Coverdale

John Buja

YAP Books

An imprint of Haverhill House Publishing LLC

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Coverdale © 2024 John Buja

Cover illustration design and setup © 2024 Errick Nunnally

All rights reserved.

978-1-949140-54-5 Hardcover

978-1-949140-55-2 Trade Paperback

YAP Books is an imprint of Haverhill House Publishing LLC

Haverhill House Publishing LLC

643 E Broadway

Haverhill MA 01830-2420

www.haverhillhouse.com

For Dianne

Forever and a day.

Acknowledgments

Trish Cacek read the first version of this over a weekend at Necon. Her enthusiasm and advocacy were overwhelming. I want to thank her for dragging me to a publisher to make a pitch. It was the kind of experience I needed.

Thank you to my writing group support team; Sal Clemente, Jason Salzarulo, Terry Emery, Carolyn Cooper, and Brian MacDonald. Your advice and critiques are invaluable and make me a better writer.

Coverdale

Chapter One

"Why should I help you? I didn’t ask to move to this stupid town."

Charlie Bowen watched while his sister, Ant, brushed some dust from her shorts then continued to sand her fingernails. He winced when a spasm of pain ran up his leg from his trapped foot.

Working hard to control his anger and frustration, he said, You’re right, Ant. You’d be less than useless anyway. He attempted to shift his position, but the heavy oak desk had him pinned against the banister. Besides, we wouldn’t want to scratch the nice wood floors with your furniture. Better it rests on my foot. The last word came out as a gasp when the desk shifted, and its typing drawer slid into Charlie’s stomach.

Dad! Help me, please, said Charlie in a voice he hoped was loud enough for his dad to hear.

George Bowen appeared at the front door, looked surprised, and said, Honey, couldn’t you give your brother a hand? It is your desk, after all.

"Daddee! No way. I don’t want to wreck my nails. I just got them perfect."

Okay, but at least sit somewhere out of the way.

Like in the middle of the highway, said Charlie quietly.

What was that, Charlie? George turned to face his son and grabbed a corner of the desk, realizing Charlie needed immediate help.

Charlie sighed in relief when the weight of the desk left his foot and he could move freely.

Ant got up from the stairs where she had been attending to her nails. With a loud huff, she stomped to the front door. I’ll just go out and kill myself. As if anyone in this stupid house would notice. She stormed out.

That’s fine, honey, said George.

Dad, have you ever thought about getting a hearing aid? All those concerts must have affected your ears.

I’m fine, son. I just don’t pay attention as much as I should. George took a deep breath and lifted his end of the desk. Shall we try to get this thing upstairs without dropping it or punching a hole in the wall?

Two hours later, Charlie and his father watched the moving van pull away from their house.

Strange guys, said Charlie. He noted the company logo, a big red circle enclosing a cross, on the side of the van. It had been on the movers’ shirts, and both men wore rings that bore the symbol. Temple Movers. They seem kind of solemn for moving guys. No swearing or rude comments about mom’s shorts.

Can’t say as I noticed, said George between sips from his can of soda. All I cared about was getting everything in the house before dark.

Dinner, Charlie’s mother, Nell, shouted from the kitchen. We’re eating out on the deck.

And what about the neighbors? said Charlie. I saw a lot of them watching us. Not one of them came by to offer a helping hand. I thought small towns were supposed to be friendly.

Calm down, Charlie, said George. They walked through the kitchen. Your mother and I met them last week when we came to sign the final papers for the house. They were all very nice and friendly. Besides, ...

George held the back door open so Charlie could pass through. A crowd was on the deck, silent while all eyes were on Charlie.

He couldn’t help but wonder how so many people were able to get here without making any noise. For a moment, Charlie feared he was going deaf like his father. But that was ridiculous.

All thoughts of the neighbors vanished when he beheld the picnic table by the railing. It was covered with food: at least four kinds of salads, several jellies already melting in the late afternoon heat, rolls, cold cuts, and cheese. Someone’s drooling dog stood ready to pounce at any stray food. And that looked like, yes, it was, the largest lemon meringue pie Charlie had ever seen.

What do you think of our neighbors now? George stood waiting with his arms folded.

Charlie shrugged. He still thought it would have been nice to have had some help. Before he could voice his opinion, his father had joined a small group of men by the deck stairs.

Nell Bowen introduced Charlie to everyone. He promptly forgot their names. The only thing that stuck in his mind was the fact that every man in the crowd wore a red cross ring. None of the women wore them.

He wondered if it was a local school crest or something like that.

Charlie quickly grabbed a large slice of the meringue pie before anyone else could get their claws into it, and then he pigged out on tuna salad and cold cuts. He also went to work on a huge green salad that few people were eating. Ant sat by herself near the sliding door, checking out her reflection to see if a hair was out of place.

