End of Day

by Mae Clair

  “But I have ancestors buried in the cemetery. And now those things know about me. Where to find me.” She’d never felt so vulnerable or afraid. The idea of night creatures bringing chaos to the town and causing deaths had been alarming before, but even when Madison had been struck down, Jillian imagined herself immune.

  “Maybe this will protect you.” Taking her hand, Dante dropped Dinah’s emerald into her palm. He folded her fingers over the edges. “Until we can return this to its rightful place, you should keep it. You’re descended from the same line as Dinah.”

  Jillian’s stomach seesawed as she gazed down at the stone. “I can’t believe Atticus and the others buried him alive.”

  “I’m sorry you saw that.” Dante looped an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer.

  Thankful for the added warmth, she nestled against this side. Emotions she understood, but the spirit world was beyond her grasp. “Did you pick up anything on the tape recorder?”

  “Just static.”

  Jillian sighed. “Then we’re no closer to learning where Gabriel’s remains are hidden. All we gained is the knowledge the gemstone Elliott found really did belong to him, and—” She stumbled over the words. “The manner of his death.”

  “It confirms our suspicions about Atticus Crowe and why nothing good comes from Wickham.”

  She angled her head to look at him. “You said the place corrupted your father.”

  His mouth tightened. “I have to believe that. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Then it’s probably corrupted Yancy, too. If he really wants the stone, and he knows Elliott has it—or thinks he does—he might be willing to do something crazy. The gem belonged to Dinah, and according to your grandmother’s notes, Yancy is descended from Fern, Dinah’s sister. Yancy must have discovered how powerful the stone is.”

  Dante worked his jaw as if mulling over the connections. “It all comes back to Crowe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone’s linked through him. Gabriel was in love with Dinah. Your line is descended through Crowe’s oldest son, Enoch, and Yancy is descended through Fern.”

  “Why is that important?”

  “I’m not sure.” He drew back, then stood and paced away from her. Stopping before the window, he flicked the drapes aside. For several seconds he considered the darkness, then turned and slid his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head. “Before any of this happened, you thought Atticus Crowe was a good man.”

  She’d never been so wrong. “I know differently now. He buried Gabriel alive.”

  “What else did he do?”

  “Isn’t that tragedy enough?”

  He waved her aversion aside. “Crowe was influential. Persuasive enough to make Gabriel’s neighbors turn against him. Not just ostracize, but kill him—in one of the most horrific ways possible. To have that kind of sway, he must have been powerful.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “If Crowe had that much authority, why doesn’t the town carry his name?”

  Jillian frowned. Her heartbeat quickened. Through all their reasoning, they’d overlooked one critical element. She suddenly understood what Dante wanted her to see.

  “Where was Vernon Hode when Gabriel was killed?”

  Chapter 15

  October 21, 1799

  Sweat plastered Atticus Crowe’s hair to his brow. He smelled of mud and grass and the grime that worked beneath the weathered cracks in his skin. Burial was dirty labor, not for the faint of heart. He tossed his shovel aside, then worked at rolling down his sleeves.

  “Do you think he’s dead?” Cyrus Herman stared at Vane’s grave.

  “Of course he’s dead.” The jittery tone of Cyrus’s voice chafed Atticus’s nerves. “He’s been without air far longer than any man can hold his breath.”

  “He stopped screaming over ten minutes ago.” Thaddeus Keel spat a wad of chewing tobacco onto the soil. Nothing jumpy or indecisive about the coon hound master. “It’s done. We should go home.” He stomped to the hickory tree where he’d leashed his dogs.

  “Agreed.” Atticus respected Keel’s bluntness. The rest of the group could do with toughening up now that the deed was finished.

  “My gut’s off.” Cyrus held his stomach with one hand and used the other to massage the ropy skin around his neck. In the torchlight, his face looked pasty, mottled with shadow.

