The sun dangles from the very top of the glass dome as they drive up Cedar Avenue. All the shadows are hiding in basements and inside the tree trunks and in storm drains. The street looks like an overexposed Polaroid photo.
"We gotta go back to that shithole bar," Chloe is saying, squinting. "Ask those biker assholes about Tommy. But it's still too early somehow, so we're gonna stop by my place real quick. I want a shower."
And shit, she does. She needs to wash this whole morning off. The train. The tribe. The homeless lady.
She needs to regroup and think.
She would prefer some strong weed, but life hasn't been exactly shoving any breaks her way. Since, like, ever. A shower will have to do.
They pull into the empty driveway. A bird flutters across the windshield and disappears.
44 Cedar Avenue.
The Trail's End and Arcadia Head.
The words flash before her eyes.
What the fuck? ...does that mean? Trail's end? Her house? Not even hers. "Price-Madsen household." If anything, it's the beginning of the trail for her, not the end. And Arcadia Head? The hell is that? Sounds like bathroom graffiti. "Call this number for best head in Arcadia." And Victoria Chase's number.
Not that she's ever done anything like that…
"Uh, home, shit home," Chloe says. "Please don't feed the step-douches."
She starts up the stairs as soon as they're inside, then stops abruptly about half way to the second floor, forcing Steph to stop behind her.
"It's quiet," she says, turning around. Listening for another minute, she grabs Steph by the shoulders to move her out of the way and goes back down. "Either the step-douche locked himself in the garage…" she says, practically shouts, pulling the door at the bottom of the stairs open and sticking her head through it for a moment, then closing it again, "…or this is the first bit of good luck I got in two days."
Leaving Steph to browse unopened bills and family photos in the hallway, she goes to the living room to confirm, then looks into the backyard through the sliding door to make double-sure. No mustaches from planet dipshit. Nothing but empty beer bottles standing in random places about the yard. The sight of them makes her queasy. Her dad could have a beer, but he would never leave a bottle behind like that. Much less half a dozen of them standing out there for days. It's like if Joyce cleans them up, she's a servant of the man-king. And if she just leaves them there, then that still means he runs the place and can do whatever the fuck he wants. Can shit on the lawn if he feels like it. Queasy morphs into pissed. Fucking loser. One day, she will gather those bottles and break them one by one against the windshield of this dumb muscle car. Or maybe his face.
Or maybe she'll line them up and shoot them with his gun.
"Beer and guns?" Max Caulfield says. "Nice combo."
"You can handle it," says Chloe Price. "Now go find us five bottles. Pretty please."
Maybe he ran away with the milkwoman. Fuck, not with her luck. More likely he's in the woods somewhere, murdering defenseless animals.
"Still," she says absently, "at least the bastard is not here…"
"Still?" Steph echoes quizzically.
Chloe checks the garage again. The rifle is in its case.
A thought occurs, and she walks across the garage and pulls open the cabinet door. Red, white and blue plastic bins, full of nails and screws. No surveillance monitors.
She chuckles, shakes her head and closes it again. Steph is watching her from the doorway.
"Let's go, before this idiot universe pukes him up."
Shower feels great, but doesn't yield much in the way of epiphanies. The feeble Thirsty Horse lead is still the best one she's got for finding Tommy, and Tommy is still the best lead she's got for finding Rachel. It's all pretty depressing. But at least the step-douche isn't home. At least the water feels nice. At least the gas has not been disconnected for non-payment. Cold shower would suck balls.
In her room, Steph is hunched over the desk, handwriting up a storm in her paper notebook.
"That better be class-related," Chloe says, strolling to her dresser.
"Oh, it is. Come check it out," Steph says over her shoulder, then turns away as Chloe drops her towel.
Chloe pulls a new shirt from the drawer and a fresh-er pair of jeans. Putting both on, she picks up the towel from the bed and comes over, drying her hair.
"What? Did you solve the case?"
"Not yet. But we're getting more clues."
She pushes her notebook towards Chloe. The old numbered list is longer and wider now.
