The Wicked Hour

by Alice Blanchard

  Natalie glanced around the lot and noticed that Ned Bertrand’s reserved parking space near the back entrance to the shop was empty. She holstered her gun and raced for her car, which was parked a couple of blocks away.

  In a town like Burning Lake, everyone knew everybody else, either personally or through a friend or mutual acquaintance. People talked. Natalie knew things about the Bertrands. For instance, she knew that Amy Bertrand had died in a car accident years ago and was drunk when she crashed into a telephone pole. She knew that most folks respected Ned Bertrand for his charity work and his annual gumball contest. His old white Chevy pickup truck full of dusty antiques was a fixture in this town. She also knew where the Bertrands lived—in a lovely, blowsy Victorian on the east side of town—and that after college Justin Bertrand moved back in with his parents and started working in his dad’s antiques store.

  Natalie scooped up her police radio and called it in. “Dispatch, do you receive? This is CIU-seven.”

  “Received, CIU-seven.”

  “I’m on Clementine, heading for Hyacinth. I just had an altercation with Justin Bertrand. I think he’s headed home. Send backup to 92 Hyacinth Lane. I’m headed there now … ETA two minutes. Also put out an APB on his vehicle, a white Chevy pickup truck, I don’t have the plate number, but the title belongs to Ned Bertrand.”

  “Received,” Dennis responded. “Calling for backup now.”

  She plopped the radio back in its cradle on the dash, while fear crept through her. When you sensed your life was in danger, everything inside of you tensed. You became primed for fight or flight. Police training had given her an edge, alerting her to her own physical reactions, teaching her how to counter the adrenaline rush with rational decision-making. Now she steadied her breathing, slowed her racing heart, and focused on the task at hand. At the corner of Clementine and Hyacinth, she took a left and drove for another mile or so until she came to the end of the road.

  Natalie pulled over to the side of the dead-end street and sat for a moment, feeling a static discharge on the back of her neck. The proud old Victorian was surrounded by towering oaks and blazing Japanese maples. The white Chevy pickup was parked in the driveway. The nearest neighbor was at least forty yards back. Across the street were more woods. A white picket fence surrounded the property, hearkening back to simpler times.

  Steeling herself, Natalie drew her service revolver and released the safety, then crossed the yard toward the weathered front porch, where she rang the doorbell. There was no answer. Her heart beat erratically as she knocked. “Justin?” She glanced around the property at the well-tended lawn and lush overgrown gardens. “Justin?” she called out. “It’s Detective Lockhart. Open up!”

  Still no response.

  The property had transformed itself from idyllic to eerie in a matter of seconds. The big oaks and maple trees stirred uneasily in the breeze. Her hands were freezing cold. Her feet felt like lead weights. She noticed an impression in the blue cotton seat of the Adirondack chair and wondered if someone had been sitting there recently.

  She tried the door, but it was locked. She cupped her hands over the glass pane and peered inside. A muted light filled the living room. She broke the pane of glass with the butt of her gun, reached inside, and unlocked the door. An alarm went off.

  Natalie entered the house, calling out, “Police! Come out with your hands up!”

  The house showed its age with its creaking floorboards and drafty old-fashioned windows. The kitchen was fairly neat and tidy. There was a half-finished mug of coffee next to an open laptop on the breakfast table. The screen was asleep. Natalie tapped the space bar, and it blinked on.

  A split-screen display revealed six different angles of the property. In one of the display panels, Natalie saw herself standing in the kitchen with her gun drawn. She looked around for the security camera, but it was well hidden. She moved swiftly past the granite countertops and chrome appliances, shouting, “Justin? It’s Natalie Lockhart! Come out with your hands up!”

  When she reached the living-room doorway, she paused to take it all in. A harvest-gold archway divided the living room from the dining room. A hazy late-afternoon light slanted through the mini-blinds on the western-facing windows. Two wingback chairs bookended the river stone fireplace.

  “Justin?” she called out hoarsely, searching from room to room. After she’d cleared the first floor, she went upstairs where the dying light cast brilliant splashes of gold against the walls. She cleared each room one by one. At the end of the hall, the last remaining door was shut.

  50

  Natalie’s hands tightened around the grip of her gun as she headed down the long hallway, stomach in free fall. She could hear strange echoes inside the house, like distant motors switching on and off. Mechanical sounds. Then a loud moan came from behind the door, and a chill spiked through her.

  She aimed her weapon at the door, mind sheathed in velvet. She could taste her own fear. The door was painted midnight blue. “Police!” she shouted. “Come out with your hands up.”

  She stood listening to the low, deep groan. When it finally stopped, the silence that followed was disturbingly empty. Her mouth went dry.

  She proceeded toward the midnight-blue door, sweat beading on her upper lip, her hair beginning to curl in licks and snarls. A washy haze hung in the air.

  She reached for the glass doorknob. “Police! Back away from the door!”

  There was a muffled whimper.

  Natalie flung open the door and aimed her gun all around. It was relatively dark inside the stuffy room. She groped along the wall, found the light switch, and flicked it on. The room lit up.

