her again. And again.

They walked through the gardens with fingers interlocked, as best they could manage through Vincent's bandages, around the large garden to the tree-spotted lawn behind the large sandstone house.

"This place really is beautiful," Anna said.

"It's not so nice anymore. With Grams being ill, Gramps has kind of let the place go. He just doesn't spend as much time out here as he used to." He pointed to the overgrown flowerbeds by the patio. "Grams used to spend hours in those beds every day making them just perfect. When she started getting tired a few years ago, Gramps took over for her the best he could. He usually just stuck to the lawn and trimming the trees and hedges, but the flowerbeds were important to Grams. Grams would sit out on the patio with her cup of tea and watch him try to do what she did so easily. She'd holler out instructions to him from where she sat: 'What the heck are you doing? You've trimmed that back too far! Make sure the ivy grows even up both sides of that trellis! That's not a weed you just pulled out!' It was funny to watch."

Anna laughed. "It sounds like you really love your Grandparents."

"I do... so much. They rescued me. My mother..." he paused and looked up at the house. "She dumped me here when I was only ten."

"Dumped you?" Anna frowned. "Really?"

"Yeah. I didn't see her once all through middle school and high school... but she's in there now."

Anna looked up at the house.

"Arlene. Some kind of mother, huh?"

Anna remained silent and nodded as if she now understood why he had responded the way he did at the cemetery.

"She showed up at the cemetery like she cares about me. I haven't seen or heard from her for nine years."

"I am so sorry, Vincent. I didn't know."

"I hate her. I really do."

Anna hesitated. "But you said 'hi' to her earlier and hugged her before we came outside. I don't understand."

"I only hugged her to be polite. Grams and Gramps asked me to be polite. I haven't talked to her, and I am not sure I even want to. I just want to be with you right now," he said.

"This home is really incredible, Vincent. I can't imagine growing up in such a big house and with all of this land to explore."

He nodded. "My Grams and Gramps have been great."

"But look at this place. I bet with a little love and attention it could be what it used to be."

Vincent remembered when the flower beds blossomed with a rainbow of colours and the trees were precisely manicured and trimmed. He looked at the various hedges that now grew into a wall of wickedness that strangled the path that once meandered toward a small pond with a fountain in the centre. He strained to see what remained of the pond but could only see a mass of weeds and wild grass beyond the overgrown hedges.

He laughed as he imagined the amount of work that would be involved within her suggestion of "a little love."

"This place has gone way downhill. Look what's only left of the grass now. When I grew up here, the grass was always perfect. No weeds were allowed to pop up, and everything was always thick and green. Look at it now. It's dried out, full of weeds, and you could barely even call it a lawn. Sure it's cut, but looks so sad." He kicked at the grass and a fine powder of dust rose up around them.

"What I'd give to live in a home like this... to plant a huge garden and grow fresh vegetables all summer!" Anna said.

Something caught Vincent's eye. He turned towards the house and saw his grandparents staring at them from the open patio doors in the distance. He could see how old and fragile they both had become.

"Just like this old property," he whispered.

"Pardon?" Anna asked.

"Oh, nothing. We should really go back to the house now. I can't hide out here forever... They're probably waiting for us."

CHAPTER 38 Day Six - Wednesday 9:12 AM

Chris and Anita stood outside the open patio door and watched Vincent as he strolled along the fence at the back of the property with Anna at his side.

"I am sorry, Chris. I know I promised you I would never speak of it ever again, but after what happened with Vincent down in that well, I have to know. I just have to."

Chris remained silent and continued to watch his grandson. He knew exactly what Anita was referring to and knew this was the very reason she had dragged him away from the others. Anita had always been strong and unwavering at his side. She always listened and obeyed with rigid loyalty as he toiled and worked his way up the ladder of his father's businesses over the decades until it was eventually all handed all over to him. She spoke about something she promised him she would keep forever silent. For over five decades, from a time before they were even married, she kept that promise. Not a single word was spoken until today.

He slipped into a soft chuckle and pointed out towards the trees as if he didn't hear her. "Just look at those two out there."

Anita turned and looked up at him. Even without looking at her, he could tell her brow was furled and her lips were pursed tight. He kept his gaze on his grandson.

"Damn you, Chris!" she said and slapped him on the arm.

"What?" he replied in shock at her force.

"I'm worried, Chris! And you know damn well why!"

Chris took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You see that?" he said and motioned out towards Vincent in the distance. "Do you remember when we were that young?"

"Oh, you!" She clenched her fragile hands into fists.

"Well, do you?" he asked again.

"I'm trying to talk about that... that thing! And you are changing the subject."

Chris turned to her, grabbed her fists gently, and forced his fingers between hers until they were holding hands. He stared down into her eyes. "I'm not changing the subject."

"Well then, answer me, damn it!"

He brought her hands up to his lips and kissed them softly. "There's a time for talking about that, and it's not now."

He glanced at Vincent and Anna who were slowly walking back towards the house. He gave them a short wave and then clasped her hands again. "They're coming back to the house. We'll have this discussion later."

"Chris, I really don't think we are done here yet. I know I promised, but..."

"We are done for now," he said forcefully. He glared at her until she closed her mouth and let go of his hands.

"That thing isn't going anywhere," he whispered.

He could see she wanted to say more, but he wasn't ready to talk about it. He turned away and walked back inside the house alone. He retreated to his office to think about what to do about the horror that Vincent may have unknowingly uprooted. Anita was right to bring it up, but after all of these years, the pain still remained. It was a horrible time in his life, and he really didn't want to remember any of it, but the fact remained. What rested out at Bumstead's well may have very well been disturbed. If it was, it was a very big problem.

After a short time alone, Chris knew what he had to do. There were steps to be taken, and he would take each one of them slowly. There was no need to get excited just yet. He didn't know how bad it really was.

He looked at the clock. It was still early in the day and there was still so much to do. Roger's funeral was one of the big things on the list. First he needed to make an appearance to those in the room where so many friends and family gathered in celebration of Vincent's return.

CHAPTER 39 Day Six - Wednesday 9:53 AM

A promotion to detective led Dean Daly away from Vancouver five years ago. The move to the smaller Bluffington police force was one he welcomed with great enthusiasm even though it did not offer the full-time detective duties he hoped for. Bluffington was just too small to have its own full-time detective on staff. His time was split between detective duties and regular police duties, but he was still extremely pleased. He would no longer be required to patrol the darkened transient streets on the dingy, east side of downtown Vancouver at night and tend to endless drug overdoses and the seedy world of prostitution. He liked the freedom of his new position. Because he had split duties, he worked primarily daytime hours, except when the investigative side kicked in. Whenever the opportunity to investigate anything surfaced, even something as simple as Vincent's four days down at the bottom of Bumstead's well, he approached it with an intensity far beyond the effort it really deserved.

Officer Jet Wu accompanied Dean out to the secluded Bumstead property where only remnants of the original buildings remained. Multiple concrete foundations, overgrown by decades of grasses and wild poplars, stood defiantly on both sides of the deteriorating gravel road deep inside the property.

"Over there," Dean uttered. He pointed off to the left.

"Tire tracks?" Jet asked.

The grass was partially flattened in two parallel lines that rolled off towards the trees.

"Ayuh. Let's take a walk."

The officers exited the patrol car and followed the tracks on foot away from the gravel road past a number of old foundations and up along the forest a few hundred yards away. The suspect vehicle had driven over the grass, parked, turned around, and driven back out. The well must be somewhere nearby.

"Looks like they stopped here," Jet said.

"Yeah." Dean knelt down and studied the grass as Jet wandered up the small hill to his left. The grass around was flattened by foot traffic where the truck would have been parked. He searched for more tracks. The light rain and hot sun from the past few days rejuvenated the trampled grass and made it difficult for them to follow.

"Over here, Dean. Beer cans."

The beer cans were shiny and freshly discarded. Nearby was a makeshift fire pit erected from a number of large stones. A large heap of weathered lumber was piled up next to it.

"Well, I'll be damned," Dean said and pointed. Right behind the pile of lumber was the imposing stone well.

CHAPTER 40 Day Six - Wednesday 10:15 AM

Vincent stood in front of the expansive teak desk in his Gramps study and anxiously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The breakfast crowd was slowly thinning out in the great room, and Vincent had taken the opportunity through all of the farewells and hugs and kisses to slip away and speak to his mother alone. He found his mother sitting in his Gramps' black leather office chair. For the nine years Vincent lived with his Gramps, he had never even dared to think about sitting in his Gramps chair, but that was where his mother chose to seclude herself.

Having to interact with his mother at all repulsed him, but he felt impelled by his Gramps to at least give her the chance to explain herself. She stared at the computer screen and seemed poised to ignore his questions.

"Mom! Arlene! Whatever. Can't you even look at me when I'm talking to you?" He was annoyed and frustrated with her behaviour.

She glanced up at him over the top of her narrow reading glasses that rested on the bridge of her tiny nose and then returned her gaze to the computer screen. "I'm listening," she replied.

"I asked you why you came here. Aren't you going to answer me?"

She turned and stared at Vincent with a sudden attentiveness that alarmed him. Her eyes danced about manically before locking on his. She pointed at him and hollered crazily. "You!" she shouted. She tilted her head to the side, leaned back, and laughed. "You are so much like your darn father." She laughed again. "He used to get the same reddish colour in his face when he was angry at me."

"I'm not angry. I just asked you a question and you're not answering me."

Her laughter faded and she looked confused. "Question? What question?"

"Jesus. I just asked you what you really came here for."

"Oh," she said as if she had forgotten the question entirely. "I came out to see you, Vincent."

Vincent already disliked his mother, but her odd behaviour was challenging him further. "You didn't come back for me. You only came back after you heard I was dead."

"That's not true." She hesitated and flicked a finger back and forth in front of her face as if deep in thought. "Okay, you're right. I came back because Dad called me and asked me to come."

"He only asked you because he thought I was dead," Vincent replied quickly.

She suddenly looked hurt as if she was going to cry. "You are all grown up now. Look at you. You're tall. Taller than me even and we're both adults now. I know why you're upset with me. I really do know why your upset, and I completely understand. Can't you just forgive me?"

Vincent shook his head in disgust. She was impossible and he was infuriated.

"Forgive you just because you show up and smile at me like everything is fine? No, I can't just forgive you."

"Please don't be like that. We should try to get to know each other better. It's been so many years. Itty bitty baby steps, maybe?"

"You've had all of those years to try to get to know me. You could have come back anytime. I'm not your little boy anymore. I haven't been your little boy for nine years."

Arlene wiped at her eyes.

"But I always loved you," she said.

"Ya, right," Vincent scoffed. "If you really cared even a little bit about me, you would have come to see me before now. We've been living in the same damn town for two years now."

"I wanted to. I really did."

"Did you know that I was in the same town as you?"

Arlene started at him in a full pout. She didn't answer.

"By your lack of response, I'm guessing you did." He clenched his fists.

"I wanted to come see you. Honestly, I did."

"But you didn't. That's my point, mom. I went to school at UBC and you lived only a few miles away the entire time. You never called. You never dropped by. You never even came back at all to see me until you thought I was dead."

"That's so unfair."

"Unfair? Ha!" he balked. "Gramps and Grams giving up the last nine years of their life to look after me is what's unfair! It wasn't fair to me, and it wasn't fair to them."

Arlene looked at the computer screen and remained silent. She fiddled with the mouse.

"I'm only being polite to you out there in front of the others today because Gramps asked me to. That's the only reason. He knows how much you even being here is upsetting me. I haven't forgiven you. I haven't."

She fiddled with the mouse again and looked up at him. She stared strangely at him before her eyes lit up once again. She pointed at him and shouted, "You! It's you!" she called out and cackled like she did a minute before. "You know who you look like? Richie Cunningham, that's who." She thrust her finger at him and laughed so hard she nearly fell backwards out of the chair.

"Who?" Vincent asked. He was perplexed by her sudden change of focus.

"The guy who played Richie Cunningham on that TV show. You know who I mean. He played Opie on the Andy Griffith Show when he was little."

She suddenly whistled the theme music of the Andy Griffith Show and carried on until Vincent shouted at her.

"Would you just stop it? You're driving me crazy! I'm leaving here with Anna. I can't even stand to be around you!"

She stopped whistling and leaned forward in the chair. A solemn look crossed her face. "Anna seems real nice," she said. "Do you like her?"

Vincent rolled his eyes.

She squinted at him and studied his face. "You really do look like Richie Cunningham now, but you didn't look at all like Opie when you were little." She smiled and continued to stare at him.

"Seriously?" Vincent countered. He was flabbergasted that his mother could be so flippant.

"You were chubbier."

Vincent laughed in disbelief and shook his head. "I really think I'm done here." He turned away and walked towards the door. He stopped before he exited and looked back towards his mother. She set her focus back onto the computer screen in front of her. She clicked away with the mouse as if he had already left the room.

"Hey!" he shouted.

She stopped tapping on the keyboard and looked up at him.

"Gramps is taking me and Anna to Roger's funeral in a few minutes."

She pushed back the chair and stood up suddenly. "You want me to come with you? I'll just be a moment getting my things."

"Are you kidding me?" he replied flabbergasted. "No, I don't want you coming with us. Only Gramps and Grams are coming. Why would you even want to come? You never knew Roger, and you don't know me at all!"

"But, I thought..."

"Think again."

Vincent hesitated at the door and stared at his mother. She truly looked hurt, and it bothered him that she couldn't understand how and why he was so upset with her. He wanted to say more but he couldn't find the words. He left the room.

CHAPTER 41 Day Six - Wednesday 10:22 AM

Dean stared at the well and shook his head.

"The stupid things teenagers do sometimes."

"Is that blood?" Jet asked.

"Looks like it," Dean replied.

Bloody, claw-like scratch marks were visible on the surface of the stones that capped the well in a smooth limestone doughnut. He imagined Vincent reaching up from the hole in the centre, clawing desperately across the stones for a ridge to grab hold of, and leaving the trails of blood now smeared into the stones. The pattern told a vivid story that seemed much more frightening than Vincent described.

Dean gently touched the rope that was still secured to the post alongside the well. He leaned over the opening of the well and peered down toward the bottom.

"Shit."

It was a complete blackout inside. He couldn't see anything.

"What the hell were those boys thinking? Did you bring a flashlight?" he asked.

"You didn't even tell me where we were going. You just asked me to come with you. It's in my cruiser back at the precinct."

"Then run back to my car and get my flashlight, will you?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously. Go back down the path to my vehicle and grab my flashlight. You know where it is."

Jet shook his head and hurried away across the grassy field to the patrol car. He returned with the flashlight and handed it to Dean.

Dean pointed it down inside the well. The two men leaned in and peered down to the bottom.

"Dammit!" Dean said. The flashlight was dim. He slapped the side of his flashlight with his hand until the beam increased intensity. It wasn't bright, but it was enough to satisfy him. He shone the flashlight back down the well.

"You should really put new batteries in there," Jet said.

Dean ignored him. "Now this just gets better and better, I must say."

"What does?"

The light barely reached down to the bottom and flickered as if it was about to die, but Dean could still see the pile of stones on the bottom. He smacked the flashlight with his palm again. He could just make out what he thought was the stool and bag that Vincent said were lowered down with the food and water.

His heart raced as he studied the scene inside the well. He couldn't believe anyone could have possibly accomplished the feat Vincent described. He really did remove the stones one by one from the wall. He could see that every word of Vincent's story was true. He continued to study the scene on the bottom as much as he could in the dim glow.

"Take a look at that. That is one serious pile of rocks. That kid worked like hell to save his life. Would you have been able to do what he did here?" He moved the flashlight around to see more but the dim flashlight didn't allow him to see any other details.

Jet shrugged his shoulders. "That sure is a pile of rocks down there."

Dean slapped the flashlight again.

"Yeah. That one stone resting on top of the pile looks different from all of the rest. It looks almost pure white as if it didn't even come from inside here."

Dean moved the light away from the bottom and followed the pattern of holes in the walls as they corkscrewed their way up to the top on opposite sides. He stopped when he came across the one large hole where the collapse Vincent described took place.

"Wow. That sure is one bugger of a hole."

Jet smiled and laughed quietly. "He's lucky the entire well didn't come down on top of him."

Three square feet of stones had fallen from the wall in a V shape above where Vincent removed the stone. An abundance of dirt from behind the stones also fell away and left a large, deep cavity behind. If not for the top ten feet of stones set in mortar, Dean suspected that the entire top of the well would have collapsed in on itself and pulled Vincent down to the bottom.

He kept the flashlight aimed at the bottom edge of the mortared stones that hung above the collapsed area.

"Do you see something sticking out of the dirt inside that hole?" He squinted and twisted his head to one side of the opening to get a better look. "Looks like something is poking out of there."

"A few sticks maybe? Roots?"

"I don't know. Maybe." He lifted his head and looked around. There were no trees anywhere near the well.

The opening between the capstones lining the top was too small for either of them to see any more of the inside. Short of dropping themselves down inside the well, they would have to settle for what they could see from the top.

"Damn it," he said.

"What?"

"I really wish I could see more. This bloody flashlight ain't worth a shit."

Jet smiled at him. "Maybe if you kept good batteries in it..."

"Oh, shut it."

He aimed the flashlight back to the bottom and stared at the stones again. He had a feeling there was something more down there that needed checking. He tried to remember Vincent's words. Vincent said something the afternoon they found him that didn't make sense to him at the time, but he couldn't quite remember what it was. He said a word that sounded wrong and out of context. Dean had assumed it was because Vincent was weak and disoriented.

He pulled out his smart phone. "Let's see if my camera lights up the inside of this well any better."

Dean flashed off a number of photos of the inside of the well and outside. Even from the small screen on his cell phone, he could see that the flash was much more powerful than his flashlight.

"Here," Dean said and handed the phone to jet. "Pop these onto the computer when you have a chance."

"Me? Why don't you do it?"

"I'm not good with this techno computer stuff. Besides, you're new here, and I outrank you. You are under my watch for the time being, remember?"

Jet's usual smile disappeared momentarily. He nodded. "Sure."

"Load those pictures when you get back later. I can get by without my phone for one night. Just leave it with Millie once you're done, and I'll grab it in the morning from her. The download cable is in the drawer in my desk."

"Old man," Jet said and took the phone from Dean. An amenable smile stretched across his face.

"What?" Dean asked.

"You," he replied and looked down at the phone he held in his hand. "You may outrank me, but you are an old man."

"I'm thirty six. I'm not old."

Jet lifted the phone up and wiggled it in front of Dean's face and laughed. "Can't upload pictures? You are an old man" he said and pointed at Dean.

"Oh, bugger off."

CHAPTER 42 Day Six - Wednesday 10:34 AM

"It is the very same one," Chris replied simply. He puffed heavily on his cigarette.

"But it can't be." Anita replied. "After that shemozzle ended and everything died down, you told me the three of you went back out there and filled in the well. It can't be the same one."

All of the guests from earlier left, and Chris and Anita were seated alone on the patio with fresh cups of tea. Vincent was somewhere in the house with Anna, and Arlene had buried herself in front of the computer in Chris' study for the past half hour. In less than an hour's time, they would take Vincent out to Roger's funeral.

"I worked out on that farm for two full years as a labourer after coming back from the war. There only ever was one well on that entire property. I should know. You do remember why I was out there in the first place, don't you?"

"Of course I do. You were hiding."

"I wasn't hiding."

"Call it what you want, Chris. I remember very well what you were like back then. You had just come back from the war, and you were such an awful bugger. Moody and grumpy. You wanted nothing to do with your father. I remember that much. I was barely seventeen when I started working in Bumstead's office, and you were that arrogant young man who always found some reason to be hanging around me instead of working outside like you were supposed to." She laughed.

"That's not what I meant. I'm talking about the well."

"Oh. After you quit you mean."

"Yes. After I quit working for Bumstead."

"You and those two others went back out to Bumstead's to rebuild the well. It was one of the first real jobs you did when you finally went to work for your father. Bumstead gave your father the contract to rebuild that well. I remember that very clearly, but I never really understood it."

"You remember it well, Anita. The stones at the top were on the verge of collapsing. I didn't like going back out there after I had just quit working for Bumstead." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I think dad sent me out there on purpose." He paused in his memory. "It doesn't matter why, but I was back out there. We reset the loose stones at the top eight feet of that well with mortar and then capped the top with a half dozen polished limestones. Town water still wasn't out that far, and Bumstead really needed that well to keep his business afloat."

"That was just before that whole scene," Anita replied. She made strong hand gestures as if to emphasize her point. "It was just as you were finishing the repairs to that well when all of that bad stuff started to happen. So you didn't fill it in back then like you told me. If you had, Vincent wouldn't have found his way down there to the bottom. You were supposed to fill it in. That's what you told me you did. I don't understand why you didn't." She shook her finger at him. "This could be very bad, Chris."

Chris let loose a long, heavy sigh. "What we should have done was remove that scaffolding and backfilled around the outside of that damn well the very day we finished the work. We would have left that place that same day for good, and there would have been no reason to go back. None of what went down that day would have ever happened then on that property."

"Why did you tell me you filled it back in?" Anita asked.

"For Christ sakes, Anita! I was a young man. We were all young... Young, stupid, and scared. I just wanted to put all of that behind me and end it, and so I lied. I lied to you. I lied to my father too."

"Well, it's just all come back now, hasn't it. Over fifty years later."

"I know, Goddamn it! You don't have to tell me!" he barked. "We don't know if anything's even been exposed, so let's not jump to conclusions."

"I still just can't believe it. How could you? It was those two fools you hung around with."

Chris grunted. He was getting annoyed at her persistence. "Do you know how much rock and gravel we would have needed to fill in that well? Truckloads. It didn't make sense to those other two workers why Dad would want us to fill in a well that we just spent two weeks repairing, and I certainly wasn't about to explain it to them. I certainly didn't want to bring any more attention out to that property with backhoes and trucks full of rocks and gravel, so I lied to my father. And those two I was with were content with just getting off of that property, and neither of them had any idea what I really staged out there."

He put out his cigarette and immediately lit another.

"They were already watching us," he added. "What was I supposed to do? We just went out to the property like we were finishing up our job and pulled out the scaffolding." He puffed hard, and the embers glowed brightly on his cigarette. "That's all we did."

Anita stared at him. He knew she was in deep distress over the whole thing.

"I wanted nothing more to do with that damn property. So we cheated and just boxed it up. Most of the buildings out there were burned completely down to the ground. The bigger barn was still smouldering that night. Everyone who lived and worked out on that property was moved out. The place was completely deserted and after what happened they certainly weren't going to rebuild. It was over and dad won."

"No one won," Anita replied.

"Well, it seemed like it to me at the time. Dad was at least happy again. We salvaged some boards from what was left of the main house to build a big box to hide the well." He laughed lightly. "We even tore down the shelter above the well. And then we covered it with shrubs and branches. Such fools we were."

"What happens if someone starts looking around there now, Chris? I couldn't stand to go through all of that again. Not at my age."

"They won't find anything," he said confidently.

Anita hesitated. He knew she was reliving the details before she responded. She turned to Chris, and he could feel the tension in her voice as she spoke and waved one finger in the air.

"I know there's nothing in the bottom of that well to find. I have not forgotten any of this, Chris. I remember every detail you told me at the time." She paused for a moment. "Is there something else about that night you didn't tell me the truth about?"

"Nothing else," he replied firmly. "Not filling in the well was the only thing about that whole mess I ever lied to you about."

"I still remember it so clearly," she said. "They spent days searching through all of those burned buildings and they didn't find a single one of them. And I remember they kept hovering around that property until someone tipped them off to have a look down inside that well. I never heard who that was, but they were so sure they were going to find them down there under the water. They poked and prodded through the water with long poles and found nothing. And then they decided to pump the water out just to be sure. It took them two days to empty it all out. They even dug up the mud on the bottom and still didn't find anything."

Chris didn't like it that she remembered it all so clearly. It seemed like she remembered it better than him, and he was there through it all.

"They also dug up a few feet around the outside of the well where we backfilled our work," Chris responded.

Anita frowned at him.

"They never found anything," he boasted triumphantly.

"You are so much more like your father than you know. I don't know how or why, but you both manage to always find a way to not let the manure stick to either of you."

Chris chuckled at her perception.

"Not even a smell. That day was a lucky day for both of you."