1. Older Male (Mark Jefferson?) - Tommy Hill (probably)
2. Letter - mentioning older male (see above)
3. Backpack - found in junkyard (reason unknown)
4. Drugs - Frank (?) Nathan Prescott (drug lab, gun, skeevy henchmen)
5. Ticket to the game - Related to trip to Hamlet, OR (probably)
6. Knife - Found in backpack (reason unknown)
7. Hamlet, OR - Rachel visited in February regarding Prescott lawsuit (possibly met Tommy Hill)
8. Tommy Hill - last seen in Hamlet 2 weeks ago, alone, in distress (possibly drug-related, see 4)
To reinforce her parenthesis notes, Steph drew curved lines connecting 8 and 4, 8 and 1, 8 and 2, 5 and 7, and dashed lines between 7 and 4, and 8 and 4. Next to 3 and 6 she drew a bunch of cute little question marks.
"Wait," Chloe says, "you're trying to connect this back to Nathan again?"
"I mean, the drugs are mentioned more than once here, and so are the Prescotts. And Nathan Prescott happens to be related to both."
"That's my family," Nathan Prescott says in the Blackwell girls' bathroom, "not me."
"Oh, boo hoo, poor little rich kid."
Like, how is that even a good place to meet?
"Nathan may be selling drugs to Blackwell kids, but just because he has the same last name doesn't mean that lawsuit has anything to do with him."
"But Rachel was also with him at that bar. Not to mention your… visions."
"Ugh. Haven't we established that these vision are bullshit, Steph? That stupid train from the dream almost splattered me all over the tracks! Hell, I'm not even the main character in them. I'm a sidekick."
"That's just your self-esteem talking."
"What'd you say?"
"Don't take it the wrong way. I mean, you want to fix things, but you don't think of yourself as a hero, or someone who can fix them, so you recreate your best friend from memory and give all these positive qualities and powers to her instead, and make yourself into an observer. But it's your brain, Chloe. Your story."
"OK, Doctor Jung. Fine. Maybe I do wish I could rewind time and fix… some things, and maybe you're even right about how subconsciously I think I'm not worthy or whatever, but that doesn't change the fact that these flashbacks, this 'story,' have not been helping me find Rachel."
"Backpack. Knife," Steph says, poking the page with her finger. "You said you only found them because of a vision."
"That was…"
"And the letter?" Poke.
"Come on, Steph! You don't believe any of that stuff. It's just…"
"Just what? Drugs? Like Tommy Hill talking about spirits was just drugs? Like the drugs Nathan Prescott sells to kids on campus?"
Chloe throws her hands and stomps around in exasperation, looking like she's about to start cursing in Simlish.
Steph mimics her, which makes her laugh. Then, they're both laughing.
"Damn it, Gingrich," Chloe says through tears. "Why'd you have to get so worked up?"
"It's your fault!"
"So what do you want to do with Nathan?" Chloe asks when the laughter finally dies down. "You know he's about as soon shoot us as talk. I'd have to beat his ass down until he cries first. And for that, we would need to catch him alone and somewhere secluded. Which is, like, impossible."
"No, I don't think we're ready for that yet. He seems connected, but right now we don't even know what to ask him. I don't think 'Where is Rachel?' is going to get us answers. So Tommy Hill is still our best target."
"I guess we're not doing that hot then, huh? Tommy is our best target and we have no idea where to find him."
"We're doing better than two days ago."
"Are we, though?"
"Who's being the Debbie Downer now?"
"Sad Chloe is fucking sad again."
The quick Rachel flashback is enough to make her reflect a bit. And to concede.
"OK. You're right, Steph. We are doing better. But it's Sunday afternoon. Don't they expect you back in Lala Land?"
"Actually, while you were in the shower, I called and told them I'll need a couple more days off."
"Damn, Steph. Is that OK? You aren't fucking up your… anything, are you?"
"No, it's fine. It's just a… Anyway, it's fine."
"Sounds sus. Come on, I'll drive you to Portland."
She gestures and takes a step and a half towards the door as she says that, but Steph's face stops her.
"Chloe, I am not leaving until we find her."
"OK, OK. Don't start breaking dishes again. Sheesh."