While he sat quietly, alone in a corner to eat, Charlie scanned the people in attendance. He realized that he and Ant were the only young people there. Didn’t the neighbors have children? When he asked a woman who was filling her plate with tuna salad—Charlie staying close to the meringue in case someone else tried to finish it before he could get more—she assured him that, yes, there were kids in town around his own age. They were off somewhere doing what kids his age do on an August Saturday afternoon. He guessed meeting the new kid on the block certainly wasn’t one of them.

The men had gathered in small groups separate from the women. They were busy talking about something, but not work. Definitely not work. Earlier, Charlie heard his father raise the subject with a couple of the other men. He was told brusquely, That is not something we discuss outside of The Institute, Mr. Bowen. When the speaker, a short, thin man with a tiny, upturned nose and a shining bald head, noticed Charlie listening, he glared at him with such anger and hatred that Charlie nearly lost control of his bladder.

He shivered, wondering how such a small man could instill such a feeling of fear.

Even his father looked uncomfortable and stared at his shoes. No one would make eye contact with the little man. The bald guy kept staring at Charlie with his tiny, weasel eyes until Charlie looked away from the group.

Ant had pulled herself, or been pulled, from admiring her reflection and was now at the center of a large group of women. They cooed about her long, curly brown hair.

Charlie’s own hair was long, brown, and naturally curled. No one cooed at him, which made him slightly jealous until he remembered he hated being the center of attention.

Finished with eating, after having a third piece of lemon meringue pie—if no one’s going to eat it, why let it go to waste—Charlie made his excuses and left the deck. He needn’t have bothered. No one paid him any attention, least of all his father.

Charlie ran upstairs to his new room, searched the boxes, and found his Walkman and tapes. Selecting a tape that fit his mood—tired and a little hyper—he slapped it in the machine and secured the Walkman to his belt.

Walkman.

Charlie yearned for a smartphone, or at the very least, an old iPod. He still couldn’t afford either and wasn’t about to settle for something cheap. His father didn’t see the need since the old Walkman still worked just fine, and there were plenty of tapes. Despite being a scientist, George Bowen was a Luddite regarding technology. He still preferred vinyl, though Charlie was slowly coming around to that choice. Noticing that his bed hadn't been put together yet, he hesitated. Should he do it now? It would be a drag to do it later when he was even more tired. No, he really wanted to get out and run.

Sleeping on a mattress on the floor wasn’t such a bad thing. Anyway, he only ever needed about five hours of sleep a night, so it wouldn’t be much of an inconvenience.

The solitude of running gave Charlie plenty of time to think through his problems and sort them out. It was also the perfect way to work off all the food he had scarfed down at the party. He’d been on his high school cross-country team for four years but didn’t care about winning. Peer pressure forced him to take up a sport, and long-distance running involved the least amount of teamwork.

Charlie’s biggest problem right now was figuring out why his family had moved to the middle of a dense forest. To Coverdale, a town that was so unknown, it didn’t even have a page in Wikipedia.

George Bowen had been offered a plum job by The Institute—always spoken of with capital letters—and he had leaped at the opportunity. The money was better, and he was being given the chance to work on some cutting-edge research. That was all that Charlie knew. His father was a biologist, and there had been mention of blood and DNA or something like that. Charlie wasn’t interested; he preferred history. On those rare occasions his father talked about science, Charlie zoned out.

One thing that did interest Charlie was his father’s attitude after he got the job. He kept going on about how important his position was and that it would be a stepping stone to even greater heights. No more being a grunt in a small lab where no one noticed him. The family would benefit greatly from his newfound prestige. What those benefits and heights were, George Bowen never said. This developing concern about power and prestige was something new. Charlie’s mother had listened patiently while her husband droned on but showed little enthusiasm.

Thinking back to the gathering on the deck, Charlie thought that his sister seemed more important to the women of Coverdale than his mother. He couldn’t recall whether or not his mother had mentioned her art at all. There was a time when you couldn’t shut Nell Bowen up about her passion. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and everyone near her caught the bug. Everyone that is, except her husband. He had never shown the slightest interest in his wife’s talent, so Charlie had gone out of his way to be supportive of her.

But that had changed so much. Sometime in the previous year, Nell Bowen had lost some of her zeal. She used to be vibrant and happy all the time; however, she recently stayed in her studio doing little more than staring at a blank canvas.

Charlie decided to get running. Thinking about the change in his mother made him sad, and the last thing he needed was to be dwelling on bad stuff. Running always helped clear that out of his mind.

He ran about a block down his new street before he stopped to consider that he had no idea where he was going. The family hadn't visited Coverdale before the move. He hadn't seen a map of the town. Charlie figured he would run and let his feet take him where they wanted. To some woods and nature trails, he hoped.

