Speak the Dead

by Grant McKenzie

  Mother shrugged dismissively. “I had to be sure.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “And you’re not?” Mother laughed again. “Look at you. What kind of nuns dress like this?”

  Mother flicked her knife arm in a grand gesture to encompass all the nuns, but as soon as it was away from the girl’s throat, a lariat snapped onto her wrist and was instantly pulled tight.

  “What the hell?” Mother shook her wrist, but the snare held firm.

  “Hey!” Mother yelled as a second lariat fell over her head and encircled her neck.

  The second roper started to back up, forcing Mother to stagger backwards to stop from being strangled by the slick rope. Frightened, Mother suddenly moved her free hand to encircle April’s throat and her strong fingers tightened like a vice on the girl’s larynx.

  April’s face turned purple and her eyes bulged in panic.

  “I’ll break her neck,” Mother yelled. “I’ve been strangling chickens all my life, one more don’t mean a damned thing to me.”

  April’s strangled whimper was drowned out by the snap click lever-action of a Winchester rifle.

  Mother spun her head to see one of the bikers aiming the powerful rifle at her head. Beside her, a fourth biker continued to whirl a lariat above her head.

  “I’m not kiddin’ around,” Mother seethed. “I’ll break her—”

  With a nod from Sister Mary Theresa, the rifle fired, spinning Mother 180-degrees as the large shell tore a chunk out of her shoulder, breaking bone, numbing muscle, and sending a spray of blood high into the air.

  Mother screamed in frustration and pain as the third lariat encircled her dangling wrist and was pulled taut.

  The three angels quickly backed up their bikes until Mother stood on the tips of her toes with her arms stretched out in right angles to her body as though being sacrificed on the cross.

  Released from Mother’s grip in the instant the bullet shattered her captor’s arm, April stood frozen in shock.

  Sister Mary Theresa slid her shotgun back into its scabbard and knelt down. She held out her arms to the scared girl and placed a peaceful, trusting smile on her lips.

  After a moment of hesitation, April ran into the nun’s arms, buried her face in the woman’s shoulder and began to bawl.

  Sister Mary Theresa lifted the girl onto her bike and then looked over at her angels, meeting each one’s eye in turn. In a low, steady voice, she said, “You’ve all heard the evidence and her freely-given confession. What’s it to be?”

  Mother stared at the head nun in horror. “What do you mean? I’m injured, I need medical help, I—”

  “Silence!” Sister Mary Theresa hissed. She snatched a palm-sized digital camcorder off the front of her bike and held it up until Mother recognized what it was. “This should give the authorities enough to convict, but will it appease God?”

  Mother tried to spit out a retort, but the rope around her neck was suddenly too tight.

  Sister Mary Theresa punched the ignition on her bike, its loud rumble drowning out the woman’s gurgles of protest.

  With the girl clutched tight to her chest, Sister Mary Theresa wheeled her bike around and said over her shoulder, “I’ll leave it up to you.”

  As the nun departed, Mother’s bowels loosened.

  91

  With two nuns standing on the seats of their Harleys and shoving his legs and buttocks into the air, Jersey scrambled on top of the stone wall. Once his belly was balanced, Jersey swung his legs around and let himself drop to the other side.

  He landed with his knees bent and instantly went into a parachute roll. When he came out of the roll, he had his Baby Glock back in his hand.

  The woods were thick, but a clear path of beaten grass and snapped branches showed the most likely way Sally and her captor had gone.

  Jersey followed the path at a dangerous pace, knowing full well he was exposing himself as an easy target if the man who snatched Sally had a weapon of any kind. But he also didn’t see that he had any other choice.

  When the path broke into a clearing that contained a small A-frame cabin, Jersey slowed his pace and strained to listen. There were lights inside the cabin, but he couldn’t see any movement.

  He moved forward cautiously, alert, the sound of his own heartbeat loud in his ears.

  A mechanical cough sputtered from his right. Silence. It sputtered again.