"Then stop making me angry," Steph says, adding in a baritone, "You won't like me when I'm angry."
"Nah. I'll probably still like you."
"I think his family is totally protecting him," Max Caulfield says. "Or worse."
She's in a hospital room. There's a girl in a chair by the bed. She's wearing a white t-shirt with flowers and a ridiculous hairdo that looks like a giant onion.
"I never say this about people," Kate Marsh says, "but, Max, there's something evil about the Prescotts. They have something to do with death."
"We are going to stop them. I just need to find our Nathan's room number, get inside and find the clues I need."
"I don't know," Steph says. "I can be pretty mean…"
"Huh? Oh. Yeah…"
The flashback is extra-heavy, leaving aftershocks like flashbacks fast forwarded at crazy speeds: Max in David's garage; Blackwell courtyard; Dorm hallway; Nathan's room; Max pulling the couch away from the wall. All this while's she's fully back, too. It leaves her sweaty.
They have something to do with death.
"What's wrong, Chloe?" Steph asks. "Did you have another vision just now?"
"Ugh. Yeah. And I guess it listened to you and wants me to break into Nathan's dorm. I hope you're happy."
"That seems… Are you sure?"
"Am I sure that's what the flashback is telling me? Kinda. Am I sure that's going to help us find Rachel even a little bit? Hell no. You're the one telling me these things might have something to them."
"Yeah… maybe we should go with you and not follow up on this one."
"So which is it, Steph? Are these things legit, or are they crazy?"
Steph is thinking so hard, she might shatter a light bulb, if she's not careful.
"Maybe they're… both? Like, if we imagine they are some sort of messages that you're receiving, maybe they come from more than one… something. Maybe one sender wants you to find Rachel, and the other wants… the opposite?"
"Or they're just random hallucinations from that drug."
"But… the backpack, and…"
"The letter. Yes, yes. Coincidences. Possible, right?"
"Uhh."
"Say you're right. How do we tell which is which?"
"Well, if you can't tell, then we can't tell. Until we…"
"Follow up on every single one?"
Steph nods. "Within reason."
"So breaking into Nathan's dorm is not within reason to you?"
"I mean… I don't know. It seems like, really dangerous and scary. Nathan may actually be insane. He almost shot us once already. Can you tell me more about this flashback?"
So she does, which doesn't seem to convince Steph one way or the other.
"Listen, Steph, honestly, the content of the flashback doesn't even matter half the time. Sometimes stuff make sense. Sometimes it's just random shit. But regardless of either one or the other, I sometimes get the feeling, you know? Like I felt that I would find something under that plank at the junkyard. Or like the dream with the train whistle, I felt like I needed to take that stupid hike. Now I feel like I need to break into Nathan's room. But we both know what happened when I took that walk, so… Maybe fuck this feeling… Ugh, except we just got done talking about how Nathan does seem to be connected somehow."
"What could there be in his room, though?"
Rachel. Rachel's clothes. Rachel's things. Rachel's bracelet. Rachel's photos. Rachel.
"Beats the hell out of me," she says through her teeth. "Hopefully something that will at least tell us what to ask him."
They stare at each other in silence for a moment. Finally, Steph sighs and shakes her head.
"Can it even be done? How do we get into the dorm? How do we get into his room? What if he's there?"
"If he's there, it's not going to work, so…" Chloe says, pulling out her phone and punching keys. She hits the speaker button. It rings.
"Arcadia Bay Meteorological Society," a familiar voice drawls.
"Yo, Justin, it's Chloe Price. Are you at the dorms?"
"It's Sunday afternoon, Price. Only the nerds are at the dorms."
"What if I needed to get into the dorms right now?"
"Then… you would require a nerd."
Justin sends her a phone number and, after cautioning her not to mention his name, to anybody, under any circumstances, signs off.
When they get to the campus again, which Chloe feels like she's visited more often in the last three days than when she actually went to Blackwell, she sends Steph to sit on one of the empty benches in the courtyard and be a lookout. Soon after, the door of the boys' entrance cracks open and she slips through the crack into the darkened, utilitarian lobby. Their footsteps echo as they silently climb the stairs and emerge into a dorm corridor. Her Sherpa is a slight, shaggy-haired youth wearing two t-shirts, probably because he heard that was cool. She vaguely remembers him from her Blackwell days, mostly his wunderkind reputation, but she knows him a lot better from her flashbacks.