Would it be too much to ask for ruins of some sort?

Reaching an intersection and the end of his road, Charlie turned right and followed a wide tree-lined road.

Ant popped into his head. The run was not doing its job of clearing his mind.

Charlie never called his sister her by her proper name. It was always something beginning with An, and it drove her crazy. This was a good thing. Ant had been a problem for a few days, but both parents had taken her aside and given her a long talking-to. Eventually she shut her mouth. Ant hated the idea of leaving her small circle of devoted friends—devoted to Ant, of course. Plus, there were the boys who followed her around and told her how gorgeous she was and did anything she asked. With no cell service, the poor girl couldn’t stay in touch with her crowd.

It made Charlie sick. He could sense the resentment burning off her whenever he got near her, as if she blamed him for everything. Charlie made an easy target for his sister’s anger and frustration.

He knew he could do nothing about it, so he might as well get over it and enjoy his own life.

Charlie’s mother, Mary, though everyone called her Nell for some unknown reason, was easygoing about the move to the point of oblivion. She still never got worked up over anything, so long as she got to do her painting every day. What seemed to get her most excited was the idea of having a real garden. Their home in the city had been a townhouse, their backyard only thirty feet across. All their neighbors had put up wooden privacy fences, so almost all of their yards were in perpetual shade. It was perfect for a cool place to read during the summer but terrible for a garden. The new house had a huge backyard, and she had already consulted her gardening books and planned where everything would go. She would be in her glory.

In a moment of silence between tunes, Charlie’s mind cleared enough for him to note that he was now running on a slope. He looked around to discover that he was moving up the side of the hills that surrounded the town. Looking back through a break in the trees, he could see his house, where the people were all still on the back deck. To the south, he spied most of the rest of the town.

The side of the cassette on his Walkman ended, so Charlie took the opportunity to look over his new hometown. He walked to the edge of the clearing and took in the view of Coverdale.

Located in a valley surrounded by high, wooded hills, the town sat at a bend in the Pannon River atop a steep bank. Streets ran west from the center and were divided evenly by streets running north and south. The town center, which wasn’t actually at the center of town but down in the southeast corner of a neatly laid out rectangle, was like a four-spoked wheel. In the hub sat a large round building with a road running around it. Between this road and the wheel lay four large areas divided by the spokes, narrow cobblestone roads. Two of the areas were parks. The third must be the school, Charlie decided, since he could see the oval of a track. The fourth area had a large rectangular building. Charlie’s house was at the town’s westernmost boundary. Around the whole town ran a loop road called Molay according to the street sign at the end of his street.

Charlie saw flashing red lights along the main road coming into town from the highway. He figured there must be an accident, though he couldn’t see any other cars besides the parked police cruiser.

After flipping over the cassette—which he wouldn’t have to do if he had a smartphone or iPod—Charlie continued along the road. A high stone fence stood to his left, topped with pointed pieces of shale that looked like they would slice open anyone who dared to attempt to climb over. He reached a gate and paused to look inside.

Far back, behind tall oak trees, stood an old house. It was a mansion, built of stone blocks, grey and weathered. Towers at the front corners and battlements along the roofline made it look like a medieval castle. A couple of cars were parked on a gravel area in front of a bank of garages, and a police cruiser pulled away while Charlie watched.

The heavy metal gate swung open with a hum and Charlie stepped aside to avoid the cruiser when it passed him. Inside sat a large policeman with very short blond hair and sunglasses. When the cop turned to look at Charlie, he did not look at all friendly. Charlie shuddered. He tried to smile and waved at the cop, but the cruiser had passed and was moving down the road quickly.

Aren’t you the pleasant one, he said after the cruiser turned a corner.

He heard the gate swing shut and turned in time to see an angel walk across the lawn in front of the house.

At least she looked like an angel to Charlie.

The girl looked about Charlie’s age, eighteen, maybe a year older or younger, and had blonde hair that fell halfway down her back. Her white dress came to just above her knees. On her feet were a pair of those plastic sandal things. Crocs or Craps, as he called them. What especially got Charlie’s attention, though, was her height: she had to be at least six feet tall.

Oh. My. God.

The girl looked up, and Charlie realized that the music had prevented him from hearing how loudly he had spoken. He felt his face flush when she looked at him and something inside Charlie turned to mush.

She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She was the most beautiful anything he had ever seen.

She smiled, and Charlie thought his chest would explode. The angel kept walking and soon disappeared around the corner of the house.

Charlie pulled off his headphones and ran. He didn’t want the music distracting his thoughts.

I’ve got to meet her; I’ve got to meet her. He often spoke to himself while running and had earned quite a few strange looks from passers-by. This road seemed deserted, so he felt he wouldn’t make a fool of himself. She’ll never know I’m alive, so why even think about it. Because I’m in love. That’s stupid. You’ve never even met her. It doesn’t matter.