"Maybe so. They found nothing and that was good enough for me. I've always wished I'd never taken the chance out at Bumstead's property." He hesitated and stared off to the west. "If I had, none of this would have ever happened."

Anita released a heavy sigh. "Everyone suspected you were a part of it."

"What? The disappearances?"

She shook her head. "Of course the disappearances. What else would I be talking about?"

Chris looked down at his lap. "Suspected," he said sternly. "They never could link any of us to any crime. And I didn't set those fires."

"I didn't say you did."

Chris grunted. "I thought you didn't believe me."

"I always believed you. I believed every word you ever told me about what happened. You were good that way. You always told me everything. That's why I know there is nothing at the bottom of that well."

Chris put his arm across Anita's back and gently squeezed her shoulder. Somewhere over the years that had changed. He couldn't even recall when he stopped telling her the truth about everything.

"But what if they do start digging out there, Chris?"

"They won't start digging," he said.

"How do you know, Chris? How do you know?"

"Why would they? Who in this town even remembers what happened back then?"

Anita grabbed Chris' arm. "I just don't want this to start all over again. I don't know why you always had to listen to him. I still get angry when I think about how you cow towed to him."

"He was a bastard all right. He always got his way. Always."

"Because of the three of you. He got his way because you and your two brothers always did what he said."

"And now you have all of this because of it." He opened his arms up wide to envelope the entire house and three acre property. "His businesses would not have grown like they did, and we wouldn't have inherited it all, if we hadn't done what we did. Bumstead went down and out of business after it all ended."

"What you did," she said, emphasizing the word _you_. "And his money, business, and property don't make your actions right. It never did. You always had to do whatever he asked. You just couldn't say no."

"I was his youngest, and I followed the others. But it wasn't just us, Anita. He had other heavy hands do most of his dirty work. The fires..."

"Well I bet your brothers are looking down on you right now with shame."

"Maybe they are. My brothers didn't have anything to do with what happened out at that well. I admitted that to you immediately. They had their own instructions to follow. We only did what we had to do when dad couldn't trust the others. He didn't ask of us very often, but we always did what he asked when he asked, no matter how wrong it seemed at the time."

Anita turned away and looked back into the house. No one was around. She turned back to Chris and whispered her next words sharply. "But it was only you who ever murdered for him."

Chris winced at her words like he was slugged in his gut. She spoke the reality that separated him from his brothers. It was probably why he was his father's favourite. It was probably also why he ended up running all of the family businesses and received the family estate in his father's will.

Anita remembered all of the memories she and Chris shared for the past five decades, but she most vividly remembered the details of the most horrible event of his life. There were times now when she couldn't remember who she was even speaking to, but she could easily remember the vivid details of a five-decades-old horror. Her dementia was a cruel and torturous enemy.

CHAPTER 43 Day Six - Wednesday 1:43 PM

"Okay, okay. I'll take you over there right now," Chris responded to Vincent who sat squirming next to Anna in the back seat.

The memorial service for Roger ended, and Vincent was highly unsettled. He was hoping to run into Aaron's mother at the service, but she was nowhere to be found. As the crowd dispersed, Vincent wasn't ready to go home just yet. Aaron's mother deserved some kind of an explanation and he pestered his Gramps to take him over to see her straight away. He persevered against his Gramps' counter arguments that it was improper to just drop in unannounced.

"He lives over at the Lido Motel."

"Motel?" his Grams asked.

"Aaron just moved here a few months ago, Grams. His mom is still looking for a place for them to rent." He paused. "I meant lived. He lived over at the motel with his mom, until..."

"We know what you mean, dear." His Grams reached into the back seat where Vincent sat and placed her hand on his arm. "You're sure you're okay to do this right now?"

He nodded. "I'm fine. Really."

In a few minutes, they were parked in front of the scruffy motel. Vincent pointed up towards the many faded doors facing the road. "It's the one on the end. That's Aaron's... I mean, was Aaron's."

The Lido Motel sat on the corner of 8th Ave and Waterton Road. Behind the hotel were the multiple rows of neglected, low-rent townhouses that gave this area the name "townhouse row".

Vincent stepped out of the car and stared up at the black numbers posted on the door of unit 124. The curtains were drawn tight and the poorly kept property looked as dreary and depressing as he currently felt. He walked up to the door and wondered if maybe his Gramps was right about dropping in unexpectedly. He rapped his knuckles softly on the door and listened. It was eerily quiet in the neighbourhood. He knocked again a bit louder and glanced back at the car where Anna, Grams, and Gramps sat with their necks cranked backwards as they stared up through the rear window at him. He shrugged at them and knocked again.

Gramps watched him for a moment before he hobbled out of the car and up alongside Vincent.

Vincent tilted his ear towards the door. He was sure he could hear shuffling on the other side.

"I think it's best we go, Vincent," his Gramps urged. "Come. There's no one here. Let's leave this for another day."

"Shhh. I think she is in there."

He pounded hard on the door with his fist. "Mrs. Hockley, it's me Vincent. Aaron's friend."

He listened and then pounded the door again. He could definitely hear shuffling inside.

"Mrs. Hockley, it's Vincent. Are you in there?"

The lock on the door rattled from the other side and the door opened a few inches. A single, bloodshot eyeball popped into view and looked sporadically around at Vincent and his Gramps. "Who's the old guy?"

"He's my Gramps, Mrs. Hockley."

"Hmph. What do you want?"

"I just wanted to speak to you for a sec. About Aaron. You don't mind, do you?"

The door opened just wide enough for Vincent to pass through into the darkness. Gramps remained on the stoop. "I'll be in the car," he said.

The room was dark and dank. Little light slipped in through the drawn front drapes. He scanned the room quickly and could see by the disheveled state of the large room that Aaron's mom was swirling about in a very pitiable state.

"Well? So what exactly do you want?" she asked brusquely. She closed the door behind Vincent and brushed past him into the centre of the room.

Vincent suddenly wished he hadn't come. He looked across at her and opened his mouth to speak but all of the words that he had collected and prepared in his mind on the trip over had vanished. He looked around again. Empty liquor and pop bottles were scattered about on the sideboard and floor, and empty take-out boxes were piled high in the overflowing trash bin. Clothes were scattered on the carpet and draped over nearly every piece of furniture.

Aaron's mother bore very little resemblance to the orderly and controlled woman he remembered.

"I um... I just had to come see you. To say..."

She cut him off. "To say what? To say that you're sorry?"

"No, no," he stammered. "But, maybe..."

He hesitated and the vision of Aaron and Roger staring down him from the top of the well slipped into his memory. "Actually, yes," he said. "Roger's funeral was today. I thought you..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He felt uneasy as she leered at him with her messy hair and ghostly, cosmetic-free face, and he barely recognized her.

"I liked Aaron a lot," he said. "He was a good friend."

"Bah!" she scoffed. "He was no good! That boy never was. I tried to keep him on the straight, but he battled me all the way. Skipping school all the time, drinking, and doing drugs. He was a bad kid."

"He was good to me." Vincent countered. "Both he and Roger were good friends to me."

She brushed her uncombed, scraggly hair away from her eyes and glared at him. "You're better off without the likes of him. You just don't know it." She turned away, dropped herself onto the couch, and poured what looked like rum or whiskey into one of many dirty glasses that rested on the cluttered coffee table.

Vincent couldn't believe she thought that lowly of her son. He felt like he was slapped across the face by her words.

"I was wondering when his funeral was. I'd like to be there."

Aaron's mother ignored his words. "I gave up my whole life to raise that miserable crumb. Just look how he turned out," she said as if Aaron's frailties were obvious. "He even got a girl pregnant up in GP."

Vincent nodded. "I know. He told me."

She frowned. "He told you?"

"He wanted to go back to see her. To do the right thing."

She broke into a pitiless laugh. "Aaron choosing to do the right thing..." She pointed at him limply. "Now that really would have been a first." She lifted her glass and slurped at the drink. "You really didn't know that boy at all."

Vincent shuffled his feet. He wanted to end the conversation, but words failed him. "I think I knew him," was all he could offer.

"And you suppose he was thinking of you when he took off with your truck heading out of town? Huh? You think he gave a Goddamned shit about you sitting down there in the bottom that well?"

Vincent shrugged.

She shook her finger at him. "You should think on that one for a while." She topped up the glass of liquor. "What did you really come over here for?"

"I just thought it was the right thing to do."

She set the liquor bottle down slowly and glared at him. "That's it? That's all you got? The right thing to do?"

"Why are you so angry at him?" Vincent questioned innocently.

She jumped quickly to her feet and screamed at him. "Get out!"

"What?"

"I said get the hell out of here! I don't need no pushy little cock like you coming in here telling me I'm angry! I'm not angry!" she shouted.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"Just get the hell out of here! Now!" She picked up her liquor glass from the small table and threw it across the room at Vincent. The glass smashed against the front door, splattering liquor across his face, and shirt as he recoiled to avoid being hit. He pulled open the door and dashed across the parking lot to the car. He jumped inside and slammed the door shut.

"So how did it go in there?" his Gramps asked not noticing Vincent's dash out from the hotel.

Vincent sighed heavily and buried his face in his hands. "Just go, Gramps," he said.

CHAPTER 44 Day Six - Wednesday 2:22 PM

Shortly after arriving home, Anita fell victim to the dementia and was once again asking Arlene about her flight. Vincent had already shuffled Anna off somewhere, and Chris and Anita were left alone with Arlene.

"It was great, mom. I haven't been on an airplane in years."

Chris frowned as he watched Arlene engage her mother. Arlene giggled and it almost seemed as if she thought the return of his wife's dementia was funny.

"And so you're living in Vancouver now," Anita repeated to Arlene. She turned to Chris. "Did you hear, Chris? Arlene's living in Vancouver now."

Chris nodded. "I know. She's been living out there for a few years. I told you that before."

"You did? Oh I'm so sorry, Arlene. It's this darn memory of mine again. I sometimes forget things. Dementia is what the doctors say it is. It gets worse at times, but I am getting along with it. How long have you been out there?"

"Not long actually," Arlene replied. She looked at Chris.

Chris didn't like what she was doing and responded immediately. "Oh, for Christ's sake, Arlene. She's been out there nearly ten years, Anita."

"Oh my. Ten years? That long?"

"You don't need to lie to her. Just because she doesn't remember everything all of the time doesn't mean she's a nincompoop. Tell her the Goddamned truth when she asks you something. She's got dementia, not porridge in her brain."

"Oh, Chris!" Anita exclaimed. She laughed heartily at his outburst. "Sometimes it seems like only porridge up here." She tapped her skull and continued to laugh.

"I just thought that I was making it easier on her if she didn't remember," Arlene said.

"Good God! That's the last way to talk to a person with dementia. Be honest and tell the truth. If you said it to her yesterday, then say it again today."

Arlene turned beet red.

"It's okay, Arlene," Anita said. Laughter was still present in her voice. "If you need to say it again because I've forgotten then just say it again. Chris does it all the time." She smiled as if she was just happy to be in conversation. "So tell me. What is it you've been doing in Vancouver for these past ten years?"

Arlene looked up at Chris with her eyes wide as if to ask him how she was supposed to respond to this one, but Chris looked away and let her make this decision on her own.

"I've been just getting by, mom. I have not been doing too much of anything."

Chris held his tongue. He knew exactly what she was doing in Vancouver. He knew how she turned tricks under the name "Candy Q." This version of making a living certainly wasn't something that Anita would approve of. Joey Klondike returned to his thoughts again and he pushed it away. Arlene hadn't even mentioned a single word about this new guy she recently set up house with, and though the thought bothered him, he wasn't about to let it grow roots. He had enough on his mind without thinking about Joey Klondike.

"Oh that's nice," Anita replied. "Sometimes it is best to not stress over things and to just take them as they come. I try not to stress about things. I'm not sure if I told you, but my doctors said I have this dementia up here." She tapped her head like before. "I sometimes forget things and have to be told over and over again. It's funny that I don't see it that way at all. Chris tells me it's true. Isn't it Chris? I do forget things sometimes."

Chris chuckled briefly. "There are some things you still remember very clearly that I wish you would have forgotten a long time ago."

The words had barely left his lips when he knew he shouldn't have said it, but it was too late. Anita's cheery mood faded, and she stared at him quietly. He knew exactly what was going through her mind.

"I didn't mean about that," he said to backtrack.

"About what?" Arlene asked. "Did I just miss something?"

"It's nothing," Chris replied. He could see he had made Anita very uncomfortable and that was the exact opposite of his intention. "Arlene, can you go put on the kettle, please? I think it's time for your mother's tea." He looked at Anita, and she still looked distressed. "The biscuits are in the upper cupboard on the left."

After Arlene left the room, Chris sat on the couch next to Anita. "I didn't mean that," he said.

"I know you didn't, Chris. I know. But what are we going to do about it?"

He pulled her head over so it rested on his shoulder. "Now, you just hush."

"But the well. What about that well?"

"Shhh. We are not talking about that anymore today."

Anita leaned on Chris' shoulder as he pondered what, if anything, to do about the well. The tea came, and Chris excused himself saying he had some things to attend to in his study. He picked up his tea and retreated into his private room at the back of the house.

CHAPTER 45 Day Six - Wednesday 2:43 PM

Being anywhere near his mom still exasperated Vincent, so upon arriving home after Roger's funeral and the humiliating visit with Aaron's mother, he immediately shuffled Anna upstairs where the two of them could be alone. Aaron's mother upset him terribly, and he felt better about confiding the horrible experience in Anna and only Anna. He was hurt deeply and Anna's ability to listen without judgement was a blessing he had never expected.

When the two came back downstairs, Vincent sensed immediately that something was off again in the family room. His Gramps raised his voice at Arlene. He grabbed Anna by the hand and they slipped quietly outside unnoticed.

"I'm really looking forward to getting away from this place," he said. He scanned the large property. "This whole town is filled with poison," he said.

"I thought you liked it here."

Vincent sighed and continued to wander away from the house towards the trees on the far west side of the property. Anna followed behind him a few steps.

"Vincent? Has something else happened?" she asked. "Are you okay?"

He stopped to let her catch up.

"No, nothing's happened, but things aren't okay. Not anymore at least. When I arrived back here at the beginning of summer I was so happy to see Gram and Gramps again. I mean..."

He stared off into the trees and choked on welling tears. He thought about Aaron and the way his mother thought of him. It seemed like Aaron had died twice. The second death hurt even more than the first when Aaron's mother snuffed out what benevolence remained within the memories Vincent held of his friend. He would never think of Aaron the same without hearing Aaron's mother's callous disparagement of her own son.

"Things are so different now. Two very good friends of mine are dead, and my Grams isn't the same as she was when I left for school last fall. I am so afraid of what she'll be like when I return next year, or even this Christmas."

"I'm sure she'll be okay. Your Gramps will look after her."

"That's what worries me the most. I can see he's dying inside every time she has one of those episodes. It scares me to see him like that. I've never seen him any other way but solid, like a rock. The whole time I was growing up, he was there with all of the answers and always knew what to do in every situation. But now..."

Anna reached out and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back gently.

"Nothing is ever going to be the same anymore. I can feel it."

"That's what's bothering you?" Anna asked gently. "Vincent, I know you're sad about your Grams and losing two really close friends, but your grandparents will always be here when you come home."

He stared back at the house. "Grams won't be. I can see it on Gramps' face. There's something worrying him, and I think it's Grams. She's definitely not well. Ever since I came back from being down in that well, everything about them seems different. They've changed. I've changed. Maybe the shock of being down there has just made me more sensitive to things."

"You Gramps seems like a good man. And he certainly isn't the shy type."

Vincent smiled. She was right about that.

"I think he'd tell you if something really serious was going on with your Grams, don't you?"

Vincent didn't say anything. In his mind, dementia was something serious. He was losing his Grams to it and his Gramps because of it.

"I hate this place so much," he said and ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He shifted anxiously about and turned to Anna. "I was contemplating not going back to school this fall. I think I should maybe stay here and help Gramps with my Grams."

"You can't be serious." She looked shocked and somewhat wounded by his comment.

"I am serious. Everyone can see it's getting tough on him to try to care for her alone these days. He's done so much for me, and now maybe it's my turn to give something back."

Anna shook her head. "I don't think your Gramps or your Grams would ever let you do that. Not after what they've been through these past few weeks."

"I know they won't want me to, but..."

"No buts about it, Vincent. You just came back from the dead in their eyes. There's no way they are going to let you drop out and stay here. They'll want you to finish school no matter what happens back here. You must know that."

Vincent glanced back towards the house and noticed the drapes of his gramps study were wide open. His Gramps was poised up near the window with a cigarette hanging out from the corner of his mouth as he watched them. "But who else is going to be here to look after them if I leave?"

CHAPTER 46 Day Six - Wednesday 3:18 PM

The late afternoon sun shone in through the large window of Chris' study and illuminated a small patch on the burgundy carpet. The eerie radiance of the red glow seemed to affirm to Chris that even though hell had certainly arrived this past week, it hadn't yet departed upon Vincent's return. It was resolved to stick around for a while longer.

He had only intended to open the drapes a crack to let in a little of the natural light to freshen the atmosphere, but when he spotted Vincent with Anna out on the far edge of the property, he instinctively pulled the drapes and shears wide open. He was consumed with watching his grandson every minute he could since his return. He hoped watching his grandson would free his mind from some more worrisome problems, for the moment at least. After he stood for a few minutes close to the glass, he retreated back to the comfort of his chair where he smoked a few more cigarettes and stared out the window lost in thought. His thoughts drifted like feathers on the wind, flipping and rolling gently, until one needling thought spiraled into the centre and stuck there.

He reached for his rolodex and flipped through the cards until he found the one card with the name he had learned to hate so very much over the past two years. He dialed the number.

"Doctor Hamil, it's Chris Pattison."

He listened.

"Yes, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. When..." The doctor cut him off.

"No, no. That will be fine. I'll bring Anita in with me to discuss the arrangements. It'll just start out at a few days a week then?"

He listened again patiently.

"Uh huh. I see. Three days a week to start, and only for the night. Uh huh. Then back home each morning. Uh huh... I see."

He glanced out the window at Vincent and Anna holding hands under the trees.

"No, no. That's going to be good for me," he said and nodded as if the doctor was sitting across his desk.

"Oh, yes. Anita knows. We've discussed it many times already."

They met Dr. Hamil on numerous occasions. He quickly grew to hate Dr. Hamil as he described a quick and progressive decline to Anita's condition. Chris scoffed at his prognosis. But the doctor was correct about the progression of Anita's dementia the entire time. Now he hated the man even more for being right.

"I am holding up just fine," he said. "Three or four more weeks won't make much difference to either of us. We can wait until a spot opens up. I just thought it was time we considered the next step and started putting things in place."

He listened again.

"Yes. We'll see you next week then," he said and hung up the phone.

He continued to watch his grandson and crushed the remains of the cigarette out into the ashtray. He immediately pulled out another, lit up, and stared out the window again. That was one problem sorted for the moment. His thoughts shifted to the next issue that nagged him more than the first.

"Vincent, my boy... Why the hell did you have to pick the Bumstead place?"

He mused over what he could remember about that well. A three foot wide, six foot deep trench was excavated against the outside of the well the entire way around, and a scaffold was suspended down the inside. He and his crew meticulously removed all the stones in the top six feet below ground level. They then replaced and mortared all of the stones back into place one by one.

The winter freeze caused the problem with that particular well. The surface water seeped into the ground and froze between the stones, causing them to shift ever so slightly. By the early fifties, a few of the stones near the top of the well, just below ground level, were in danger of falling and causing the entire well to collapse. His father's company was contracted to repair the well, and he was placed in charge of the project. It was his very first project working under his father. His father scrutinized his every action and decision he made. Chris was anxious and irritated at the time. With all that went on between his father and Bumstead before this project, he was bothered by the fact that his father was awarded the contract. Considering the multitude of squabbles and legal wrangling that escalated between those two at the time, it didn't quite make sense that Bumstead would give Chris' father anything. Was it possible that Bumstead was trying to reconcile things between them? Was the whole thing really just a peace offering?

Vincent said part of the wall inside the well collapsed. Of course the stones they set in mortar couldn't collapse, he was sure of that, but the stones just below certainly could, and he suspected that he knew exactly which stones fell away to the bottom. The thought terrified him. When they were finally allowed to tamp and backfill around the well, he was relieved to put everything to rest. But once the land around the outside was smoothed out and levelled, he took one last glance down the inside; the wall just below where they had just completed the mortared work had shifted a few inches towards the centre of the well. He knew damn well why it shifted.

He sighed heavily and continued to look at his grandson. A cool, grey cloud of smoke drifted away from him and quickly evacuated from the room. The hum of the air recovery system droned away in the background.

He tapped his fingers on the desk in deep thought.

Could he risk driving out to the Bumstead property? His past at the well was beginning to haunt his every thought, and he didn't like it one bit. Why couldn't the whole damn thing just stay buried where it belongs?

"Damn you, Vincent," he whispered. He knew the only option he had to check on where things stood was to visit the well himself.

CHAPTER 47 Day Six - Wednesday 4:22 PM

Detective Daly returned to the precinct to look at the pictures Jet was supposed to load onto the office computer. Millie waved him over laughing uncontrollably the moment he walked in.

"What's got your horse bucking about this afternoon?" Dean asked.

Millie shook her head and laughed so hard that Dean could see her tonsils in the back of her open mouth. She waved one arm at Dean to hold him off until she could catch her words.

Dean moved up behind her. "C'mon now, Millie. Tell 'ol Dean what's got you all in a state like this."

Millie finally managed to corral her laughter. "It's Jet," she said and laughed some more.

"Jet? What's he done now?"

Millie wiped at her eyes. "He's seeing..." She started laughing again.

"What is it, Millie?"

"He's seeing ghosts," she said and immediately erupted into laughter once again.

Dean started to chuckle himself because her laughter was contagious. He had no idea what Millie was even talking about. "Ghosts?"

She nodded. "He just left ten minutes ago. He was telling me he was coming back from the university this afternoon and saw a ghost standing out on the street corner."

Millie started laughing again and Dean was starting to get annoyed. He didn't see anything terribly funny about what she said. He ignored her talk about the ghosts. "Did he load my pictures on the computer like I asked him to?"

Millie shook her head and continued to laugh. "He said to tell you he had a problem loading them. Said he'd try again tomorrow."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "So who's the old man now?"

"Pardon?" Millie asked and wiped her sleeve across her smiling mouth.

"Never mind. I just wanted to have a look at those photos."

Millie nodded. "But about that ghost. He said it was real." She giggled some more.

"Come on, Millie."

"No. You should have seen him. He rushed in here as white as a sheet. You know how he is. Always smiling and showing those Chiclets of his all of the time. Well, he wasn't like that at all today."

"Really? He's always cool and collected."

"Well, he sure wasn't twenty minutes ago. He said the ghost was on the corner just standing there. White like snow, he said it was. He said the ghost stared right at him and its eyes followed him down the street as he drove by."

"A ghost," Dean repeated.

"A ghost. That's what he said. Funny, right? He looked so bloody scared. I think he actually believes it."

"Did he say anything else about this ghost?"

"Not so much. Only that he said the ghost looked like one he'd seen before. It looked somewhat different than he remembered, but he was sure it was the same one. And he watched it in his rear view mirror. When he got to the end of the block, it was still staring and he even thought it pointed at him. That was what he said creeped him out so much. He drove once around the block to get a better look at it, but it had disappeared."

Dean nodded and smiled at Millie. "I bet it had. Anyways, you tell him to call me when he comes back in. I want those pictures loaded, and I need my phone back."

Millie looked up at the clock. "His shift is over. He won't be back in until morning."

"If you see him before I do, be sure to have him radio me. Ghosts? That's all we need around here."

CHAPTER 48 Day Seven - Thursday 2:21 AM

Vincent was jolted out of his dream and fear swept across him in the darkness of his bedroom. He looked up automatically and expected to see only a small number of stars confined in a small circle above him. He thought he was still trapped at the bottom of Bumstead's well, but saw rough shadows and familiar shapes. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he welcomed the relief of knowing he was safe in his own bed.

But the dream seemed so real. The late August heat was unbearable and his skin burned under the blistering sun. He, Roger, and Aaron were out along the river, and Aaron dared Roger to jump in.

