Skin Deep

by Marissa Doyle

  “I’m not surprised. You had a busy night,” she teased.

  “I had the best night of my life,” he murmured with a smile, but his eyes stayed closed.

  “Sleep, then. I’ll keep trying to get hold of Rob. If I can’t, maybe we ought to bring you to the hospital in Hyannis.”

  “I—maybe. Not sure that’s good…idea.” He turned his head slightly, and after a minute she realized he’d drifted off to sleep.

  She sat watching him, noticing that his forehead was still creased. Even asleep he was in pain. This shouldn’t be happening. There was no logical reason for it. Yesterday he’d been whole and strong. What could have made his wounds reopen?

  The door creaked slightly, and she saw Conn peering around it. She held a finger to her lips and motioned him to come in. He tiptoed over to her and looked down at Alasdair. “Daddy,” he whispered.

  “Daddy isn’t feeling well today. Why don’t we let him rest for a bit and I’ll make you breakfast.”

  She shepherded him down the stairs, made him pancakes with strawberry jam, and settled him at Derek’s old desk with a box of crayons and a pile of old stationery. “I’m going to check on Daddy. I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” she told him.

  He nodded, then looked up at her and held his arms out. She knelt next to his chair and hugged him hard. “Everything will be all right,” she whispered. “I’ll make sure of it, I promise. You and Daddy—you’re important to me. Okay?”

  “ ‘Kay,” he whispered back.

  Alasdair hadn’t moved. She bent over his face to listen for his breathing, and a loud ring behind her nearly launched her across the bed. She snatched at the phone with shaking hands. “Rob, where have you been? You’ve got to—”

  “This is Elizabeth Souza, from the Friends of the Library. Might I speak with Mrs. Durrell, please?”

  Garland paused. Elizabeth? It wasn’t supposed to be Elizabeth calling right now. Then she collected herself. “Oh, Elizabeth, it’s me. I’m sorry, I was expecting—”

  “I apologize for calling at such an early hour, but we only thought it fair to contact you as soon as the decision had been made. The Board of the Friends of the Library has asked me to inform you that it is withdrawing its commission for a quilt commemorating the library’s anniversary.” Elizabeth’s voice was flat and emotionless.

  “What?” Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this.

  “The Board of the Friends of the Library has asked me to inform—”

  “I think I heard you the first time, Elizabeth.” Garland tried desperately to shift gears. “I’m just trying to understand—is there something wrong? Has the celebration been cancelled?”

  “The celebration will go on as scheduled. However, it has been decided to withdraw—”

  “Was it the fee? I’m happy to waive that if—”

  For the first time, some emotion crept into Elizabeth’s voice. “That is kind of you, Mrs. Durrell, but it will not be necessary. The Board thanks you for your time. Good morning.”

  “Elizabeth, wait—”

  But she’d already hung up. Garland turned the phone off and stared at it.

  What had that been about? Something didn’t feel right about the whole phone call—the message itself as well as Elizabeth’s delivery of it. Why were the Friends changing their mind? Elizabeth had called just last week to remind her about presenting her preliminary design ideas at the Celebration Committee meeting later in the month. And why the chilly manner? Elizabeth had never called her Mrs. Durrell before. Ever. Had she unwittingly offended someone on the board? A chill went up her spine. Rob was on the board, wasn’t he? Could he be behind this as a way to get back at her for the other evening?

  A soft groan interrupted her thoughts. Alasdair’s eyes were still shut but he was moving his head from side to side and shifting restlessly. She reached under the blankets and took his hand, just as she had when he was first injured. The furrows in his brow smoothed somewhat but did not entirely go away.

  She put the phone back on the bedside table and held Alasdair’s hand in both of hers. Elizabeth’s call had been distressing, but Alasdair was far more important. The Friends of the Library could wait.

  * * *

  After Alasdair had stopped tossing and slipped more deeply into sleep, Garland took the phone with her into the bathroom while she took a quick shower.

  But the phone didn’t ring.

