She’d had a great deal of time to think by now. There’d been little else to do since she’d awakened on the tiny bed here, an hour or more before sunset. The lavish if strangely antiquated room contained no clock of any kind; she’d never worn a watch, and without her phone, she had no sure way of knowing how long she’d really been here—wherever ‘here’ was. But it had been fully dark for at least a couple hours now, and still, no one had come. No one at all.  

Which was not to say she felt alone there. She’d woken to the sounds of distant shouting elsewhere in the house—if that’s what this was. And there’d been muffled footsteps or the occasional thump from whatever was above her room. Thankfully, two elegant table lamps and several antique glass wall sconces had lit up on their own, just after sunset, so Colleen hadn’t been left sitting in the dark—not literally, at least. She had no idea when they might go out again. That would clearly not be up to her. She’d found no switches anywhere—even on the lamps.

The door was locked, of course, and clearly very solid. It had taken her quite a while to work up the courage to go check, for fear that giant…creature from the garage might be waiting just outside. Eventually, however, she’d risked calling tentative ‘hellos’ and, after getting no response, had given the door handle a quiet twist, then several hard yanks, all to no avail.

Happily, her room did contain a small bathroom, as richly appointed as the rest of her palatial little prison, and the narrow bed, of course, just long enough to lie straight on, made up, as if for some diminutive king, in creamy linens with a lace dust ruffle, gold satin brocade comforter, and half a dozen plump down pillows.

Unsurprisingly, the room’s only window didn’t open either. She’d checked that first, just after waking. The sunlit view, however, had arrested her attention instantly: lushly wooded hills and rolling, flower-spangled meadows for as far as she could see. No other structure anywhere. This was clearly no place in the city. But what worried her more was the apparent season. This was not the winter landscape she had ‘left’ that afternoon. What she saw out there was spring.  Late spring, by the look of it. Unless she’d slept for six or seven months, the only plausible explanation seemed to be that she’d been taken to some other state much farther south—if not some other country altogether.

Which left her even less sure of how long ago she’d actually been…kidnapped.

Just like Thom.

She could still find no way to wrap her head around such an impossibility. The first thing her mind shouted—every time she thought of it again—was, “Why?” followed, almost instantly, by a more sardonic mental voice: “You know goddamn well, why. Matthew-fucking-Rhymer.” Not that this insight was much more helpful or informative.

She had no idea how to feel about him now. Did she owe Rhymer a knee to the groin for bringing whatever this was down on them all, or an apology for having written him off as a nut case? Both—she was pretty sure. Had he been trying to warn them? Is that what his bizarre tome had been about? ‘Here’s what you’re likely to meet in Cuckoo Land, and what to do about it.’ If so, she was very sorry now that she hadn’t taken time to read a great deal more of it—though who knew how much good even that would really have done, down here on the ground? When that thing had leapt out of nowhere right in front of her car, damn if she hadn’t thought exactly what Rhymer had said she would! She’d hit that cement pillar swerving to avoid what she’d taken for a mentally deficient thyroid giant who just hadn’t understood the danger of walking out in front of her that way—even as some voice from deeper inside her own deficient brain was already shouting, Wait! I just read about you—in some nutter’s comic book!

Then he’d yanked her passenger door halfway off—and she’d begun to ‘get it’, for whatever good that had done her. However remarkably overgrown and terribly disfigured he might be, Colleen still did not believe the guy was an actual troll, of course. But she could forgive Rhymer now for thinking so—if not for bringing his nightmare into their lives, and her fucking garage.

Those moments flashed again through her mind, as they had, over and over, all evening long—as though, if she just thought it through a few more times, a bit more carefully, she might still make it all go differently somehow.