Without conscious thought, Charlie veered onto a faint path leading into the woods a couple hundred yards up the road. When he was running, his feet often guided him while his mind pondered the mysteries of the universe.

Mysteries like how to meet the angel.

She’s probably got a voice like a horse. Remember Cindy.

Charlie thought about the girl he had had a crush on a few years ago. After pining for her across the classroom for almost a year, he’d found an excuse to talk to her. When he asked her about that day’s homework, she had brayed an answer. Taken aback, Charlie had tried to make conversation, but the girl seemed unable to string two intelligent sentences together. His crush had faded rather quickly.

He continued to argue with himself. Nobody that gorgeous could be that dumb. What about Ant? She’s my sister, and all sisters are dumb. Anyway, Ant only thinks she’s gorgeous. She’s just regular.

Hey, you! Where do you think you’re going? And who’s that with you?

Startled by the voice, Charlie skidded to a halt and looked around. He was next to a chain link fence topped by razor wire. On the other side stretched a vast sea of grass that ended about a mile and a half away. In the center of the sea loomed a large building covered in black glass. It stood three stories tall.

There was no sign of movement anywhere. Not even birds.

I asked you a question, kid. Where do you think you’re going? And what happened to the guy you were talking to?

Charlie saw the man who was questioning him come out of the woods: a security guard pointing a machine gun straight at Charlie. He didn’t look too happy to see him.

Before he could stop himself, Charlie said, Actually, you just asked me two questions. The guard glared at him and raised the gun slightly. "I was out running. I was just following a trail. I don’t know where I am.

Who were you talking to? Where’d he go? The guard glanced over to the bushes by the fence.

No one. I was talking to myself. Do it all the time. Helps clear the mind and I always win the arguments. Charlie wanted to kick himself for being a smartass again.

You on drugs or something? The guard grunted. He checked the bushes again and said, No one else around.

That’s what I said. Charlie shut his eyes and waited for the expected blast of gunfire. When none came, he opened his eyes. He tried to control his nervousness. The gun looked threatening, and the guard appeared ready to use it. Anxious, almost.

Could you point that thing somewhere else, please? I don’t want it to go off accidentally and make me another statistic.

The guard lowered the machine gun a little. You know you’re not supposed to be out here.

No, I don’t. We only moved here today. I don’t know anything. Where am I?

You must be one of the Bowen kids. That’s The Institute, he looked over at the black building, and you stay well away from it. Now, get the hell out of here. The road’s over that way. He pointed away from The Institute, and Charlie could make out a break in the trees.

Charlie ran towards the road and looked back at the guard when he reached it. The man stood watching him from the edge of the trees, machine gun still held at the ready.

Nice guy. He quickly looked around to make sure there were no other guards who might hear him speak.

Something bothered him about the guard besides the fact that he looked like he was ready to kill him. Something about his uniform.

It was the patch on his sleeve. It was the same circle with a red cross that Charlie had seen on the moving van.

Chapter Two

The neighbors had left by the time Charlie got home. Before he had a chance to take a shower, George Bowen pressed him into helping assemble Ant’s bed. Ant stood by and supervised, complaining constantly about how long it was taking and how tired she felt. At least she’d stopped going on about her stupid phone.

Charlie kept his mouth shut and imagined her tied to railroad tracks with a train barrelling down upon her.

As soon as the bed was finished and Ant’s bedroom had been rearranged several times according to her instructions, Charlie escaped into the shower.

Feeling so much cleaner, with one foot out of the shower, Charlie heard the front doorbell ring. There were muffled voices, and then his father yelled up the stairs for him to get down in a hurry. Deciding that speed was of the essence, Charlie dried himself quickly and pulled on the dirty clothes he had left piled on the bathroom floor.

When Charlie reached the bottom of the stairs, he could hear his father talking in the living room. He was apologizing for something and promising it would never happen again. George Bowen sounded nervous.

Charlie entered the room, shocked to see the policeman who had passed him in the cruiser at the big house. The man stood up and Charlie was able to get a look at him.

The policeman was less than six feet tall but projected himself as taller. It was probably the way he stood ramrod straight and seemed to be looking down on Charlie. At six feet two, even Charlie felt short in his presence. He had a barrel chest, and the muscles of his arms rippled through his uniform shirt. His blond hair was cut short and stood straight up from his face.

On the policeman’s shirtsleeve was a patch with that same red cross in a circle. Charlie guessed it might be the town coat of arms or something like that.

Charlie, this is Chief Wycliffe. The Chief grinned, but only his upper lip moved, making the grin more of a sneer. A white chunk of food or plaque between his two front teeth was distracting. Chief, my son, Charlie.

Charlie smiled and was about to extend his hand, but the withering look the Chief gave him