DATE/TIME OCCURRED: 04/02/84, approx. 01:40 – 04:32
DATE/TIME REPORTED: 04/02/84, 01:47
INCIDENT LOCATION: The 200 block of Trinity Ave., Veldt, Kansas 67713
INCIDENT TYPE: Arson
LOCATION TYPE: Commercial / Residential REPORTING PARTY: Norman Cresswell OFFICER’S REPORT
I arrived at the 200 block of Trinity Avenue after dispatch alerted me to an emergency call regarding possible arson. When I arrived, the entire block was in flames with residents and bystanders watching from a safe distance. Residents reported the fire started at the Gate of Heaven Church. Resident Norman Cresswell claims to have seen “two or three hooded figures” around the church through his window before the fire started. Resident Mira Ellison was inconsolable and stated she saw similar figures in and around her yard a few weeks prior, but did not report the incident. When questioned whether she could describe the figures, she recalled hooded shirts and “maybe masks.” When pressed further, the resident insisted it was the work of former Veldt resident Jeffrey Christopher Halcomb coming to get her. She stated fear over an interview she gave about Halcomb and the incident in Pier Pointe, Washington, last year.
NOTE: Halcomb is incarcerated in Washington State’s Lambert Prison, maximum security. We currently have no suspects.
23
* * *
DESPITE ECHO THOROUGHLY weirding him out, something about his odd neighbor’s visit planted a final seed of determination in Lucas’s brain.
Places like these have a way about them.
Even if he packed up all of his and Jeanie’s things, they still had no place to go.
This one hums.
It would be at least a week before they could get out, which meant he’d have seven days of sitting around, staring at the walls of a house that was supposed to be a source of inspiration and answers no matter what he decided to do.
Listen for long enough and you’ll hear it.
Sitting and doing nothing—letting those precious days slip away without anything to show for it—would drive him insane. He had less than two weeks till Halcomb’s deadline. Maybe giving up was an option, but giving up before those two weeks had passed brought a particular word to the forefront of his mind, a word he’d used to describe what he’d done with his career while pleading with Caroline for a final chance: squander.
You’re a writer, Lou.
He had to do something, anything. Maybe there was still some way to salvage this mess, this disaster he was now calling his life.
· · ·
He spent the rest of the day cooped up in his study. He called Lambert Correctional, insisting he be put on the visitor’s list. He fought with Lumpy Annie for a good ten minutes even after she told him Jeff Halcomb had put a hold on all visitors save for one (“And no, that’s not you, Mr. Graham”). Eventually, she was willing to take a message for Josh Morales.
“Tell him I need to speak with him as soon as possible,” Lucas said. “It’s important.”
“I’m sure it is,” Annie murmured onto the line.
Screw you! He had wanted to scream it at her. This is my life we’re talking about! But she disconnected the call before he could let loose at her through the receiver.
He then called his agent, considered telling him everything, but when he finally got John on the line, all that came out was: “There’s a hiccup.”
“Well . . . it’s not like we’re under contract or anything,” John reminded him—both a blessing and a bitter refresher. Nobody was holding their breath in anticipation of Lucas’s next book, which meant he had all the time in the world to write for nobody at all.
After hanging up with John, Lucas brought out his copies of the newspaper articles he’d stuffed back into the storage box, and spread them across his desk, his gaze settling on a small photo of January Moore. She had been pretty in 1984, the kind of girl who was popular enough to be crowned at the homecoming dance, yet not quite indelible enough to be the prom queen. Her flaxen hair and big doe eyes gave her a frightened look, like she’d gotten the scare of her life and had yet to shake off the shock. The photograph was captioned: January Moore, Halcomb cult survivor, but it may as well have said January Moore, Lucas Graham’s final hope.
Lucas drew his fingers across the phone numbers he’d scribbled into the margin of the article—one for Salem, one for Tacoma. He tried the Tacoma number first, but the line was out of service. The one for Salem rang twice before someone picked up.
“Thanks for calling the Chartreuse Moose, may I help you?”
“Hi, uh . . .” Lucas fiddled with his pen, tapping it against his desk blotter. He’d hit so many dead ends it was strange to hear a real, live person on the line. “May I speak to January Moore, please?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the call. “January doesn’t work here anymore, I’m afraid.”
“I see. Do you happen to have any contact information for her?”
More silence, this pause pregnant with something heavy. He could feel the weight pressing down on his shoulders as he sat there, the phone against his ear. Please, just give me the information, he thought. Just give me her number and I’ll be on my way.
“I’m sorry, may I ask who’s calling?”
Goddammit. “My name is Lucas Graham. I’m a writer. I was hoping January would be open to doing an interview.”
The woman quietly cleared her throat. He could hear her adjusting the phone.
“Mr. Graham, I hate to inform you of this, but January passed away about three months ago.”
Lucas’s stomach dropped. He said nothing.
“I’m sorry,” she said, as though consoling him for the loss of one of his last leads.
Had he been standing, he was sure vertigo would have swayed him to take a seat. Shoving a hand into his hair, he let his elbow hit the desk, the heel of his palm covering one of his eyes.