Even as the giant had ripped her door open, she’d still imagined him just some kind of overgrown child throwing a tantrum in reaction to a sudden scare. Until the other one—whose image just kept sliding sideways, every time she tried to focus on it—had yanked the driver’s door open as well. She’d grabbed her phone then, to dial 911, finally understanding that this was not all just some horrible misunderstanding. But the guy she couldn’t seem to get a fix on had grappled her from the car and knocked the phone out of her hand, just as the larger man had rushed in like an angry bear to stomp on it as if it were a deadly wasp or something.

And…that was still all she could remember, until she’d woken here. She was certain that something...more…had happened. After the phone. She could feel it there—just out of reach. But whatever that had been, she could no more find it now than she could recall her second attacker’s face. Nor had she any memory of pain—or any trace of injury now, which seemed surprising too, given the violence of what she recalled. How had they torn her from the car like that without…hurting her?  …Were they going to hurt her here? …What did they want her for? She’d never even known Matt. How much would her fate matter to him? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to take someone he had known and cared about?

And, what an awful thing to think! Did she really wish they’d taken Dusty instead? Or Anna? …No. She didn’t. She thought suddenly of Dusty’s almost childish smile every time he’d woken up, back at the hospital. ‘You’re still here.’ …What must he be going through right now?

To have lost her twice…in as many weeks… And her parents too…

An urge to sob thickened suddenly in her chest, her throat, her face—the first such urge since she’d awakened. But she pushed it fiercely back. Who knew when her captors would return, or what would happen then? She wasn’t fool enough to let them find a weepy mess here when they did. What she needed now was focus and…some illusion, at least, of control. Give that away, and they’d all know she had nothing left to fight with.

Outside the window, a full moon was rising, large and yellow, from behind the ridge. She’d have sworn there’d been no moon at all the night before; though she was obviously mistaken. Wherever this was, it had to be on the same planet. She’d clearly just not been paying attention to the nighttime sky. When had there last been time for things like that?

Until now, of course.

Perhaps some sleep would clear her scrambled mind, though, again, she could no more turn all these lights off than on. And hadn’t she already ‘slept,’ for…hours, if not longer? Her last meal had been an early lunch before their class. Low blood sugar likely had more to do with her fragmenting state of mind than lack of sleep did.

Her captors had left a large silver platter on the low, carved wood table at the center of her room, artfully piled with fruit, cheese and crusty chunks of bread. But she’d had very little appetite so far, and…well, while she could think of no reason to bother kidnapping someone you just meant to poison a few hours later, she trusted nothing here. …Not even the rising moon—which just sounded sillier each time she thought about it.

Should she risk the food? …Would there be some tacit agreement implied in doing so? Some ‘acceptance’ of their hospitality?

Suddenly, she became aware of footsteps—not upstairs this time, but close, and coming nearer. They paused just outside her door. Were they listening for some sign of what she might be up to? “Come on in,” she called, surprised to find herself impatient. “I’m up and decent.”

She heard no key or tumblers falling in the lock. The knob just turned, and in came a weary looking middle-aged man of pale complexion, with rumpled, graying hair, sad gray eyes, and nascent jowls. He was dressed, bizarrely, as if for some kind of Regency ball: a ruffled collar at his throat and more linen ruffles peeking from the cuffs of his dark brocade coat. In the dimly lit hallway behind him, Colleen saw a looming shadow standing guard—the ‘troll’—and stepped back reflexively, angry with herself for giving them even that much. She’d heard only one set of approaching steps. Had it—he—been there all this time, or come with the costumed man?

Her visitor stood motionless just inside the doorway, seeming to study her—unhappily. She returned his gaze, trying to project defiance, until he glanced back at his body guard. “I’ll be fine, Cullen. Go find Syndaht, and ask him to prepare a larger room. With a full bath, and a more spacious bed.” He turned to Colleen again, as if awaiting some reaction. Her thanks? Approval? She just folded her arms, and continued gazing back at him until he turned to his companion again. “That’s all for now, Cullen.” He closed the door between them.