  Ned Bertrand lay underneath a white sheet on an ornate wrought iron antique bed facing the door. He was staring at her with red-rimmed eyes. You could tell he’d had a stroke. One side of his face sagged. He was sweating profusely. His nostrils were caked with blood. He looked terribly thin and sickly, with a jutting jaw and greasy white hair—a far cry from the dapper antiques dealer she used to know.

  Natalie crossed the room, old floorboards creaking. A few hazy rays of sunlight filtered through the gap in the thick brocaded curtains. She almost tripped over a blood pressure cuff and an oxygen tank. The bedcovers were rumpled. There was a nasty smell in the air. She scrutinized his wrinkled, porous face. There were sharp lines of pain around his mouth. She fought off a wave of nausea and placed her hand on his arm. “Where’s Justin?”

  His open eyes conveyed nothing, expressed nothing. They were dark, tarry pits.

  She squeezed Ned’s liver-spotted hand. “Where’s your son?”

  Something stirred—a million bird wings beating the air.

  Her head was pounding. She studied him closely. This poor man had irises like cracked marbles. He had weathered skin and hollow cheeks, and his breath smelled bad—a yeasty whoosh of air. The room was awfully hot. Everything was filtered through a veil of nausea. She tried to imagine Ned Bertrand breaking his son’s arm not once, but twice. A cruel man breaking both of Justin’s arms in order to prevent him from playing the violin like his mother used to. It was hard to imagine this withered old man hurting anyone. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. There were small stains of vomit on his T-shirt. He was malnourished and dotted with bandages. He’d apparently been lying in this position for some time. The stench of rotting bedsores got to her. The smell of old piss billowed upward.

  Now something sparked behind those eyes, and he grew agitated, focusing on Natalie with great intensity. His tongue wormed with all the syllables and consonants his chapped lips could not form. He struggled to get the words out, but all he managed was a hiss.

  A whispery kind of creepiness prickled her skin.

  The room grew hotter. She couldn’t contain her revulsion.

  Now his gaze flicked toward the doorway behind her.

  Behind you.

  She spun around.

  51

  Anguish squeezed Natalie’s heart. Seated in a chair
in between the doorway and bureau was the mummified corpse of Lily Kingsley. Her head was tipped to one side and the stumps of her arms flopped like a puppet with the strings snipped. She had leathery, varnished skin under the powder-blue T-shirt and skinny jeans, and she was barefoot, as if she’d been yanked unexpectedly from one location and dragged here against her will.

  Natalie felt as if she was shrinking. She gripped her gun as if the corpse might spring to life at any second. She realized the horror of Ned Bertrand’s situation. He could do nothing but stare at the mummified dead body seated in front of him all day long. He couldn’t run. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t tell anyone what was happening. Not even the day nurses. Justin obviously hid the corpse whenever they were here, but when their shift was over, it was just Ned and the dead violinist.

  The home alarm had been whining steadily in the background, but now all of a sudden, it shut off. The silence was terrifying. Natalie’s brain buzzed like a tuning fork.

  She could hear a heavy door swung shut below.

  Ned stirred and moaned with sick anguish.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “The police are on the way.”

  With a quick intake of air, she crossed the room and took a defensive stance in the hallway. Hands trembling, she hurried down the stairs.

  52

  Outside, the clouds were gathering force. She watched as Justin tossed a couple of bags into the flatbed of his truck and hopped in, starting the engine. He backed out of the driveway and screeched to a halt in the middle of the road.

  She aimed her gun at his head. “Stop! Police!”

  Their eyes met.

  “Hands up! Get out of the truck. Now!”

  He hit the gas and turned sharply, and she listened to the slap of the wind as he veered off down the street.

  Adrenaline flooded her body in waves, like a motor revving and dying. Taking deep ragged breaths, she cut across the lawn and got in her car. By the time she keyed the ignition, Justin had disappeared in a vortex of dust.

  She revved the engine and floored it away from the curb. She took out her anger on the road, accelerating hard and speeding past horse stables and stretches of forest. She took a left onto River Road, then climbed over a steep hill before dropping down into the valley below. She chased the white pickup as it sped toward Route 17, the highway out of town.

  The clouds were thick overhead now, and a gritty wind pushed into the car as she whipped around corners, hands choking the wheel. They were heading for the Chumash Wash, a tributary that fed into the Cayuga River. During rainy season, the Chumash Wash was unfettered and free to run its course. Now it rolled dramatically past the old oaks and weeping willows growing on its banks. This rural area was full of wooded hills and meadows where equine and feed businesses thrived, and on either side of the road were swirling skirts of crimson leaves blown around by the wind.

  As they sped toward the Wash, the road turned sharply and the Honda’s discount tires hugged the asphalt. The forest gradually thinned out, giving way to a bevy of wildflowers growing along the banks of the big, slow-moving river. You could smell the fragrant autumn underbrush, cypress and sweetbriar. You could smell lichens and mosses growing on the wet river rocks. They’d passed the blue water tower and were heading for the old bridge on Winterberry Road, when the clouds broke with lightning and thunder rolled across the sky.