The cold, glacial water from the mountains enticed the boys to throw themselves into the river to escape the incredulous heat, but it was clear to all that the abnormally high flow was much too fast and dangerous. The water cascaded through many chutes and channels and diverged between and around large boulders before crashing down into deep, churning pools. Roger couldn't stand the heat any longer and finally gave in to Aaron's relentless taunts. He was immediately pulled deep under the water by the strong current.

Vincent watched anxiously for Roger to surface. It seemed like minutes passed before his friend broke the surface. He was immediately sucked back under the bubbling water. Terror filled Roger's eyes as he gasped for air before he disappeared again.

He watched helplessly as his friend's body tumbled about below the bubbling surface. He hopped along the boulders that lined the river, as fast as he dared, trying to keep a watch on his friend. His body continued to travel downstream until it dropped down through a small chute into a deep pool. One outstretched hand with fingers spread wide broke the surface before he vanished below again.

Vincent's reaction to his friend's plight was immediate, and he dove head first into the icy pool. He swam deep under the churning, bubbling water and spotted Roger caught in an undertow at the bottom of the narrow chute. Bubbles spewed from his nose and up from between his lips. His black hair twisted into small clumps that thrashed about violently in all directions, and his usually radiant, brown eyes screamed with panic and terror. Vincent grabbed Roger by the foot and pulled him away. He swam as hard as he could towards the surface. As the two boys broke the surface and struggled against the heavy current, he spotted Aaron standing downstream on the pedestrian suspension bridge that crossed above the river.

Aaron's laughter horrified him.

As Vincent battled feverishly to reach the safety of the shore with his friend in tow, Aaron continued to laugh and point down at them as they tumbled under the bridge and drifted further downstream. He cackled, shouted, and laughed until Vincent awoke.

The dream mortified him. Aaron seemed so cruel and vicious. He knew Aaron's mother planted that thought in his mind. He couldn't shake the dream, and he started to lament. He missed his two friends so much. Memories of them floated into his thoughts. He yearned for their smiles, laughter, and friendly teasing. He recalled the outing at Bumstead's well and his final image of his friends as they looked down and laughed at him. Their faces were mere silhouettes against the evening sky. Memory after memory of his friends swirled about in his mind, and each one tortured him. As the images of his friends slowly faded, new images from inside the well skipped into their place and brought with them a new horror he tried to ignore.

He wanted to flee from the room into the caring arms of his Anna who was asleep in the guest room next door, but he could barely move. One image he collected during his escape from the well finally surfaced and anchored itself front and centre. It was a gruesome image that he managed to keep concealed somewhere in the catacombs of his mind until now. The image was knocking once again, demanding to be let out and set free. As much he tried to fight it, the image continued to throb like some petulant contagion in his mind. He told no one what he had stumbled upon in the well and didn't know if he ever could.

"No!" he called out. He realized he actually shouted. It was still the middle of the night, and he listened for footfalls in the hall of anyone in the house who heard him cry out, but no one came.

He urged his mind to access and grasp hold of any other available thought.

"Anywhere, please. Anywhere but back down there," he whispered to the darkness.

His mind responded and quickly latched onto another thought just as horrible. He knew why it chose to rear its ugliness. The memory awoke the very moment he first landed alone at the bottom of the well.

He pulled his blankets up tight around him, and a frigid shiver snaked across his body. Goosebumps erupted, and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck crawled up as he squirmed under the blankets. The old atrocity pushed its way back in.

He saw his mother. She looked different back then; young, smiling sweetly at him, pushing him across the stoop of his grandparents' house to their front door, and setting his two suitcases down gently next to him. He remembered how she rang the front bell once and seconds later dashed away from him, laughing giddily to Roo's old rusty pickup truck, jumped inside, slammed the door, and disappeared from his life forever. She didn't look back as the truck rolled away down the wet, sloppy road and left only a hazy blue mist from the exhaust suspended in the air long after she was gone.

He felt his heart collapse in his chest as if she reached inside, grasped his tiny heart, and squeezed and crushed it with all her might until nearly every drop of love he had was extracted.

He wept for many days after she left him, but as the days slowly turned to weeks, the few remaining precious drops of love for her that remained in his heart turned sour. They were fetid and grew into a hatred that rooted itself so deep inside him that it was embedded into the very pores of his young bones. His heart survived the ordeal, but in all of the crevices and spaces where love once blossomed, repugnance for his mother now found its home. The loath he felt for her, and only her, pulsated again with every beat of his heart now that she was back in his presence.

He lifted his head and looked above him to the shelf above his bed. He pushed his blankets down, turned, knelt on the bed, and reached up high to where he placed his old, scruffy teddy bear years ago. He hadn't given in to the comfort of "Bee" for many years, but he needed the embrace of his fuzzy friend tonight.

He grabbed the old, ratted bear, which had the one ear holding on by threads, and hugged him tightly. He turned onto his side, pulled his knees up to his chest, and yanked his blankets high over his head as he coddled his bear and sobbed.

"It's always been just you and me, Bee," he said. "Always just you and me."

CHAPTER 49 Day Seven - Thursday 8:25 AM

"Why did you have to get me up so early? I'm still tired," Vincent whined.

"The sun's been up for two hours."

"It's summer vacation, Gramps. I should be able to sleep in."

"You can sleep in on the weekends. Today's Thursday. You'd normally be up and at work already if not for that stunt down the well."

"I already told you I'm done working for the summer." He lifted his bandaged hands into the air. "By the time I get these off it'll be time to go back to school. My flight is already booked."

Chris turned the vehicle onto the dirt road that led into the trees on the Bumstead property. "Is this the road you boys took?"

"Uh huh."

The gravel road ran deep through the trees and out into an open area where the many buildings of the Bumstead farm and lumber mill once stood. Chris hadn't driven up this road in decades, and the terrible images of the three people who were brutally sacrificed up here returned as if it occurred only yesterday.

"Up over there," Vincent said and pointed. "Across that field towards those leafy trees."

The horror Vincent may have uprooted worried Chris greatly. It was the only reason he roused Vincent and hustled him out the door before any of the others were awake.

Chris stopped the vehicle and stepped out onto the property. He motioned for Vincent to lead the way, and soon both Chris and Vincent hovered at the edge of the well.

Chris leaned in and looked down inside the well while Vincent remained captivated by the stains along the surface of the capstones. "I didn't even realize I was bleeding that much."

Chris ignored Vincent and shone his light deep down inside. Even with fresh batteries and a strong beam, the light dispersed rapidly and left the contents at the bottom in a hazy dimness. He focused the beam along the wall inside about twelve feet down.

Vincent leaned over the opening next to his grandfather. "Wow!" He laughed nervously. He grabbed onto the hemp rope that still dangled deep into the well with one bandaged hand and leaned further over the opening. "I really climbed up all that way out of there?"

Chris nodded. "That you did, my boy," he said, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He held the beam steady on the wall where the collapse occurred, and he tucked the images he collected away inside his brain. The collapse was exactly where he suspected it would be. This was definitely a problem. He redirected the flashlight beam down to the bottom, and the brightness of the round stone stuck out against the grey dullness of the others.

Vincent stopped laughing suddenly as the bottom of the well became visible under the light. He snapped his head away from the opening and stepped back from the well. "I don't want to be here today. I want to go now, Gramps."

"What? We just got here," he said. He glanced at Vincent with curiosity and returned his gaze back down to the bottom of the well.

Vincent crossed his arms and turned his back to his Gramps and the well.

"Look, Vincent. I brought you out here so you could to tell me what happened to you out here. You can begin with how exactly you three ended up at this place."

Vincent said nothing and kept his back to his Gramps. He was clearly unsettled about something.

"Vincent. I'm not angry. I just want to talk about what happened." He touched Vincent on the shoulder.

Vincent pulled away. "Can't we just go already? I don't want to remember anything about being down there. Please, Gramps. I really don't want to be here."

"Is it because of your friends? I know it hurts..."

"It's not about them!" he shouted. "Let's just go already! I just don't want to be out here anymore!"

Chris shone the flashlight back down inside the well one more time. The single, white stone stole all of the light that reached down to the bottom and left all of the other stones awash in a cold dull, grey colour that left him unsettled. It was almost as if it was alive and thirsting for the sun it had not seen for a very long time. He stared at the white stone and grimaced as he suddenly knew that it wasn't really a stone at all. Is that what bothered Vincent?

"Yeah. I think maybe you're right," he said.

He continued to stare down. For a second, he thought it moved. It couldn't move. Could it?

"Vincent," he said calmly. He also wanted to leave. "We can leave if you really want to. I shouldn't have made you come out here so soon. We can come back another time."

Chris tucked the flashlight in his back pocket and ushered Vincent down across the grassy field to his parked car. He hated what he saw down the well, but it was what he had come for and expected to see all along.

The unexpected but distinctive sound of wheels crushing gravel came from the trees across the field in the distance as they were about to climb back into the vehicle. A patrol car emerged and headed directly towards them.

"Aw, Jesus," Chris whispered.

"What, Gramps?"

"Never mind."

The patrol car slowed and stopped only feet away from the front of Chris's car, blocking him deliberately.

"Just let me do the talking, you hear me?"

"Uh huh."

The door opened and Officer Jet Wu emerged. He positioned his hat onto his head, tipped it a few degrees to one side, and glanced once around the overgrown property before focusing his full attention towards Chris.

"Mr. Pattison." He smiled. "What a surprise it is to find you out here so early this morning. The sun's barely up."

"Officer," Chris said simply. He reached out his hand and forced a smile back.

Jet gave it a quick shake. He looked down at Vincent's bandaged hands. "How are the hands holding out?"

"Okay, I guess."

"Good to hear. Good to hear. So tell me guys, what's up?

"I brought Vincent out here to show me where he was those four days."

Jet placed his hands on his hips and studied the trees up on the rise behind Chris and Vincent. Chris guessed he was searching for the well.

Jet motioned up towards the trees where the grass was trampled. "How about you two take me up?" he asked.

The three walked one by one across the grassy field towards the well. Officer Wu took up the rear.

"What brings you all of the way out to this place?" Chris asked. He glanced back at Jet.

Jet's white teeth shone brightly as he broke into a full smile. "Dean took pictures of the well yesterday, and he asked me to load them onto his computer. I accidentally messed up all his pictures."

Chris frowned. He didn't like the idea of pictures being taken of the inside of the well now that he saw what was down there.

"Messed up?" Vincent asked puzzled.

"They were on his phone." He pulled out Dean's phone from his pocket, lifted it into the air, and waved it around. "I accidentally deleted them."

"Oh," Vincent replied and smirked. He was trying not to giggle.

"You think this is funny?" Jet asked.

Vincent shook his head. "No, Sir."

"Good. This is official police business, and those photos are evidence. Do you know what evidence is?"

"Of course I do," Vincent mumbled. He was annoyed at the demeaning question. "But what do you need pictures of the well for?"

"It's just part of the paperwork process."

"Uh huh," Vincent replied as if he understood the simplicity of Jet's statement, but Chris could sense the wheels turning wildly in Vincent's head.

"Am I in trouble?" Vincent asked.

Chris didn't like where the conversation was going and answered Vincent immediately. "Of course you're not in any trouble. What you three did was stupid and foolish. Nothing you did out here hurt anyone or has anything to do with the accident."

"Technically, that's not true," Jet replied as they continued up the small incline. "This is private property." He stared up at Vincent. "I also understand you three had a fire out here. It's the middle of August, and there's a fire ban in the valley. On top of that, you were all drinking ,and you left your beer cans everywhere. Just look at that mess up there." He pointed to the ground ahead where multiple beer cans were scattered about. They were approaching the well. "Are you going to tell me those aren't your beer cans?"

Chris was suddenly annoyed. He feigned a chuckle. "You're not thinking about actually charging Vincent with these silly, minor violations, are you?"

Jet stopped, looked sternly at Chris, and pointed down at the beer cans. "You think it's okay for him to misbehave and litter someone else's property like this? I could charge him with all that and much more."

"Pfff," Chris puffed in disgust. "You won't though." Chris knew he shouldn't have said it, but he didn't like what Jet was suggesting.

Jet turned towards Vincent. "Do you think I should charge you, take you down to the station for some detailed questioning about what you three were up to out here?"

Vincent's eyes suddenly swelled in size. "No. We didn't mean any harm. Really, we didn't. It was just a bit of fun."

"A bit of fun? Maybe you should come back and clean up this place. What do you think? Would that be fun?"

Vincent looked down at the multiple beer cans that were scattered in the grass. "Not really, but..." He bent down and picked up one of the cans.

Jet raised an eyebrow at Chris and moved toward the well. Chris understood immediately that Jet was not going to treat anything lightly today. He didn't like this rookie officer at all.

"Let's see what we got here," Jet said as he leaned in and peered down the well. He flashed off a few photos without paying too much attention to the task. "Not a fun place to be stuck, is it?" he said to Vincent.

Vincent shook his head. "No, sir."

Jet snapped off more photos and sat down on the edge of the well. "Did you learn anything from this?"

"Excuse me?" Vincent replied.

"Did you learn anything?" He turned so he could face Vincent and motioned at him to come forward. He pointed down the well. "Come here boy. Take a look."

Chris stood away from the well.

Vincent stepped up to the well, leaned in, and stared down to the bottom. He could see nothing but the stone walls that disappeared into blackness.

"Oh, I'm sorry. You can't see anything down there," Jet said apologizing sarcastically. He pulled his flashlight from his belt, reached out behind him, and shone it down to the bottom.

"What the hell are you doing?" Chris called out at Jet in attempt to keep him from staring down the well any longer than necessary.

Jet remained seated at the edge. He grinned at Chris.

With a fully charged set of batteries, the police issue Maglite carried a powerful narrow beam that lit the well all the way to the bottom. "Tell me what you see," Jet commanded.

The delight with which Jet was exercising his authority over Vincent was very clear as he kept his eyes focused upon Chris. It made Chris furious.

"I really don't want to..." Vincent replied.

"C'mon, boy. Tell me what you see. I want to hear what you've learned from all of this."

Chris couldn't hold back any longer. "Leave him be!" he shouted.

Officer Jet shook his head. "We're not done here quite yet, Mr. Pattison." He pulled the flashlight back and turned towards Vincent. "Do you want me to hook you to that rope and lower you back down to the bottom? There's a bag and stool that need to be lifted out of there."

"You won't do any such thing!" Chris shouted and stepped forward.

"Just tell me what you see when you look down there." He reached out and shone the light to the bottom again. "C'mon boy. Do you see the bag?"

Vincent drop the beer can, grabbed hold of the rope, and stared down. Chris could see the horror and panic set upon his grandson's face. He quickly stepped past Jet and pulled Vincent away from the well.

"You have no business treating Vincent like this. He's done nothing wrong." Chris moved over to the pole and began untying the rope from the pole where Aaron secured it only six days ago.

Jet stood up and tucked his flashlight away. "I just want this boy to learn something from this."

Chris scowled. "This boy has a name, Officer Wu. I would very much like it if you would call him by his name." He continued to pull the bloody rope up from the bottom and coiling it.

"And I'll take that rope when you're done," Jet added.

"Like hell you will," Chris replied. "Vincent, where did you find this rope?"

Vincent cowered beside Chris. "From the shed," he replied meekly. "In our back yard."

Chris glared at Jet and continued coiling the rope.

"It's evidence," Jet said.

"There's no crime here." Chris raised his voice. "It's my Goddamned rope, and I'm taking it home!"

Vincent shuddered under Chris' outburst and shuffled a few steps further behind his grandfather.

Jet stepped away from the well, removed his hat, and ran one hand through his hair before replacing it. He planted his feet firmly and pointed towards Chris. "I don't think you understand what's going on here. You keep on pushing me, Mr. Pattison, and I will charge you with obstruction. I don't think either of us really wants that. Dean said you were a good man, but I'm just not seeing that here today. You can take that rope with you, but you make damn sure that rope doesn't go anywhere."

Chris lifted the fully coiled rope into the air beside him. "It's just a rope."

Jet slipped the phone back into his hand. "There are photos here that Dean wants to see. I honestly don't think there's anything out here even worth investigating. That's another story where Dean's concerned. I don't know why he wants these photos, but he does. You just keep that boy of yours on a tight rope of his own."

"His name is Vincent."

Jet nodded. "Ok. You keep Vincent on a tight rope and we'll all get along just fine."

"I'm leaving town next week," Vincent added softly. "For University. UBC."

Jet nodded again. "Well, good for you, Vincent. I just moved out here from Vancouver myself only a few months ago. You'll like it out there."

"I do like it out there. I've already spent two years out there."

Jet smiled at him. "You just keep your head out of trouble. You hear me? No more stupid stunts like this."

Vincent nodded. "No, sir."

Jet took a few more photos of the outside of the well and then followed Chris and Vincent back to the vehicles.

CHAPTER 50 Day Seven - Thursday 11:10 AM

"Where are you?" Dean questioned. The radio was crackling a lot this morning, and he had trouble hearing.

"I just left the Bumstead place," Jet replied. "And you'll never guess who I ran into out here."

"Tell me. I'm all ears."

"That kid, Vincent and his grandfather."

"Really," Dean replied. It roused his curiosity. "What were they doing out there?"

"The old man just said he wanted the boy to show him where he was trapped. I thought it strange to find them out there so early."

"You think they were up to something?"

"I can't say for sure. But that old man has a very bad attitude."

"Chris? I've known Chris for years. He's gentle as a lamb." He had witnessed Chris break out of his normal politeness on occasion. He could be harsh and abrupt, but his outbursts always seemed justified under the circumstances. "What did he do?"

"Just attitude. He mocked me and told me to lay off the kid."

"Ayuh," Dean replied. Chris was always defensive of his grandson. Jet must have pushed him.

"So you were laying into the kid?"

"Depends on what you mean by laying into."

Dean sat quietly on Jet's words.

"Okay," Jet offered after a few seconds. "Maybe I leaned on him a little strong."

He knew it. It was a side of Jet he heard about from his former precinct but had never witnessed himself in the three months since Jet arrived in town. He heard rumours of Jet's aggressiveness with suspected Jon's and street girls down on the East side of Vancouver where he worked before transferring out to Bluffington, and he suspected that this may have been the reason they transferred him. The rumours were unsubstantiated, but they circled around coercing payoffs from Jon's and aggressively abusing some of the street girls for favours. Dean patrolled the very same streets on Vancouver's East side himself for many years before coming to Bluffington and knew very well of how the line of acceptable conduct was often straddled.

"I've known Chris and his grandson for a long time. These are good people, and I have come to think of Chris as a friend. That boy of his just went through hell down in that well, and both Chris and his wife thought they lost him in that horrible crash. The last thing I want is Chris and Anita thinking we're a bunch of bad asses coming down on them for no good reason after what they just went through."

"They were both giving me attitude."

"Vincent? Giving attitude? Now come on. That I don't believe for a second."

"You calling me a liar, Dean?"

"I'm saying I don't want a misunderstanding. That's all."

The radio crackled loudly. Dean thought he lost the connection.

"I think they understood me clearly," Jet said finally.

"Uh huh. And I'd like to make sure of that."

The radio crackled again.

"What are you suggesting?"

"How about you drive over to see Chris and apologize for leaning on his grandson a little strong? _Leaning on strong_ were your words, not mine."

The radio crackled some more.

"Jet?"

No answer.

"Jet, are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"I heard you."

"Then you'll go over?"

"If it's what you really want."

Dean smiled. He knew he was seeing the edge of Jet's problematic nature. "It is what I want. So how about you go over right now. The sooner you apologize, the better."

Dean heard Jet release an infuriated sigh over the radio. "I'll head over now," he said.

Dean could tell Jet was not pleased, but he wasn't about to let him stray. Not on his watch. He thought about asking Jet about the ghost Millie mentioned but decided to wait. He was more concerned about his cell phone.

"Do you have my phone?"

"I do," Jet replied. He sounded annoyed that Dean even asked.

"Are you going to load the pictures?"

Jet didn't reply.

"Jet?"

"I'm going over to the old man's place like you asked."

"About my pictures..."

"I just told you, I'm going over to see the old man. What the hell else do you want from me right now, Dean? I have your damn pictures. Just get off my back already."

The dam holding back Jet's true nature had certainly cracked this morning. Dean decided not to provoke Jet any further.

"Just go talk to Chris. That's all I want for now."

Jet turned the radio off.

CHAPTER 51 Day Seven - Thursday 12:58 PM

"Where's Arlene?" Chris asked.

"She went out for a walk along the river. She goes for a lot of walks it seems," Anita replied. "She goes every day, around noon and again after dinner. I offered to go with her, but she said she wanted to be alone to think about some things."

"Think about things? What does she have to think about?" he said, but he knew there was a lot for her to think about after being away for so many years.

"I really don't know, Chris. I asked to go with her yesterday after dinner, but she said no then too." She laughed lightly as she wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and grabbed the kettle. "I can't really walk that far these days anyways."

Chris nodded and sat down at the kitchen table.

Anita filled the kettle for tea. "You and Vincent were gone awful early. I didn't even hear either of you get up."

"I took him out to the Bumstead place."

"Oh?" Anita frowned. "Whatever for?" she asked, but Chris could tell she knew why he went out there.

Chris hesitated. He wanted to make up some reason to cover the truth, but her stare reached deep inside him. "You know I couldn't just go out there by myself. We were only out there for a bit and then grabbed breakfast over at Denny's afterwards."

"And..."

"Service was damned slow and it wasn't even busy in there today. Ever since that young girl, Alex, left the kitchen, it hasn't been so good in there. I asked for eggs over easy like I always do and they were over hard. Not even a bit of runny egg to dip my toast into. I had half a mind to not leave a tip. I don't know why I keep going back there."

Anita stopped fussing with the tea and stared at Chris. "Chris, you know what I mean. I don't care about your silly breakfast at Denny's."

Chris smiled and forced a laugh. "That new Officer Wu, the one who was with Dean the other day, showed up just as we were about to leave. I didn't expect to see anyone out there, and it was a good thing I brought Vincent with me. I don't like that Officer."

"He came by the house while you were out."

"What? Who did?" Chris asked. He sat up straight and stared at Anita in disbelief.

"That Officer Wu. He stopped by the house looking for you and Vincent."

Chris frowned. "How long ago?"

Anita looked up at the clock. "Must've been half an hour."

"What did he want?"

Anita shook her head. "I really don't know. Arlene answered the door and slipped out front to talk to him."

"Out front?"

"Yes." The kettle began to whistle, and Anita removed it from the burner.

Chris's mind raced over what happened with Officer Wu at the well. Why would he come by the house?

"Did Arlene say what he wanted?"

"No. She looked awful upset though. I could see she was trying to hide it but I could tell he upset her. I think that's why she went out for her walk."

"Surely she must have said something about why he came all of the way out here?"

"Just that he wanted to talk to you and Vincent."

Chris watched Anita pour the water for the tea and cover the teapot with a tea cozy to let it steep. Was it possible that Officer Wu saw what he saw at the bottom of the well? He certainly didn't act like he saw anything at the time. Could he really have loaded and viewed those pictures that quickly?

"I don't like that man at all," Chris said. "He was really belligerent and rude to Vincent. He nearly had the poor boy in tears. I was so damned angry I would have liked to have thrown him down that bloody well."

"Chris! Don't even pretend to talk like that."

Chris was furious again. "I'm sorry, but that officer had no right to behave the way he did with us. You should have heard him. Taunting Vincent and then threatening to lower him down to the bottom with that rope that was still hanging out there."

"Oh my. He doesn't sound very nice."

"I don't like him. And that reminds me..." Chris stood up to leave the room. "I left the rope in my car. If Officer Wu thinks I'm turning that rope over to him, he's got another thing coming."

"Rope?" Anita asked.

"The rope the boys lowered into the well. Vincent took it from the shed out back. That officer wanted me to hand it over to him."

"What in heaven's name for?"

"That, Anita, is a very good question. I don't like that man."

"You keep saying that."

"Well I don't, Goddamn it," Chris said. He left the room to return the rope to the shed.

CHAPTER 52 Day Eight - Friday 8:49 AM

"Hi Millie. Has Jet been in yet?"

It was Friday morning and Dean had a lot on his mind.

"He just called and said he has some bad stomach cramps."