Only the second time he used it, did she register the name—Cullen—from Rhymer’s story. Her mouth fell slightly open. It had been staring her right in the face all along. How many creatures like this could there be out there? And if this was Cullen—that Cullen—then the man in front of her must be… It took effort not to shake her head in disbelief. She really had walked right into Rhymer’s crazy story! How much more of it would turn out to be true, she wondered now—wondering why she hadn’t asked herself that question much, much sooner.

Still, Colleen gave no further ground as Rhymer’s boogieman approached, glancing down at the tray of fruit and cheese. “You haven’t touched your food? You must be famished.”

“I don’t like eating what I didn’t order,” she replied, determined to give him not one bit of satisfaction.

He looked back up at her, then rolled his eyes and bent to take a small wedge of cheese, which he popped into his mouth, looking very pointedly at her as he chewed and swallowed it. “No one here means you any harm,” he drawled.

“Oh. Good. You won’t mind driving me back to town then? You can drop me anywhere. I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”

His brows arched slightly. “Aren’t you the soul of wit.” He drew a long, lethargic breath, as if struggling with exhaustion. “You have no idea how profoundly I wish that were possible. Sadly, it would be a great deal more complicated now than it likely seems to you.” He stepped over to one of two richly upholstered wing-backed chairs on either side of the low table, and sat down. “Shall we talk?” he asked, waving her toward the remaining chair.

She spent a moment wondering what, if anything, she stood to lose by even such slight compliance—but decided that just seeming petulant would only make her look less formidable. “Sure. Let’s,” she said cheerfully, settling across from him, leaning back into the chair, her hands resting comfortably on its well-padded arms. “What about?”

She thought she saw him almost smile.

“Let’s start again, shall we?” he asked, lazily. “Your name, I’m told, is Colleen?”

“That’s right,” she said. “Just a couple letters off from your big…employee out there, it seems. Isn’t life strange.”

“Hmm,” he grunted. “You have no idea. Even now.” He leaned forward to take a couple of dried apricots from the platter between them. “Are you sure you won’t try something? The cheeses are rather fabulous—if you like cheese. Or we could bring you something else. You’ve only to ask. There are many other choices here.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you. But I’m fine for now.”

“As you wish.” He popped an apricot into his mouth, chewed and swallowed it without much evident enjoyment. “My name is Anselm.”

Weirdly, it was a grin she found herself suppressing now, her hunch confirmed. The whole wacko story—right here in front of her. “So weird,” she murmured without thinking.

Anselm went very still. Nothing she could point to changed—in his body or his face. But the difference was immediately palpable, as if Anselm were a dog, freezing at the scent of something. Fuck. She’d blown it. Somehow.

“What’s weird?” he asked quietly, all lethargy vanished.

“Your…name, for one,” she said, scrambling for some credible response. “I’ve never met anyone named Anselm. And your clothes, honestly. No offense, I hope, but they’re…a little retro.” She could feel sweat breaking out under her shirt, beneath her hair. “Why would you be giving me your name anyway? I mean…if my family pays the ransom or whatever, you’ll send me back, right? Aren’t you worried about telling me your name?” Bad question! Bad line of thought, Colleen! “I bet that’s not your real name at all,” she backpedaled. “This fancy room and all the tasty food; your casual behavior…” She shrugged, trying just to look confused—not terrified. “Just…not what I expected being kidnapped would be like. It just seems weird; that’s all. To me at least. …Is that so strange? That I would find being kidnapped weird?” Now just stop talking, idiot! her superego shouted.

He hadn’t moved, or even seemed to breathe throughout her mortifying ramble. He’d just watched—as if she were a fascinating play in some foreign language. “And yet,” he said at last, “you seem so strangely unsurprised—by all of this. So oddly at ease. I find that rather weird, don’t you?” When she failed to come up with any safe response, he glanced back at the doorway. “Even my rather intimidating ‘employee’ out there doesn’t seem to have unsettled you half as deeply as I’d have expected. Why is that?”