  He hurried around the cabin and followed a secondary path that led off to the right.

  Sally gnashed out with her teeth, trying to bite any inch of flesh that came near her mouth, as Aedan held her face-down across his lap on the plastic seat of a small four-wheeled off-road vehicle. He was having difficulty getting it started, and the more Sally fought, the more frustrating it became for him.

  “Quit moving,” he seethed as he twisted the throttle and turned the engine over. The engine coughed, sputtered, and died.

  He tried again. Same result.

  “We might need to walk,” he cursed. He opened and closed the choke, settled at the half-open position, and tried again. This time the engine came to life with an unsettling bang and vomited a huge cloud of blue smoke out of the tailpipe.

  Aedan allowed a wide grin to split his face. Nothing could stop him now.

  Jersey burst into the clearing just as the Quad roared to life. He didn’t yell a warning or even break stride, he simply sprinted forward and launched himself as though playing Australian Rules Football and the driver’s head was the ball.

  Aedan twisted the throttle and felt the vehicle’s knobby tires start to spin when a punishing weight landed on his back and sent him crashing face-first into the tiny, useless plastic windshield.

  When he bounced back, his nose was broken and his face was covered in blood. With a roar, he slammed his right elbow back and felt it connect with something meaty and soft. He reached for the throttle again, but a punch to the side of his face sent him sprawling one way while Sally tumbled the other.

  Aedan recovered quickly, but not enough to avoid a brutal left hook and a swooping right overhand that knocked him into the dirt. He tried to scramble away, crab style, when Jersey stomped on his thigh, deadening his leg and making the muscle spasm.

  He spat out a curse, but it lodged sideways in his throat when a thick leather heel landed on his testicles. When the heel twisted, sharp and brutal, he screamed once and passed out.

  Jersey turned his back on the unconscious man and rushed to the other side of the Quad where Sally lay sprawled in the dirt.

  When Jersey touched her shoulder, Sally spun wildly, a large pointed rock clutched in her hand.

  “Sally!” he yelled, jumping back, his hands rising to defend himself.

  Sally recognized him and instantly broke down. She threw the rock away and clutched at him, her hands tearing at his shirt to pull him closer, to merge with him. She was crying so hard, Jersey didn’t hear the faltering footfalls of the man coming up from behind until it was too late.

  Aedan snapped up the sharp rock Sally had tossed aside and with both hands smashed it down hard on top of the detective’s skull.

  The sickening crunch was unmistakable.

  Jersey’s knees buckled, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he toppled backwards like a fallen tree as blood spewed from his broken head.

  Sally gasped as Jersey crumpled to the ground, the sudden deadweight pulling her down on top of him. In panic, she clutched at his throat, but felt no pulse. She dropped her head to his chest, but heard no heartbeat.

  “No!” she screamed, her eyes practically bleeding with rage.

  Ignoring the threat of Aedan looming above, Sally slammed her hands on Jersey’s chest and began CPR. She cursed the church for everything it had destroyed until her hands slipped and landed in the pool of warm blood widening around Jersey’s head. The contact made her entire body shudder, and her eyes rolled in her head as she collapsed.

  92

  Everything was hazy as Jersey foun
d himself in a long corridor lined with a hundred doors. The entire hallway was bathed in an omniscient white light that seemed to emanate from everywhere and everything simultaneously.

  Without direction or source, the light cast no shadow.

  He couldn’t quite remember how he got here, the memory like an annoying fly buzzing just out of reach, but something was pulling at him from two directions. The stronger force was leading him down the corridor where doors opened as he approached. He glanced into rooms that contained strange objects and images, evocating clear memories of lives never lived, paths never taken. Some of the images were frightening, others sad or mundane, but some were glorious, filling him with yearning for what might have been if only…

  Jersey forced himself to look away from the rooms and focus on the far end of the hallway where the light seemed, if possible, even brighter. A small cluster of vaguely familiar people was waiting in that light, but he couldn’t make out their faces.