"What? He seemed fine yesterday morning when I spoke to him."

"He might come in later. He said he went to Timmy's like he does every morning for breakfast, and it just snuck up on him when he hopped in his truck. He's going back home for now. Said he'd be in later if it lets up."

"Did he at least drop off my phone before he left last night?"

Millie looked at Dean. "Sorry. Did you check your desk?"

Dean quickly scanned his desk and logged onto the computer. The phone wasn't anywhere around and none of the photos were uploaded.

"What the hell is Jet thinking? I need my phone. I only gave it to him to the load the photos, and now he's had it for two days. I probably won't get it back until Monday if he doesn't come in."

"You should have used the shop camera. Nobody to blame but yourself on that one. He is entitled to a sick day."

Dean hated it when Millie was right. "How hard is it to upload a few bloody photos?"

Millie laughed.

"I know, I know. I should have done it myself." He wondered for a moment if Jet had deliberately failed to load the photos and feigned being sick after their minor altercation yesterday.

"Yes, you should have done it yourself. But Jet did seem out of sorts when he came in at the end of his shift last night."

"Out of sorts? What kind of out of sorts are we talking about?"

"Maybe that's why he didn't load those photos of yours. He looked awfully pale and said that he saw that ghost again."

Dean was tired of the ghost talk. "Aw, Jesus, Millie. There's no ghost. What is the matter with this guy?"

Millie chuckled. She liked knowing all of the strange tales. "He didn't say too much last night, and I could tell he was in a hurry to get out of here. He just said that he saw the ghost again. And he spoke to her this time."

"Her?" Dean shook his head in disbelief. He hated listening to this crap. "The ghost is a female?"

"Yup."

"Did she at least speak back to him?"

Millie laughed again. "He didn't say."

"Well, did he say what he said to the ghost?"

"He didn't say that either. He just said that he saw the ghost again, and he didn't know what to do about it."

Dean heard enough. "He's sick all right. He's starting to see things. Did you give him some advice about these ghosts he claims to be seeing?"

Millie shrugged. "I told him if he's starting to see ghosts then maybe he's low on Vitamin B or something. My mother had a deficiency of Vitamin B once, and she swore she saw miniature wildebeests running around the house, hiding in the closets, and scooting around corners. The doctor said it was because she was very low on vitamin B and watched too many of those nature documentaries."

Dean smiled at Millie. "Your mother is a very nice lady."

"But she did see miniature wildebeests. It's true."

He nodded. "I think Jet is missing something more than just Vitamin B."

CHAPTER 53 Day Eight - Friday 7:22 PM

"Just look at him!" Arlene said to Barbara. "He looks like Richie Cunningham."

Barbara rolled her eyes, reached over, and tugged at her husband, Charlie, who was trying hard not to be pulled into the conversation. Barbara found Arlene's manic behaviour annoying and preferred not to entertain Arlene alone.

"I really don't see the resemblance at all," Barbara replied. She knew Charlie was not about to step in to rescue her.

"But, look..." Arlene tilted her head and puckered her lips. "He's got those little dimples on his cheeks." She tittered like a school girl.

"Vincent doesn't have freckles and his hair's not the same," Barbara replied.

"If his hair was thin and reddish instead of blonde then you'd see what I mean. He's even skinny like Richie Cunningham."

Vincent looked up and across the room when he heard his name. His mother and other relatives were staring at him. He turned away and whispered something to his Gramps sitting next to him. His Gramps laughed and rubbed his hand across Vincent's head. Vincent smiled back and whispered something in Anna's ear, and she laughed too.

"Who's this Richie?" Darrel piped in.

"He's from a TV show from the seventies," his mother replied.

Darrel snickered. "No wonder I have no idea what she's talking about. I wasn't even born then."

"The rest of us have no idea what she's talking about most of the time either, Darrel," Jennifer replied and chuckled.

"You don't see it? Really? None of you?" Arlene asked again.

"No!" Barbara and Charlie said in unison and laughed.

Arlene was clearly disappointed that her siblings didn't see things the way she did, and she continued to stare giddily across the room at Vincent. The resemblance was so very clear to her.

"So tell me," Barbara said to Arlene to change the subject. "You never updated any of us on what it is you've been doing out in Vancouver."

Arlene's giddiness fell away like a heavy stone, and she lowered her eyes.

"Arlene?" Barbara prompted. "You must be doing something out there," she said pleasantly. "What have you been up to all of this time?"

Arlene turned and glared at Barbara. "Why do you want to know?" she snapped. "Why does everyone have to know what everyone else is doing? What does it matter what I do? Huh?"

Barbara recoiled at Arlene's sudden change in temperament. "I didn't mean..."

"What!" Arlene spewed loudly. The room went immediately quiet and all eyes shifted to Arlene.

"You didn't mean what?" she hollered. "I didn't ask you what you do! Why can't everyone just be satisfied with knowing what they know, huh? Why does everyone feel like they have to know everything?"

Barbara sat upright and reached out with one arm towards Arlene in an attempt to console her. "I'm so sorry, Arlene. I didn't mean to upset you. I was just trying find out a bit more about you."

Arlene recoiled from Barbara. "Well, you don't need to know!" she shouted and stood up. "What I do is my own fucking business and no one else's!" She stormed off down the hall to Chris' study.

"Arlene," Chris called as she brushed past him, but she continued to race away without so much as a glance.

Barbara looked at Charlie, shook her head, and tried not to laugh at the strange outburst. Charlie recognized everyone's discomfort and immediately stood up and raised his beer in the air. "Um, hey! Everyone!"

The uneasiness about the room remained as Charlie pumped his glass in the air a few more times urging everyone to grab their drink and raise it high into the air. "Where's mom? Mom needs to be here with the rest of us. Mom?"

"I think she's in the kitchen," Chris said. "Anita!"

Barbara got up and leaned into the kitchen. "Anita, just leave the dishes. I'll help you with those later. Charlie wants to make a toast and he wants us all in the living room."

Anita dropped what she was doing, followed Barbara into the room, and stood by the door wiping her hands with the towel.

"Barbara and I have to leave soon, and I really wanted to say something to Vincent before we go." He pumped his glass one more time higher into the air and smiled at Vincent.

"Vincent, I don't know when we'll see each other again. Maybe Thanksgiving or even Christmas."

"I'm coming back for Thanksgiving," Vincent replied.

"Thanksgiving it is, then. I just wanted to say it's so good to have you back. It's not every day you get to have someone very special in your life return from the dead."

Many laughed.

"I was never dead," Vincent said and smiled.

"Well that shiny black coffin looked pretty darn real to us. We all believed it, and we all cried terribly hard. Let me just say that those few days were very hard for all of us. Especially for mom and dad." Chris nodded, and Anita smiled at Vincent and blew him a kiss. "You mean a lot to us, kiddo. We almost lost you, and that is something that will stick with us for a very long time."

Multiple comments of agreement were uttered.

"You have made a difference in our lives. The biggest in the lives of mom and dad. Just look at them."

Anita was wiping away a tear that rolled down her cheek, and Chris was looking very stoic.

"In a few days you'll be going back to university, and that, my young nephew, is a very big deal. Only two more years and you'll have your degree and be on your way to a great future and great adventures. But hopefully the rest of your life will not be quite as eventful as this last adventure of yours." Chuckles echoed his sentiment. "We are all very proud of you, Vincent. I just wanted you to know that."

"Hear, hear!" Graham shouted.

"Let's all raise our glasses and drink. A toast to Vincent!"

Glasses were lifted, arms stretched, and glasses clinked in response to Charlie's toast and the many other toasts that followed. Vincent grinned and smiled humbly. He accepted the praise in stride.

The family gathering ended with Anita and Chris giving hugs and thanks as the guests departed.

***

Arlene remained alone in Chris' study long into the evening. When she finally emerged, she behaved as if her episodic outburst of earlier never even happened. No one dared to bring up her shameless behavior, and Arlene was soon sitting on the sofa next to her mother in silent restlessness. She fidgeted about until it seemed she couldn't stand it any longer.

"Ahem," she grunted loudly to clear her throat. Chris, Anita, and Anna all looked up at her curiously. "I want to say something. It's mostly to Vincent, but I want you all to hear what I have to say."

Vincent gazed out the window when she entered the room. He cast a short glance her way as she cleared her throat. It was no secret that he didn't want to listen to a single word his mother had to say.

"Just so you all know, I'm leaving tomorrow." Her expression was tight and serious, but her eyes danced around manically as if the unspoken anxiety behind her earlier rage still lingered precariously below the surface.

Vincent turned towards her. "I hope you're not expecting to sit next to me and Anna on the plane."

"Vincent!" his Grams scolded.

"I'm not sitting next to her all the way back to Vancouver! I'm not! She knows Anna and I are leaving tomorrow. That's probably the only reason she has to leave the same day as us."

Anna looked at Vincent's grandparents.

Arlene clenched her fists and thumped one of them on the seat beside her. "Darn it, Vincent!" She clenched her teeth as she spoke. "I'm not even on the same flight as you. I made sure of that."

"Good," he replied.

"Vincent, please stop talking like that to your mother," his Grams insisted.

Vincent stood up to leave. "She's not my mother."

Anna grabbed his hand to prevent him from walking away.

"Like it or not, Vincent," his Gramps said. "She is your mother, so please sit down."

Arlene beat the couch with her fist. "Hey! I'm trying to say something here! Would you all just shut up and let me talk!"

Anita was startled by Arlene's aggression.

"Just all of you, listen to me!" she shouted, and stood up with her fists tightly clenched.

Vincent moved nearer to Anna and glared openly at the others with his mouth open as if to say, "See? Can't you all see she is crazy?"

"I only wanted to say that I am glad I came back here! I am! I really don't care what you all think of me. I know Charlie and Jennifer hate me..."

"They don't hate you," Anita interjected.

"...but I probably deserve it. I never wanted to come back here and be a bother to anyone, but I am glad I came back."

She turned her attention to Vincent. "And mostly I'm glad I got to see you, Vincent. You don't have to like me and you don't even have to talk to me ever again, but I will always be around if you change your mind someday."

He grunted. "How about never?"

"Someday..." She said forcefully and forced a smile at him. He didn't return it. "And thanks mom and dad for putting up with me this week."

"You've been a big help to your father," Anita said. "It's not easy with me when my brain goes. You know what I mean." She looked at Chris and reached for his hand. "Chris looks after me very well, but he deserves a break from time to time."

"Yes." Chris nodded. "Thanks for coming. I do feel better with the extra sleep."

"Charlie was right in what he said about Vincent," Arlene added. "He has been good for both of you, and it looks like you've raised him well. Probably better than I ever could have. I can see that."

Vincent rolled his eyes. "No doubt," he whispered.

Chris nodded to her. "We raised him the best we could."

"But you really don't have to leave tomorrow," Anita said. "Why not stay another week or two?"

Vincent sat back down on the couch next to Anna. He looked at his Grams and scratched his head. He didn't understand her continuous outreach of compassion towards her.

"No, I can't stay another day. I really have to get back."

"But why? Is it because of what Barbara said?"

"No, It has nothing to do with Barbara or anyone else here."

"Then why rush off, dear?"

"I just have to, mom. Seriously. I have to go back home tomorrow."

Anita smiled at her. "Well... You do know you're welcome back anytime. Just come. I like having you here next to me. It's always better talking face to face."

CHAPTER 54 Day Ten - Sunday 10:05 AM

Anita placed Chris' cup of tea on the small table next to him on the patio and adjusted the umbrella. It was still early in the morning and the sun already shone down fiercely. She finally sat down opposite Chris, pulled her chair in so it was tucked beneath the shade, and stared out towards the university. She fidgeted her fingers in circles around each other before reaching for her tea. Chris could tell she wanted to talk, but he wasn't exactly sure what it was about. They dropped Vincent, Anna, and Arlene off at the airport earlier, and since they'd returned, Anita was reserved and unsettled.

Chris suspected it might have something to with the well after all the talk on the drive to the airport was centred around the well and Vincent's friends. He only just remembered Vincent's cell phone was sitting in the drawer moments before they left the house for the airport because Vincent remarked how he'd have to get a new phone as soon as he got settled. Chris felt almost foolish for having forgotten completely that he shoved it in the drawer. He joked that Anita's dementia must be catching. Anita laughed and slapped him gently on the arm. Vincent just smiled; he assumed his cell phone was destroyed in the fiery crash. All of his photos, music, and contacts were not lost forever.

Vincent glowed the entire trip out to the airport. He could talk of nothing but his friends and the many photos they took that night out at the well. But with two weeks since its last charge, the phone was completely dead. He'd have to wait until he got back to school to recharge it.

Chris rested his had on Anita's arm and sighed. "Okay. So I haven't told you everything from when Vincent and I were out at the well the other day."

Anita frowned at him and sipped at her tea. She spoke quietly. "You went out there on Thursday and you're only mentioning it to me now? When you don't tell me something right away, it's always bad, Chris. You do this. You mull it over for a while as if you're searching for the right time, the right words, or just hoping it will go away."

He responded with a chuckle. Sometimes she did know him too well. "Well, we certainly do have a problem."

"I suspected as much," she said softly. "It's never just done and over with you. It never has been."

He hated that she knew him so well. At least she didn't say 'I told you so'. He knew she wanted to.

"Officer Wu took pictures of the inside of the well," he said.

She turned and stared at him; she did not fully understand what he meant. "So? There's nothing to see inside the well."

He sighed heavily. "I'm afraid there is."

"What do you mean, Chris?"

"He took pictures of the inside."

"You said that already. You told me long ago there was nothing on the inside. What's down there to see?"

"I hate that man. I really do."

"You said it would all be okay. What's down there?"

Chris sipped slowly on his tea and wished he were somewhere else.

"One of the skulls."

Anita's entire body twitched sharply at his words and her tea sloshed about and spilled down her hand. She put the cup down quickly onto the table and glared at him as she wiped her hand dry on the tea towel. Chris could feel her glare burn deep inside him.

CHAPTER 55 Day Twelve - Tuesday 14:22 PM

The coastal air blew gently across the waters of the Strait of Georgia and scuttled Vincent's hair around. He sat resting on one of the many weathered logs that lay scattered across the sands at Wreck Beach below the University and stared out across the water. He was certainly glad to be back at school, but he tried to put the roller coaster ride of his emotions at bay and it just wasn't happening.

The sadness returned when he charged his cell phone and saw Roger and Aaron's smiling faces in the many photos taken out at Bumstead's well. It ripped at him and filled him with guilt. He couldn't stand to be near anyone, so he fled across campus and down through the strip of forest to the beach to be alone. He wiped at the tears that were freely breaking the surface.

Vincent stared blankly out across the white-capped waves and was mesmerized at how the sun sparkled and danced across them. It seemed as though the world was a perfect and peaceful place, and there were no problems and reasons to worry. The rhythmic rush of sudsy water swept up the beach towards him and then pulled away again. It toyed with his apprehension and made him feel lost.

He looked down at his phone and called the number of the only person he knew who could truly understand how he felt. But his Grams answered.

"Hi, Grams," he said. "Is Gramps around?" He forced joy into his voice despite his true countenance.

"Vincent!" she exclaimed. "I'm so glad you called, but your Gramps isn't here. He's gone out somewhere. I honestly don't know when he'll be back."

"I just wanted to talk to him, that's all."

"Has something happened?" she asked.

"Oh, no. Nothing like that. I just wanted to talk. You know... to hear his voice."

"Well, you know we both miss you so much already. And it's good to hear that you made it back to school safely..." She paused a moment. "This house... It feels much too big these days. With your Gramps and I alone here since you left, it can get awfully quiet and lonely. We really do miss you when you're not here."

Her words stung. He didn't expect to feel such emotion, but he did.

"I miss you too, Grams," he said. He swallowed hard and a lump caught in his throat. He missed his grandparents more than he could ever have imagined he would.

"Are you and Anna settled in yet? School must be starting soon."

"School starts in a few days, and yes, we are both settled in at our dorms."

"That's nice. Anna is such a nice girl. I am so glad we got to meet her. Your Gramps is so happy for you."

"Thanks, Grams," he said. He wanted to cry out that he was going to jump on the next bus and come home to be with them. He wanted to say he understood what was happening to the family. He worried dearly for his Gramps because of the intense worry his Gramps had about his Grams. Her progressing dementia and the care she required consumed him, and he wanted to express his worries to her, but the right words escaped him. He resigned himself to common phrases that seemed so dry and empty.

"I just called to say how much I am missing you both. You have done so much for me. I'm just really thankful for you two."

His Grams hesitated in her response, and he thought he could hear her struggling not to cry.

"You were always such an angel."

Her words were followed by silence, and Vincent sensed his Grams' anguish building at the distance between them. He couldn't tell for sure, but he believed she was as cogent as ever and her dementia was sequestered elsewhere. Her coherent mind comforted him.

"Thanksgiving is not far away. We'll see each other then," he said.

His Grams voice broke in her response. "You just make sure you study hard, Vincent. And you make your own way in this world. We'll always be here for you whenever you want to come home. Your Gramps isn't here right now, but if he was, you already know what he'd say to you, so I'm not about to speak for him. We both love you very much, and we know that you will do great things out there again this year again."

Vincent tried not to cry, but the tears that were waiting to fall even before he made the call couldn't be held back any longer, and a few slipped down his cheeks.

"I miss you Grams. I so want to jump back on a bus or plane and come home... But I know that would be the wrong thing to do. Gramps always said..." He hesitated. He thought of the well and his seemingly impossible struggle for freedom.

"Gramps was right, Grams. He always has been. Can you tell him that for me? Please?"

"Of course, Vincent. You've always been very special to him."

He could hear his grandmother's anguish dissipate as she spoke Her voice was filled with compassion, love, and a warmth. He could feel his love for his grandparents growing with each word.

He sniffed and wiped his runny nose on his sleeve.

"I know, Grams. I know. But I will be back at Thanksgiving. I promise."

His Grams didn't respond right away. She seemed to be searching for the right words.

"I know you will, dear. But I don't think that's the real reason you called this afternoon. You've always come back for Thanksgiving. I think the reason you called is because you have something more important on your mind. I know you wanted to talk to your Gramps, but I think I know what is troubling you."

"Huh?" He hadn't expected his Grams to be so bold.

"She sits heavy on my mind too."

"Who?" He knew of whom she spoke.

"A lot has happened to you over these past few weeks. It can be hard to let people get close after such an ordeal. And let me tell you, Vincent. I've had my challenges over the years with blocking people out of my life." She laughed. "I was young like you once. And I've done things and said things that I wish I could take back, but I can't. It's too late for me, but it's not too late for you."

"I don't know what you mean, Grams."

"Sure you do."

"I don't think I do. What are you suggesting?"

His Grams laughed. "I think your mother has been bothering you."

"But I'm not even thinking about her," he said. But that wasn't true. He hadn't been able to get his mother off his mind since he returned home from the well and saw her for the first time in nine years. She was like a permanent fungus growing on his skin.

"I really do think she's the reason behind your call," she said.

He wanted to tell his Grams to stop talking about her. He hated his mother so much. Even the mention of the word "mother" made him tense.

"It's never too late, Vincent. She is trying," she added.

Vincent was at a loss for words. He hoped to reach his Gramps when he'd called because he knew how the talk with his Gramps would progress. He would talk and his Gramps would only listen. He would make no comment or judgement. He listened to his Grams now. Was she judging him?

"She hurt me, Grams."

His grams laughed heartily. "She hurt many of us. But look how close we have become because of what she did."

She was right. He never would have been this close to his Grandparents if not for his mother leaving him on their doorstep. But his Grams couldn't seriously suggest that he owed his mother anything.

"But what she did to me still isn't right."

"No, I agree. But that was such a long time ago. And you have turned into a very fine young man despite what she did."

Vincent continued to talk to his Grams over the next half hour and he came to accept that his Grams was right all along about the reason for his call. He didn't like it, but having his mother on his mind was certainly going to be a problem as he came upon the upcoming semester.

CHAPTER 56 Day Thirteen - Wed 8:10 AM

Dean arrived at the station hoping to see Jet's pickup truck in the parking lot, but it was nowhere to be seen.

"Did Jet call in again?" he asked Millie. Millie was busy fussing with the air conditioner controls.

"I haven't heard from him yet."

"This is ridiculous." He looked at the clock. Jet surely should have called in by now. "Friday, Monday, and Tuesday he calls in sick. And today he's a no show again?"

"I don't know what to tell you, Dean. He sounded terrible yesterday when he called. Could hardly speak and said his stomach was still hurting him."

"Yeah, you told me that yesterday. You sure he hasn't called in yet?"

Millie gave up on the air conditioner and sat down in her chair. "I just said he hasn't. You want me to lie?"

Dean chuckled. "I just hate being without my phone."

Millie shrugged and began inputting information into her computer.

"I might drive over there."

"Where? To Jet's place?"

"Ayuh," Dean replied. "I could pick up my phone at least, and I could see how sick he really is."

"Or I could just call him," Millie offered.

Dean thought about her offer. He really wanted his phone back. Even if she called Jet, he'd still have to go over there to pick up his phone.

"No, Millie. I think I'll just swing over his way later. He's up on the bench isn't he?"

"Just a sec," Millie replied. She punched some keys on her keyboard, pulled up Jet's address, and quickly copied it down. "No, he's not on the bench anymore. That was temporary. He's moved into one of those new condos on the south end of Main." She handed Dean the note with Jet's address. "It's one of those new four-story units. Looks like a very nice place."

"Thanks, Millie. If he calls before I get out there please let him know I'm coming by."

"Will do."

"Oh, Millie? Do you know if he went to see a doctor?"

Millie looked up at him. "Yesterday when he called in he said he'd give it one more day. If he wasn't feeling any better by today, he said he was going down to the clinic."

Dean nodded.

CHAPTER 57 Day Thirteen - Wed 9:40 AM

"Well, that certainly is good news, Dr. Hamil." Chris said. "Isn't it, Anita?"

They were seated in front of Dr. Hamil at his office.

Chris looked at Anita and could sense by her distant expression that she didn't share in his enthusiasm. He didn't know if her temperament was caused by the dementia or the skull that still rested at the bottom of Bumstead's well.

Anita put on a smile, but Chris sensed her distress underneath. The skull penetrated the forefront of her thoughts ever since he told her about it a few days ago. He knew it was still there. She hadn't once brought the topic up, but her irritation with him was broadcast in every gesticulated movement she made every time he came near. A slammed cupboard door or a plate thumped extra hard onto the counter next to him was enough to let him know she wasn't about to let go of it.

"We have a slot opening up at the end of September. Just three weeks away," Dr. Hamil said. Dr. Hamil was tall and lanky and often spoke with an indifference that bothered Chris. "I will have a firm date for you sometime next week."

"Can you give us details? I know you said it would just be overnight stays for the first while. When exactly would she be leaving the house and when would she be coming home?" Chris asked.

Anita reached over and squeezed Chris' arm as she turned to hear Dr. Hamil's reply. He felt warmth skitter about inside him. Her touch wasn't something he expected while the skull still rested where it did.

"The nurse will arrive at your home around eight o'clock each night to take her over to Steelwood. She'll return home before ten the next morning."

Chris nodded and rubbed one hand unconsciously over the other. "Can I drop her off and pick her up myself?"

Dr. Hamil responded immediately. "Absolutely not! The whole purpose of this is to relieve you of some your responsibilities and..." He glanced at Anita. "I am sorry to use this phrase but... it is meant to relieve the burden of having to constantly care for and look after your wife. Making this decision is as much for you, Chris, as it is for Anita. You told me how little sleep you've been getting now that it's just the two of you alone again."

Anita patted Chris' arm and nodded. "It's probably best this way, dear," she said.

Chris hated that she was right. "What days will it be?"

"It looks like the opening we have will be Tuesday night through Friday night. She will be home only in the daytime on Wednesday to Friday and then all weekend from Saturday morning through Tuesday evening."

Chris didn't like this man. His demeanour was abrupt and discomforting and he spoke at times as if Anita was not even in the room.

Dr. Hamil slid the consent papers across the desk and pointed to where he and Anita should sign.

Chris picked up the pen and scrawled his signature across the bottom.

"And, uh..." Dr. Hamil stretched his neck forward, reached across with one arm, and shuffled his skeleton-like finger down across the paper below Chris' signature. "The date. You need to put the date right there."