“Oh, he unsettled me plenty, back in the garage,” she said. “If unsettled’s what you wanted, you should just have shown up sooner.”

“Yes. …Perhaps I should have.”  He leaned forward, finally. “So, here’s another odd name that I’m sure you’ve never heard. …Matthew Rhymer.”

She tried to look blank—to feel blank—waited for a beat, then shook her head. “I’ve met plenty of Matthews,” she said uncertainly. “No Rhymers, though. You’re right; that’s a pretty weird name too.” But it clearly hadn’t worked. Now he did smile, just a little. But on that face, even such a slight smile seemed…seismic, somehow.

“Well, well, well…” he mused softly, looking genuinely pleased for the first time since his arrival. “Perhaps I owe the moron an apology.”

Whatever that meant. All of Colleen’s effort and attention now was focused on continuing to seem ‘relaxed,’ perhaps a little ‘puzzled,’ as she struggled to imagine how a genuinely clueless person would be acting now.

“Your…fiancé, is it? Dustin Clarke?”

“What’s he got to do anything?” she replied. Then, a stroke of genius, finally. “He’s got no money to pay ransom with, if that’s what you think. He’s a grad student! Studying to be a social worker! He’ll never have any money!” Surely that had sounded authentically clueless.

“Oh, yes,” Anselm said, almost affably. “I know. And before that, he was homeless, I’m informed. Poor lad. On ‘the Avenue’ as you all refer to it—in the university district—yes?”

Oh, god. How much did he already know, while she sat here trying to play dumb? “Well…yes,” she said, careful to sound mystified. “How do you know that?”

“Here you are,” he said, raising both arms to gesture at the room around them. “Can you really suppose we’d have brought you here without making rather careful inquiries about all of you?”

“All of…who?”

“I think you know quite well,” he said. “Please do correct me if I’m mistaken, but Dustin’s last name used to be Bennett, didn’t it? Before Anna Clarke and Thom Pearson adopted him? There are still people on the Avenue who remember him back then. And his very good friend, Matthew Rhymer. Has your fiancé really never mentioned him?”

She did her best to look thoughtful, uncertain. “I’m…not sure. I guess he may have. Somewhere along the way.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t like to talk about those days much anymore. They were…really unpleasant for him. He’s left all that behind. Completely.”

“Oh, I’m sure he has. Why dig up such…unpleasantness? The only other thing that anyone on the Avenue seems to recall about Dustin is that he and Matthew disappeared together—rather mysteriously—about…eight or nine years ago, I believe. From what I hear, only Dustin ever returned. No one seems to know what happened to Matthew. Isn’t that strange?” He gazed at her, as if awaiting some reply. “Would you have any idea what happened to him, Colleen? …Might Dusty have said anything about it—along the way?” He offered her that same slight, seismic smile. “If my research is correct, their final altercation, in southern California, I believe, had everything to do with how Anna Clarke and her husband ended up adopting him.” Anselm shook his head. “So strange to think you could be engaged to marry a man who’s never told you any of this. That even his parents haven’t. I should think that a future social worker would want to leave everyone as resolved as possible about exactly what did happen to the friend he lost somewhere ‘along the way.’ …Are you very certain that you know what kind of people you’ve become entangled with, young lady?”

She was very glad that she’d decided to sit down, because her whole body had gone half to water by now. He knew everything. He knew she was lying—had known it all along. This was clearly who was looking for Matt Rhymer. This was ‘them’—though she still had no idea who ‘they’ were, or what they wanted. Did he know about the letters Dusty and Anna had been given too? And Matt’s emails? She had no idea yet, but he wasn’t going to drag a single thing more from her. Not if she could help it. Because whatever Matthew Rhymer really was, or might be involved in now, she already knew, very clearly, that the man before her was very bad news.