  “Then go home to your wife and have her make you a tonic. The rest of you tend to your sick.” The thought of Dinah and Jasper lifeless in their beds made Atticus grind his teeth. His children would be the first to receive Vane’s protection when their bodies were set in the ground. “Two of my children are dead, but yours still live. We did the right thing.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Ira Blake wiped grungy hands over his tunic. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

  “You think the rest of us have? He was a demon, not a man.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Keel ripped the restraining rope for his dogs from the tree. “It’s too late to be second-guessing the deed.”

  Cyrus staggered and dropped to his knees. Atticus heard retching. A few of the men shuffled their feet. Bowed their heads and mumbled among themselves.

  “We must tell no one what we’ve done,” Andrew Whitley said.

  Others agreed.

  “Fools!” Atticus thrust between them. Their remorse sickened him. “Have you forgotten that Vane brought this wretched malady to our town? That he cursed us and watched our loved ones die? How many have we lost—friends and neighbors who even now wait to be buried in the ground we have sanctified through his sacrifice?”

  “But he loved your daughter.” Climbing to his feet, Cyrus wiped a shaky hand over his mouth. “Maybe we were wrong. Jasper was his closest friend.”

  “And he killed them!” Atticus spat the words with all the hatred he could muster.

  “Your son, Enoch, wouldn’t even follow us into the woods.” Everett Donner’s accusation was wobbly, his skin sweat-slicked and pale. Visibly unsteady, he glanced among the group. “Wait a minute. Where did Farley go?”

  “What did you say?” Ira Blake’s voice lurched up an octave. He swiveled his head from side to side, sweeping his gaze between the trees and the chapel. “Farley’s gone?”

  “He can’t have left.” Whitley clearly didn’t want to believe one of them had deserted.

  “I should have done the same!” What little blood remained drained from Cyrus’s face. “Farley must have crept off while we were…were…” Bending double, he dry heaved.

  “Find your spine, man!” Atticus resisted the urge to strike him. “All of you! I have never seen such a group of cowardly, weak-willed men.”

  “I take exception to that.” Thaddeus Keel eyed him across the circle, his features cut from granite.

  “That does not apply to you, Thaddeus. At least one of you recognizes the demon’s curse is broken. The sickness will pass, and no more will die. That is all any of you should concern yourselves with.”

  Cyrus shook his head. “I was blinded by fear. We should have gotten Vernon Hode’s opinion before taking action.”

  Damn the bastard. “Hode is in mourning.” Damn Hode, too. “There was no time.”

  “You should have made time.” The crunch of leaves underfoot preceded Vernon Hode’s presence in the circle. Torchlight flickered off hair white as snow, brows the black of printer’s ink. Hode had two inches on Atticus, but his demeanor made him seem taller still. His gaze raked over each man in turn. Even Thaddeus Keel looked away.

  Atticus stiffened. “You have no business here.”

  “Your son has made it my business.”

  Atticus’s gaze swept past Hode to Enoch, who lingered on the fringe of the circle. Damn
the boy for his betrayal. He must have run to Hode like a frightened cur, not man enough to stomach the justice Atticus meted. “You disappoint me, Enoch.”

  “Where is Gabriel?” Eyes wild, Enoch swiveled his head, looking everywhere but at the mound of dark earth segregated behind the chapel. As if he couldn’t look there.

  “You know where he is.” Atticus stabbed a finger at the grave.

  Hode stepped forward, his mouth a grim slash. “You killed him.”

  “We buried him.” Keel spoke from his place by the hickory tree. One hand gripping the rope that restrained his three hounds, he held the dogs back. “Someone knifed him in the woods not far from your place. We saw to it he received a proper burial.”

  “In the dark of night with no clergy or coffin?”

  “It was Atticus.” Cyrus folded an arm over his middle. He heaved bile onto the ground, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Atticus knifed him, and we let it happen. We believed he was possessed by Satan.”

  “Shut up, Cyrus.” If Hode hadn’t been between them, Atticus would have struck the other man down.