Chris added the date and stared down at his signature momentarily before he passed the documents over to Anita. The ink was like a poison, and he longed to snap the pen in half. He handed it over to Anita and watched as she wrote her name shakily below his on the document.

Is this what was it was like to sign your life away? It was definitely an un-revocable action that led exclusively in one direction. Soon the night visits over at Steelwood would commence, and he'd have nothing but cool, empty sheets to accompany him through the night. Nearly sixty years next to her would end with a few quick strokes of ink on a piece of white paper. He wanted to cry but held back for Anita's sake. Three to four weeks was all he had left with her. And then what?

It was distressing enough that the dementia was pilfering her mind away in small pieces. It was now beginning to snatch her away in small physical pieces as well. It just wasn't fair.

CHAPTER 58 Day Thirteen - Wed 11:10 AM

Chris sat alone in his study with the door closed and the drapes pulled shut. Only a single desk lamp lit the room. He knew he had to do something. Five interminable days passed since he spotted the skull at the bottom of the well, and he did nothing about it so far. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, but if the photos Officer Wu took were clear enough to expose the existence of a skull, it wouldn't be long before someone, probably Dean, knocked on his door.

"Goddamn it," Chris commented aloud. Anita was already stressed enough with her dementia. She certainly didn't need the added stress of that Goddamned skull. He tapped his frail fingers repeatedly on the desk as the smoke from his cigarette swirled about his head for a few seconds before scurrying away to oblivion.

"What to do? What to do?"

He ruminated about the circumstances that were slowly enveloping him and his family. A half hour passed by as he attempted to pull things into perspective. As with any problem, he just needed to break things down, simplify, separate, and disconnect all of the pertinent facts from one another.

Fact one: there was a skull lying at the bottom of the well. There was no denying this fact.

Fact two: there were photos taken inside the well. What the photos exposed was unclear. The skull may be clearly visible in the photos.

Fact three: the photos were taken with Dean's phone by Officer Wu. He had no idea where the phone was now.

Maybe Officer Wu didn't have the camera at all anymore. Surely he must have given it back to Dean by now.

"Shit," Chris whispered. It was very possible that he was already too late.

He pondered and reassessed for what he knew to be true until he invariably came back to Fact one and Fact two. Those were the facts that would certainly incriminate him. If there was any type of investigation into a human skull found at the bottom of a well, there would be no stopping it. It would continue to pick up speed and eventually turn into a mammoth that would ultimately crash right through his front door. He couldn't put Anita through all that again.

Was it even possible to separate Fact one and Fact two?

He puzzled along with a few more cigarettes and something so minor and small began to stick out. It was just a little thing he hadn't really paid attention to until now. Officer Wu had said he really didn't care about the photos nor what went on down inside the well. Only Dean wanted to see the photos.

Five days now passed. If Dean was so eager to see those photos, why hadn't Dean showed up? If Dean saw a skull in one of the photos, he most certainly would have dropped by with questions for Vincent. Dean had not come around to see Vincent and that could only mean one thing: Dean had not seen the photos.

And didn't Anita say Officer Wu came by the house to see him and Vincent? He asked Arlene what Officer Wu wanted after she returned from her walk that day, and she confirmed what Anita said. "He would be back later to see him and Vincent." He waited at home all afternoon but Officer Wu didn't show.

Chris stopped tapping. He lit another cigarette and drew the smoke in deep. It fed the cancer that grew undetected inside his lungs. The cigarettes that were slowly killing him also helped him focus and understand things more clearly. There was a possible solution to the problem forming in his mind.

Had Officer Wu failed to return the camera to Dean?

A smugness overcame Chris. The many wrinkles upon his old face shifted into a mischievous smile.

If Jet still had the camera and Dean had not yet seen what was at the bottom of the well, then there was still time to do something about this mess. The window of opportunity was still wedged open just enough to scramble inside.

He puffed away quietly in the dim room and knew he made a big mistake by not acting sooner.

Chris was frail, but his mind was still sharp as ever. All he needed was an action plan. He knew he could do it again if necessary, and right now it seemed very necessary. When and how evaded him for the moment, but he knew the answer would come to him. He had to act quickly.

CHAPTER 59 Day Thirteen - Wed 12:20 PM

Dean pulled up to the modern, glass block of four-story condominiums and spotted Jet's pickup out front. The condos were easy to find just behind the Bistro on the south end of downtown. Each new condo unit was comprised of two stories of floor to ceiling glass covering the front and rear exposures. Jet's unit was located on the upper two floors of the four-story structure.

As he stepped out from his cruiser, he looked up into the cloudless sky above. The sun blasted heat down at him. As promised, today was going to be another scorcher. Sweat beaded on his brow as he hopped up the steps and buzzed the unit number Millie copied down for him.

After a few minutes of waiting with no response from Jet, he buzzed again. It appeared that Jet was either sleeping or not at home.

Dean was miffed. He wanted his phone back.

He buzzed a third time and waited. No answer.

He stepped back from the doorway, wiped the sweat from his brow, and looked up to the windows high above. He couldn't even bang on a window to rouse Jet.

"Shit," Dean uttered. He strolled over to Jet's pickup and peered inside. There appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary; a newspaper, a pair of sunglasses, phone charger, pens, note pad, and, sitting on the passenger seat, his cell phone.

"Oh sure." He tried the handle, but it was locked. He jumped back in his patrol car and called Millie on the radio.

"Have you heard from Jet?" He was frustrated.

"Not yet, Dean."

He looked back up at the condominium.

"He's not answering the buzzer, and his truck is parked outside. My cell phone is sitting on the seat."

"Maybe he's just resting. Trying to sleep off whatever bug he's got."

"Yeah, maybe," Dean replied, but something just didn't feel right. "Can you call him for me? I'd at least like to grab my phone while I'm here."

"Sure, Dean. Just hold on a sec."

Dean waited for Millie and stared up at the building. If Jet's truck was here then where was Jet? It didn't make any sense. He stepped out of his vehicle, took another look inside Jet's truck, and studied the items again. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The newspaper was a week old.

Jet was an early riser. He always picked up the paper each morning, popped into Tim Horton's, and read through most of the paper while downing one or two coffee's with a muffin or breakfast sandwich. There was nothing strange about the paper on the seat except that it was a week old. Dean assumed Jet hadn't gone anywhere in his truck since last Friday. He stared down at the note pad and could see there was something scribbled across the page.

The radio on his shoulder crackled. It was Millie.

"There's no answer, Dean."

"Ayuh. Thanks Millie. I'll be heading back your way in a few."

"Right boss. See you soon."

Dean moved around the pickup where he could get a better look at the note pad.

CHAPTER 60 Day Thirteen - Wed 1:55 PM

"You already took your pills," Chris said sternly.

"I did not. Don't you think I'd remember if I took them? Now give them to me. I'm not feeling well. I need them."

Chris shook his head at her. He was close to crossing the line between being forceful and being mean, and he wished she could stop fretting and believe him.

"Look," he said. He was frustrated and glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall. "It's nearly two o'clock. I gave them to you at breakfast."

"Why would I be feeling this way if you gave them to me already? I'm dizzy. I need my pills."

"I always give them to you at breakfast. Always." He grabbed the note pad by the sink. He opened it up, pushed it across to Anita, and pointed at the page with today's date. "See. Right here," he said. He pointed to the last line on the page. "That's today's date and I marked that I gave you your pills. 9:48 it says."

She shook her head. "You probably wrote that first and then forgot to give them to me."

"Christ, Anita! I gave you the Goddamned pills! It's your dementia again!"

She frowned, rubbed one arm up the sleeve of the other, and shouted back at him. "Don't shout at me, Chris! Now give me my pills! My chest is starting to hurt now too!"

"You're not dizzy, Goddamn it! You just think you are because you can't remember things." He wanted to shake her.

"I am, Chris! I really am!" She put her hand across her chest as if the pain was increasing.

"And you're not in pain!" he shouted. He wondered if she really was hurting. He looked back at the page where he wrote the time. A flash of doubt crossed his mind, but he was so sure he gave her the pills.

"Oh, Chris!" She wailed. "I think I need to go to the hospital. My chest..."

He shuffled forward, threw his wrinkled arms around her, and gave her a soft squeeze.

"It's okay," he whispered into her ear and attempted to rock her. "It's going to be okay."

Anita struggled under his embrace. He let her go. She pushed his hands away and at grabbed her chest. "It hurts, Chris. It really does hurt. Right here in my chest. I need the doctor."

Chris was beside himself. He was so sure this was just the dementia talking and there was really nothing wrong with her. She was simply stressing herself into a frenzy just like she did so many times before. It had been nearly three weeks since her last episode. He wasn't about to take any chances. He picked up the phone.

"I'm calling the ambulance."

"Hurry, please," she replied with short breathes. "My chest hurts."

He helped Anita lay down onto the sofa. Her breathing remained short and wheezy. It pained him to see her in such distress. It was only minutes before he heard the wail of the ambulance siren in the distance.

CHAPTER 61 Day Thirteen - Wed 3:05 PM

Dean wiped his brow as he sat at his desk going over numerous notes.

"I take it the H-VAC guys haven't showed up again today to take care of this damned air conditioning? It's bloody hot in here."

Millie was busy fanning herself with yesterday's edition of the Bluffington Times.

"I called them again this morning. We're supposed to be on their list for today."

"On their list for today?" Dean uttered. He looked up at the clock. "The day is just about over."

Millie shrugged. "I don't know what else to tell you, Dean" she said.

He pulled out the folder he'd started weeks ago on Vincent Pattison's episode down in the well. There really wasn't much left in the folder other than some observations he made when he found Vincent on the side of the road and the trip he and Jet made out to the well. He flipped through the few items he posted.

Why did he even keep this file open anymore? He could find nothing of substance in any of his notes. It was only the collapsed area in the wall that tickled his curiosity originally. He thought he'd seen something poking out of the dirt that warranted a further look. He thought it was probably nothing at the time and was sure the photos would take care of that for him.

Presently his thoughts were more focused around Jet, and he wasn't sure if he should even bother with the Bumstead well anymore. Maybe it was time to let this one go.

"Hey, Millie?" he asked. "Have you entered everything in for the file on Vincent Pattison? From that well?"

Millie stopped fanning herself and looked at him.

"I haven't entered anything about the well. I only opened up the call from Billy Huckleberry and that one's been closed already. There's no formal investigation file opened about what happened down in that well if that's what you're asking. Did you want me start one?"

"No, no," Dean chuckled. "I don't think we need to do that. I think I'm about done chasing this one," he replied. "I sure would have liked to have seen those pictures though."

"Pictures?" Millie asked.

"The ones on my phone. Jet still has it sitting on the seat of his pickup."

Millie laughed. "Maybe he's still seeing that ghost today. That's what's making him so sick. It is sticking it to him right deep into his bones."

Her words sent an icy chill up his spine. It was one of the very first words Vincent uttered when he was first found by Billy Huckleberry. He now knew why he couldn't remember. It was never spoken to him by Vincent. It was Billy Huckleberry who first heard the disturbing word and repeated it to Dean over the phone.

"Bones," he whispered to himself. Suddenly this file wasn't so dead.

Dean closed the folder, grabbed fresh batteries from the stock room and reloaded his flashlight. "Millie, I'll be up at the Bumstead place if anybody's looking for me. I have just one last thing to check on. And keep trying to get a hold of Jet. Today makes two days he hasn't called in. I'll have to make a move if you can't reach him by the end of the day."

CHAPTER 62 Day Thirteen - Wed 4:05 PM

Vincent surrendered a lot more of his idle time than he wanted to thinking about his mother since speaking with his Grams yesterday. She was correct in suggesting his mother was at the root of his current discomfort. There was no denying it. The issue consumed him. He would have to deal with this problem soon or it was going to stay with him all year.

Anna had echoed Gram's sentiments when he told her of their conversation, and it challenged him. Was he really being overly obstinate about his mother? Really?

But his Grams was right in her sense about the way he was feeling since he had returned from the well, and it made him miss his Grams even more.

Vincent picked up the phone and dialled his grandparents number, but unlike the last time when he wanted to speak to his Gramps, he wanted to talk to his Grams this time. There was more to be discussed concerning his mother.

He was unsure of what he would say to her as he listened to the phone ring in his ear. He wanted to understand his Grams. Why was she was so forgiving to his mother? Maybe both his Grams and Anna were right after all ,and he really should just shut up, listen to his mother, be politely civil, and even spend some one-on-one time with her. The problem was, he didn't know if he could muster the strength to speak a single word to her without prejudice.

The phone continued to ring. Vincent's heart fell when the call went to voice mail. Vincent decided not to leave a message and hung up. He would try again later.

He stared out the small window of his room and across the campus. He dialled Anna. He'd go see her tonight. Being with her always made him feel better.

CHAPTER 63 Day Thirteen - Wed 5:55 PM

Hours after Anita's latest panic attack, Chris was settled back at home with Anita. It was another false alarm, as he expected. Dr. Hamil was the attending physician when they arrived, and he assured Chris that this was all a part of her progressing dementia. With all that happened to Vincent recently, and his departure to University, it was reasonable to expect that her stress level would increase.

"Sometimes this kind of sudden separation and stress can trigger these types of panic attacks." Dr. Hamil said to him. "These episodes are certainly not to be ignored, but they can easily be mistaken for more serious medical conditions."

Chris knew it was more than Vincent leaving that was causing her the elevated stress.

"I'm fine Chris. I really am," Anita said calmly.

"I just get worried every time, that's all."

She sipped at her tea. "I don't even remember it really. Was it as bad as the last time?"

Chris nodded. "You seemed to be in a lot of pain."

She tapped him on the leg with one of her fingers. "If it's the stress like Dr. Hamil told you it was, then you and I both know what's causing this. You need to take care of this thing... soon."

"I know," Chris grunted. He knew she was right.

He patted her hand and looked up at the clock. It was already after six in the evening.

"Would you be okay if I left you for a few hours alone tonight?"

"What? Now?"

He nodded and cleared his throat. "I think I have a way to make this all go away."

"What about dinner?"

"I'll grab something while I'm out," he replied.

She furled her brow at him. She was not happy about this at all.

"I can do this. I may be an old fart, and I'm not as fast and strong as I once was, but I can still take care of things that need to be taken care of," he said.

"What are you going to do?" she asked sternly.

"I am just going to take care of it. My way. But first I'm going out for a walk along the river."

"The river?" She looked scared.

"I need a walk by the river before I get started."

"You just be careful, Chris."

He nodded at her. "I'm always careful.

CHAPTER 64 Day Thirteen - Wed 6:59 PM

A warm breeze wafted slowly across the Bumstead property and moved the tall, yellowing grasses about in rhythmic waves at Dean's feet. The evening sun was suspended just high enough above the treetops to bathe the area in its soft orange glow. The warmth of the receding sun's rays gently touched his cheeks. He almost sensed that it hung there purposefully tonight, unmoving; as if it was going to wait patiently for him to finish whatever it was he came to do before it began its descent down behind the trees.

Just like the last time he was on the property, he moved with purpose up to the stone well and shone his flashlight down to the bottom.

"Aahh. This is better," he muttered. The new batteries made his flashlight beam brighter and stronger.

He pulled his head back out from the well and looked around. He immediately felt the age of this vacant property seep deep into every crack and crevice of his body. The sporadic, encroaching growth of the many poplar trees and bushes in the area made it difficult for him to imagine what this place was like when it once thrived as a business that employed over fifty people at its peak more than a half a century ago. He thought of Jet and the ghosts he spoke of. He glanced over his shoulder almost expecting to catch a glimpse of some beast or shadow from the past passing through the trees behind him, but there was nothing there. It was only the wind rustling the leaves about.

He turned his attention back down the well and focused the beam of light deep down to the bottom.

"Bones," he whispered. The word drifted down the well and faded away without the trace of an echo. It was as if the bottom of the well sucked up the word and swallowed it.

He moved the beam up to the collapsed area. As bright as the beam was, he still couldn't make out what he saw in the exposed dirt.

"Could that really be bones?"

He looked at every inch of the area.

"Is that what you meant, Vincent? Did you see bones in that hole when the wall collapsed?"

He hoped Vincent was still in town. He made a mental note to drop in on the Pattison home tomorrow with a few questions.

Dean moved his gaze down to the single white stone that rested at the bottom.

"Is that... a skull?" It really did look more like the back of a skull than any stone he'd ever seen. "Why didn't I notice that before?"

He wished he could be touch it or turn it over to see an eye socket or a jaw. He thought of the rope that was dropped through the opening last time he was here and noticed the rope was gone. He'd have to ask Jet about it.

Dean saw enough. He would come back tomorrow. He would also bring a way to see for sure if that white stone at the bottom was really just a stone, or if it was a skull as his imagination hoped it would be.

The sun moved on now without waiting for him, and long, stretched shadows from the surrounding trees now snaked across the grassy field towards where his patrol car was parked. The shadow's surprising creep made him uncomfortable. He hurried down the small hill. He wanted to be well away from this place before darkness descended.

CHAPTER 65 Day Thirteen - Wed 7:25 PM

The sun had nearly set when Chris turned onto the dirt road that crossed deep through the trees deep onto the Bumstead property. The diminishing rays of the descending sun were captured only by the very tips of the trees above him and left the clearing engulfed in a darkened shadow. He didn't have much time.

Chris had no idea Detective Daly left this very spot only fifteen minutes before. He had even passed by the detective on the highway just as he left town. But it made no difference. Chris was on a mission and was determined to take care of business tonight.

Chris exited his vehicle and looked about nervously to be sure he was alone. The vast silence that enveloped him was deafening and allowed the many sordid memories from long ago to tickle his brain. He could almost hear the cries of little Billy Bumstead as the gunnysack was pulled down over his small body.

He climbed slowly and steadily up the small rise to the well, puffing and grunting the entire way. He carried a heavy bundle filled with many items wrapped up tightly in an old wool blanket. By the time he reached the well, he could barely stand; his old legs and arms ached immensely.

Chris dropped the blanket wrapped armload of items onto the ground next to the well. He rested a moment to catch his breath before he unbundled the lot. "The flashlights. Where are the damn flashlights?" he mumbled. He searched amongst the multiple items and shuffled the large river rock he'd brought in the bundle off to one side.

"Ah yes," he said when he spotted one of the flashlights. "Let's see exactly what we have to work with."

Chris leaned over the well and shone the beam of light down to the bottom. There was no question in his mind that it was a skull. He studied the skull, where it rested, and how it was positioned.

"This should work just fine," he said confidently.

It bothered him that Vincent hadn't mentioned a word to him about a skull being down at the bottom. A part of him believed Vincent didn't know it was even there. He wanted to believe that, but an entirely separate part of him reminded him how Vincent wanted to leave so suddenly after taking only one look down the bottom of the well the other morning. The boy was fragile. He always had been.

Chris uncoiled the three ropes he'd brought and tied the end of one of them to the post. None of these ropes were like the bloodied hemp rope he removed from the well just a few short days ago and returned to the shed out back. It bothered him to even think about that bloodied rope. He tried to shut his mind to the fact that the rope was no longer tucked away in his shed in the back yard where he placed it.

"Later," he whispered. "One thing at a time, Chris."

He attempted to focus, but he thought about Officer Jet Wu and how he harassed Vincent. His demand to hand the bloodied hemp rope over to him irritated Chris.

"How dare you pick on my grandson," he mumbled. "Once I'm done out here, you and are I going to have a little private talk about Vincent and that rope. You think I can't find out where you live?"

A gust of wind scuttled across the open field and mussed his hair.

"I have my ways. And believe this, Officer Wu... no one has ever crossed a Pattison and gotten away with it. Not when my father ruled the valley and certainly not now while I'm still around."

He forced his focus back to his current task and quickly began to assemble the items as the light continued to fade.

He fastened one of his flashlights to the first rope with duct tape and lowered it down until the bottom of the well was brightly lit.

The skull glowed like a prized jewel amongst the other dull, moldy, rough-edged stones. It pleased Chris that it sat perched nicely on the dirt that had fell out from the collapsed area and not wedged between some of the wall stones.

He nodded at the scene below him. He was certain that he had found a way to snatch the skull from the bottom.

Chris placed the three pointed grappling hook he brought onto one of the stones that capped the well and immediately began to hammer and pound out the points. He flattened them away from the centre and lifted the hook into the air. He draped some netting over the splayed hooks and let it hang down about twelve inches below. He'd uncoiled a smaller second rope, which he again tied off to the pole, and attached it to the grappling hook.

Everything was almost ready. He removed his belt and slowly weaved it through netting that hung below the grappling hook until it completed a full circle. He pulled the leading edge of the belt through the buckle and attached the third smaller rope to the first hole of the belt with a small wire. He tugged the rope with a few short soft jerks, and just as planned, the belt pulled the netting closed. He loosened the belt so it remained opened like a large mouth and lowered the entire contraption down through the hole towards the skull.

CHAPTER 66 Day Fourteen - Thursday 8:10 AM

"Is this going to take long, Charlie?" Dean asked.

"Opening a lock like this is a piece of cake."

Thursday morning arrived with still no word from Jet. When Millie failed to reach Jet at home, Dean called the property manager of Jet's condo and Charlie Pattison, owner of the Mount Head Lock and Key. He asked them both to meet him at Jet's place as soon as possible.

"This is a simple Schlage lock. I guess with the added security up front, the builder never thought it necessary to install high end locks on each of the units," Charlie said.

"I don't really care about the lock, Charlie. Jet's been ill since last Friday, and no one's heard a word from him for the past two days. It's been nearly a week since any one has even seen him."

"Isn't this breaking and entering?" the property manager, Dick Johnson, asked.

"Not when we have his family asking us to go inside. I had them file a missing persons report earlier this morning. His brother's waiting to see what we find out once we get inside. He also had no luck reaching him. He's booking a flight out in the next few hours."

Charlie continued to fiddle with the key he held in his hand.

"C'mon, Charlie."

"This takes time to get right. There are a number of pins inside that have to be lifted. If you don't get them all at once, the lock won't open.

"I thought you said it was a piece of cake."

"It is. Just be quiet, and let me work here."

Dean watched anxiously as Charlie worked meticulously for another ten minutes on the key, using a file to square off the pointed tip and then remove the rear shoulders of the key. He filed at the teeth until only five small, triangular-shaped teeth remained.

"This is just a random Schlage key from a set I replaced last week. What I've just done is made what's called a bump key. Now we just slide it into the lock like this. Hand me that screwdriver."

Dean passed him the screwdriver and watched as Charlie pressed his thumb against the upper right side of the key and whacked at the key with the screwdriver.

The key suddenly rotated sideways on the second smack, and the door was unlocked.

"There you go," he said. "It's just that easy."

Dean was impressed, but he made it look dangerously easy.

"Both of you, stay out here."

Both Charlie and Dick stepped away from the door. Dean slowly pushed the door open slowly and called out. "Jet? It's Dean. Are you in here?"

He didn't have to step in very far to discover a grisly scene above him.

"Good God! No one come in here!"

The dead body of Officer Jet Wu hung limply above him from the two-story foyer. A rope was tied to the second story balustrade, and Jet's limp body hung beneath it. The rope dug deep into the underside of his jaw pressing his tongue forward so it pushed out grotesquely from between his blue lips.

CHAPTER 67 Day Fourteen - Thursday 8:55 AM

"I didn't hear you come to bed last night," Anita said. She was already in the kitchen with a cup of tea when Chris came down.

"No... I was out quite late."

Anita stirred her tea slowly. Chris could see the deep concern embedded in her face. Her wrinkles seemed to be etched deeper than ever, and the loose skin under her chin appeared to have become almost transparent overnight. Time was slowly having its way with her and he felt responsible for at least part of how fragile she looked this morning.

Anita knew quite well where he went last night, but he doubted she had any idea that he ended up at Officer Wu's condo afterwards. Ten minutes after a carefully placed call from the pay phone at the 7-11, where he grabbed a hot dog for his dinner, Chris held Jet's address in his hands. But that little excursion out to Jet's didn't quite go as planned. It now weighed heavily on his mind. He wasn't about to mention anything about the extra trip to Anita, but he felt the need to offer something to Anita about what he accomplished last night. He abruptly left the room and returned with a small plastic shopping bag from the Sobey's grocery store. He sat down and set the bag carefully next to his feet.

