Centralia

“Every time I read a Mike Dellosso inspirational thriller, I find a new favorite
 
—until another hits bookstores that tops the last. Definitely the best yet,
Centralia
is not just a nonstop thrill ride with Dellosso’s signature spine-chilling suspense edged with the supernatural. It is a deeply moving story of one man’s desperate search for all that has been ripped from him
 
—family, identity, honor
 
—and ultimately his greatest loss and heart longing
 
—a restored relationship with the heavenly Father all logical evidence would indicate has abandoned him.
Centralia
is a story I will not soon forget.”

JEANETTE WINDLE,
award-winning author of
Veiled Freedom
,
Freedom’s Stand
, and
Congo Dawn

“With mind-bending twists and tangled truths,
Centralia
is one killer story! Mike Dellosso has outdone himself with this heart-pounding story of one man’s fight to find the truth
 
—but is it the real truth? This one will keep you guessing right to the end. If you’re a Bourne addict like me, you can’t afford to miss this novel!”

RONIE KENDIG,
bestselling author of
Raptor 6
and
Hawk

“Mike Dellosso’s
Fearless
packs an emotional punch. His engaging characters and riveting plot pull the reader right into the story. He’s a true craftsman!”

TOM PAWLIK,
Christy Award–winning author of
Vanish
,
Valley of the Shadow
, and
Beckon

“Mike spins a tale that combines suspense and compassion, intrigue and hope. Born of fire but created in love, [
Fearless
] is a ride that will keep you wondering until you turn the final page.”

ACE COLLINS,
bestselling author of
The Yellow Packard
and
Darkness before Dawn

“With hints of Frank Peretti and Stephen King,
The Hunted
is a chilling debut.”

CRESTON MAPES,
author of
Nobody

“A vicious enemy, a family secret, a thirst for revenge, and a need for reconciliation all drive
The Hunted
from intriguing beginning to thrilling conclusion.”

KATHRYN MACKEL,
author of
Vanished

“Read this someplace safe as you experience the incredibly descriptive world of
The Hunted
. And sleep with the lights on.”

AUSTIN BOYD,
author of the Mars Hill Classified trilogy

Visit Tyndale online at
www.tyndale.com
.

Visit Mike Dellosso’s website at
www.mikedellossobooks.com
.

TYNDALE
and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

Centralia

Copyright © 2015 by Mike Dellosso. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph copyright © by Sascha Burkard/Dollar Photo Club. All rights reserved.

Designed by Dean H. Renninger

Edited by Caleb Sjogren

Published in association with the literary agency of Les Stobbe, 300 Doubleday Road, Tryon, NC 28782.

Scripture taken from the New King James Version,
®
copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Centralia
is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Dellosso, Mike.

  Centralia / Mike Dellosso.

    pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-4143-9041-3 (softcover)

  1. Psychological fiction.   I. Title.

  PS3604.E446C46 2015

  813'.6
 
—dc23 2015000555

ISBN 978-1-4964-0676-7 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-9042-0 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-0677-4 (Apple)

For Jen

I remember when you told me,

“Live like it’s already happened.”

Peter Ryan tossed his head back, rested it against the leather wingback chair, and stared at the ceiling. A symmetrical swirl pattern in the plaster covered the entire surface. He wondered how long it had taken the plasterer to complete it. Must have required a ton of patience. These old buildings had such unique touches, such character and craftsmanship. The longer he stared at it, the more the pattern appeared to move and shift and change. The swirls curved in alternating directions, some clockwise, some counterclockwise, like an intricate network of cogs and gears skillfully crafted by a master clockmaker.

“Something you want to talk about?”

The gears on the ceiling halted their motion. Peter tilted his chin down and eyed Dr. Audrey Lewis. She was a plump woman,
full-figured with a large frame that fit nicely into her pantsuit. With her glasses on the end of her nose and her legs casually crossed, she smiled at Peter and waited for his response. Walter Chaplin, the departmental dean at the university, had insisted he see her, said it would do him good to talk to someone, to get things off his chest and out of his mind.

Peter wasn’t so sure. He’d seen Lewis three times already, and she’d been no help. All she did was listen and ask questions, smile, and take notes. He could get that from any child in any first-grade classroom. And what did she do with all the notes she took, anyway? No doubt she used them as fodder for her social-media alter ego.

But there was no use resisting. If Chaplin wanted him to use Lewis as a psychological dumping ground, he would do it. It certainly didn’t harm him any or cost him anything but a couple hours a week. “I’ve been having the dream again.”

Lewis’s eyes went to her notepad. “The house.”

“Yes.”

She looked up, eyeing him like an interesting specimen to be poked and jabbed, dissected and studied, and finally pinned to a foam board. “And the rooms
 
—are they the same?”

“Yes.”

“Same layout?”

“Yes.”

“Same number of rooms?”