  She tried Rob’s office again but the line was still busy. After a moment of wrestling with herself she called Dr. Phelps’ office. Even if he was older than the dinosaurs, surely if she begged him he’d stop by.

  His number was busy too.

  She spent the next hours dialing each number in turn every five minutes. The busy signals never wavered. Between calls, she stitched the binding to Alasdair’s quilt. It might have seemed like a triviality at a time like this, but snatching a few stitches when she could helped keep her from sobbing uncontrollably as she gazed down at the lines of weakness and pain etched on either side of Alasdair’s beautiful mouth.

  At lunch Alasdair refused the toast and tomato soup she made him.

  “What happened to my champion toast eater?” she scolded him gently.

  “Not hungry,” he said, turning away.

  She set the tray on the floor beside the bed and bent to look at him. His eyes were unnaturally bright. She placed her hand lightly on his forehead. “You’re hot. Do you feel feverish?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.” He closed his eyes again.

  “Let me check your bandages and then you can rest some more, all right?” She forced cheerfulness into her voice that she was miles from feeling.

  He nodded without opening his eyes.

  She peeled the sheets back so that she could examine the pads on his torso and nearly screamed. His arms and legs were covered with ugly, oozing welts, as if he’d been flogged with barbed wire.

  This was impossible. It was one thing for his old wounds to reopen. It was another for new cuts to appear.

  She knelt at his side. There was nowhere on his arms or shoulder that she could touch that wasn’t criss-crossed by cuts.

  “Alasdair, how did this happen?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “What?” But he didn’t even open his eyes.

  “Listen to me. If I can’t get hold of Rob or Dr. Phelps in another few minutes, I’m going to take you into the hospital in Hyannis. Do you understand?”

  “No,” he said, looking up at her through the merest slits.

  “Why not? There’s something seriously wrong here—an infection or something. We’ve got to get you to where there are doctors and medicine—”

  He swallowed. “I know what’s wrong with me. It is nothing the healers can help.”

  “What? What is it?”

  He barely moved his lips. “Mahtahdou.”

  She sat back in her chair and stared at him.

  “He knows I’m alive,” he whispered. “At least it’s me he’s attacking, not you or Conn.”

  “Alasdair.” She spoke carefully. “Are you sure?”

  He sighed. “You didn’t believe me last night—”

  “I don’t know!” she burst out. “Everything you told me is so far beyond anything I’ve even imagined. Selkies with magical skins and evil demons living on islands that sometimes aren’t there. I have no way to know if that’s real, but I do know that this blood and pain in front of me is real.”

  “He has my skin. He’s using it to try to kill me again. What else could cause this?”

  “I don’t know!” she said again, helplessly. “But I love you, dammit, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” She rose and pulled the blankets back up over him. “I’m going to get you cleaned up and then I’m going to go try Rob again.”

  It was almost a relief to leave her room and go to his and Conn’s to use the phone there. The dull, hopeless look in Alasdair’s eyes before he closed them was almost more worrying than hi
s bizarre physical symptoms. She sighed and picked up the phone. It rang as she held it in her hand, making her jump.

  “This had so better be Rob,” she muttered, then turned it on. “Hello?”

  “Garland.”

  “Kathy?” She let out her breath. “Oh, hi. Could I call you back? I’m waiting—”

  “I’ve cancelled the show in August. I would appreciate it if you could come down at your earliest convenience and get your quilts from the shop.” Kathy sounded strained and hoarse.

  Garland felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. It was like Elizabeth’s call all over again but a hundred times worse. “What?” she gasped.

  “Today, if you don’t mind.” Kathy’s voice caught slightly on the ‘today’, but the controlled monotone didn’t go away.

  Garland took a deep breath but it was impossible to speak without her voice shaking. “Kathy, what’s going on here? What’s wrong with my quilts all of a sudden? What’s wrong with Mattaquason? Is this town going crazy?”

