End of Day

by Mae Clair

  “You must pay for these deaths, Gabriel Vane. For the innocent lives taken by this unholy sickness. Run, but I will find you. This I vow—your body will be the first in the ground, made protector of the souls you have claimed. Do you hear me, Gabriel?” He thrust a fist to the sky. “As God is my witness, you will not live to see the dawn.”

  * * * *

  Present Day

  Kirk Porter was nothing like his brothers. If Yancy hadn’t been so desperate, he would have written the guy off the moment they crossed paths. Physically, Kirk wasn’t imposing, a thin, wiry twenty-something who barely stood five-nine. But what he lacked in height and girth he more than made up in intensity. There was something about his eyes—obsidian black and needle-like—that cut Yancy to the quick. Plain and simple, Kirk Porter gave him the creeps.

  But the man had no qualms about roughing up a kid. He was game for just about anything.

  “I need you to get rid of these bones.” Yancy motioned to Vane’s scattered remains, laid out like a museum exhibit on his exam table. Warren Porter had brushed him off when he’d tried to get contact information on Kirk, but Clive had been more gullible offering up what he needed. Afterward, Yancy had a brief discussion with Kirk by cell phone. The youngest Porter brother agreed to meet him in the basement office at Wickham.

  Kirk made a slow circuit around the table, his movements light-footed as a panther. “I said I’d rough up the kid. Dumping bones is extra.” With a slow curl of his lip, he prodded a femur. “This the guy that got dug up from the cemetery?”

  “What if it is?” Yancy stiffened his spine. It had been easy to maneuver Warren, far simpler to manipulate Clive. Kirk felt like an eel, too slippery to read.

  “No biggie.” Propping a shoulder against the wall, he fished a cigarette from the pocket of his jeans, then lit up with a cheap disposable lighter. The fingers of his right hand were yellow, stained with nicotine, the nails long like a woman’s and filed to a point. “You got a boat?” He flicked a thumbnail against his teeth, exhaling a long stream of smoke.

  Yancy fought the urge to cough. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “The river can be a dumping ground if you weight things right.”

  He hadn’t considered that. It was off season for fishing, but there were probably a few places left where he could get a jon boat. “I can rent one.”

  “Too messy. You’ll make a paper trail.” Kirk took another drag off his cigarette, then flicked it to the floor and crushed the butt under his sneaker. Pig. “I know a guy. I’ll take care of it, but the rental costs you extra.”

  “Deal.” He was past caring how much. “Get rid of the bones and get me the emerald. Do it all by the weekend, and I’ll double your payment.”

  “Shit, man.” Kirk flashed cracked, uneven teeth. “I would have done that anyway, but I know a good thing when I come across it.” He wiped his palm on his jeans and held out his hand. “Shake and you got a contract.”

  Yancy figured the handshake was as worthless as Kirk’s word.

  He shook anyway. He had a feeling people didn’t say no to Kirk.

  * * * *

  Saturday night Dante carried a beer and his father’s notebook into his studio. The canvas he’d worked on sporadically since summer remained unfinished. Anyone else looking at the easel would call the painting complete, but something was missing. An element he couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was because he loathed the subject—Wickham—yet something about the place spoke to him. Wouldn’t let him rest.

  He took a swig of beer then set the bottle aside. Dropping into a chair, he paged open the notebook he’d found in the attic. As a kid, he used to tell his friends his father worked for the government, and his job was top secret. In reality, he had no idea what his father did or even who employed him. After his death, everything was handled through an attorney representing the shadow company Salvador worked for. Dante had been too young to pursue the matter, and his grandmother never followed through, satisfied by the establishment of a trust fund that would see Dante never wanted for anything.

  When he was old enough to ask specific questions about his father’s death, his grandmother brushed them off, saying she didn’t know the details of the accident. Even now he believed her—his grandmother had always been honest with him—but part of him suspected she didn’t want to know the truth of what Salvador had done at Wickham.