  His pace quickened as he ignored the doors that swung open around him. He didn’t want to look; didn’t want to mourn for a life never lived. He strode on, his footfalls making no sound, an odd discrepancy only noticed when he heard his name being called from behind.

  Reluctantly, Jersey stopped and turned to see Sally running after him. She glowed brighter than anything else around him and her aura was blue.

  When she was close enough, Sally reached out her hand and Jersey grasped it, pulling her to him like a warm wave and kissing her with such passion he wanted the moment to last forever. This was a kiss you could place behind a million doors and he would walk the halls for eternity just to relive it.

  “We have to go back,” Sally said when they finally broke apart. “You still have a life to live.”

  Jersey glanced over his shoulder at the group of people waiting for him. They seemed familiar, and yet…

  Sally tugged on his hand, leading him away, but just before he took another step, a violent scream shook the hallway and a cold hand suddenly materialized behind him to grab his shoulder.

  Jersey was spun to meet the face of a woman with fiery red hair and electric emerald eyes. She looked like Sally but without the warmth… the woman latched onto him, fingers digging into his shoulder as her feet were lifted from the ground by some powerful force that wanted to drag her back.

  “Let him go,” Sally yelled, as she tugged Jersey the other way. “It’s not his time.”

  With one last burst of strength, the red-haired woman drew herself close to Jersey’s ear and whispered four short words. Then, she let go and vanished into the light.

  93

  When Jersey snapped open his eyes from the nightmare, he was lying on the ground, his head bleeding profusely, and with Sally laying deadweight and unconscious across his chest. The disfigured man who had snatched Sally was lifting a large rock over his head with the full intent of smashing it down again on Jersey’s weakened skull.

  Jersey didn’t hesitate. He raised his Baby Glock and pointed it at the man’s chest. Despite all he had been through, his hand was rock steady.

  The man froze, stunned to see Jersey awake.

  “They’re waiting for you,” said Jersey. “And they’re fucking pissed.”

  He squeezed the trigger five times.

  94

  Sally had memorized Aedan’s door code, and when she and Jersey re-entered the gardens, they found the church fully engulfed in flames. The heat emanating from the giant pyre kept them to the outskirts as they made their way at a slow pace to the open front gates.

  Jersey’s head throbbed, and he leaned on Sally in the pretense of keeping his balance, but mostly it was for the feel of her next to him, like a missing limb reattached.

  As soon as they exited the gates, a young girl’s squeal made them turn just in time to see April breaking the land-speed record to rush into Sally’s arms.

  Jersey reluctantly left Sally’s side as the girl struggled to get all of her ordeal out in one jumbled breath. Jersey pushed through the crowd, searching for the nuns, when he spotted Kameelah leaning against her Jag. She had a handcuffed man lying face down at her feet.

  When Jersey reached her, he recognized her captive as Peter Higgins, April’s father and the prime suspect in setting his parents up for murder.

  “Jerk tried to steal my car,” said Kameelah.

  “I thought you were heading home,” said Jersey.

  Kameelah shrugged. “Saw the smoke and figured I should turn back.”

  From the ground, Peter looked up at Jersey and groaned, “You.”

  “Should have shot him,” Jersey said to Kameelah. “Amarela already threatened to do it once.”

  “Your partner’s a clever girl,” said Kameelah.

  “I never settle for less.”

  Kameelah smiled, accepting the compliment. She indicated the blood congealing on his scalp and covering half his face. “That’s a nasty wound, you okay?”

  “I’m a drummer,” said Jersey lightly, not wanting to contemplate how close he had actually come to losing it all. “Nothing in there to damage.”

  “Have you seen the nuns?” Jersey asked.

  “They left in a hurry. Didn’t want to get caught up in the local law.” Kameelah held out a digital camcorder. “I was told to hand this over to the authorities when they get here.”

  “What is it?”

