“I barely remember him,” she said softly, then swallowed. All I do is remember him. “I know she looks like me,” she added weakly.
“We’re right near a college town,” Clay said. “She’s a young white female with brown hair—you’re not a rare type, Charlie. No offense.”
“Do you think it’s a coincidence?”
Clay didn’t look at her. “There was another body found this morning,” he said.
“Another girl?” Charlie drew closer.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Been dead for a couple of days, probably killed two nights ago.” Charlie looked down at him in alarm.
“Does that mean this is going to keep happening?”
“Unless you think we can stop it,” he said. Charlie nodded.
“I can help,” she said. She looked again at the woman’s face. She’s nothing like me. “Let me go to her house,” she added abruptly, seized by a sudden impulse to prove it, to gather evidence that she and the victim were not the same.
“What? Her house?” Clay said, giving her a dubious look
“You asked me to help,” Charlie said. “Let me help.”
Clay didn’t answer; instead he reached into the woman’s pockets one by one, searching for her wallet. He had to move the body to do it, and she jerked a little as he did, like a ghastly puppet. Charlie waited, and at last he came back with her wallet. He handed Charlie her driver’s license.
“Tracy Horton,” she read. “She doesn’t look like a Tracy.”
“You got the address?” Clay scanned the road for police cars. Charlie read it quickly and handed the license back. “I’m going to give you twenty minutes before I radio this in,” he told her. “Use it.”
* * *
Tracy Horton had lived in a small house off a back road. Her nearest neighbors’ houses were visible, but Charlie couldn’t imagine they would have heard her scream. If she’d managed to scream at all. There was a small blue car in the driveway, but if Tracy had been taken from her home—since presumably she hadn’t just been wandering through that field—it could easily have been hers.
Charlie pulled in behind the car and went to the front door. She knocked, wondering what she was going to do if someone answered. I really should have thought this through. She couldn’t be the one to inform a parent, spouse, or sibling of the young woman’s death. Why did I assume she lived alone?
No one answered. Charlie tried again, and when there was still no response, she tried the door. It was unlocked.
Charlie walked quietly through the house, not really sure what she was looking for. She glanced at her watch—ten of the twenty minutes had passed just driving here, and she had to assume that the police would get here faster than she did. Why did I follow the speed limit the whole way here? The living room and kitchen were clean, but they conveyed no information to her. Charlie didn’t know what peach-painted walls said about a person, or the fact that there were three dining room chairs instead of four. There were two bedrooms. One had the sterile air of a guest room that was slowly being taken over by storage; the bed was made and clean towels were folded on the chest of drawers, but cardboard boxes filled a quarter of the room.
The other bedroom looked lived-in. The walls were green, the bedspread pale blue, and there were piles of clothing on the floor. Charlie stood in the doorway for a moment, and found she could not go inside. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. This woman’s life would be sifted through to the last grain by trained investigators. Her diary would be read, if she had one; her secrets would be revealed, if she had any. Charlie didn’t need to be a part of it. She turned and walked quickly but quietly back to the front of the house, almost running down the front steps. Standing by the car, she checked her watch again. Six minutes before Clay called in the body.
Charlie went to the little blue car and peered inside. Like the house, it was neat. There was dry-cleaning hanging in the back window, and a half-empty soda in the cup holder. She walked all around it, looking for something—mud in the tires, scratches in the paint, but there was nothing unusual. Five minutes.
She walked briskly through the unkempt grass that bordered the sides of the house. When she reached the backyard, she stopped dead. Before her were three huge holes in the ground, longer than they were wide. They looked like graves, but at a second glance they were too messy, their outlines poorly defined.
Charlie walked around them in a circle. They were lined up next to one another, and they were shallow, but the dirt at the bottom was loose. Charlie grabbed a stick off the ground and poked it into the middle hole: it went in almost a foot before it was stopped by denser soil. The dirt dug out of them was strewn messily all around. Whoever dug the holes had carelessly tossed it everywhere, not bothering to pile it up.
Two minutes.
Charlie hesitated for another moment, then lowered herself into the middle hole. Her feet sunk into the loose dirt and she fought to steady herself, catching her balance. It wasn’t too deep. The walls came up to her waist. She knelt and put her palm against the wall of the grave—the hole, she reminded herself. The dirt was loose here, too, and the wall was rough.
Something had been hidden there, under the ground. The air is growing thin. I am running out of oxygen, and I will die like this, alone, in the dark. Charlie’s throat seized; she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She climbed out of the hole and up onto the grass of Tracy Horton’s backyard. Charlie took a deep breath, focusing all her attention on pushing away the panic. When she was free of it, she checked her watch.
Minus one minute. He’s already called them. But something kept her there, something familiar. The loose dirt. Charlie’s mind raced. Something climbed out of these.
From a distance, a siren was wailing; it would be here in no time. Charlie hurried to her car and pulled out of the driveway, taking the first corner without caring where it would take her. The holes stayed in her mind, the image like a stain.
Charlie slowed her car. With half the cops in Hurricane converging on the area, now was not the time to be stopped for speeding. She was grubby with dirt from the dead woman’s backyard, and had a nagging feeling there was something she was forgetting about.