Anita looked down at the bag.

"It's taken care of," Chris said simply.

Chris pointed to a steaming cup of tea on his side of the table. "Is this my tea?"

Anita gave him a look as if to say, "Who else's would it be?"

Chris lifted the cup to his lips, took a small sip, and watched her as she stared at the bag. He immediately wished he hadn't brought the bag inside and knew it was a mistake. It was likely to make her even more upset. He decided he wouldn't say a word about what was in the bag unless she asked.

Anita's eyes remained on the bag. "Chris, what's in that bag? You wouldn't have just left the room and then come back in here with it if you didn't want me to know what was inside."

Of course she had to ask. That was Anita all over. Her reluctance was clear, but she still pushed forward. "It has something to do with where you went last night, doesn't it?"

Chris nodded, lifted the bag up, and placed it onto the table between them where it landed with a dull thunk.

The two of them stared quietly at the bag.

Chris didn't really want Anita to see what was inside. "You don't need to see this," he said. "I never should have brought this here." He reached for the bag to take it off the table, but Anita grabbed hold of his arm.

"No. I want to see what's in there."

"I made a mistake. You don't need to see this." He tried to pull his arm and the bag away.

"Chris!" she shouted.

Chris let go of the bag. Anita pulled it towards her and opened it up.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. She shoved the bag away. "Why would you even think of bringing something like that into our house?"

Chris shook his head. "I just told you I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

Anita waved her hand about and pointed over towards the bag. "Oh, Jesus," she said. She pushed her chair back and stood up. She shook her finger at the bag. "Now that worries me. You get rid of it, Chris. Get rid of it now."

Chris stood and removed the bag from the table.

"It's just a skull, Anita."

Anita stepped away from the table. Her fretfulness increased. "I know what it is, damn you. But which one?"

He shrugged, and she began to cry. "Oh, Chris. You don't even know who that is. I couldn't stand it if it was him. Get it out! Get it out of here, Chris! Now! Please!"

Anita continued to cry as Chris tucked the bag under his arm and stepped out of the house.

CHAPTER 68 Day Fourteen - Thursday 3:01 PM

"I just don't understand why Jet would take his own life," Dean said.

"He's been sick. And he did say he was seeing those ghosts," Millie replied. "Maybe there was more going on in his head than we knew about. We didn't really know him all that well. He has only been out here for a few months."

Dean thought about the ghosts she spoke of and the issues from out on the coast that resulted in Jet's transfer out here. Jet was in a heap of trouble regarding the accusations laid upon him. Maybe they were heavier on his chest than anyone knew. His investigation of Jet's condo showed nothing at all suspicious. It looked like any another suicide. That was exactly what he wrote in his official report.

"Maybe there was something going on with him, Millie. It's just a shame, that's all."

"It sure is. He was terribly sick this past week, too. I know I'll miss him."

"We'll all miss him, Millie," Dean said to comfort her. "I will, and so will the others around this place. Did you hear from any of his family while I was out?"

"His brother came by earlier for his things."

"Already?" He looked at the time. "Jesus, they only removed his body an hour ago. Officer Heavyhead has been over there with the Medical Examiner since this morning."

"He said he caught the first flight out as soon as you called him this morning. He plans on having his brother's body cremated tomorrow."

"That quick? They can do that?"

"I guess so," Millie replied. "He said he wanted to take his ashes back with him on the weekend. Today's Thursday. He didn't want to wait until Monday. Heavyhead said his body is already on its way up to the Chief Medical Examiner's in Calgary."

Dean nodded. "I didn't know they could cremate someone so quickly."

Millie shrugged and raised her eyebrows.

"I wish I would have been here when he came by. You should have called me."

"He just popped in unannounced," Millie said. "I called Heavyhead right away and had him go through the details with Jet's brother. He's gone to take him up to identify the body. He was pretty upset. He'll be in town for the next few days if you need to reach him." She passed him a note with the name and number.

"Thanks, Millie."

"Oh, Dean..." Millie said, as she reached across her desk and smiled at him. "Your phone. I remembered to ask him for it like you asked. He made a special trip back out to Jet's truck to bring it here before they headed up to Calgary." She handed it over to him.

"My phone." He smiled back at her. "Where would I be without you, Millie? I've been so lost without this thing the past week."

"Now you can finally quit whining about it every single day."

Dean was glad to finally have his phone back. He sat down at his desk across from Millie and attempted to turn it on. "It's dead."

Millie rolled her eyes at him from across the room. "Ya think?"

He plugged it in to charge, ignoring her commentary, and turned on his computer. He tapped his fingers anxiously on the edge of the desk as the screen loaded. "I still want to look at those photos."

"I thought we were done with that Pattison boy."

Dean chuckled. "You know me, Millie."

"Oh, I know you, Dean. You're never finished with anything that easily."

He shrugged. "It's just a feeling I have."

"You seeing ghosts now too?" Millie asked and laughed.

Dean didn't laugh. "Maybe I am," he replied. He opened his desk drawer and ploughed through the multiple cables for the one that fit his camera. He really wanted to get a good look at those photos and was determined to view them before he left the office.

He thought again about the note pad inside Jet's truck and wondered if he should have collected the note pad as evidence. Evidence of what, he wasn't sure. Everything about this death pointed towards suicide. He saw no evidence to the contrary, but what was written on the note pad still stuck in his brain. He didn't know what was odd about it. Maybe it was because he hadn't been able to make sense of what was written down.

" _Dean's photos"_ was the first item at the top of the page. This was probably just a reminder to download the photos.

The next part was clearly written after Jet called him and told him he met Chris and the boy out there. " _apologize old man, kid"_ The writing was scrawled and difficult to read. It looked like he had been driving at the time he wrote it.

What he wrote below it was disturbing and confusing. He hoped he remembered it correctly. He pulled out his notepad and wrote it down as he remembered it.

" _bastard"_

" _found candy / old mans house"_

" _wlien candy!"_ Or was it "alien _candy!"_

It was too scrawled. Dean couldn't be sure of the spelling. He was sure the scrawled " _w_ " was supposed to be an " _a_ ".

And it also appeared there may be an " _e_ " tagged on at the end. " _aliene candy_!" What did he mean by alien candy? Was that even the word?

" _found candy / old mans house"._ He knew the old man's house had to mean Chris Pattison.

Scrawled in large capitals on the bottom of the page were three larger words.

"WHAT TO DO ?"

Just what exactly had Jet meant by any of it? Less than a week after he wrote this, he killed himself.

Dean scratched his head as he stared at what he'd written. He opened his drawer and scrounged deep inside until he eventually found the cable he needed to upload the photos. He connected it to his cell phone.

"Millie? Do we still have photo paper for the printer?"

"Right in the drawer where it always is," she replied.

CHAPTER 69 Day Fifteen - Friday 10:19 AM

Anita answered the front door to find Detective Dean Daly standing on their stoop.

"Good morning, Detective," she said politely.

"Hi, Anita. Is Chris around?"

"Just a second. He's in the back. I'll go get him." She ushered Dean inside and headed quickly down the hall to Chris's study.

"Chris," she called out. She cracked opened the door to his study and stuck her head inside.

"That Detective Dean is back. He wants to speak to you," she whispered.

Chris looked up. "Now what does he want?"

She shook her head. "How would I know what he wants? You'll have to ask him that yourself. I just hope you know what you're doing, Chris. And that _thing_ better not be sitting around here somewhere."

She emphasized the word "thing" in a way that made Chris cringe. She meant the skull. She was still annoyed at him. "It's out back," he said. He rose from his chair and followed Anita to the front room. He asked Dean to sit, but he declined the offer.

"How have you been, Chris?" Dean asked.

"Still waking up each day," he replied. "At my age you never know. I might wake up dead one morning."

"Oh, Chris," Anita snapped. "Stop talking like that. He's fine, Detective."

"That's good to hear." He shifted on his feet, took off his hat, and ran one hand through his hair.

Chris could see he was anxious about something. It worried him.

"I'm guess you've heard about how we found Officer Wu yesterday?"

"Yes, Charlie called us last night," Anita said. "He said he opened the door for you and you found that poor officer."

Dean nodded.

"That is such a terrible shame," Anita added. "I don't know what could be so bad to make someone do that. He was so young."

"Ayuh," Dean replied. "He still had a lot of life waiting for him."

Chris said nothing. He stared quietly back at Dean and waited for whatever it was that Dean really came for.

"You know, I finally got around to looking at some photos that were taken out at the Bumstead place."

"I thought that Officer Wu..." Anita started to say.

"Hush, Anita," Chris interrupted. "Let Dean finish." He felt a brief wave of anxiety mixed with relief wash over him. He saw the phone sitting on the seat of Jet's locked vehicle the other night. He was sure it was the same one he'd seen Jet holding up at the well.

"I just want to ask you a question or two. Nothing much. But I did discover something odd in these photos. I thought maybe you could provide some insight."

"I'm not sure why you think I can help, but I'll be glad to do what I can," Chris replied. "What did you find that was so odd?"

Dean let out a small chuckle before he answered.

"I was really hoping Vincent was still around. I had a few photos I wanted to show him. Photos of the well I took the day after he showed up at the cemetery."

"Oh, he's gone back to Vancouver," Anita answered.

Dean nodded. "I suspected he might be gone by now. I just wanted to talk to him about what he saw down at the bottom of that well, but that's fine. Since he's gone, it's only the rope that I want to talk about now, I guess."

"What rope? The one the boys dropped down the well?" Chris asked.

He nodded. "That's the one. That rope was one of those heavier hemp ropes."

"I suppose it was."

"You don't see many hemp ropes around these days. You can still buy them, but most stores carry that yellow polypropylene or nylon rope these days. It's stronger and cheaper."

Dean reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out a number of photos. He shuffled through the top few and tucked them back in his pocket. He handed one over to Chris.

As Chris pulled his reading glasses from his pocket Anita stretched her neck to see the image Chris held in his hand. The image was just a simple photo of a coiled hemp rope sitting on a table. She frowned.

"See? That's blood there on the rope."

"Those dark stains are blood?" Chris asked.

"Ayuh. We would have to test it to be sure, but I've seen enough blood to know that these stains are blood stains," Dean replied. "Pretty fresh too. And you can clearly see that it's a hemp rope."

"Right," Chris replied.

"That is the rope Officer Wu used to hang himself."

"You don't say?" Chris replied sounding surprised.

Anita frowned uncomfortably and turned to stare at Chris. She was confused about where this was all going.

"What's odd about it is, if this really is blood, it isn't Officer Wu's blood. We haven't tested it yet, but Officer Wu didn't have any open wounds when he was found." He handed the next photo over to Chris.

"And see this? That's the well with a rope hanging down inside where Vincent spent those few days. That's also a hemp rope. And you can see blood on that rope too."

Chris nodded and straightened his glasses. "Probably Vincent's blood."

"That's what I thought. But here's the odd thing..." He handed the last picture over to Chris.

"Now look at this last one? See? That's another picture of the well taken from a few feet away."

"Uh huh."

Dean forced a chuckle. "So where did the rope go? There's no rope in this photo."

Chris nodded again. "It must have been removed."

Anita grabbed Chris' hand and pulled it down so she could see the picture too. She frowned again, and Chris knew exactly what she was thinking.

"It was obvious to me right away that I didn't take this picture. The rope was there when I took all of my photos, and it was still there when I left. I had asked Office Wu to load them on the computer for me, but he never did. So just to be sure, I looked at the properties and dates for each of the photos."

Chris looked at Dean and raised his eyes. "Uh huh..."

"The date these were taken was much later. They were taken on the same day he called me and said he'd just met you and Vincent out at the Bumstead place."

"That'd be right. Officer Wu showed up while we were out there. I only took Vincent out to show me the well."

"Nothing else?"

"No sir."

"Did you see Officer Wu taking any pictures?"

"I don't even remember a camera," he lied shaking his head. "Maybe he took them after Vincent and I left."

"Maybe. So you're saying he stayed up at the well after you two left?"

"That's correct," Chris said even though it was nowhere near the truth.

"Did he say anything strange to you or do anything odd that got your attention?"

"Not really. He just asked what were up there for. We talked a bit and then Vincent and I left. It was as simple as that."

"He didn't say anything to Vincent? Anything that upset him?"

Chris shook his head. "Not really."

Dean locked his eyes on Chris. He waited for Chris to offer up something more. Chris offered nothing. Dean extended his arm with his palm out and Chris placed the photos into his hand.

"Hmm. Okay. Maybe I misunderstood Officer Wu, but he told me he had quite a run in with you two out there."

Chris shrugged. "He was abrupt with Vincent. He suggested Vincent should come back and clean up the mess out there. That was about it. Vincent is such a soft kid... he got a little upset, I guess."

"Ayuh. Maybe that was it. But I was just trying to figure out why Jet took the rope from the well. I really don't understand that part."

Chris shrugged. "I don't know anything about that. We were already gone."

"So you didn't see him take the rope away while you were out there?"

"Like I just said, we were already gone."

"It's just..." He paused a moment. "That rope that was hanging down that well is the same rope that Officer Wu hung himself with."

Anita gasped and covered her mouth with one hand.

"Oh, Jesus," Chris uttered, hoping to sound surprised. "How can you be so sure?"

"I'm sorry Anita. I didn't mean to upset you, but we matched the blood stain pattern in the photo taken at the well to the stain pattern on the rope taken from Jet's condo. It's a perfect match."

Anita turned away and continued to cover her mouth with her hand.

"It's a real shame when someone so young takes his own life like that," Chris responded. He reached out, pulled Anita close to him, and hugged her tight.

"But I just don't understand why he'd purposely grab that old, beat up hemp rope from the well just to take it home to kill himself," Dean said. "It doesn't make sense to me."

"People do odd things sometimes," Chris replied. "Maybe it's the reason he went out to the well that morning."

Dean nodded. "I thought about that. But if that was all he went out there for, then I doubt he would have bothered to retake all of those pictures for me. People planning on killing themselves just don't do things like that."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Anyway, that's all I came out for." Dean turned to leave but paused before he went out the door. "Oh, there's just one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Did Vincent ever talk about seeing anything down in the well? Ghosts or anything strange like that? Bones?" His hand went back to his pocket where he had tucked the photos.

Anita's eyes grew large with the mention of the words ghosts and bones.

"Not to me," Chris replied. "Anita?" he asked and looked at her.

She shook her head. "Vincent didn't really talk at all about what happened down there. I don't think he wanted to talk about it, and I certainly never pried."

"Hmm, okay," Dean replied. "And have either of you ever hear of something called _alien candy_?"

"Alien candy? What?" Chris replied frowning.

"Candy. Alien candy, or something like that. Those words mean anything to you?"

Both Anita and Chris shook their heads.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Candy? We don't eat candy. Why?"

"Never mind," Dean said and chuckled. "It was just something else I was looking into." He removed his hand from his pocket and opened the front door to leave. "And thanks again for your time. If you think of anything concerning what we just talked about, please be sure to give me a call."

"You know we will. Have yourself a nice rest of the day," Chris said and closed the door.

He turned to see Anita's eyes burning deep into him. Her fists were clenched, and he saw she was very angry. "So this is how you took care of things? You bring that rope back home from the well and the detective finds it hanging around that officer's neck? How dare you be so careless and stupid! Why? Why, Chris?" she shouted.

She stormed out of the room before he had a chance to answer.

Chris felt very light headed. He watched his wife of over fifty years leave the room in a state he hadn't witnessed for decades. He released a heavy sigh. He couldn't bring himself to follow her. He had no explanation.

CHAPTER 70 Day Fifteen - Friday 11:35 AM

Dean was well prepared to have a much more thorough examination of the bottom of the well after his visit with Chris and Anita. The photos Jet took were not clear, and it was difficult to see the bottom of the well. The stone at the bottom looked no more like a skull than it had when he first shone his flashlight down to the bottom.

Before leaving the office earlier, he grabbed one of the high definition cameras and monitoring software from the equipment room that were normally used for surveillance operations. The camera had an autofocus and wireless feed that would make his upcoming task effortless.

He placed the laptop on one of the limestone cap stones. Then, in the same fashion to what Chris did the night before, he carefully lowered a camera and flashlight attached to a rope a few feet down the inside of the well. He plugged the receiver into the USB port on his laptop, and the image from the camera appeared instantly on the display.

He began to carefully lower the camera. The camera spun and bounced around making it difficult to distinguish anything on the monitor. He stopped lowering the rope when the camera was down about fifteen feet and waited.

"C'mon," he said. He waited for the camera to stop twirling and to reveal a stable, discernible image. After a few minutes, the camera settled and an image appeared on the monitor.

"Yes," he whispered. He could clearly see the rough damp stones that lined the well. It was going to be easier than he thought.

He continued lowering the camera and the image blurred out again.

Dean leaned forward and gazed down the opening. It was much easier to follow the descent of the camera by watching it through the well rather than on the monitor. The camera rotated faster as more rope was let out. He stopped when the camera was near the bottom, tied off the rope, stared at the monitor, and waited.

Many minutes passed as the camera spun in one direction until the rotation slowed, stopped, and then began to rotate in the other direction. It would be a while before it settled, but Dean was in no hurry. He stood up, stretched, and walked around. He wondered why he was so still so damned interested in what was down there. There really wasn't any reason other than the one single word Vincent said to Billy.

"Bones," he whispered. It sent a shiver up his spine once again, but he wasn't even really sure why.

He walked back up to the monitor. The camera continued to rotate back and forth and the autofocus shifted in and out constantly. He watched on edge as the blurred image focused for a second and blurred out again.

"Dammit! C'mon, c'mon."

Then the image locked clear and perfect.

Dean couldn't believe his eyes. He stared at the image. The 'skull' was nothing more than a smooth, white stone. It was almost pure white with light speckles and silky smooth as a baby's behind.

"A river rock?" He was disappointed and chuckled at himself for being silly enough to have actually believed it was a skull. He looked up at the darkening sky above and rubbed his hands through his hair in disbelief. How did he let his imagination take hold of him like that? The river rock was probably resting up on the edge of one of the cap stones and was knocked down inside as Vincent made his desperate scramble out through the small opening.

There was nothing more to see. Dean turned off the laptop and began to haul the rope back to the surface. He thought about re-rigging the camera to view inside the collapsed area in the wall, but he quickly decided there was really no point. If it wasn't a skull on the bottom, then it was probably just roots or sticks protruding from the dirt in the opening in the side wall. Any further curiosity he held about the inside of the well was squashed by the presence of the river rock.

CHAPTER 71 Day Fifteen - Friday 2:44 PM

Could Anita honestly think he murdered Officer Wu?

A hazy cloud of smoke hung in the air above his head. He'd forgotten to turn on the ventilation system.

He leaned back in his chair, stared up at the gathering cloud of smoke above his head, and pondered his predicament.

The smoky shapes slowly shifted and changed in the air. He hadn't witnessed such a display since Anita insisted he purchase the ventilation system for his study. Some elements of the smoky haze seemed to fade and disburse, while other parts of the cloud joined together in long lines as if the particles were collaborating towards some unknown action.

His thoughts began to circle around Dean's visit earlier. The rope in particular. How exactly was he going to explain to Anita how his rope ended up around the deceased officer's neck? Surely she must realize he couldn't possibly overtake someone as young and fit as Officer Wu on his own. He was frail and doubted he could even lift the strapping young man up and over any waist-high railing.

But it wasn't very difficult to prove Chris innocent in Officer Wu's death. The Officer didn't answer the door when he arrived at his condominium two nights ago. He buzzed four times, and each time there was no answer. His private sneak provided him with Jet's address and the type of vehicle he owned. Chris spotted the pickup truck immediately when he pulled into the parking lot. He even took a quick look inside the truck before leaving, and he was glad he did. Resting in plain view on the front passenger seat was the cell phone he saw the officer holding at the well. Spotting the phone on the seat was enough to give him the confidence that he accomplished what he set out to do.

As he stood in the parking lot contemplating smashing the window of Jet's truck to retrieve the cell phone, the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end. Something didn't feel right about the situation. He turned around and scoured the dark shadows in between the parked cars and buildings until he landed on the darkness buried within the thick, treed hillside behind him. Was there something or someone in there? He knew it was time to cut out. He stopped what he was doing and left for home. He left the phone on the seat and Jet's pickup truck untouched.

Detective Daly had no idea what horror once rested down at the bottom of that well. If he did, he would have mentioned it when he showed up earlier. The skull problem seems to have been resolved for now. But a new quandary concerning the rope surfaced now. How exactly did his rope end up around Officer Wu's neck?

Hours passed as he organized his thoughts and puffed away on more cigarettes. The smoke above his head eventually formed long rivulets that stretched across the entire room. He continued to search through his memories. The numerous long lines of smoke seemed to mimic his thoughts. Some of the smoky trails crossed the entire room while other small strips merged into the largest trail, faded away, or sat suspended off on their own. He began to see a pattern.

It was the mysterious appearance of his damned rope around the Officer's neck that had incited his present line of thinking. He didn't remove the rope from the shed out back. But who did? Only Anita and Vincent knew he brought the rope back to the house.

Was Officer Wu already dead when he buzzed his condo? The thought was creepy. He was glad he didn't place a single finger on Wu's vehicle when he spotted the cell phone.

Then, without any warning, a few other odd pieces meshed themselves together and things slowly began to make sense.

Anita's phone calls.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Chris whispered.

The laughter and ease with which Anita and Arlene got along now stuck out to Chris.

Was it really possible that so many insignificant components of his life were actually connected in some enigmatic conspiracy that existed around him for nearly a decade without his knowledge?

"Goddamn it. I've been such a fool!"

He uprooted himself from his chair and dashed out to the front room where Anita sat with the phone pressed up tight to one ear. She immediately frowned and waved her arms at him as he approached. She was attempting to push him out of the room like she always did.

Today he wasn't about to be shushed. He remained at the doorway staring at her until she covered the receiver with one hand and barked at him.

"What are you doing standing there? Can't you see I'm on the phone?"

His mouth hung open in awe. How blind he had been all of these years. "Who are you talking to?" he asked.

"Never mind who," she replied. She waved her hands at him again.

He let a bemused smile slip in. A short chuckle unexpectedly expelled from his mouth, which he quickly covered with one hand. He was sure he knew exactly who she was talking to. Of course! He felt like such an old idiot.

"Chris, I asked you to leave."

He nodded politely, backed out of the room, and returned down the hall to his study.

She called out behind him. "And turn that fan on in there! I can smell that damn smoke all the way out here!"

CHAPTER 72 Day Fifteen - Friday 3:05 PM

A muffled indiscernible conversation traveled through the earpiece, and it left Arlene unsettled. She waited patiently for the voice to come back on the phone.

"Arlene?" the voice asked.

"I'm here," she replied.

"Oh, good."

Arlene could hear discomfort in the voice. "Was that him again?" she asked.

"I hushed him away. He does this every once in a while when I get on the phone. The big old busybody."

Arlene laughed heartily, but her mother was not laughing. She seemed apprehensive and reserved. "Is everything okay?" she asked.

"I'm worried, that's all. And now that your father's come by, I can't even remember why I called you. What were we talking about?"

"It's okay, mom. It's just your darned dementia again."

"Oh yes, you're probably right. It seems I have to be reminded of things all of the time these days. I forget some things. It's the dementia I am told."

The phone went silent as her mother hesitated. Arlene sat listening quietly and allowed her mother time to recollect her reason for calling.

"I really wish you could come home sometime soon. I should talk to your father and make him see some sense about all of this. It's been years since you've been home."

"I was just out to see you last week, mom."

"You were?" she questioned. She was clearly flustered.

"Dad called me about Vincent. He was down in that well, remember?"

Arlene could almost hear her mother struggle to remember.

"Chris called you? About Vincent down in a well? I really don't know what you're talking about. My brain these days... It's this dementia. I just can't remember everything all of the time."

"It's okay mom. Dad called me to come home, and I was there for nearly a week. I got to see you and Vincent and the rest of the family. Vincent disappeared for a few days and was stuck down inside a well."

"Oh my, that's awful." Her voice started to rise as she began to fret. "I don't even know where Vincent is right now."

"He's okay mom. He's safe. He's back out here in Vancouver at University."

"Of course he is," she replied. Her voice seemed to calm down. "He's such a big boy now. You should really come out some time to see him. I can talk to your father about it."