  If he were honest, his father had been different the last few years leading up to his death. Secretive, withdrawn. Dante recalled waking in the middle of the night once and wandering downstairs to find his father sitting at the kitchen table in the dark with a half-empty bottle of whiskey. From his slumped posture and hitch of his shoulders, it was obvious he was crying.

  The sight left Dante so shaken he’d returned to his bedroom and lain awake the entire night. He’d never said a word of what he’d seen to anyone. Never acted any differently toward his father.

  His gaze dropped to the notebook where Salvador had penned words about madness, Wickham, and Blue. The only entry the book contained. Dante’s father had been as cognizant of the spirit world as he was, if not more so. Had something at Wickham corrupted him? Turned him into a man who took on the “role of Dr. Frankenstein to L’s monster?”

  He skimmed snippets of the passage:

  …it hovers near, wrapped in the guise of the monster I treat.

  …a madness light will not breach.

  …Blue may well be L’s son, but he has become my personal demon.

  …Blue will turn on me one day, driven by the experiments I subject him to.

  …grows to abnormal size and strength.

  …If I die, it will surely not be an accident, but by Blue’s hand.

  …I allowed myself to be corrupted by this wretched place.

  Dante rubbed his forehead. No wonder his grandmother hadn’t wanted to know the truth, that the wrongful death payout had been so large. Gut instinct told him his father had been killed by the person he’d dubbed Blue. Someone of abnormal size.

  Like the blue-skinned drifter who’d jumped from the Old Orchard Truss Bridge last June. One and the same?

  Dante’s stomach roiled, the beer he’d drank turning to acid. The drifter had never been identified, his body carried away by the Chinkwe River.

  Had his father truly become so corrupted by the taint of Wickham that he performed experiments on another living being? He ran his fingers under the chain of his Saint Michael’s medal, the ugly glare of understanding like a spotlight. His father had never been employed by a company, but by a single person—the unnamed “L.” Someone powerful enough and rich enough to pay Salvador a hefty salary then dole out a settlement when he died and keep the whole fiasco under wraps.

  The only man Dante knew with that kind of clout was Leland Hode, Collin’s father.

  Dante lifted his gaze to the painting of Wickham and suddenly understood what was missing—flames to burn the wretched place to the ground.

  * * * *

  Dante woke Sunday morning with a pounding headache. He had a vague memory of calling Collin three times then hanging up before the calls went through. He’d lost track of the beers he’d downed, but thought he’d crawled into bed sometime after two in the morning. If his father was a monster who’d conducted medical experiments on another human being, what good would it do to drag up that depravity?

  His father was gone. Wickham was a stigma of the past and Blue was dead, the victim of a suicide. Maybe Collin already knew what had gone on in that vile brick building. A falling out had happened between Collin and Leland last June. Maybe by keeping the truth from Dante, Collin had been protecting Salvador’s memory. Who the hell wanted to learn their father was Dr. Frankenstein?

  Dante stripped off his clothes and trudged into the bathroom. He stood in the shower with the water turned to cold until he drove the ache fr
om his head and the dust from his thoughts. Learning the truth would not change the past. He’d tell no one of what he’d discovered, at least not as it related to his father or the Hode family.

  Decision made, he finished showering and dressing. His first order of business was to return to Wickham. The impression he’d felt the day he’d helped Jillian with her car had been faint, barely perceptible. More energy was needed to awaken the folk memory, probably more than he had. He’d talk to Jillian and see if she was willing to help. If there was a way to channel her empathy, it might mean the difference between reading the past and coming up blank.

  He made coffee for breakfast along with a piece of dry toast, enough to buffer the acid left over from his beer binge. He waited until after ten to phone Jillian.

  She answered on the fourth ring. “Good morning.”

  “Morning. Any news on Madison?”

  “Nothing.” Her disappointment was palpable. “I just got off the phone with her doctor. The staff at Rest Haven are monitoring her closely, but there’s been no change.”