John, she realized. She was supposed to meet him—she checked the clock on the dashboard—almost two hours ago. Her heart sank. He’ll think I stood him up. No, he’ll think I’m dead, she amended. Given the perilous history of their relationship, he’d probably think the second was more likely.
When she got to the restaurant where they had planned to meet, a small Italian place across town, Charlie ran in from the parking lot at full speed. She skidded to a stop in front of the teenage hostess, who greeted her with a flustered look.
“Can I help you?” she asked Charlie, taking a step back.
Charlie caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the hostess counter. There were streaks of dirt on her face and clothes; she hadn’t thought to clean up first. She quickly wiped her cheeks with her hands before answering the girl.
“I’m supposed to be meeting someone. A tall guy, brown hair. It’s kind of …” She gestured vaguely at the top of her head, attempting to indicate the habitual chaos of John’s hair, but the hostess looked at her blankly. Charlie bit her lip in frustration. He must have left. Of course he left. You’re two hours late.
“Charlie?” A voice rang out. John.
“You’re still here?” she cried, too loud for the quiet restaurant, as he appeared behind the hostess, looking profoundly relieved.
“I figured I might as well eat while I’m here.” He swallowed what was in his mouth and laughed. “Are you okay? I thought you might … not be coming.”
“I’m fine. Where are you sitting? Or are you still sitting? Well, I mean, you’re obviously not sitting. You’re standing. But I mean before you were standing, where were you sitting?” Charlie ran her fingers into her hair and clenched her fists against her scalp, trying to reassemble her thoughts. She mumbled an apology to the room, not
sure who it was for.
John glanced around nervously, then gestured toward a table near the kitchen. There was a mostly empty plate with a half-eaten breadstick resting on it, a cup of coffee, and a second place setting, untouched.
They sat down and he looked at her appraisingly. Then John leaned across the table and asked in a low voice, “Charlie, what happened?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you?” she said lightly.
His face remained concerned. “You’re filthy. Did you fall down in the parking lot?”
“Yes,” Charlie said. “I fell in the parking lot and rolled down a hill and into a Dumpster, then fell out of the Dumpster and tripped on the way in. Happy? Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you have the right to disapprove of me.” John pulled back in his chair, his eyes wide. He blinked hard, and Charlie sighed.
“John, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything. I just need some time; some time to collect my thoughts and to clean up.” She laughed, an exhausted, shaken sound, then buried her face in her hands.
John leaned back and signaled for the waitress to bring the check. Breathing heavily, Charlie looked around the restaurant. It was almost empty. The hostess and the only other waitress were talking together near the door, with no apparent interest in anything their customers were doing. There was a family of four by the front window, the children just barely out of toddlerhood. One kept sliding out of his chair and onto the floor every time his mother turned her attention away. The other, a girl, was happily drawing on the tablecloth with markers. No one seemed to care what was going on. But the emptiness made Charlie feel exposed.
“I’m going to go clean up,” she said. “Bathroom?” John pointed.
Charlie got up and left the table just as the waitress arrived to deliver his ticket. There was a pay phone in the hallway, and Charlie stopped at it, wavering. She craned her neck to see if John was watching, but from where she stood, she could only see a tiny corner of their table. Quickly, she called Clay Burke’s office.
To her surprise, he answered. “You saw her backyard,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Can you give me the other addresses?” Charlie asked. “There could be a pattern—something.”
“There sure could,” he said drily. “That’s why I raced back to the station instead of sticking around to measure the holes. You have a pen?”
“Hang on.” The hostess was briefly absent from her station, and Charlie dropped the phone, letting it swing on its metal cord as she hurried to the podium and snatched a pen and a take-out menu. She rushed back. “Clay? Go ahead.” He recited names and addresses, and she scribbled them dutifully in the margins of the menu. “Thanks,” she said when he was done, and hung up without waiting for him to respond. She folded the menu and slipped it into her back pocket.
In the bathroom, Charlie washed off as much of the dirt as she could. She couldn’t clean her clothing, but at least her face was scrubbed, and her hair was rearranged a little more neatly.
As she moved to exit the bathroom, an image flashed unbidden through her thoughts. It was the face of the dead woman.
She could be your twin, she heard Clay say, in his low, authoritative voice.
Charlie shook her head. It’s a coincidence. He’s right. How many brown-haired, college-aged women are there around here? The first victim was a man. It doesn’t mean anything. She grabbed the doorknob to leave, but froze. It was just like in the library. Charlie released the knob and it spun slowly back into position, releasing a horrible creak as it moved.
The costumes had been disturbed, and the creaking noise was so faint and careful she scarcely even heard it. Charlie looked up from her game: there was a figure in the door.
Charlie glanced wildly around the room, pulling herself back to the present. With a swell of panic, Charlie pulled on the bathroom door, but it had somehow sealed shut. She mouthed words, but no sound came out:
I know you’re there. I’m trying to get to you.
“I have to get inside!” she screamed. The door burst open, and Charlie fell into John’s arms.
“Charlie!”
