Stevan Mena - Transience

“Tell me again about the kind of money people will pay for artwork like hers?”

Michael emptied his lungs with passion. “Oh jeez… sky’s the limit.”

The rain continued to pour, Jack swerved to avoid an oncoming car that had drifted into his lane. His right tire dipped into a deep puddle, splashing a wave of water a good 10 feet in the air. He fought the wheel, turning into the skid to regain control.

“Come on!”

The road he was expecting wasn’t there, he must have made a wrong turn. It didn’t matter too much, all the roads in this area terminated along the same main stretch a few miles up. He’d just have to double back. But any time he might have saved going this way was now lost.

Jack’s phone rang, he fumbled along the seat for it, refusing to take his eyes off the road again, even for a second. It was Harrington.

“Yeah?”

“Jack, we found something. They’re bringing it up now.”

Jack swallowed, his emotions conflicting between closure and bitter failure.

“Where are you?” Harrington asked. Jack strained to see the name of a street sign through the rain.

“Lost…” Jack hung up and took the turn, hoping he could double back quicker than he thought. His car swiveled on the slippery surface, he slowed down a bit to correct it. He passed a few rural homes, small two and three bedroom colonials, each separated by an acre of property. One house had several junked cars parked on the lawn. He made his way towards the main road again; another 2 miles, he figured.

A sign pointing to highway 406 confirmed it and he accelerated. He looked out over an expansive patch of grassy field. It was brown from the onset of winter, large patches of earth where flood water was collecting in thick pools from all the heavy rain. Adjacent to the field was a steep hill where power lines stretched to infinity. Something caught his attention along the top.

High up at the apex of the hill was a large, rusted water tower. Jack squinted to read something on its side, a worn slogan:

Find Jesus.

Jack slowed to a stop. He rolled down the window to get a better look, rain splashing off the door into his face. He put the car in reverse and turned down an adjacent road. He wanted to get closer.

The road was narrow, uneven, the ups and downs of the terrain were a little much on the shocks of his old car. He felt each bump in his spine, ignoring the pain.

He passed a few more houses, one was in great disrepair, its windows and doors boarded up while the walls themselves crumbled down. On his left, he passed a small church whose facade had seen better days. Scattered shingles from the roof littered the grass from a recent storm.

He spotted something in the distance, a small long abandoned fruit stand.

JACK SLAMMED ON THE BRAKES.

He pulled over and stepped out of the car. The sign on the fruit stand read:

The Fruits of Our Labors.

Jack stood stunned. He read it, then re-read it, wiping his rain-soaked face to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

He took a step to his right and could see the water tower — its slogan, Find Jesus — clearly visible behind it.

Jack turned in place. Behind him was a small white house, a light on inside.

He looked back at the church down the road. Then at the fruit stand. Then the water tower.

“ There are no coincidences,” Leonard’s voice repeated in his head.

Jack turned back towards the tiny house and reached inside his jacket for his gun. His hand was shaking uncontrollably. Maybe it was from the freezing rain. Maybe.

As Jack slowly approached the house, he noticed a basement window facing the road with protective metal bars on it, the kind normally used in the inner city. He stepped quietly across the grass and up the two broken steps to the front door.

He knocked. No answer. He knocked again and the door swayed open loosely. Jack looked over his shoulder, his car parked in the middle of the street. He turned and took a cautious step inside the house.

He found himself in a small kitchen. There were dirty dishes piled ten high, a month’s worth, empty glasses filled with liquids, flies swarming loudly.

“Hello?” Jack called out. He could hear a TV, someone was watching a game show in the living room.

“Lansing Police Department. Is anyone home?”

He passed through an open doorway into the living room, his gun leading the way. There was a TV on, but no one was watching it. The floor was littered with dirty food trays, dozens of upended pill bottles, and crumpled tissues. A dust covered wheelchair parked in the corner. The rancid smell was nauseating.

A toilet flushed — Jack spun in the direction of the noise. A bathroom door opened and an elderly woman, holding her robe together with both hands, stepped slowly into view. She reached for her walker. Jack holstered his gun.

She looked terribly malnourished and disheveled. Her skin hung from her bones, covered with liver spots and small cuts and welts. Her tattered robe was full of stains. Her face looked like it hadn’t touched water in months. She made her way back to her La-Z-Boy.

“Ma’am?” Jack finally said, but she didn’t even turn to acknowledge him. She sat down and resumed her program as if no one else was in the room.

Jack took a step closer.

“Turn up the heat, will you?” the old woman said finally, her voice hoarse and scratchy, like the witch from the Grimm’s fairy tale. “It’s cold in here. Aren’t you cold?”

She spoke to Jack as if she’d known him all her life. He stood there, confounded.

“I’m sorry ma’am. The door was open. My name’s Jack Ridge. I’m a police detective.”

“So cold in here,” she said, pulling her robe tighter, “is it cold?” She kept her eyes glued to the TV set.

“Ma’am, is there anyone else here?” Jack wasn’t expecting a coherent answer.

“Where’s that damn remote?” She fished around the seat of her chair unsuccessfully. “Damn it. What time is it? I’ll miss it.”

“Do you mind if I look around?” The woman finally turned to Jack. Her ghostly, lifeless eyes looked right through him.

“Hand me that water will you dear?” Jack spotted a glass of water on a nearby table. He reached out and handed it to her.

“Ma’am?” Jack hoped she might pop into lucidity, even just for a moment. He had questions.

The woman took a shallow sip of her water and turned back to her program. Jack gave up trying. He turned around, stepping cautiously, navigating his way out of the maze of china dishes and glasses strewn across the floor, wondering how the old woman had not tripped and killed herself long ago.

Jack spotted another stack of food trays left beside a door that he guessed led to the basement. He tried the handle — it was old, rusted, and hard to turn. He gave it a strong twist and it popped open. There was a staircase leading down into darkness. He felt for a light switch, but it had been removed, covered over with black duct tape.

Jack had none of his normal equipment with him, but he kept a small novelty flashlight on his keychain, a cheap piece of shit from the dollar store. He switched it on, its pinhole light was just enough to navigate the darkness.

Each step was creaky, the flimsy wood straining under his weight. There was another door at the bottom, which was locked. Jack figured he’d been patient enough. He gave it a strong kick, immediately realizing from the searing pain and the deep muffled thud that it must be made of steel. Jack examined the door frame and noticed it was also reinforced. Someone wanted whatever was behind that door kept a secret. The bars on the basement windows now made sense.