"I will come out again soon, mom. And don't talk to dad right now. He's not supposed to know we talk all the time, remember?"

"Yes, yes," she replied, but it was clear she was struggling. It was best to stop the call as soon as possible.

"I love you, mom," Arlene said.

"I love you too, dear."

"Call me again soon, okay?"

"I will, dear. Bye," she said and hung up the phone.

Her dementia was very bad today. Arlene tucked the phone into the pocket of her pullover and waited. At times over the past few months, her mother would call back after a few minutes because she forgot that she only hung up moments before. This afternoon she sounded the most discombobulated she ever had.

CHAPTER 73 Day Fifteen - Friday 3:18 PM

Chris turned on the ventilation system in his study and returned to the comfort of his chair. The smoky haze began to thin out.

He wasn't sure of its significance, but there was no doubt in his mind that he had been duped. Anita and Arlene kept in contact over the years. That explained his discord during his original phone call to Arlene to inform her of Vincent's death. It was clear to him now why she didn't sound surprised to hear his voice. Anita had already spoken to her. She probably even told her to expect the call from him. He remembered how he thought she had been crying when she first said hello; the indifference and feigned misery that followed irked him so very much. Arlene was playing dumb for him.

He lit up a cigarette and chuckled in disbelief.

And when she arrived at the house she headed straight to Anita. And what did Anita say to her? Oh yes: " _It's good to see you here right in front of me._ " And again when Arlene said goodbye: " _It's always better talking face to face._ "

"It's always better talking face to face," he repeated. "How didn't I notice this before? After all of these damn years..."

In his mind, it was now a fact that they secretly kept in touch. But that still didn't explain how or why his rope ended up around Officer Wu's neck.

He paused to review everything he knew about the rope since he first coiled it up at the well. He was immediately troubled when he went to the shed to grab his tools the night he went out to the well and discovered the rope no longer resting on the shelf where he placed it. Did Officer Wu had somehow confiscate it when he came by? Had Arlene gone out back and handed the rope over to him?

He mused a while over Officer Wu possibly requesting the rope from Arlene but he eventually dismissed the idea. She had no idea what the rope looked like or where it was, and he and Vincent weren't even home to put the rope away when Officer Wu came to the house. No. There was another explanation.

"But hold on one damned second..." Didn't Anita tell him Arlene stepped outside to talk to Officer Wu? Why would she step outside? Arlene shooed the officer out the front door just like Anita shoos him away when she takes her phone calls in private. Arlene wanted to speak to Officer Wu privately.

"I'll be Goddamned," Chris whispered. He then recalled Officer Wu saying he just moved here from Vancouver. Vancouver? Another puzzle piece dropped into place. "You knew that son of a bitch the whole time, didn't you, Arlene? That's why you stepped outside with him." He made a mental note to look up Officer Wu's name in the information he kept on his daughter. He thought for certain it would turn up somewhere.

" _She goes for a lot of walks it seems. Every day. Always around noon and then once again_ after dinner." Anita's words jumped out at him. Arlene walked along the river to meet someone every mid-day and evening every single day.

"Who were you meeting, Arlene? Officer Wu? Someone else?"

He puzzled over this with a few more cigarettes and mulled over what else he could conclude.

"And then you suddenly rushed back out to the coast. Why was that?"

It only took a few moments for Chris to be certain he knew who she met.

"Damn you, Arlene." He knew he should have looked into it further when he found out she settled in with one her former customers.

"You couldn't have thrown Officer Wu over the balcony on your own any easier than I could have. You barely weigh over one hundred pounds." Her urgency to leave last Sunday struck him anew. She wanted to be far away.

"Damn you, Arlene!" he said again. It was suddenly so obvious; she didn't arrive from Vancouver alone.

"So who the hell is this Joey Klondike of yours?" he whispered. He appeared often as one of her regulars in many of the surveillance reports over the years, but he abruptly stopped showing up two years ago. He didn't know why, and he really didn't care at the time as there was always another name to take his place. But then, around four months ago, Joey's name resurfaced, and Arlene moved in with him.

He logged onto his computer and Googled the name "Joey Klondike."

Hundreds of hits filled his page; nearly all of them corresponded to a Joey Klondike formally charged with the murder of his wife twenty-one months ago and an ensuing trial in Everett, Washington. Was this the same Joey Klondike?

He was immediately annoyed that this information, if it was the same Joey, had never been recorded into in any of the reports he paid for. He never asked for anything more than dates and names of her contacts, but this was significant and should have been included. He read quickly and engrossed himself in the endless pages and details of Joey Klondike's lurid past.

Joey owned a small pest control company in Everett Washington that serviced the entire Seattle area. His wife of twelve years was rushed into the emergency room just under two years ago and died several hours after being admitted. It was later determined she died from strychnine poisoning, and Joey, with an abundance of pest poisons within easy reach, was subsequently charged with her murder.

The yearlong trial culminated with an acquittal; the defence successfully argued his wife committed suicide by purposely ingesting strychnine from Joey's business. Why would Joey have rushed her to the hospital to save her if his intention had been to purposely poison her? It was nonsensical, they argued. They suggested that Joey's wife was distraught after discovering Joey frequented hookers on a regular basis across the border in Canada. She lapsed into a deep depression and made use of one of the many poisons in the storage sheds on their property to take her own life.

Crossing the border into Canada to meet hookers? It was, without a doubt, the very same Joey Klondike. He read on.

After the acquittal, Joey was released from custody where he immediately packed up his business and relocated across the border into Canada.

"Into Canada, huh?"

It was no coincidence. Arlene was waiting for him.

"But why kill Officer Wu?" he whispered.

That was the mystifying question he was still unable to answer, but one thing was undeniable: Arlene was somehow connected to the murder of Jet Wu.

CHAPTER 74 Day Fifteen - Friday 7:20 PM

The heavy drapes were pulled tightly closed. The computer screen glowed eerily in the darkened room and made the features of Arlene's pale face hover mystically in mid-air. She moved her mouse about the screen and searched through the news feed from the other side of the mountains in Alberta.

With the exception of the short call from her mother a few hours ago, she was glued to her keyboard all day. Hour after hour passed as her obsession to uncover any news pushed her onward. She scrutinized every article that referenced the town of Bluffington. She looked for something, anything, that might let her know where Joey was and what, if anything, he did. But there was not to be a single word online that related to her Joey nor that bastard, Officer Jet Wu.

"Damn it!" she called out. She slammed the mouse onto the table in frustration and it bounced onto the floor. The cover popped off and the batteries tumbled out and rolled away. She buried her head in her hands and mumbled Joey's name.

She lifted her head and eyed the date on the computer screen. Joey should have been home four days ago. "Darn you, Joey! Where the heck are you?" She pounded her fist down on the table in anger. "I only asked you to keep him away from me! What did you do?"

She thought again about calling him on his cell, but that was out of the question. She really had no idea what Joey's intentions were when she left him after their last meeting. A full week had now passed since she last saw him. She continued with her scheduled walks to meet with him, but Joey didn't show up during her last two days at her parents. She worried about him as she waited at the river until she couldn't stand it anymore and dashed hastily away back home. She didn't know what else to do.

Was Joey dead? Did he do something unspeakable and now rested in some dark jail?

Another hour passed. She reassembled the mouse and returned to surfing for any news across the web. Just after 9:00 PM, she heard a key in the front door and rushed over as Joey let himself inside.

CHAPTER 75 Day Fifteen - Friday 7:40 PM

"Your grandparents are so nice," Anna said. She rubbed her hand across Vincent's chest.

"I worry about them," Vincent replied. "Gramps has been my rock my entire life."

Anna shuffled her pillow and pulled the blankets up tight as she turned and gave Vincent a kiss. Vincent loved smuggling her into the dorm and his tiny room for a little evening romp under the sheets. He loved Anna more each day. He truly wished she could be a part of him forever. Never had he loved anyone this much other than his Gram and Gramps.

"I'm already looking forward to going back for Thanksgiving to see them and school hasn't even started. But..." He hesitated. "You were right about me coming back out here to continue school." He leaned forward, kissed her gently, and then lay back on the pillow. "Thanksgiving just seems so far away right now."

"It's only eight weeks."

Vincent released a heavy sigh. The events of this past summer left him feeling apprehensive. He felt as if his home back in Bluffington wasn't home anymore and may never feel like home again.

"Have you given more thought to what you're going to do about your mother?"

"Not really," he responded. "She ran out of my life when I was ten to be with her boyfriend." He rolled his eyes. "I meant nothing to her. You really think I was hard on her?"

"I do, Vincent. We talked about this many times already."

"She's still a stranger to me. I don't understand why you think I should open myself up and be sociable with her just because she gave birth to me."

Anna giggled and stroked Vincent's hair. "Actually, yeah. I really think that is the difference. Ten years is a long time to hold a grudge. Sometimes people change."

He shook his head. "Not her."

"C'mon, Vincent. She's your birth mother and always will be."

"No she's not," he insisted. But he could sense that the corrosive cancer that his mother planted when she left him was in recession, and a new seed, uncomfortable as it was, now rested deep inside somewhere.

"She lives only ten minutes away by bus. You should go see her."

"I really don't care where she lives. And she's crazy. You saw how her mind just went off to someplace weird."

As the words left his lips, he realized he didn't believe them as deeply as he would have just a few days ago. Something was happening to him and he didn't quite understand what it was.

"If it was my mother, I would at least listen and give her the time to explain," Anna said. "You don't even truly know how she feels about what she did to you because you've never let her explain."

"She's still sick and loony." He sighed. "I've talked to her enough to know she's not right in the head."

"Oh come on. She's not that bad."

"I still don't think I want to see her."

"I think you do. The other night you seemed almost like you needed to see her. Now you're reluctant again. You know as well as I do, you're not going to be able to stop yourself from thinking about her. I think it's going to bother you all semester."

Vincent pushed the blankets down and sat up. It was difficult to believe what he was hearing from Anna.

"You are serious?"

She smiled up at him. "I am," she said. She pulled him back down and kissed him gently.

"You know where she lives, and you know she wants to talk to you."

He kissed her back. It was true.

"I also think your Grams and Gramps would want you to hear her out. Why else did they ask her to come back to see them anytime? Maybe they forgave her."

Was she was right about his Grams and Gramps? Was that the reason they sent him to school out here in the first place?

He looked at Anna. "Maybe."

"Well, I think it's what your grandparents would want."

The thought of purposely reaching out to his mother still almost sickened him.

"I'll think about it."

CHAPTER 76 Day Fifteen - Friday 9:10 PM

"Anita?" Chris yelled.

His voice echoed through the dark halls of the large home. There was no reply. He thought that maybe she already retired for the night. She wasn't in the great room or the kitchen, and the rest of the house remained completely unlit with the exception of the one light she always left on for him in the stairwell. He climbed the stairs, popped his head slowly through the first door on the left and found her awake and reading in bed. He wasn't sure what to say to her, but he knew he was going to have this discussion with her tonight.

Anita looked up at Chris. "What is it?" she asked.

"I need to ask you something."

She smiled. "Of course. Come sit." She patted the bedsheet beside her.

Her smile caught him off guard. He sat down on the edge of the bed next to her and hesitated. He hadn't expected her to welcome him so readily and wondered if the dementia had returned.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asked.

"I'm feeling fine, Chris," she replied. She stared at him. Chris chuckled uncomfortably.

"How's your book?" he asked.

Anita tilted her head at him.

"You didn't come all the way up here to ask me about my book. My book is fine."

Chris exhaled heavily. "No, I suppose I didn't."

"So what is it? Are you going to ask me something or are you coming to bed now?"

He chuckled nervously again. She certainly didn't seem to have been taken away by the dementia, so he asked his question: "Tell me. How is Arlene?"

CHAPTER 77 Day Fifteen - Friday 9:15 PM

Joey was all smiles as he entered the room. He smothered Arlene with a huge embrace. "It's done, babe. It went off without a hitch."

Arlene pushed Joey away. She was as equally angry as she was pleased to see him. "You were supposed to be back days ago! I've been worried sick!"

Joey laughed and closed the door behind him.

"You could have at least called me, Joey!"

"Relax. This kind of work is delicate. It takes cunning and patience. I sat there watching his apartment for four days. The payoff was today watching them remove his body."

"Body?" She knew immediately what Joey meant, and she hated that he hadn't discussed this with her in advance. "Hanging around out there was a stupid thing to do. I thought you had been caught."

"Caught? Me?" He burst a hardened laugh. "No one had a clue I was even out there."

She set aside her angst with Joey and led him into the living room where he promptly plopped his middle-aged, sagging body down on to the couch. He lifted his feet one at a time and dropped them hard onto the scuffed up coffee table. "I am so tired."

"I am too, Joey. I'm tired of sitting here sleepless and worried to death about you," she replied.

"Aw, c'mon, babe." He reached out and ran his hand up her thigh. "Go grab me a beer and I'll tell you all of the details," he said.

Arlene released a disgruntled sigh and headed off to the kitchen.

"Gee, thanks, babe. You know, I sure never saw this one coming before we left. I mean, really... What were the odds of that asshole officer moving out to Bluffington, huh? That was un-fucking-believable."

Arlene returned with Joey's beer and shoved it at him. "Both of them moved out there. How was I supposed to know Bluffington is where both Wu and Daly transferred? I just wish I hadn't freaked out at the cemetery like I did when I saw Daly standing there on the path."

"Oh yeah!" Joey screeched. "Did you ever! I thought you were gonna piss yourself right there. Game over. Drop your shorts and leave a trickle of piss running down the path."

"Screw off, Joey!"

"You are such a puss."

"I haven't seen him for years, Joey. I was surprised."

Joey continued to laugh.

"But, do you think he recognized me? Did Daly recognize me?"

"Nah," Joey replied and pointed at her with one finger. "Probably a damn good thing you wore that veil."

"You think so? The veil was enough? He did stare at me a lot."

"He was too busy with that kid out there."

Arlene was suddenly irritated as she remembered the scene. _That kid_ as he put it was her son who everyone thought was in the casket up top of the hill. "But what the hell was the matter with you out there? Why the fuck did you jump out from the trees and offer to drive us back to the house? That was so stupid, Joey!"

Joey took a long swig of the beer and followed with a manly burp. He laughed again. "Relax already. No one out there knows me. You flip out at the first site of a cop and you're yawing at me? I saw what was going on, and I gave you an out. You were shittin' yourself!"

"I wasn't shitting myself. And that was a stupid thing to do."

Joey shrugged and chugged back on his beer. He continued to smile. He was quite pleased with himself.

"You didn't know that cop out there at the cemetery was that bugger, Daly. I told you about him a few years ago when he worked here in Vancouver. He used to haul me in every chance he got when he worked the East side."

Joey shuffled in his chair. He nodded at her. "I remember you talking about him. Another pig. You seem to attract them." He cackled and reached for her crotch, but she batted his hand away.

"I spent more than a half a dozen nights in lockup because of Daly," she said. "He said he was just encouraging me to get off the streets. Then one day, he was gone. I was just glad he was off my street."

Joey sniggered. "Your street, huh? It was always the Candy Street. Where was I headed when I crossed into Cannuck country? Down to the East side to get some fresh, sticky candy on Candy Street." He grinned and released a contented sigh.

"It was the only street I ever worked, so I call it my street. Daly was out there patrolling the street on my very first time." She frowned as if she was reliving the fear and uncertainty of that night. "And all of the way until Wu showed up, I only ever looked out for Daly. He was always on the hunt for me every other night and well... You know the rest."

"Funny little guy, that Officer Wu."

Arlene frowned and sighed heavily.

"He was!" Joey insisted. "And I wanted to break that mother fucker's face every time you told me he'd been sniffing around again. And who names their kid Jet anyways?"

"That's exactly why I stopped telling you about him."

Joey suddenly became highly agitated, jumped up out of his chair, and paced about. He seemed overly anxious but was still pleased with himself. "Well, he's not going to bother you anymore." He laughed again. "That fucking pig just got porked."

Arlene stayed seated, and although she felt disgusted and dirty even mentioning Jet Wu's name, she found it hard to share in Joey's exhilaration.

"You want to know how I did it to him?"

She could tell he wanted to talk about it. It reminded her of when she first met Joey; all he talked about during sex was means and methods of killing his wife. At first she believed it was just part of some strange fantasy that accompanied the sex he paid a handsome fee for. She always played along, encouraging him each time and offered her own ideas and twisted suggestions. As the months progressed, he added very specific details that soon made her uncomfortable. When Joey finally gave her a name, Wendy, she realized it was no fantasy. Strangely, it turned her on, and she couldn't wait for Joey to return with more sordid details and plans. In his absence, she immersed herself into researching how to get away with murder and studying poisons, forensics, autopsies and court trials.

"Did you use the rope I gave you?"

Joey's excitement rose even higher. "Did I use it?" he snickered.

" You asked me to find you a rope, and I found you one. Did you use it?"

"Oh yeah, I used it all right. I just came along for the ride, and I ended up being the life of the party. I am so glad I came. So glad. I would do anything for you, babe. You know that. And meeting like that twice a day along the river was brilliant." He shook his head. He was truly proud of himself.

"The only reason I asked you to come was because I didn't know how my family was going to react when I went back there. I didn't bring you along to hurt anybody."

Joey smirked and shrugged. "I gotta do what's best for you, babe."

"And you didn't believe me when I told you I saw Officer Wu drive by out on the road in front of my dad's place."

"I'm sorry about that, babe, but I thought you were just being paranoid after you told me you recognized that cop, Daly, the day before at the cemetery."

"Paranoid? I wasn't paranoid, Joey. It was Daly. You still sound like you still don't believe me."

Joey laughed again. "You're always so paranoid. Scared like a little kitten. My little pussy." He reached over to pinch at her crotch, but she blocked his hand.

Arlene grunted. She didn't like it when he teased her.

"You still don't know for sure if that even was Daly out there."

"It was him, Joey!" she snapped. "I'll never forget that face. Why would I lie about that? Huh?"

"Well, it's a good thing I believed you about Wu, huh?"

"Wu was a creep," she uttered. "I still don't understand why he showed up at my parent's house. I opened the door, and there he was. I was petrified. But I could see he was shocked too. It took a moment for him to recognize me, but he broke into a huge grin and began gloating as soon as he did. He got real mean and even threatened me. He said he was going to make me pay for turning him in. He threatened to tell my parents, Joey. I pushed him outside. I didn't want mom to hear anything he had to say. I was so upset. I expected him to do something right there and then, but he just pointed his finger in my face and told me I was dead."

"How'd he find you?"

"Did you hear what I just said, Joey?"

"I heard you. He said you were dead. But how'd he find you?

"He just showed up at the door. I have no idea how he found me. I opened the door and there he was. What was I supposed to do? "

"You told me they were keeping your identity a secret. That's what they do. And Wu didn't even have your real name. Candace Youngman. That's the name he knew you by."

Arlene glared at Joey. "And that's also what he called me when he showed up. He called me Candy. He didn't call me by my real name. He said I was the only one who could have squealed because I was the only girl who went down on him in his patrol car."

"You serious?"

"That's what he said, but I don't believe him. Cassie said she'd been giving him some too. I should have left it alone."

"I don't share with pigs."

"This is your fault. You were the one who talked me into pointing the finger at him."

"Of course I did. You didn't need to put up with that shit. Why does this cop think he's above the law? Just because you're turning tricks doesn't mean he can get it for free."

"He told me I was the only one who was in his car, so it had to be me. And they told me he was transferred."

"He had to be stopped. Bad is bad."

"I only wanted you to make him stay away from me until I left town. That's all I wanted, Joey."

"Yeah, right. You also told me he said he was going do you in your daddy's bed. Isn't that what you told me he said to you? What the fuck else was that supposed to mean to me? He wasn't done with you."

"Joey," Arlene replied. "I was only out there for Vincent's funeral. I was leaving in a few days. Jesus. I didn't tell you to hurt him."

"For the last three months, that fuck has been out of your life and you haven't had to suck his yellow dick."

"I didn't want any trouble."

Joey laughed. "Trouble? There's no trouble now. He's never going to bother you again."

Arlene became uncomfortable as she listened to how pleased Joey was with himself. She tried not to encourage his enthusiasm.

"There's nothing on the news about it," she said.

Joey laughed and rubbed his hands together. "And there won't be."

"What did you do to him, Joey?"

"Thallium," he replied and laughed again. "Good old thallium."

"Thallium?"

"Rat poison. It's been banned for over a decade, but I still have a small stash from when I started in the pest control business over twenty years ago. It's not much, but I brought it all with me when I crossed the border to set up shop. It's tasteless, odourless, and dissolves easily into any liquid."

Arlene frowned at his mention of poison. She wasn't sure why she was bothered at the moment, but there was something not right about what he was saying.

"But what about the rope?"

Joey chugged back the rest of his beer and pointed at her as if he was mentoring a pest control intern. "Aah. That's the best part. I gave him just enough thallium to make him sick. After you and I met out along the river, I had an idea. I went back to the hotel to prepare myself and then I tracked him down just like you asked me to. I followed him. I followed him all afternoon. Wherever he went, I went. You got me the rope in the evening, and when he stopped in at Timmy's the next morning I went too. It's easier to slip something into someone's drink than you may think. It was so easy. He sat reading his paper, chowing down on one of them breakfast sandwiches, and I chatted him up."

Suddenly what bothered her about the poison came clear.

"Poison?" she blurted out. Arlene was confused. "You brought poison out there with you? On the plane? Why would you bring poison with you?"

Joey shrugged and grinned. "I've been keeping a vial of thallium in my travel bag for years ever since I first thought about taking care of Wendy. It's a good thing I had it, right?"

Joey leaned towards her for a kiss, but she pulled away.

"What?" she shouted. "You carry poison with you wherever you go? Really, Joey?"

"Not right on me in my wallet or pocket. That would be stupid. It's a tiny vial... less than an inch long. It's been in my travel bag with my tooth brush, deodorant and all that for years. It looks like a small grey stone. No one would even know what it was unless I told them."

"The only reason I asked you fly out there with me was because I didn't know how my family was going to react after all of these years."

Joey stopped pacing and turned toward her. "But I have to look after you, don't I?"

The strange question confused her.

"And now that I see you got a rich daddy with a big house, it looks like you will need even more care," he added.

The followup comment confused her even more. It was such an odd comment, and she knew she would think about it later.

"Lookit. Just scrape a few shavings into the neighbour dog's dinner and he'll be dead in hours." He cackled in delight. "Don't like the cat that's been shitting in your flowerbed? Neighbours' pigeons keeping you awake at night? I can take care of that too. It's my fucking job to kill things. I'm Mr. Pest Control. Wu was just another pest."

Arlene felt a wave of nausea cover her.

"And I also know how this stuff needs to be handled. They don't even test for this poison anymore these days unless someone points a finger. Who's going to point a finger? Wu was still alive and kicking when he went over the balcony." He paused and frowned. "Seeing his feet kick about for so long was something I didn't expect, though."

Did he really did get his kicks from killing things? Was there more about Joey she didn't know?

"Ingest a bit of thallium, and in a few hours it feels like you've got some bad flu bug. Your gut aches and the diarrhea starts. It gets worse over the next day or so. Soon you start to sweat and get dizzy and disoriented. Sounds so much like a bad flu bug, or even plain old food poisoning, but it ain't."

"You made him sick?"

"Oh, he was sick. Four days later, he was still sick. This stuff just keeps eating away at you. I hunkered down in the trees along the ridge and watched his apartment, and when I was sure he wasn't coming out anymore, I buzzed him."

"Days?"

Joey nodded. "Oh yeah. Four days actually. I slipped back to the hotel after his lights went out each night, and was back watching his place well before daybreak. I couldn't risk meeting you out at the river in case he stepped out. After four days, I buzzed him and told him that I was a nurse from the local clinic. I told him his boss called and said he was sick and I came to check on him. I said I had something that could help him."

Arlene listened. She was grotesquely captivated by the sinister persistence Joey expressed.

"He didn't recognize me from Tim Horton's. He was just pleased to hear my voice and my offer of some respite to his bad situation that he let me up without the slightest hesitation."

Joey went into the kitchen and grabbed another beer as he continued to tell his tale.

