Midnight

Catch’s Confession, Episode Three

I stared at Imogene for a moment, wondering if she would speak again.

“Should I continue?” I asked her.

Silence.

“I didn’t run back. I’ve never been a man who runs without calculation. I moved quickly—that’s different.

“The laughter still hung in my ears when I stepped out into the night. Not loud laughter. It wasn’t hysterical. Measured. Like a man confirming an appointment.”

It didn’t affect her in the least. Talking about it pressed my memory. Lamarck’s laughter hung in my ears as I told Imogene about it. It reminded me of France. A corporal next to me took four rounds—one after another in just a couple of seconds—and he just started laughing. Not loud. Not hysterical. He looked down at his body at the four bullet wounds, as if he were going to say, “Would you look at that?” Instead, he laughed. Just like Lamarck.

“The air had changed. Like that feeling before a storm—when the sky looks ordinary but something in the pressure suggests revision. It was like that.

“The walk to the house took less than a minute. I remember the gravel under my shoes sounding sharper than before. The streetlight hummed faintly. I opened the door without knocking. It was silent in the house.”

Imogene was silent as well. Although she said nothing and her face carried that same emotionless stare, held by those caring-uncaring eyes, she seemed to be absorbing everything I said. I continued.

“I didn’t hear the restless quiet of men shifting in chairs. No creaking floorboards. A held silence. I don’t recall why, but I took the stairs two at a time. And halfway up, I heard it. It was a sound like someone trying to inhale through cloth. Then—nothing.”

I paused for a moment to listen—to hear her breathing. Her breathing was silent, too. I hadn’t stopped to listen to it before, but she breathed silently. Even with a stillness. Her chest didn’t rise or fall noticeably. I continued my recollection of the events.

“I reached the landing. The door to the master bedroom stood open. The lamp still burned. Dawkins sat in his chair nearest the door. Upright. Hands resting on his knees. Eyes open. Not wide. Not panicked. Just… open.”

There. She did it again. She leaned closer, as if interested. I didn’t comment on it. I needed to get through the story. I went on.

“I stepped inside. ‘Huxley?’ I said. No answer. I proceeded further into the room. Then I saw him. Huxley lay on his side near the cot, one hand stretched forward as if he had been reaching for something just beyond his grasp. No blood. No wound. His fingers were curled inward, knuckles pale.

“Anderson stood against the far wall. His skinny frame was rigid. Back straight. Arms at his sides. Sweat ran from his temples down his jawline, but he didn’t blink.

“Lyell sat on the edge of the second chair. He was whispering. I couldn’t make out all the words. Something about a ledger. Something about signatures.

“You were standing. You hadn’t been standing before. The cot behind you was empty. Your doll lay at your feet. You didn’t look at the bodies. You looked at me.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. There were moments when the mind records detail without commentary. This all happened less than an hour ago—it couldn’t be any more than two hours prior—but I could see the room. The lamp was steady. The window boarded up. The air was cold. Not winter-cold. But a controlled cold, like a root cellar. I opened my eyes and continued my story.

“Your shadow fell behind you against the wall. But the angle was wrong. The lamp stood to your left. The shadow bent slightly to your right. As if the light had been reconsidered. For a fraction of a second—no longer than the tick between seconds on my watch—the shadow leaned forward. You did not. The shadow extended toward Huxley’s outstretched hand. But your shadow didn’t touch his hand. It hovered over him, then settled back. It aligned itself. Then you tilted your head.”

Imogene tilted her head.

“Yes,” I said with a nod. “Just like that. Not inquisitively. It was as if noting that I had seen. Arithmetic requires observation. So, I observed. I didn’t speak.

“I stepped toward Dawkins first. I placed two fingers against his throat. No pulse. His skin was warm, so he wasn’t dead long.

“I knelt beside Huxley and whispered his name. There was no visible trauma. No blood. No foam at the mouth. No sign of struggle beyond the position of his hand. Heart attack maybe, I thought. Mass hysteria? Stress-induced collapse? Two men dead of fright? That was possible. Unlikely — but possible.

“I stood up and I went to Anderson. The kid didn’t move. His eyes flicked toward me. Barely. His lips trembled. Like he wanted to say something. ‘I couldn’t,’ he whispered. That was all.”

Imogene listened closely. Somehow, I could tell. I didn’t know how. My observations interested her.

“Lyell’s whispering grew louder,” I said. “‘…he signed it… he signed it… he signed it…’ He kept repeating those three words. I crossed the room in three steps and seized him by the collar. ‘Pull yourself together,’ I told him. He stared at me as though I was behind glass.”

“‘You saw it,’ he said. “‘Saw what?’ I asked him. He swallowed hard, like he was trying to lubricate a dry throat. ‘You saw,’ he said. He wouldn’t finish the sentence. I let go of his collar and turned back to you.

“You hadn’t moved. In the same place. Your feet were bare against the wood floor. I remembering wondering why you weren’t wearing shoes, then dismissing it as less important than everything else. Your hands hung loosely at your sides. Your pupils were wide. The white of your eyes seemed dimmer than before. Not black. Just less. You extended your arm. Slowly, pointing to the doorway.

“You wanted us to go downstairs. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

“I glanced once more at Dawkins. Then Huxley. Then the kid. Then Lyell. Arithmetic. Two dead. Two unstable. One child standing. I checked my watch. It was a minute past midnight. Whatever happened, only took a few seconds… because I was in that room for less than a minute.”

I pulled my watch out and paid special attention at the time. Twelve-thirty. Exactly. My God. It seemed so much longer. I’d swear it was two or three o’clock. I looked at my pocket watch again. The second hand rested for the briefest pause before continuing. Mechanical hesitation. Nothing more. I snapped the cover closed and put granddad’s watch away. I took a deep breath and soldiered on.

“I stepped past you into the hallway. You followed. Your shadow had moved correctly now. It was aligned. I didn’t ask you what happened. I didn’t accuse you. I didn’t touch you. Some things require observation before conclusion.

“Downstairs, the kitchen lamp flickered once, then steadied. I pulled a chair from the dining table. You climbed into the one across from me. You held our doll in the crook, then folded your hands in your lap.

“Upstairs, Lyell began to laugh. Not loudly. Not hysterically. It was Lamarck’s laugh. At least rhythmically. Like a man confirming an appointment.

“I folded my hands in my lap, just as you had. Then I said, “Explain. You blinked once.”