Gable's Departure

"She brings the blue pills."

The words hung in the damp air, a damning indictment that stripped the last shred of authority from Mrs. Gable. She looked from the shivering, emaciated man in the wall to the bottle of pills Iris had pulled from her pocket earlier. The housekeeper's face crumbled, the stern mask of the family retainer dissolving into the terrified expression of an accomplice realizing the statute of limitations hadn't run out.

"I... I was told it was medicine," she stammered, backing away toward the stairs. "Mr. Vance said... he said it kept the demons away."

"You are the demon, Martha," Iris said, her voice trembling with cold and rage. "You and Julian."

Mrs. Gable let out a choked sound, half-sob, half-gasp. She turned and scrambled up the concrete steps, her yellow raincoat flapping like the wings of a panicked bird. She slipped on the wet concrete, caught the railing, and hauled herself up into the storm.

"Let her go," Marcus said. He was already wading into the room, reaching for Elias. "We need to get him out of the water."

"She's going to call him," Iris said. She ran up the steps after the housekeeper, emerging into the driving rain just in time to see Mrs. Gable fumbling with her keys at the door of her sedan.

The taillights flared red, illuminating the sheets of rain. Mrs. Gable didn't pull away immediately. She sat there, the engine idling.

Iris watched, shielding her eyes against the downpour. Through the rain-slicked rear window, she saw the glow of a cell phone screen. Mrs. Gable held it to her ear, her head bowing as she spoke. She wasn't calling the police. She wasn't calling an ambulance.

She was making her report.

The car shifted into reverse, gravel spitting from the tires as Mrs. Gable backed out of the driveway and sped off into the night, leaving the gate wide open.

Iris ran back down to the basement. The water had stopped rising, but the cold was a physical weight.

Marcus had coaxed Elias off the shelf. The man was standing in the water, leaning heavily against Marcus’s shoulder. He looked like a specter, his skin translucent, his limbs stick-thin under the oversized, moldy sweater he wore. He was clutching a plastic bag to his chest—his "possessions," Iris realized. A stack of old comic books. A few cassette tapes.

"He's hypothermic," Marcus said, his voice tight. "We need to get him warm. We need to get him away from here."

"Gable called him," Iris said, grabbing Elias's other arm to support him. "I saw her. She called Julian."

Elias flinched at the name, a full-body spasm that nearly sent him into the water. "He'll be angry," he whispered. "He doesn't like visitors."

"He's not going to hurt you," Iris promised, though she didn't know how she could keep that vow. "We're leaving. Right now."

They guided him to the stairs. He moved with the halting, stiff-legged gait of someone who hadn't walked more than ten feet in a straight line for decades. Every step was a battle.

They got him up to the kitchen. The warmth of the house hit them, but Elias didn't stop shivering. He looked around the room with wide, uncomprehending eyes, staring at the refrigerator, the microwave, the electric lights as if they were alien artifacts.

"My truck is out back," Marcus said. "I can take him to my place. It's off the grid. No one knows where I live."

"No," Iris said. "That's the first place he'll look after he checks here. He knows you're helping me."

"Then where?"

"The motel on Route 9," Iris said. "Cash only. No questions."

She looked at the clock on the microwave. 3:15 AM.

"Where was Julian coming from?" Marcus asked. "When he left earlier?"

"He said he was going back to the city. To his apartment."

Marcus checked his watch, tapping the glass face with a wet finger. He did the math, his expression grim.

"If he's coming from the city, we have ninety minutes."