"Ha! Respite," he cackled. "He got his respite all right. I could see right away how weak he was the moment he let me in. He exhibited all of the signs: hunched over, barely able to stand, let alone walk. He was suffering. I spotted the railing that stretched across the second floor behind him, and I knew exactly what I was going to do.

I insisted he should lie down and that I'd get something to help him to recover. I helped him back up the stairs to his bedroom and into bed. I went back down stairs, grabbed the bag with the rope I set by the door when he let me in, and tied one end of the rope good and tight to the railing. I led him out from his bedroom, easily wrestled him to the floor, wrapped the rope around his neck, and threw him over the balcony. It looked like a suicide and nothing more."

Arlene's mouth fell open. She was flabbergasted at how callous the words flowed from Joey's lips.

"I did it for you, babe. That prick will never touch you again." Joey suddenly laughed at the double entendre he made accidentally.

"And get this," he added. "Because it's a suicide, if they test his blood, they won't be testing for a poison that's been out of use for a decades. There will be nothing to find even if they test for other drugs he may have been using."

Joey continued smiling and chuckling as he slugged back more beer. "That was another home run," he said. He set his beer down and rubbed his hands together. "It was so easy. Two at bats, two home runs: I'm batting one thousand, babe."

Arlene felt revulsion swell up inside, and her stomach churned. She thought she might throw up.

"Who is next?" he asked. He continued to laugh.

CHAPTER 78 Day Fifteen - Friday 9:40 PM

"How is Arlene?" Anita repeated. She slipped him an obliging smile. "You just saw her for a whole week, Chris. She's doing fine."

Chris smiled back at Anita.

"I don't think you fully understand my question."

Anita frowned. "Oh, don't be boorish. You come in here late at night pretending to ask about Arlene, but that's not really what you came for at all now, is it?"

Chris affirmed his intention by nodding at her. "It is actually."

Anita plucked the bookmark from the side table and slipped it between the pages before closing her book and setting it on her lap.

"I know you, Chris. You came in here to talk to me about that rope. It's what you do. You stew for a while, and then you come and talk. So let's talk." She smiled at him again.

Chris responded to her smile with another short chuckle. He was becoming impatient with the requisite smiles. She was certainly fully aware and cognizant of where this conversation was headed. "We'll talk about that rope later. It really is Arlene I've come to talk to you about."

"I'm not sure I want to talk about Arlene right now. You still need to clear up how that rope of yours ended up where it did. I know you said you took care of things but I'm really not pleased if you did what I think you did. I'm afraid of what you might tell me, Chris. I am."

"This isn't about that damned rope, the skull, or anything to do with what happened out at that well. What I came to see you about right now is more important than any of that," he said sternly.

"Now Chris, you're upsetting me again. For decades you wanted nothing to do with Arlene. You refused to even mention her name, and now you suddenly want to talk about her. You just saw her for a whole week. What about Arlene is there to even talk about? She's lovely and doing just fine," she said. She attempted to slide in another smile at him, but it was weak and rife with worry.

"How often have you called her?" he asked.

What was left of Anita's smile faded completely, and he knew instantly that his suspicion was correct.

"I don't know what you mean, Chris. Call her? I don't call her," she lied.

Chris shook his head in frustration. He'd had enough. "Goddamn it, Anita!" he yelled. He clenched his fists. "You've been calling her for years! I know you have!"

She batted her eyes and tried to speak but seemed unable to put together any words.

He nodded at her. "There's no point in denying it anymore. You've kept in touch with her the entire time, haven't you? For the last ten years." He was visibly upset.

"Chris," she replied. "She is my daughter."

"How often do you talk?" he demanded.

Anita's apprehension shifted to anger. "Maybe I do talk to her! So what? It's really none of your business if I call her from time to time!"

"Everything that goes on in this house is my business! How often do you two talk?"

Anita sat upright and responded stiffly. "That is my business, Chris. You are trying to judge me now after all of this time? You drop a skull down onto my kitchen table, take a rope and murder a police officer, for whatever reason I still don't even understand, and you dare to judge me?" She raised her hand and stuck one finger out towards him. "You just remember what you did to that poor crippled boy out there by that well. You murdered three members of that family, Chris. That boy was only thirteen and crippled."

"Hush!" Chris shouted. "And I had nothing to do with that officer's death."

"I don't believe you, Chris! And I won't be hushed! Not today! You can't come in here and tell me what to do when you've done the unspeakable. For over half a century, I've kept your secret about what really went on out at that well. Even thinking about it leaves me in tears for those poor parents who never knew what happened to their little boy."

Chris was taken aback by Anita's outburst. "It wasn't like that."

"For over fifty years I've held my tongue for you. But I've cried, Chris. I have."

Anita's sudden turn startled him. He was at a loss for how to respond.

"I cried for that boy that night after I found out what you did, and I cried for his parents. And let me tell you, I've mostly cried for you. Every time I see some young poor child in need, all I can see is the face of little Billy Bumstead, and I want to cry all over again."

"You're changing the subject. I came in here to talk about Arlene, damn it!"

"Don't you dare curse at me! Don't you dare! Not tonight! You suddenly want to talk about Arlene? Really, Chris? We'll talk if you really want, but you won't like what I have to say. My memory is still very good about such things. You really want to open up secrets from within this house?"

"You've been keeping in touch with her behind my back all of these years, Anita! We are going to talk about this!"

Anita nodded at him and thrust one shaky finger up in his direction again. "I call her because you turned your back on her and shut her out all those years ago. Do you think I don't know what went on when Arlene was little?"

Chris shuddered. "What are you talking about?" But he knew exactly what Anita was referring to.

"Ever since Arlene was a toddler you coddled her and did who knows what with her when you two were alone. You know what I'm talking about, Chris! You and the kids all played hide and seek when I went out. It was just you and our three children all alone in this big house playing games! I know what went on, damn you! And then you closed the door on her the moment she grew up and found herself a man other than you who could actually love her."

"He wasn't a man! Tommy Puck was a drug smoking, eighteen-year-old punk!" he shouted at her.

"I knew all about Tommy Puck. He could have been any boy, but it was what happened to her after you called her out and scared that boy off that was truly inexcusable. She tried to reach out to you to make it right, but you wouldn't have it. You just turned your back on her even though she still loved you."

Chris recognized the truth in her words and found it hard to defend himself.

"And how old was I when you took me?" she added.

Chris didn't respond. He wasn't used to Anita talking to him this way, and it left him extremely unsettled.

"I was seventeen when I worked on Bumstead's farm! I was seventeen when I let you bed me! And you were how old already? I was just barely past the same age that Arlene was with that boy Tommy."

Chris shook his head. "Jesus Christ, Anita," he said, but it came out in a whisper.

"And you wonder why she turned to being with all of those young men the way she did after you pushed her away?"

"She was rotten. That's why she behaved that way. That was the reason I shut her out," he replied.

"It was because you shut her out that she started to sleep with all of those young men. If she's rotten, it's only because of you. I don't know why, but she still loved you after you found out about that Tommy boy. But you still pushed her away!"

Chris wanted to explode. "She started sleeping around like a little slut."

Anita glared at him. "And why was that, Chris? I know what went on in this house when I left you alone with the children when they were little. Hide and seek? Really, Chris? And what did you do when you found her?"

Chris turned away. Could she really have known all along? His face reddened, and he suddenly felt exposed and ashamed. Her words stripped him naked.

"Oh yes, Chris. Arlene told me some of the memories she had from when she was little. She didn't point her finger directly at you, but I knew what she was trying to tell me. Jennifer and Charlie would go hiding underneath the stairs to the basement but you were never ever able to find them. Not once." She shook her head. "I asked them both about those hide-n-seek games a few years ago, and they remembered it very clearly. You could never find them."

Chris' mouthed dropped open.

"The closet in our bedroom is where Arlene would always hide. But you always found her. So what does that make you, Chris? You tell me that. There's a word for that."

"Stop it," he whispered.

"I kept quiet for you, and I stood behind you after what happened out at that well. And then years later when I suspected what terrible unspeakable things you did to our daughter and were possibly still doing, I still kept my silence. I told myself you could never do anything so horrible to one of your own. I blame myself for not stepping in, and that's why I call her. I owe her that much. That was my secret and I am so ashamed of it."

Chris felt weak in the knees. He moved towards the door and grabbed onto the frame to keep himself upright.

"Why do you think I tried to set her up in that house when Vincent was born?"

Anita's words were breaking through his armour and cutting him in places he thought were impenetrable.

"I even wondered if Vincent was actually yours. But she shut you out long before then. You, Chris..." She shook her finger at him again. "You have no right to question me about Arlene."

Chris slowly turned and backed out of the room.

"And you still wonder why she turned out the way she did?" Anita called out loudly as he staggered down the hall. "Do you even know what she's been reduced to just to earn a living these past years, Chris? Do you? She's told me many times what she's had to resort to, and she's not proud of it. I'm ashamed to even tell you."

She continued her rant as he slowly descended the stairs. He knew she was right.

"She's become a prostitute because of you! Do you hear me, Chris? A prostitute!"

He thought of his own father and what a bastard of a man he was. But Chris knew he was not the same kind of bastard his father was.

"Chris!" she called out from the room above. "She sells her body to make a living because of what you did to her!"

He was worse.

CHAPTER 79 Day Fifteen - Friday 10:35 PM

Dean tried to sleep but it wouldn't come. A lot had happened in the past 48 hours. His mind rolled and churned as it tried sort everything out.

Jet's sudden death caused him to think about the ghost Millie said he talked about. He didn't understand, but the word _ghost_ made him to think about _bones_ and Vincent's crazy escape. He was unable to separate the two events, especially when the same rope was involved in both.

As he lined up the facts, the rope was the defining connection between Vincent and Jet. He didn't understand the connection. How and why? They certainly didn't know each other.

His thoughts moved to the note pad. " _WHAT TO DO?_ " were Jet's final words. He wrote those words, and he was dead shortly after.

He wished he had collected the note pad as evidence. It just didn't make any sense.

"Alien" he said aloud.

"Alene," he said next. "Alien? Ailene?"

He knew the answer might be in the barely readable word _aliene._

_Old mans_ _house_. That was definitely Chris.

What was _found candy_?

What did Jet find at the old man's house? Candy?

"Aliene? Alien? Allen? Ailene? Arlene?"

He jolted upright in bed. "Arlene?" he whispered. "Chris' daughter Arlene? She was from the coast. And Jet was from the coast."

"No way," he said. "It's gotta be a coincidence." He scratched his head. He was now fully awake. He was from the coast too.

"Ok. Let's go over this again. I send Jet over to apologize to Chris and Vincent. He writes _bastard_ because he is upset. Upset over what? Chris or Vincent? Me for sending him over to apologize to Chris?"

_Found candy / old mans house_ was written next.

"What did you find at Chris' house? You found... Candy. Was Arlene Candy?

Ailene candy.

And then Dean remembered Arlene's outburst at the funeral. It was a minor outburst that bothered him a little at the time. Now it bothered him a lot.

"It's you," she shouted and pointed towards him as he tried to keep Vincent on his feet. He had thought at the time that she pointed at Vincent. Was it possible she had been pointing at him? He also thought he recognized her voice. But he couldn't figure out from where. He couldn't see her face under the veil.

"Arlene," he whispered. He frowned. An old connection from many years ago, back when he spent endless hours patrolling the streets on the east side of Vancouver, entered his thoughts. "Candace?" That voice. It couldn't be. Could it? Chris' daughter?

Dean reached for his note pad from the side table and wrote down what he was thinking.

CHAPTER 80 Day Fifteen - Friday 10:41 PM

Vincent picked up his iPhone from the bedside table and called home. His Grams answered on the first ring.

"Hi Grams," he said. "I know it's late. I didn't wake you, did I ?"

"No you didn't, Vincent."

She sounded upset.

"Is everything okay?" he asked.

"Your Grandfather has just got me all riled tonight. You know how he can be. I'll be up for hours now."

"What did he do?" They didn't argue very often, but it pained Vincent greatly when they did.

"It's nothing that concerns you, dear. He just gets this way sometimes. It happens more often now with my dementia."

Vincent almost wished he hadn't called, but he had something he had to say or he'd never be able to sleep either.

"I'm sorry, Grams. I'm sure Gramps will come around. He always does," he said.

His Grams released a heavy sigh into the phone.

"I suppose," she said. "But it is good to hear your voice tonight. I needed a pick-me-up." She tried to laugh.

"Well, I'm glad I called then," he said. He looked down at Anna next to him in bed. He knew she could hear his Grams words from the phone and sensed her concern. She rubbed her hand across his chest and feigned a smile.

"So why are you calling so late, Vincent?"

"It's about what you said when we talked the other day. I wanted to tell you that you were right, and I've reconsidered."

"Oh, really?" She suddenly sounded cheerful.

"Yes. You and Anna have been relentless." He laughed softly. "I've decided I will call her."

"I do think it's best. You'll be able to move on once you've had a chance to hear her out... even if you don't agree with her."

He nodded. He squeezed Anna's hand.

"I don't know when I'll call her. But I will," he said. "I just wanted you to know."

"Arlene can be very odd at times, but she means well."

It was comforting to hear his Grams approval. He knew it meant a lot to her to hear that he listened to what she was trying to tell him. His grandparents' approval always rested very high on his priorities.

"I will talk to her. I promise."

CHAPTER 81 Day Fifteen - Friday 11:58 PM

Chris still hadn't yet recovered from Anita's accusations when the front door chime echoed through the Pattison home. Chris shuffled himself over to the front door to see who the hell was bothering them at this hour.

"Good evening, Chris."

Detective Daly stood on the stoop dressed in full police uniform.

Chris was immediately annoyed. His mind ran itself in circles, and he just didn't have time to deal with Dean.

"It's late, Dean. What the hell are you doing bothering us at this hour? I'm tired, and Anita's asleep." He glanced back over his shoulder and up the stairs.

"It's important, Chris."

"Like hell it is. Come back in the morning," he said and started to close the door.

Dean thrust his arm out to prevent Chris from closing it fully. "It's about your daughter. Arlene."

Chris felt a rush of adrenaline at the mention of his daughter's name. He pulled the door back open.

"Arlene? What about Arlene?" he asked gruffly.

Dean smiled. "I only came by to see if you had a photo of her I could look at."

"A photo?" Chris shouted. "Jesus Christ! You come over at midnight asking for a photo of my daughter? What the hell is the matter with you?"

Dean raised his arms defensively. "Nothing's wrong," he said calmly. "I just really need to see a picture of your daughter."

"Get the hell off my doorstep," he said and closed the door.

Chris shuddered. Everything seemed to be suddenly crashing in on him.

"Chris," Dean called from the other side of the door. "I really need that picture tonight. I'm sorry for bothering you, but this is important."

Chris turned and stared at the closed door.

"Chris?" Dean called out. He rang the doorbell again.

"Get the hell off my property!" Chris shouted. He moved closer to the door and turned his ear to hear if Dean was leaving.

"Shit," he heard Dean say. A few moments later, the sound of Dean's patrol car starting up and backing out the drive put Chris at ease.

"Damn you, everyone!" Chris shouted.

His world was collapsing.

CHAPTER 82 Day Fifteen - Friday 11:59 PM

Jacob Mason looked at his watch. He was tired and frustrated. It was midnight, and he still had a few hours of work left before he could go home. He had been waiting for the blower to lower the temperature inside the chamber of the cremation furnace enough so for him to remove the tray with the remains. The timer indicated he still had another four minutes to go.

It wasn't often that the funeral home received a request for a same day cremation. The circumstances surrounding this type of rush request was always the same: someone from out of town wanted to take the remains back with them when they left for home. The sign-off from the Chief Medical Examiner hadn't come through until nearly four o'clock, so Jacob agreed to stay late. He hoped to be home by 9:00 PM.

But there was a problem. The cremation of one very large Armond Peterson he started at 3:30 PM was still incomplete.

"2260 degrees still!" he shouted into the phone at 4:45pm. He called the upstairs office and was speaking with his boss, Petraas Monahan,

"The main burner is off?" Petraas asked.

"Yes! And the temperature is still climbing."

"Take it easy, Jacob. I told you to watch out for this. Peterson was severely obese. This happens sometimes. What's the temperature in the second chamber?"

"It's climbing too! 2120 degrees now! What do I do? You should come down here!"

"Don't panic, Jacob. This is very normal. Now shut off the fuel to the afterburner. We need to wait this out. Keep both burners off."

Jacob pressed the shutoff button for the afterburner and stepped back to watch the temperature readings for both chambers.

"I warned you about this," Petraas said. "You can't walk away from the furnace on obese cases. You need to sit your butt right there in front and watch those readings for the first half hour at least, especially that first chamber temperature."

"I'm sorry," Jacob replied. "It's coming down now. 2220 in the main chamber and 2100 in the second."

"That's good. Now wait until the temperature falls well below 2000. Start up the afterburner at 1800 and then the main burner at 1600, in that order."

"Uh huh," he replied. "It's working. They're still coming down."

"There's so much fat on the body of an obese person. The fat ignites and combusts with intense heat sometimes. The temp can climb very rapidly."

Jacob was relatively new to the job. He had only been running the furnace alone for three weeks. He knew how the cremation furnace worked: The main burner heats the first chamber where the body rests during the cremation process. The cremation temperature is usually about 1700 degrees. The second chamber is hotter, at 2000 degrees. The gases from the first chamber move to the second chamber where combustion of any remaining gases is completed. The remains of the body are brushed into a tray at the front of the chamber after a short cooling period.

"You are going to have to check on the remains as well. This one may need longer."

"I know," Jacob replied, but he didn't sound confident. He saw one body before that hadn't fully cremated. When he opened the chamber, instead of the usual grey clumps and ash, he stared into a blackened, gooey mass. It gave him nightmares for a week.

"Peterson's going to take a lot longer than most."

Jacob had to repeatedly monitor the chamber temperatures over the next half hour until the fats and liquids no longer combusted and spiked the temperature in the first chamber. Mr. Peterson was finally fully cremated three hours later. Then it took another hour for the furnace to cool down enough so he could remove the remains and another half hour of additional cooling before Jacob could begin his last cremation of the day: the rush request for one Jet Wu.

It was now after midnight and he waited for this final cremation to finish. The timer went off, and the temperature of the first chamber dropped below 700 degrees. Jacob slipped on his heavy, heat-retardant gloves and opened the door. He wasn't about to wait any longer for the chamber to cool down another few hundred degrees. The heat blasted out at him and momentarily took his breath away. He reached inside with his long brush and brushed what remained of Officer Jet Wu into the tray at the front of the chamber. He removed the tray, shoved an empty, sterile tray back into the furnace, and closed the door.

After another hour, Jacob finished sifting through the remains with a magnet to pick out a few metal pieces. He ran the material through a processor to grind it down into uniform particles. He then sealed it all into a small plastic bag with an identification label, which he placed neatly into a small cardboard box.

It was nearly 1:30 in the morning when Jacob locked up and went home. He would be back at 8:00 AM, per his boss' request, to meet the brother of the deceased.

CHAPTER 83 Day Sixteen - Saturday 10:03 AM

"Damn!" Dean shouted.

He cradled the phone, leaned back in his chair, and ran his hands through his hair. He was upset, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Brenda Tilley stared at him from Millie's desk. Millie was off today. Brenda was a young, single mother who worked part time in the office. She always took over dispatch on Millie's days off.

Dean forced a smile. "Sorry, Brenda."

She smiled back. "It's okay. Has something happened?"

"Nothing to concern yourself with," he replied.

Brenda returned her attention to her computer.

But something did happen. After calling the funeral home repeatedly since arriving at the station two hours ago, Petraas Monahan finally picked up. He informed Dean that Jet Wu's body was cremated last night.

"Damn it all," he whispered. He tapped his fingers on the desk. There was no longer any point in going to the coroner with his suspicion regarding Jet's suicide. He had no evidence that a crime was even committed.

He brought up the file for Candace Youngman on his computer. He studied her many photos. Could this pitiful hooker from the east side of Vancouver really be Chris Pattison's daughter?

Dean printed out the most recent photo on file.

CHAPTER 84 Day Sixteen - Saturday 10:17 AM

Chris remained in his study with the drapes pulled shut. The dark gloom of his dimly lit study matched his depressed mood.

Anita called him out. He had no idea that she knew all along about the horrible thing he did to their daughter. He was disgraced. He didn't know if he could ever face her again.

Chris lit another cigarette and puffed away in darkness. He could hear the kettle whistling away as Anita shuffled about in the kitchen.

In all of their years together, Chris never once left Anita to sleep alone upstairs. He was wrought with worry.

What was Anita going to do?

The front doorbell chimed through the house.

He shuffled over to the door of his study, tilted his ear, and listened. He could hear Anita shuffle down the hall to the front door. He listened to Anita and the visitor converse for a number of minutes. He could only make out the odd word here and there. His heart raced. Who was calling, and why?

Minutes passed. Chris heard the front door shut, and Anita shuffle back into the kitchen.

He moved back to his desk and sat down. He buried his head in his hands. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Everything he lived for was at risk. It all depended on what Anita did next.

There was a soft knock on his door and the door handle jiggled. It was Anita.

"Chris?" she called out. She opened the door and slipped in with a cup of tea. She approached slowly.

She set the tea gently down on the desk and pushed it towards him.

"Is something wrong, Chris?"

He frowned and looked away. He didn't want to look into her eyes.

"You never came to bed last night. I was terribly worried about you."

Chris' mouth dropped open. He finally stared up at her with his mouth agape.

Anita looked around the small office. Her eyes paused on the leather couch that had a wool blanket sprawled across it.

"Chris?" She looked very worried. "Why did you sleep down here last night?"

"I uh..." He stared at the couch.

"Here's your tea," she said.

She moved to the window and pulled the drapes open. "It's so dark in here, Chris."

Chris was dumfounded. Had she really forgotten what happened last night? He watched her carefully as she straightened the drapes, moved to the couch, and folded the blanket.

"That officer came by again."

"Who? Dean?" He felt a lump swell in his throat and swallowed hard.

"Yes, dear. It was so strange," she said.

"What was?"

She looked at Chris and frowned. "I don't know why, but he wanted a picture of Arlene."

"What?"

"I didn't see any harm, so I gave him one."

Chris's heart pounded away. He feigned a smile and nodded.

"No harm done," he said. He was worried. "Thanks for the tea."

Anita turned for the door. She paused. "If you slept down here because of me, I wish you would tell me what I did. You've never slept down here before."

He stared at her. He stammered. "It's... uh... It's nothing you've done. I uh..."

"You would tell me, Chris, if I did something to offend you?"

She stared at him for what seemed like a full minute. He nodded slowly, and she smiled.

"You know how my brain is these days. Sometimes I don't remember things so well," she said. She slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Chris sighed in disbelief. He wanted to feel relieved, but he was still incredibly uncomfortable.

Was it possible she remembered nothing from last night?

He chuckled and sipped his tea.

CHAPTER 85 Day Sixteen - Saturday 11:20 AM

"Mom, it's me," Vincent said. He trembled so hard that the phone shook in his hand.

Silence.

He pressed the phone tighter to his ear.

"Mom?" he asked.

He heard her clear her throat before answering.

"Vincent?"

She was clearly surprised to hear his voice.

"Yeah, mom."

She giggled. "You called me," she said.

"Yeah, mom. I called you."

He could almost hear her smile.

He wept.

END OF BOOK ONE

BUMSTEAD'S WELL - BOOK TWO to be released early 2015

See next page for all books by R E Swirsky
Books by R E Swirsky

WISH ME FROM THE WATER

When a young teenage boy commits suicide, the town's people believe it was because of bullying. Two brothers quickly uncover the horrible truth and take matters into their own hands.

EXTREME MALICE

The teenage boy living next door is charged with the crime of strangling Jack's wife. The boy's guitar string was found around her neck. Jack was hundreds of miles away on business.

IN THE MIDST OF A PREDATOR

A very short story.

Young Bobby finds himself alone at the fair and lured by a sexual predator. (This same Bobby, many years later, becomes one of the main characters in Wish Me From the Water).

THE BLUFFINGTON FOUR

A time travel mystery. Four students stumble upon a device hidden away in an attic and are sent through a portal back in time. Their attempts to find their way home takes them to many different dates, but all lead back to one point in time in which a crime was committed. They soon believe the four of them committed the crime and resolve to go take their place in history.