  A faint sound, rather like a sob, reached her ear. “I’m sorry, Garland,” Kathy whispered. “I wish I could…come and get your quilts. Right away. Please.”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter 16

  Less than ten minutes later Garland was speeding toward town. Alasdair was asleep when she went to check on him and Conn had curled up on the couch and dozed off over a book. They didn’t need to know she was gone; with any luck she’d be back in half an hour.

  Downtown was almost deserted. Several shops were dark, as if closed, and even the windows at the Captain’s Bridge were unlit. As she drove slowly down the street she saw the lights in two shops turn off abruptly as she passed. The first pharmacy she drove by was dark and deserted-looking, but the larger chain store at the end of Main was still lit. Gratefully she pulled into a parking spot and hurried in before it too could close.

  Only a couple of customers were in the store. They studiously looked at their shoes or at items on display even when she brushed by close enough to touch them. She nearly met the eyes of one woman whom she knew slightly from the Historical Society. But when she smiled, the woman stared through her as if she weren’t there. Garland straightened her shoulders and pretended she hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

  But something was very amiss in the first aid aisle. The shelves were empty.

  She stared at them in shock. Were the first aid supplies being moved to another section? But no, there were all the little unit pricing stickers indicating where bandages and pads and tape had been. The panicky, angry feeling she’d had in the street began to creep back in. She stalked to the checkout counter at the front of the store. No one stood behind any of the registers there.

  “Hello?” she called, feeling slightly foolish.

  There was no response.

  On impulse she craned her neck and bent to peer over the counter. Hunched in the far corner, hidden behind a stack of cardboard boxes, was an elderly salesclerk. Garland felt a temporary alarm—was he all right? But then she saw that he had his hands clamped firmly over his ears.

  She marched down the counter, bent over it, and tapped the man’s bald head. “Excuse me,” she said loudly. “Could you help me, please?”

  The clerk shuddered and buried his face against his knees.

  “I said, excuse me!”

  “Go away,” the clerk mumbled.

  “I need to buy some first aid supplies, but the shelves are empty. Do you have any more?”

  “I won’t help you. Go away.”

  “Listen to me!” she shouted. “I need bandages!” Her voice sounded desperate, even in her own ears.

  The clerk didn’t bother answering this time.

  Garland thought for a second about launching herself over the counter, grabbing the man by the scruff of the neck, and shaking him. But then she realized that he already was shaking like someone in the grip of a fever—or of mortal fear.

  “Go away, Mrs. Durrell,” someone said behind her. She turned. It was Sandy, the waitress from the Captain’s Bridge. She wore a grim scowl in place of her usual gap-toothed smile. “You’re not wanted in this town.”

  At least someone would finally talk to her. “Why not? What did I do? A few days ago you all liked me.”

  “If you hadn’t come to Mattaquason, five of our people would still be alive. Their blood’s on your hands. Now go, before we lose anyone else.”

  “What are you talking about?” Garland grabbed the counter behind her for much-needed support. “I haven’t hurt anyone.”

  Another woman came up behind Sandy, one Garland didn’t know, and pulled her back a few paces. “Don’t talk to her,” she muttered. “You don’t want to get yourself in trouble, now.”

  “Gina was my sister’s girl,” Sandy said to her, her face crumpling. “Now she’s dead because of this bitch. Go on!” she shouted at Garland. “Get out of here or we’ll do it for you! Next time He should take you! I don’t know why He hasn’t already!”

  “Sandy!” the woman gasped. She took her arm and propelled her out of the store, still holding a basket of merchandise on her arm. The anti-theft alarm at the door buzzed loudly but no one seemed to notice.

  * * *

  Garland had to lean against her car for a full five minutes before her shaking calmed enough to let her even think about opening the door and starting the engine. What had happened to everyone in town? And what had Sandy been talking about? Five deaths…

  Next time He should take you. A shiver went down her back as she remembered Sandy’s words. Who was “He?” And why did the way Sandy said it remind her of—

  A car pulled up behind her. She looked up and saw that it was a police cruiser. As she straightened, the driver’s side window rolled down. Captain Howe looked out at her.