At her silence, Anselm sighed, and looked away in apparent disappointment. “I meant what I said before, Colleen. I am not interested in hurting you—or anyone I think you really care about. I just want to find Matthew Rhymer.” He looked back at her. “I don’t even want to hurt him. I just want to ask the boy some questions. About someone who should not mean anything to him either—or to you or any of your…friends or family.” He leaned forward again, earnestly. “Just tell me where to look for Rhymer, and you can go—unharmed—as soon as we have found him.”

“I really do—not—know where Rhymer is.” She looked directly into his eyes, hoping he could tell as easily when she was speaking truth as he clearly had been able to when she was lying. “Neither does Dusty, or his parents. Yes. I have heard all about Matt Rhymer. For years. I’ve listened to Dusty agonize about where Matt might be, whether he’s all right, or even alive. Dusty still blames himself for driving Matthew off, and he’s been tormented by not knowing what’s become of him since then.” Her fear was starting to fade again. She couldn’t actually give this man what he wanted. She wouldn’t have to lie about that. “And, yes, I lied about all that. But look me in the eye and tell me you’d have done any differently if our places were reversed. You just kidnapped me! Why on earth should I trust you—with anything?”

Anselm nodded, soberly. “This is…slightly better. Now, at least, I can stop talking to that vacuous ‘Hero Barbie’ doll you were inventing.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a somewhat rumpled letter, inscribed with green calligraphy, which he held out for her to see.

Shit. Was that Dusty’s copy, Colleen wondered, or Anna’s? She just managed not to wince as she recalled teasing Anna about leaving it at the office.

“I see that you received one of these as well.” He nodded again. “Not surprising. I suspect that quite a few of them were sent. This one led us to…one of Matt’s other old friends, down on the Avenue.”

Oh! So this copy wasn’t one of theirs! Now she struggled not to betray her relief. Perhaps this creep hadn’t been in their homes after all. She hoped not, anyway. Nonetheless, her poker face was clearly very broken. “Yes,” she sighed. “Dusty got one—from some stranger at Ricky’s Market. But he’s never seen the guy again, and has no more idea where Matt is than you do. Look at me; you know I’m telling you the truth now, don’t you?” She just prayed he didn’t pull out a copy of Matt’s emails next, from somewhere in that fancy coat.

“And what did Dusty make of this letter? Has he any thoughts on who it might be from?”

“No,” she said. “Do you?” She was actually interested in the answer, if Anselm knew it, which was likely why he seemed to accept her reply without comment this time.

“So…” He looked pensively away. “That leaves us just two possibilities. Either Dustin does know where Rhymer is, and just hasn’t trusted even you with that fact, or…” he turned back to pin her with his gaze, “Matthew Rhymer is Dusty’s first and real name.”

For a moment, Colleen simply gaped at him. “What?”

Anselm leaned back, seeming disappointed. “Well, if so, you really didn’t know it. That’s one more tile turned, I guess—however small.”

“What are you even talking about?” Colleen pressed. “You just said yourself, they left for California together! How could Dusty have left town with himself—or had a fight with himself later, while we’re at it?”

Anselm shook his head, looking mildly surprised. “You’re smarter than this, Colleen. I can already tell that. But you have suffered quite a bit of trauma today, so I’ll spell it out. Two friends left town, but only one came back.” He waited, expectantly, but she still didn’t get it.

“Okay…” she said. “Dusty came back. How does that—”

“Are you certain?”

“Of what?”

“That it was Dusty who returned?”

Was this guy crazy as well as evil? “I’m engaged to him! You think I wouldn’t know if he was…Dusty or not?”

“You knew him back in those days, did you?” Anselm asked. “I’ve been given the impression that you met him at the university, just a few years back.”

“I…no, I didn’t know him then. But I’ve seen pictures. Lots of them. And this is very clearly Dusty. Matt looked nothing like him.”

“You have photographs of Matthew Rhymer?” Anselm asked with sudden interest.