"Here we are," Warren Graham whispers conspiratorially, then adds in a normal voice, "Now, about that copy of Liquid Sky?"
"Oh, I don't have it on me. But you will get it, don't worry. My friend Steph has connections."
Chloe advances down the hallway while saying this. There's a map of the dorm on the wall to the right, but about a hundred people tagged the shit out of it over the last hundred years. She remembers Nathan's room number from the flashback. 111. Assuming that's not bullshit.
Warren's face drops. "What? That wasn't the deal."
"Dude. You're getting a copy of a super-rare cult movie for just opening a door. So how about you chill out?"
He follows her around the corner. "Fine. But you better be good for it, sister. That movie is nuts!"
"Hey," she asks in a whisper. "You know if Prescott's home?"
"Nah. He hasn't been in since Friday."
"He in 111, right?"
They arrive at the door. Chloe leans in to listen. All is quiet.
"Yeah," Warren says. "Hey, you wanna throw in a trip to the drive-in movie theater some time? Uh, you know, since you're a fellow connoisseur. They show some sweet flicks there."
"Huh? Oh. Yeah, sure. Maybe. Give me a call some time. For now, though, you better get out of here. You don't need to see what happens next. Makes you an accessory. Or something."
She gets a "Go Ape" flashback. When she phases back in, Warren is gone.
Making sure the hallway is empty, she takes a deep breath, summons a memory of Frank teaching her lockpicking and goes to work on the lock. It surrenders almost before she begins. For a moment, she gets a terrifying thought that Nathan is actually home, about to swing the door open with her kneeling there with her picks. She sees him as train engineer, laughing as he runs her over. But it's only the lock releasing. There is no shout, no gun, and the sound of running boots is just her heartbeat.
She crawls inside, closes the door and slumps against it. The room is familiar as fuck. Who knows how that's possible, but she knows where everything is. Seen all of it before. The projector screen, the drawn blinds, the bottles, the expensive rags in the closet, the creepy photos, the fucking whale songs. There's even a brand new monochrome camera on the desk. Why isn't this shit this accurate when it matters? Like when you're about to be hit by a train? Or looking for a missing girl? Why does it not show her (or even Max, fine) finding Rachel alive and well in some room or shed or a fucking bunker, with detailed description of the interior and the helpful shot of the address on the outside mailbox? No, Nathan's room is a perfect match, but what she "remembers" of the missing Rachel investigation is finding her six months old corpse in a fucking shallow grave. How is that for fucking fair?
With these thoughts churning in her brain, Chloe combs through desk drawers, book shelves, pockets, and shit on the bed and magazine table. She finds cash all over the place - probably 200 bucks total - and pockets it without a second thought. She finds drugs, both prescription and illicit, pretty much in the open. Prescott clearly doesn't care if anyone finds anything here. Must be nice to own the school and the town police. She leaves all the drugs alone, except an opened dimebag of weed, which she borrows. All of the squatting and lifting and standing up on chairs makes her sweaty and the loot makes her excited, to the point where she forgets what she's looking for there. Then she remembers and realizes that she's not finding a thing about Rachel at all, and at the same time her phone starts ringing. It's Steph, though it's hard to tell, because she's frantically hissing that Nathan just walked into the dorm. It's time to fucking move, but Chloe is still. She's staring at the pile of junk in the corner, mostly bottles and crumpled paper. One of those papers peeks at her with the side covered in ink, and she hangs up the phone, cutting Steph off, and moves towards it and bends down to pick it up.
She unfurls it like a dead bird and again she knows what it is. She stands very still, reading the phrase that's been scribbled all over the page, scratched out, scribbled again, bleeding into chaotic circular pen strokes and back into itself. She reads it, even though it doesn't make sense here, in the real world, because nothing is the same. She reads it, still, over and over.
RACHEL IN THE DARK ROOM