  “It’s no good.” Cyrus’s words grated like gravel. “What we did was wrong. Farley was right to leave when he did.”

  “The tanner was here?” Hode directed his question to Cyrus.

  “Aye.” The other man bobbed his head. “He left before we put Vane in the grave. The boy was still alive when we buried him.” Fat tears tracked through the grime on his face. “He screamed for us to stop, but we shoveled dirt onto him until he had no voice left. No air. Until he was quiet.”

  Groaning, Enoch staggered toward the chapel and dropped to his knees. Lips moving soundlessly, he clasped his hands behind his neck and began rocking back and forth. Back and forth.

  Cyrus webbed a hand over his face. “God, forgive me. What have I done?”

  “You ask forgiveness now?” Hode’s lip curled with derision. “After you willingly bloodied your hands with Gabriel’s death? After you defiled the hallowed ground meant for our loved ones when their time has ended? Your boy, Seamus, is only twelve. What if he were older, Cyrus? What if that were your son in the grave?” He speared a finger at the dark mound of soil.

  “Enough.” Atticus had heard all he intended. “You have no right to stand in judgment. You have been locked away in mourning while we were left to deal with the Endling.”

  “Enoch told me Gabriel killed the beast.”

  “Aye. Hiram Blum and Jasper had a hand as well. You know that.”

  “Only because you defied my mandate that no one should set foot on my property until my time of mourning had passed. You arrived with news on the very eve the Endling was killed—badgering your way into my home, puffed up and proud, braying about Jasper’s hand in the killing.”

  “The boy stood his part. Why should I not spread the news?”

  “You boasted because you thought it would stand favorably in my eyes. How long have you hoped for a marriage between my Abigail and your Enoch? Do you think I am blind, Atticus? It has been your ambition to join our families over the village, but it is not power I crave. Nor have I ever.”

  “It only makes sense for us—strong as we are—to oversee the others.”

  “America left that mode of thinking behind when they broke from their English masters. These men are neighbors, not subjects.”

  A few shuffled uncertainly. Thaddeus Keel spat in the dirt. “Is that the measure of it, then, Crowe?”

  “No.” Atticus felt his control slipping. “Abigail and Enoch should be wed because they care for each other.”

  “You’re wrong, Father.” Enoch stood and approached on wobbly legs. “I visit the Hode residence because I wish to court their maidservant, Nellie Renault.”

  The laundress? How could he have been so blind—his son in love with a mere servant? He was sure the color drained from his face. Nellie Renault was the daughter of a French Canadian trader and a seamstress. The family barely had two coins to rub together.

  “Now you see the mistakes you have made?” Hode’s voice held challenge.

  “It does not matter.” He would confront Enoch later. No son of his would marry so poorly. “Vane brought the plague upon us.” He stared at Hode. “In your mourning, you did not witness the deaths of those who passed from the sickness. The ailment shows no discernment between healthy and weak, young or old. Dinah and Jasper were both struck down.”

  A flicker of pain crossed Hode’s face. “I am sorry for your loss, Atticus.”

  “I do not want your sympathy. I have saved our village through Vane’s death. While you stayed huddled in your house, mourning because of some antiquated religious code, I ensured the curse was broken.”

  “No.” Lips thinning in a hard line, Hode shook his head. “I’m afraid you are sadly mistaken.”

  * * * *

  Present Day

  Kirk Porter took a final drag from his cigarette then tossed the butt over the side of the jon boat. The water looked black and oil-slick, patchy with globs of gold like the moon had barfed. Fortunately, there was enough cloud cover for the small boat to move undetected through the shadows. He kept the throttle low, the running lights off. It was cold as shit near three in the morning, but the bitter air went with the territory. So did the reek of weed-rot and motor fuel.

  According to Yancy, his lazy-ass brothers had been the ones to steal the bones from Hickory Chapel Cemetery. It might have even been them getting paid to dump the moldy things if Warren hadn’t balked about roughing up a kid. Before Kirk took the job, Yancy wanted him to ditch the bones.