  “Please go home, Mrs. Durrell,” he called.

  She took a few steps toward the cruiser. “No. I want to know what is going on in this town. Where is everyone? Why is everything closed on a Tuesday afternoon in May? Why are all my friends running away from me?”

  Captain Howe jabbed at the window button as she approached till there was only an inch open for him to speak through. “Go home now, Mrs. Durrell. Please. There’s nothing here for you.”

  “Why not?” She moved closer and saw his eyes widen as she approached. His face was white and strained.

  “Good God,” she said, more to herself than to him. “You’re afraid of me. Why?”

  “Please. Go.” he said in a strangled voice.

  “I’m part of this town too. What is going on here? Why won’t you tell me?”

  Captain Howe opened his mouth but no sound came out. Without even glancing behind him he pulled back into the street and floored the gas, tires squealing. A gust of wind blew down the empty street in his wake, cold and salt-smelling. It struck the tears on her cheeks, chilling them, as she stared at his retreating taillights.

  “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming it,” she muttered. But Kathy’s phone call had been real enough. It was time to go to the Captain Hayes Gallery and see if she could get some answers.

  No cars were on the road and she was able to park directly in front of Kathy’s shop. But her windows, too, were dark. So how was she supposed to get her quilts?

  Then she saw the large black garbage bag sitting on the sidewalk in front of the door. A flash of pale yellow-green showed at the top where the wind fluttered the plastic. She walked up to it and peered inside.

  It was the Spring quilt that Kathy had loved so much and that she’d given to her, bundled in, crammed into the bag without even an attempt at folding. Under it she saw a wrinkled fold of green and magenta batik, and a flash of a red fish covered by gold net. Here were her quilts. Stuffed in a bag like trash.

  She stalked up to Kathy’s door and pounded on it with her fists. “Kathy Hayes, open this door and tell me what the hell is going on here!” she shouted. “Now!”

  The street was silent behind her under the low gray clouds
and creeping tendrils of fog. A few streetlights had already turned on because it had grown so dark. Not even a shadow moved within the shop, but somehow Garland knew Kathy was in there, cowering in the back room, fists pressed to her mouth to keep from responding.

  “Open it!” she yelled. “I know you’re in there.”

  Nothing.

  “Kathy, one more time. Do I have to kick the glass in?”

  Still nothing.

  Garland paused. “All right, best friend,” she said more quietly. “If that’s how it is…you know, if it hadn’t been for your cajoling I might not have moved down here after the divorce. But I guess that doesn’t matter much to you, does—”

  A flash of light from the back of the shop stopped her. A few seconds later Kathy herself came into view, clutching a flashlight. She unlocked the door, grabbed Garland’s arm, and pulled her inside.

  “God damn it, Garland, do you have to make so much noise?” she almost moaned, propelling her toward the shop’s back office. “Come on. We might be safe in here.”

  “If you’d opened your door like a civilized person I wouldn’t have had to pound on it. And what do you mean, safe? What’s going on?” Garland staggered slightly as Kathy pulled her along because her knees felt weak with relief. Someone was still talking to her.

  Kathy shut the office door and turned the flashlight back on, then tucked her jacket against the crack at the bottom of the door. “There. That ought to keep anyone from seeing the light,” she murmured to herself, and looked up at Garland. The beam from the flashlight cast weird shadows on her face. “You don’t know, do you?” she asked.

  Garland stared as she sank to the floor next to her. “All I know is that everyone in this town is going insane, and that includes you.”

  Kathy sighed. “We’re not insane. We’re just trying to stay alive.”

  “Kathy—”

  “And I shouldn’t be talking to you like this. But I don’t think Lord Mahtahdou will—”

  “Wait—did I just hear you say Mahtahdou?” Dear God, if Kathy of all people—Captain Kathryn Hayes, USA—was talking about Mahtahdou too… Alasdair had spoken the truth. He was real. And so were the selkies.