The Vines

AFTER

The letter finds him in a small town in Arizona called Superior. A few months after he left New Orleans, a stray rock shattered the windshield of his motorcycle, and when he pushed it by both handlebars into the nearest auto body shop, he found himself surrounded by a ghost town cradled in a vast, dry valley, with a boarded-up main street he recognized from various films about the sad and lonely Southwest.

The bike is a Honda ST1300, new and easy to fix, and the Navajo who runs the auto body shop on the edge of town had no trouble getting the replacement parts right away. But within hours of arriving in Superior by accident, Blake was seduced by the stark solemnity of the place. After a few nights at the nearest motel, he looked into renting a trailer on the edge of Queen Creek. He believed, perhaps foolishly, Superior’s vast emptiness would give his nightmares enough space in which to roam so they wouldn’t crowd him come sunrise.

So far, he’s been right.

The website for the local chamber of commerce tries to make a big deal out of the town’s geographical location. Superior sits on a dividing line between Arizona’s three predominant landscapes: Sonoran Desert to the west, mineral-rich valleys and plateaus to the south, mountain ranges to the east. On the map he’s managed to draw in his mind after half a year of exploring the region on his bike, the eastern half of the state is covered in a giant DO NOT ENTER sign, its letters dripping red ink. Because with mountains comes denser foliage, even in Arizona. Just the thought of a branch dangling in the air behind his neck causes him to shudder and ball his hands into fists.

He spends most evenings sipping Coronas on the back steps of his trailer and watching the sunset paint the jagged rock faces at the edge of town with deep shades of blood orange and merlot. These rocks and the surrounding arid landscape give him strength, he is sure of it. Enough strength to keep from being frightened of the rattlesnakes that often gather atop the rocks beside the creek. They are fellow confused travelers, that’s all, barraged with stimuli that must—to their limited senses, at least—seem supernatural in origin. And besides, the earth under Spring House confronted him with far more determined and calculating sources of fear than some sluggish reptile living out a monotonous ritual of feeding and slumber.

When the letter reaches his doorstep, Blake is not surprised; he uses fake IDs in most circumstances to avoid leaving a trace that could connect him to any of the rare but extraordinary events throughout the Southwest for which he and his shadow, his guardian angel—his ghost—are responsible. But the bike is still in his name. He’s left this one connection to his previous life in place so that his father’s sister might be able to track him down should her health fail as quickly as that of her siblings.

And then there’s Nova.

He isn’t familiar enough with her handwriting to know if she’s the one who wrote his name and address on the envelope. There is, however, a slight hint of her perfume, just strong enough to make him wonder if she scented the letter on purpose. A warning, perhaps. Or proof that she was truly responsible for whatever it contains.

Even though he has no presence online himself, Blake has used library computer labs to check in every now and then on the legal status of the Chaisson estate. Alexander Chaisson installed a combined clause in the trust allowing for transfer of ownership to a board made up of Caitlin’s cousins in the event of her disappearance or severe mental incapacitation. And the trust’s definition of a disappearance—four months without any verifiable communication between Caitlin and the trust—could be established in considerably less time than the seven years required for a declaration of death in the state of Louisiana.

If Caitlin’s cousins have balked at the idea of Spring House passing out of the trust and into the hands of the gardener’s only daughter, there was no mention of it in the press. Perhaps, like Willie, Caitlin’s relatives had always sensed menace lurking there. Sideways, all through everything and waiting to be fed, as Willie had put it.

Or perhaps they had no interest in inheriting the last place Caitlin’s husband was seen alive. One thing was for sure: Caitlin’s disappearance had enriched her family to a significant degree. In fact, while most other families would have spent their time at the police station demanding that their loved one be found, Caitlin’s family had spent that time at their lawyers’ offices arranging for the speedy transfer of her vast wealth.

In the fading light, Blake settles down onto the trailer’s back steps and tears open the envelope. But before he can bring himself to begin reading the cursive on the pages within, he thinks, once again, that perhaps it’s time to buy himself some folding chairs or maybe an outdoor chaise lounge of some kind—that maybe he really will stay here long enough to justify more than a trailer and the few sticks of furniture inside. And then he searches the property for any traces of Felix’s ghost.

He knows they are with him always, and as if to remind him of this, they will often appear right at the edges of his vision even when he has not called them, bright-blue fireflies flickering in and out of visible life in the blink of an eye. He has driven his bike down many desert roads beneath vast, deep domes of stars, believing himself to be utterly alone, only to have them appear on all sides of him like excited dolphins chasing a ship. Rarely does the face of Felix Delachaise appear in their swirl or swarm, and usually only in those moments when Blake orders them into violent service in defense of someone who needs it. But they are always there, always at his service—a weapon and a shield. Without their omnipresence, he would never have the courage to ride a motorcycle at all, not after witnessing the terrible aftermaths of over a hundred motorcycle accidents during his years working in emergency rooms. If their recent behavior is any indicator, they are perfectly capable of catching him before the asphalt does.

Felix is capable, he corrects himself.

Blake summons them now, and they appear in a thickening, swirling column above the flowing creek, well out of sight of the road and the nearest neighbor thirty yards away. Their fierce blue light dapples the rushing, frothing water as the sun sinks deeper to the west and the edges of night begin their long trip across the dry valley floor. He can’t face the past alone, not the sweet smell of Nova’s perfume, not whatever request or news her letter might contain, and so he asks them to stay, luminous, swirling, and close, as he finally begins to read, and they obey his command without asking for a drop of his blood or a memory of his rage.