She collapsed to her knees. Charlie looked up to see the scattered handful of customers all staring at her. John glanced into the bathroom behind her, then quickly turned his attention back to Charlie, helping her to her feet.
“I’m okay. I’m fine.” She shook loose of his hands. “I’m fine. The door was stuck. I felt hot.” Charlie fanned at her face, trying to make a sensible story of it. “Come on, let’s get to the car.” He tried to take her arm again but she shook free. “I’m fine!” She dug her keys out of her pocket and walked straight for the door, not waiting for him. An old woman was openly staring at Charlie, her fork suspended in the air. Charlie returned her stare. “Food poisoning,” Charlie said plainly. The woman’s face went pale, and Charlie walked out the door.
When they got out to her car, John sat down in the passenger’s seat and looked at Charlie expectantly. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
“It’s been a rough day, that’s all. I’m sorry.”
“What happened?”
Tell him what happened, Charlie thought.
“I want to go to my dad’s—my old house,” she said instead, surprising herself. Be honest, her inner voice said harshly. You know what kind of creature is doing this, and you know who built it. Stay focused.
“Right,” he said, his voice softening. “You haven’t seen it since the storm.” She nodded. He thinks I want to see the damage. She’d forgotten about the storm until now, but the sudden kindness in John’s voice made her nervous. Is there anything left? She imagined the house razed to the ground and felt a sudden wrongness, like a part of her had been ripped away. She’d never thought of the house as anything but a house, but now, as she drove toward what was left of it, she felt a painful knot in her stomach. It was where all her clearest memories of her father were kept: his rough hands building her toys, showing her his new creations in his workshop, and holding her close when she was afraid. They’d lived there together, just the two of them, and it was the place where he had finally died. Charlie felt as if the joy, the sorrow, the love, and the anguish of their two lifetimes had poured off into the very bones of the old house. The idea of it being wrecked by a storm was an utter violation.
She shook her head and gripped the wheel tighter, suddenly aware of how angry she was. Her love of the house, even of her father, could never be simple. They had both betrayed her. But now there was a new monster out there. She clenched her jaw, trying to fight the tears that welled up in her eyes. Dad, what did you do?
As soon as they were out of the town center, Charlie sped up. Clay would be tied up dealing with the newest victim for a while, but eventually he would think to come to her father’s house as well. She could only hope that she’d connected the dots first. You’re on the same side. Charlie put a hand to her head and rubbed her temple. The impulse to guard her father’s reputation from what was coming was visceral, but it was also nonsensical.
Less than a mile from the house they passed a construction site. It was set back too far from the road for Charlie to see what it was, though it looked abandoned at the moment.
“I did a little work over there when I first got here,” John said. “Some huge demolition project.” He laughed. “You have some weird stuff out here; you wouldn’t know by looking at it.” He studied the countryside for a moment.
“Isn’t that the truth,” Charlie said, not sure if there was something else she was supposed to say. She was still trying to calm herself. Finally, they came to her driveway. She pulled in with her eyes on the gravel, the house only a dark smudge in her peripheral vision. The last time Charlie had been here she’d run in and out without pausing to look at anything. All she’d wanted was Theodore, and she had grabbed him and gone. Now she regretted her haste, wishing for some final mental image. You’re not here to say good-bye. She turned the ca
r off, steeled herself, and looked up.
The house was surrounded by trees, and at least three of them had fallen, striking the roof directly. One had landed squarely on the front corner, crushing the walls beneath its weight. Charlie could see through the broken beams and crumbled drywall, into the living room. Inside there was only debris.
The front door was intact, though the steps to it were splintered and split. They looked as if they’d give way as soon as they bore weight. Charlie got out of the car and headed toward them.
“What are you doing?” John’s voice was alarmed. Charlie ignored him. She heard his door slam, and he caught her arm, wrenching her back.
“What?” she snapped.
“Charlie, look at this place. That house is going to fall over any day now.”
“It’s not going to fall,” she said flatly, but she did gaze up again. The house seemed to be listing to the side, though it must have been an illusion; surely the foundation itself couldn’t have sunk. “I’ll be out before I get killed, I promise,” she said more gently, and he nodded.
“Go slow,” he said.
They carefully climbed the steps to the porch, staying close to the sides, but the wood was sturdier than it looked. They could have taken three steps to the right and walked through the open wall, but Charlie took out her key and unlocked the door as John waited patiently, letting her go through the unnecessary ritual.
Inside, she paused at the foot of the stairs to the second floor. The holes in the ceiling were beaming down shafts of thin sunlight, dimming as the sun began to wane. It made the place feel almost like some sort of shrine. Charlie tore her eyes away from the holes and started upstairs to her bedroom.
As with the outdoor steps, she kept to the side, holding on to the bannister. The water damage was visible everywhere. There were dark stains and soft spots in the wood. Charlie reached out to touch a place where the paint had bubbled out from the wall, leaving a pocket of air.
Suddenly a cracking sound came from behind her and she spun around. John grabbed the bannister, struggling to hold on as the stair gave way under him. Charlie reached out, but John braced himself unsteadily. He hissed and gritted his teeth.
The Twisted Ones Page 8