  “Black’s wife confessing to the murder and mutilation of several young women. The reporter was right, they were connected.”

  “Huh, I would have put money on it being the scumbag who kidnapped Sally.”

  “He’s deeply involved, too, but never underestimate a woman’s scorn. It seems she was trying to make sure the Seer didn’t return.”

  “While her husband wanted the opposite,” said Jersey with a shake of his head.

  “Marriage,” said Kameelah. “Who’d have it?”

  Jersey looked over his shoulder at where Sally was hugging April, both their faces alight with happiness and joy.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It can’t be all bad, can it?”

  Epilogue

  Sister Fleur opened her eyes to a miraculous sight—Sally.

  The young woman clutched at the nun’s hand. Sally’s cheeks were red from wiping away tears, but her sparkling green eyes were alive with happiness.

  “Thank God you’re alright,” said Sister Fleur in a hoarse voice. “I feared the worst.”

  Sally’s voice broke with emotion, “I never knew what you sacrificed… to save me.”

  “How could I explain?” asked Sister Fleur. “It became so twisted and, for a time, I was a part of it.”

  “But you escaped,” said Sally.

  “No,” said Sister Fleur quietly. “Like you, my family was murdered and I ran, but I never truly escaped.”

  Sally wiped at her eyes. “You returned for me,” she said. “And all I ever gave you was grief.”

  The nun chuckled softly. “The truth wouldn’t have changed that. I was over-protective and you were rebellious. And from what I understand that is the height of normalcy for mothers and daughters these days. And for a time that’s what we were, what we had to be.”

  Fresh tears sprang to Sally’s eyes. “I wish I had been a better daughter.”

  “And I, a better mother.”

  Sally launched herself across the bed, hugging the woman tight, sobs wracking her chest.

  Later, Sally told her that Mother Black, a bullet wound in her shoulder patched with field dressing, had been found trussed-up like a Thanksgiving turkey in the gardens.

  She had confessed to the murder and mutilation of five women. Jersey had arranged for a young reporter out of Idaho to gain access for an exclusive interview that was picked up by every wire service in the country. The reporter was using the exposure to head for San Francisco where he heard a weekly news magazine was hiring.

  Father Black’s body was never found, but after the fire at the church had burned its course and the firefighters were able
to drench the ashes, the skeletal remains of an unidentified male was recovered. The victim’s back was broken, and although it was the right height and approximate right age, a dental comparison proved inconclusive.

  The End

  or is it?

  Acknowledgements

  The journey of any story is akin to the barrel escape scene in the second Hobbit movie: it starts with what seems to be a good idea, then becomes perilous as the raging current sweeps you from side to side until you feel sick with doubt. And that’s before the jagged rocks and armed Orcs try to block your way on the long, turbulent journey to publication.

  If you’re lucky, however, you get a few people on your side who believe, not only in the writing, but also in the writer. I have been fortunate to be blessed with such friends. In the days when it’s just me and the blank page, my family, who don’t always understand this mad obsession, are my biggest support. My wife and daughter bring me cups of tea and the gift of time, my parents call with words of encouragement, and my pals pull me out of my creative fog for a night or two.

  But when the story is told and I nervously await the verdict, it’s my editor, Jason Pinter, and my agent, Amy Moore-Benson, who come to the forefront. The book you are holding in your hands is down to the belief and support of each and every one of these wonderful folk.

  I want to thank the entire editorial and sales teams at Polis Books for believing in my wee nail-biters—so much so that Polis is releasing many of my books in print for the very first time.

  Most of all, I want to thank you, the reader, for taking a chance on a writer you may never have heard of before. I hope you’ve enjoyed Speak The Dead and will be rushing out to buy more of my stories for yourself, your family and friends, and even complete strangers: the mailman loves thrillers, I hear ;)

  Without your support, these stories would only exist in my head—and it’s already pretty crowded in there.

  From the very bottom of my heart,

  Thank you,