  “I’m sorry. You have to give it time.” He imagined her reaching down to pet Blizzard. The dog was probably glued to her side, given the sorrow in her voice.

  “I know, but it’s hard. Thanks for calling and asking. I appreciate what you did. In three years, Madison hasn’t responded to anyone. You’re the first person who got a reaction out of her.”

  “I’ll try again if you want.” He dumped the dregs of his coffee down the drain.

  She was silent a moment. “Let’s give it a week and see what happens. I have a feeling something has to break.”

  “If anyone is in tune with feelings, it’s you.”

  She laughed. “Thanks. What do you have planned for today?”

  “Actually, that’s why I called. Since you did the website for Yancy, you probably know his business hours. Is he usually there on Sundays?”

  “No. And after learning he’s descended from Atticus Crowe, I can’t stop being creeped out that he’s a distant relative.”

  He imagined her shuddering. “Do you think he knows about Gabriel?”

  “I don’t know. The last time I was in his office, he had a newspaper on his desk with an article about the grave robbery.” He sensed a frown in her voice. “Now that I think about it, he kept asking about Elliott.”

  Dante felt a stab of alarm. “Elliott?”

  “Not by name. When I saw the article, I made a reference to being relieved Elliott wasn’t hurt. After that he kept asking questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Stupid stuff. He wanted to know if Elliott found anything in the grave…a coffin nail or a stone. Who thinks of those kinds of things?”

  “Why would he think of those kinds of things?” Dante rubbed his temple. He’d function a lot better without the edge of a hangover clouding his mind. “I’m going to take a drive to Wickham. Would you mind coming along?”

  He sensed when she hedged. “Sure, I guess. But what’s at Wickham?”

  He left the kitchen and headed down the hallway for the front door. “Remember when I told you about folk memories, and how I can read the impressions of events that happened in the past if they’re strong enough? I think something vile happened at Wickham, and I want to find out what. I might need your help to do that.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll explain when I get there. Can I pick you up?”

  “Now? Okay. See you when you get here.”

  Dante stopped in the foyer to grab a coat. He was still shrugging into the garment when the doorbell rang. Surprised, he opened the door to find Tessa and Elliott standing on the front porch.

  “Contessa. What are you doing here?”

  “Wow.” Her smile was quick, her tone laced with humor. “I don’t normally rate a full name greeting. Why do I get the idea you’re not pleased to see us?”

  “No. It’s just—I was on my way out.”

  “Oh. Bad timing.” She dropped her hands to Elliott’s shoulders. “We missed you in church and thought we’d drop by to see if you wanted to grab breakfast.”

  “Sorry.” He felt stupid. Didn’t know if he should invite them in or step outside. At least she hadn’t badgered him about why he’d missed Mass. “Maybe another time?”

  “Sure. We’re still on for Halloween night, right?”

  The masquerade. “Yeah. I talked Jillian into going, too.”

  “Great.”

  Dante glanced down at Elliott. “Sorry I’m going to miss breakfast.” No sense mentioning his stomach wouldn’t have been able to handle it anyway.

  “That’s okay.” Elliott fiddled with a stone, tossing it lightly in his hand. “I told Mom to call first, but she didn’t listen. She figured if you weren’t in church, you must be painting and would have your phone off.”

  “Late night.” Dante rifled a hand through his hair. He hadn’t bothered tying it back. “I overslept.”

  “Well, we won’t keep you from wherever you’re headed.” Tessa nudged Elliott from the doorway. He back-stepped, lost his balance, and dropped the stone.

  Dante stooped to pick it up. Strange rock. It looked a little like an emerald, but of a rougher cut. “Hey what’s this?”

  Elliott held out his hand. “My wishstone.”

  “Your what?”

  “Like Grandma has a worry stone, only mine’s for wishes.”

  Dante grinned and dropped it into his palm. “Does it work?”