“Well…” She thought back, surprised to realize that she could not remember seeing any photo of Dusty in those days with Matt in it. Her impression of him was based on descriptions—if pretty vivid ones. “No, I don’t. But Anna knew Matt back then—almost as well as Dusty did.” Colleen was sure by now that he must already know that too. “So she would certainly know what Dusty ought to look like—or if this was Matt, just pretending to be him now.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant,” Anselm said, as if amused by her ‘misunderstanding.’ “It would hardly matter what he looked like now.”

Colleen stared at him, dumbfounded. “Why the hell not?”

Anselm considered her in thoughtful silence for a while. “A conversation for another time, perhaps. For now, let’s just acknowledge that appearance can be easily adjusted.”

“How?”

He tilted his head, looking at her as if she were simply being contrary. “Have you really never heard of plastic surgeons?”

“Oh, come on!” she scoffed. “What? Like Face Off?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Anselm asked. “You’ve lost me, I fear.”

“That old Travolta movie—with Nicholas Cage. You seem too smart to think I’d accept that explanation—even if I am fatigued.”

Anselm stared at her, in apparent confusion, then just shook his head. “Trust me, the question isn’t what Dusty looks like; it’s who he is—beneath whatever face. I hear he’s turned his life around remarkably. Some say he’s an entirely new man.”

“Well I know who’s behind that face as well as anyone—and I mean anyone,” Colleen said fiercely. “And I’ve just told you how I watched him suffer over what happened between them. Those emotions weren’t faked—weren’t fakable. I can promise you that.”

“I’ve no doubt that’s true. But you’re still asking the wrong questions. I’m not suggesting that any of his distress was faked. I am just wondering what that distress is actually about.”

“Meaning what?” she asked, running out of patience.

“Perhaps that pain you’ve witnessed really is about whatever he did to drive Rhymer away. Or…he may have been expressing distress every bit as real about whatever he did to make Dusty vanish—back in California. You might be amazed at how similar those two things could look—even quite close up—if he were careful to make them do so.”

Colleen simply stared at him in…complete confusion, her head beginning to feel stuffed with cottage cheese. “I can’t see why you’re so certain that Dusty knows anything at all. I keep telling you, that letter threw us for a total loop! All we talked about—until the flood, at least—was what the hell it could mean, where on earth Matt might be after so much time, and whether we were in any danger now.” She shrugged. “I guess we’ve got an answer to one of those.”

“What I’m so certain of,” said Anselm, “is that whoever saved your fiancé from drowning in that flood was either Matthew Rhymer, watching over his old friend, or someone else who did so because Dustin Clarke is Matthew Rhymer, and still that important to someone very powerful. I’m just trying to figure out which of those it is.”

Colleen dropped her face into her hands, virtually certain now that she was being held captive by a madman. “Whoever saved Dusty from that flood was the National fucking Guard—doing their job!” she growled in frustration. “I was right there! I saw it happen!”

He looked at her almost sympathetically. “You were there. But, clearly, you saw nothing.” He released an even deeper sigh, and stood up, slowly. “For a moment, I had hoped we might work through this matter quickly, and send you off again, not much worse for wear.” He walked to the door, and looked back at her as he put his hand to the knob. “Sadly, that seems less likely now.” He offered her another of his slight, disturbing smiles. “I have enjoyed our conversation, though. More than I’d expected to. You are not an unremarkable young woman. We will definitely be talking again soon.” With that, he left, closing the door behind him.

When his footsteps had faded beyond hearing, she went to try the door herself, but found it locked again, of course. She turned despondently to survey her small domain, then went to get an apple and a slice of cheese. Anselm had been truthful about one thing; the cheese was amazing. The apple was delicious too, crisp and tartly sweet. She took a second bite, and went to gaze out of the window, wondering whether his parting comment had only meant that she would not be freed as soon as hoped, or that she would be ‘worse for wear’ by then as well.

Outside, the moon had cleared the ridge, and hung now at the center of a pale halo edged in rainbow, against a dazzling field of stars impossibly profuse and bright.