  A test.

  Like he was going to back out because it was a kid. Screw that.

  Good thing he knew a guy, who knew a guy, who knew a guy. Toss in some meth—a chance for repeat business—along with a C-note, and suddenly he had a boat for the night.

  He toed the sack at his feet, wondering how the guy had met his end in the first place. Didn’t matter. He’d been chucked in the ground centuries ago.

  “Hope you don’t mind the change of scenery, dude. You’re going in the drink.”

  He already knew where he’d ditch his cargo. The same spot he’d dumped the knife he used to kill Boyd Hewitt. Who would have thought the waters around the Hode estate would make such a good dumping ground?

  Grinning, he popped a beer and raised a toast to Collin Hode. Hode’s mother had named their elaborate manor home Amethyst Hall while still married to Leland. That marriage had gone belly-up last summer. Now it was just Hode and his stuck-up bitch mother living in the sprawling mansion. Both would have hit the sack hours ago. Even better, the place squatted in the middle of the Chinkwe River, reachable only by private road from the North Bridge or by water. No one ventured close without an invitation, especially not from the river side. Which was why it was so perfect to get rid of unwanted garbage.

  Kirk eyed the sack. “Nothing personal.”

  The boat puttered past Amethyst Hall, the mansion hidden by trees. Slow going, but he was almost there. A little farther out, he could anchor and heave the bag over the side. The river bottom was pocketed with holes in that spot, cavities deep enough there was no chance of Vane’s remains washing up on shore. He’d added extra weight to be on the safe side, but if the bones did eventually surface, so what? Yancy was in the clear.

  Biding his time, Kirk glanced across the river where a series of faceless buildings jutted against the sky—the south end of River Road. Pole lamps lined the walking path by the water, but the strip was mostly dark.

  The kid lived in one of the brownstones at the far end. He’d already scoped out the location. Half the town was going to be at the masquerade pub thing tomorrow night, which meant there was a good chance the kid could be alone. Either way, it would be Halloween. Between the crawl and the usual Hell Night vandalism, the cops would be scattered thin.

  Piece o
f cake.

  Kirk chugged his beer.

  * * * *

  Elliott rolled onto his stomach, thrusting an arm beneath his pillow. It was almost three in the morning and he couldn’t sleep. Either from the chocolate pumpkins and candied popcorn he and Finn had scarfed while watching The Sixth Sense, or from the idea of seeing dead people. He wasn’t sure which. The movie gave him the creeps—even though he’d seen it before and knew about the twist ending—but he hadn’t told Finn.

  When his mom came home that evening, she’d seemed on edge, switching on every light in the house. He hadn’t really minded after the movie but asked her if something was wrong. She’d brushed him off, saying she had a headache. Before going to bed, she’d double-checked the locks on the front door, then left the hallway lamp burning. If Finn thought her behavior odd, he never said anything.

  Elliott flopped onto his back. From the top bunk, the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling were so close he could almost touch them. On the adjacent wall, the mural his grandmother paid to have installed emitted soft pinpricks of light where the planets of the solar system orbited the sun. Finn declared it far cooler than the drab bisque paint of his uncle’s apartment, complaining his room had little character.

  Elliott decided Hode’s Hill wasn’t so bad even if his father had ditched him. School was looking up now that he and Finn were friends and plenty of other kids accepted him. Lacing his hands on his stomach, he stared up at the ceiling. Star light, star bright. Sometimes sleep wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  The curtains on the window were open, swept to the side, inviting ambient light onto the floor. Even though the moon was only a quarter full, the thought of stargazing drew him.

  Slipping from bed, he grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, then padded barefoot to the window. Traffic was nonexistent on the street below, a stray set of headlights passing in the distance over the South Bridge. The Chinkwe River cut a black ribbon between shores overlooked by a sprawling mass on the horizon.