  “I wished for a friend, and now Finn and I hang out together.”

  Dante pitched Tessa a questioning glance.

  “Finn Carrigan. He was the boy at the cemetery with Elliott when…when the tree fell.”

  When that poor man died. The unspoken words dangled between them.

  “Well, hang onto it.” Dante clapped Elliott on the shoulder. “It’s unusual-looking.”

  “Come on, Elliott. We’ve held Dante up long enough.” With a parting wave, Tessa headed for her car.

  Elliott lingered, looking like he wanted to say more. Dante crouched lower. “Is there something else you wanted to tell me?”

  The boy nodded, leaning close. “It protects me from monsters, too.” His voice had dropped to a whisper. Monsters were their own special secret. He stared up at Dante, eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses. “Do you know why?”

  “I couldn’t guess.”

  “Because I found it in the cemetery. It was in the grave I fell into.”

  Chapter 12

  October 21, 1799

  The passage of the night took a toll on Gabriel. Whether from cradling Dinah on her deathbed, or the natural process of the sickness, by the time he slipped from the village, he was flush with the same fever that had claimed so many others. He knew his farm would be the first place his pursuers searched, so he ran in the opposite direction, toward a knoll dense with trees. The autumn foliage would help conceal him, and the leaf-strewn ground would make him harder to track. If he could make it through the wooded terrain, Vernon Hode’s homestead lay on the opposite side.

  Hode had not been seen since before Gabriel, Jasper, and Hiram left to track the Endling. Gabriel had always looked to him as a man of formidable strength and reason. If anyone could return sanity to the village, it was Hode.

  Stopping to catch his breath, he bent over, hands on knees, and drank ragged gulps of the cold air. He dug Dinah’s emerald from his frock coat. If the illness took the same course with him as it did others, he would be dead in less than three days. Whatever magic his beloved had woven into the stone could no longer protect him. That power had been severed with Dinah’s death.

  A steady, distant baying drew him upright.

  Dogs.

  Atticus must have realized he’d try to reach Vernon Hode.

  Caught in a nightmare, Gabriel closed hi
s eyes. It wasn’t possible to be hunted this way. To be tracked like an animal as they had tracked and cornered the Endling. The roles of predator and prey kept shifting, but it didn’t matter. He fisted his hand around the emerald. Whatever happened to him, he’d made a promise to Dinah.

  “Your father will not have the stone.”

  Atticus’s threat needled into his head. “This I vow—your body will be the first in the ground, made protector of the souls you have claimed.”

  Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and tracked to his jaw. A guardian soul for the chapel cemetery. Atticus had expected Jasper to sacrifice a dog, but Jasper was gone.

  And, this night, Atticus had named his own sacrifice.

  Propelling himself forward, Gabriel prayed for the strength to reach Vernon Hode.

  * * * *

  Present Day

  Jillian was thankful to find the lot at Wickham deserted. Yancy didn’t advertise Sunday hours, but that didn’t mean he might not be there working.

  Dante parked his 4Runner in a spot at the far end, away from the building. On the drive over, he’d told her about Elliott’s “wishstone” and how he’d found it in Gabriel’s grave. Her stomach had been in knots ever since.

  He killed the ignition. “You haven’t said anything for a while.”

  “I know.” She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. “I told Yancy that Elliott lived next door to me. Suddenly, I have this horrible feeling.” Twisting, she shifted to face him. “Why would he ask if Elliott found something in the grave unless he expected something to be there?”

  “You think he’s the one who took Gabriel’s bones?”

  “I don’t think he could do it himself, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t involved. He seems to have money to burn. He could have hired someone.”

  Dante draped an arm over the steering wheel. “Maybe you should share your thoughts with your detective friend. What’s her name? Sherre?”

  “No.” Bad idea. “She already thinks I’m a nutcase for believing the grave robbery is the reason behind all the accidental deaths. I’m just worried about Elliott.”