  Natalie drove eastbound through a spitting rain. The pavement grew slippery, and she tapped the brakes lightly, cautiously, as she followed the pickup truck onto the bridge. She could barely see past the frenzy of her wipers and the hard rain hitting her windshield. She didn’t see the delivery truck coming from the other direction until it was too late. “Fuck,” she muttered, a deep panic threading through her voice.

  What happened next happened very quickly. The delivery truck skidded over the slick grade, veering across the center divider line and forcing Justin to swerve into the scaffolding on the western side of the bridge. Horns blared. Natalie’s Honda made a hideous squealing sound as she hit the brakes and lost control. The delivery truck wove back into its lane and sped past them, but it was too late. Justin had lost control of his vehicle and smashed it into the scaffolding, while at the same time Natalie hit the brakes and threw the wheel hard, trying to pull the car straight. But the car didn’t want to go straight. She yanked the hand brake, and the back tires locked and lost their traction. There was a metallic crunch as she collided into the back of the white pickup truck.

  As they spun around, the weight of the car shifted to the front as she desperately tried to control the slide, but the Honda impacted with the side of the bridge, and they both smashed through the scaffolding. Natalie’s mind swam as a steel cable snapped like a slingshot. There were popping sounds all over, and then an awful crash. The impact pushed them over the edge. She was falling.

  Natalie got thrown sideways, her seat belt digging into her flesh and clutching her tightly around the middle. She could see the water looming closer as they tumbled off the bridge. She was furious with herself for screwing up big-time. She clutched the wheel, while fright and shame swallowed her up.

  The engine sputtered and fizzled as her vehicle dove headlong into the water. The fall was effortless. The car did a half turn and slapped against the water with such a powerful jolt, it snatched the air out of her lungs. She could feel the thudding relentless mechanism of her heart, like clunky windshield wipers whipping back and forth.

  Then there was nothing but silence and bubbles.

  53

  Reality intruded. Rude and horrifying. Natalie could feel the blood pulsing through her temples while cold water embraced the car. She could hear the Honda’s chassis groaning. The river was roaring. Life was a fragile thing. She had lost her grasp of the situation. Her mouth was bleeding—she must’ve banged it against the steering wheel, because now she could taste her warm blood.

  As shock receded, she realized that the car was sinking rapidly into the river. She had to do something. Water came pouring in through the wheel wells, the trunk, and the cab. She could hear it funneling in from several openings into the car. She was stunned. She gaped ahead in horror—she was trapped inside a giant aquarium.

  Natalie fought off her rising panic and tried to roll down the windows, but the electric circuitry had shorted out and the power wasn’t working. The car was filling up fast. She could feel icy river water pooling around her ankles.

  She popped her seat belt as the water level rose with astonishing speed. Eyes wide and uncomprehending, she grasped the door handle with trembling fingers and tried to open it manually, but the door was locked. She’d been instructed on how to escape from a submerged vehicle in one of her emergency classes years ago—you were supposed to take a deep breath and let the water fill the entire car. Only then, once the water had rushed in above your head and you were entirely submerged, could you open your door and swim to freedom.

  Easier said than done. Nightmarish, in fact.

  The ice-cold water was up to her knees now, and it shocked her senseless, until her instincts took over. Since the door was locked, Natalie had to break the driver’s side window. She turned sideways in her seat and tried to break the window with one swift kick, but the safety glass was tough. She remembered the antitheft locking device she’d purchased at Home Depot and stashed under her seat years ago—a device she’d never used before—and now she reached for it, fumbling under her seat with frozen fingers. The water was shockingly cold and rising fast. She found the antitheft locking device and bludgeoned the window with it.

  She had only minutes to spare. Fear foamed in her heart as she banged the device against the glass over and over again, until the window broke and a gush of water came pouring in. She girded herself as the water level rose swiftly around her chest and lifted her off her seat. Then she waited with extraordinary patience while there was still a pocket of air under the car ceiling. You weren’t supposed to swim out until the water had entirely filled the car and the pressu
re was even. Once the vehicle was completely submerged, then you could escape through the broken window and swim to the surface.

  Keeping her head inside the diminishing air pocket, Natalie kicked off her shoes and waited for the interior to fill up with water. Once the car hit bottom, very few air pockets would remain. She took a deep breath as the water line reached her mouth and nose, and suddenly she was plunged into darkness.

  The car sank at a relatively steep angle. How deep would it go? Twenty feet? Thirty feet? The river was relatively shallow. As the car’s heavy engine dragged it down to the bottom, she felt the front end hit the silt bed with a gentle thud and continued holding her breath as she waited for the car to settle. Waiting for the pressure to equalize both inside and out was excruciating, but absolutely necessary.

  She couldn’t see a thing. It was black as pitch on the reedy bottom of the river. Her body felt numb all over. Her lungs were about to burst. She slid her hand along the seat and reached for the broken window with groping fingers. There was still a small pocket of air at the top of the vehicle, and Natalie took a final quick breath before plunging into darkness again. Then she crawled through the broken window and swam as hard and fast as she could toward the surface.