Peter closed his eyes and filled his memory with the inside of the house that he’d been visiting in his dreams. “Same everything.” It had two stories, mostly unfurnished, and every room seemed to contain pieces to a giant puzzle; only the pieces never fit neatly together. The first-floor living area consisted of four spacious rooms. There was also a kitchen he’d never entered, only caught
a glimpse of the tiled floor and white cabinetry. The second story had a hallway lined with four rooms along the right side. The walls were gray, the wood worn. It was an old house, well used, stately yet sad. Many memories hid in the walls and paint and floorboards.

Lewis was quiet for a long moment, and Peter didn’t know if she was thinking about a response or waiting for him to continue.

Finally, “Go on.”

He sighed and recalled his latest dream, which had been exactly like all the other ones. “I’m in this house, the same house.”

“And does it look familiar yet?”

“Nope. Never seen it before except in my dreams.” At least not that he remembered.

“Go on.” Those were two of Lewis’s favorite words, and combined, they made up the majority of her contribution to shrink sessions.

The office was a room in Lewis’s home. She lived down a county road, five miles outside of town. With the windows open, the curtains moved gently on a midafternoon breeze, but the outside world was quiet save for the occasional bird singing or squirrel chattering.

“I seem to have access to every room, just like always, except that one.”

“Does the door look the same?”

“Everything’s the same. The staircase, the hallway, the doors. They’re all the same. Nothing ever changes.”

“And did you go in any of the rooms?”

“Sure. I made my way down the hallway, just like I always do, checking each room. I have a feeling like I’m looking for something. An urgent feeling.”

Lewis cleared her throat and apologized. “The same feeling you’ve had before.”

Peter nodded. “Same as always.”

“And what did you find in the rooms?”

“Same stuff I always find. Mementos, different objects from my life, from childhood up to just a few weeks ago. My old baseball mitt. A stack of comic books. Spider-Man. Daredevil. Archie. The tuxedo I wore when Karen and I got married. Lilly’s favorite teddy bear. A pile of unpaid bills. Just the stuff of life. My life.”

“And do you find what you’re looking for?”

“Nope. The feeling never goes away.”

“Is Karen in one of the rooms?”

“Yes. The same room. Third one. She sits in a chair, one of those overstuffed ones you find in a furniture store. We had one just like it when we were newly married. Checkered blue and white with some flecks of red. We bought it with a Christmas bonus I got that year.”

“And did she talk this time?”

“She never talks.” Peter closed his eyes again and saw Karen in the chair, her legs crossed, skirt just above the knees, hair pulled back from her face. “But she looks like she wants to. She has that look on her face, you know, when someone has something to say but either doesn’t quite know how to say it or wants to but something’s holding them back. Do you know that look?”

“I do. And then what?”

“And then nothing. I say hi to her, tell her I love her, ask her what’s wrong, but there’s never any answer. I plead with her, tell her it doesn’t matter what it is
 
—just tell me; I can handle it. But no answer.”

Again Lewis remained quiet as the clock on her desk ticked softly. A shadow flitted across the ceiling, a flutter of activity, and then it was gone. Probably a bird outside caught between the house and the sun’s midafternoon rays. Peter kept his eyes on the
ceiling as those gears began to move again, setting in motion some major mechanism, maybe the machinery of his mind.

“And after finding Karen, do you still have the feeling that you’re looking for something?”

“Or someone. Yes.”

“So the someone you’re looking for isn’t Karen.”

Peter thought about that for a moment. He’d always assumed that he was looking for Karen. Or Lilly. But the feeling was persistent and wasn’t quenched with the discovery of Karen in the room. “I guess not.”

“What about the last room? It’s the same as always too?”

Peter massaged his hands and glanced around the office. It was nicely furnished, mostly with antiques. A floor lamp in the corner always attracted his attention. Its carefully sculpted brass stand was polished to a high sheen, and from the top dangled a bell-shaped glass shade with a hand-painted stylized
C
on it. Peter often wondered what the
C
represented but had never asked Lewis about it. “Yes, the last room. It’s the same thing. I try to open the door, but it’s locked. I dig through my pockets
 
—all of them, frantically
 
—but I have no key. I have no way of opening the door. I think whatever or whoever I’m looking for is in that room.”

“That’s new.”

Peter lifted his head and looked at Dr. Lewis. “Is it?”

“I don’t remember you ever mentioning that before
 
—that you know the room contains what you’re looking for.”

Peter thought back to his other dreams. They were so vivid, so real, he could still remember each one in detail. “Or who. And I suppose it is new. Does that mean something?” Peter didn’t really expect Lewis to answer his question directly.

“What do you think it means?”

“I thought you were supposed to have the answers.”

“I don’t have all the answers. In fact, I have few answers. More times than not, the answers are in you.”

“Well, give this one your best shot.”

Lewis removed her glasses and placed her notepad and pen on the little round colonial table with a tripod pedestal beside her chair. “I think it means your subconscious mind is keeping something from you.”

“Keeping secrets?”

“In a sense. Protecting you from some memory you may not be ready to recall, some event in your life you may not be ready to deal with.”

Peter drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “So what do I have to do?”

Lewis laced her fingers and rested her hands on her lap. She looked directly at Peter as if she were about to reveal to him not only the secrets of his past but the mysteries of the universe. “Find the key.”