She turned.
Her eyes, drowsy from the sun, slowly rolled open. Her cheek, her profile, the side of her eye. He was helpless as he watched. He saw himself reflected in her empty, black eyes. But not him. What he had become.
He opened his eyes. The water had run cold. He twisted the taps closed and stepped out of the shower. He found clean clothes folded on the lid of the toilet. He dressed quickly and passed over the creaking floorboards down the hall to his room.
Norman stood staring out the window, his back to Bishop as he entered.
“This thing, it ain’t over, is it?” Norman asked.
Norman waited for a reply as he continued to watch the white fields shift left, then right, carried on the swirling wind.
“I can finish this,” Bishop said.
“There are good people here.”
“I can finish this, Norman.”
Norman turned to face him. “I hope so,” he replied. “’Cause it’s not gonna get any easier.” Norman nodded toward the darkening window. “Storm’s brewing.”
Jordan awoke to the sound of drawers being opened and closed, shuffling feet and a whispered voice pleading, “Please, Mr. Berlin. Please, you must get back to bed.” Jordan shielded his eyes against the sunlight that streamed into the recovery room and sat up. Sean spotted him.
“Good, you’re awake. Help me find my clothes.”
Jordan rubbed sleep from his eyes, not completely awake.
Sean turned to Dr. Baron who followed him around the room closing drawers Sean left open. “I need to borrow some clothes,” Sean said.
“I’m afraid that’s out of the ordinary. I don’t think—”
“Now,” Sean said. “Right now.”
The Doc took one look at Sean and decided to keep his mouth shut. He turned on his heel, muttering something that sounded like, “I’ll see what I can do,” and disappeared out into the hall.
“What are you doing up?” Jordan got to his feet, wincing as he stretched the kinks in his back.
“I gotta get out of here,” Sean said. “I can’t do anything lying in bed.”
“But the doc says—”
“Listen, I’m leaving. You can come along and help me or go home. It’s up to you.”
The front receptionist Jordan had seen the night before came quietly into the room with a pile of clothes—sweatpants, t-shirt, a raincoat and a pair of old sneakers. Sean took them and put them on.
Less than ten minutes later he stepped slowly through his kitchen. The place looked like a slaughterhouse. Blood splattered across the natural wood cabinets and pooled on the tiled floor. He had seen the same scene a hundred times before—the blood, the signs of a struggle—but he never thought that the house he would find this in would be his own. Jordan didn’t say a word.
“I saw him die, Jordan,” Sean whispered as he crouched low to the ground next to the largest of the blood puddles. “Right here. I saw him die. I was trying to hold him, you know, away from Petra, but he twisted away and then he screamed. Petra stabbed him in the throat.” Sean absently rubbed his own throat as he remembered the way that the handle protruding from Bishop’s throat glistened, slick with blood. The way it slipped through the man’s fingers. Sean followed the bloody footprints up the stairs and said, “No one could get up from that. No one.”
He followed the trail of blood to the bathroom where he found the butcher knife lying in the sink. Jordan stood over his shoulder staring at the blood-splattered porcelain.
“How could he walk away from that?” he asked. “Jesus.”
“I’m going to pack some things,” Sean said. “For Kevin and me. I’ll meet you back in the truck.” Jordan nodded and retreated down the hall toward the kitchen.
After Jordan was gone, Sean stepped down into the bedroom and stripped off the borrowed clothes. He started to dress, not realizing how many pictures of him and Petra and Kevin were scattered throughout the bedroom. He tried not to look, reaching for his sock drawer, but found himself staring into Petra’s eyes. The picture had been taken in the summer, down by the lake. The sun was on her face. God, she was beautiful. Sean closed his eyes. She begged him, her voice trembling, “Please, Sean, please don’t leave me.”
Hot tears burned down over his cheeks. He tried to control it, keep it at bay, but the pain and misery that twisted inside him rushed up from his stomach like a wave. He smelled her in the sheets of the unmade bed. Her clothes lay scattered across the floor. Soon his shoulders shook. He sat in the darkened bedroom, on the edge of the bed, holding Petra’s picture, and wept.
Jordan was halfway through his third cigarette when Sean stepped from the house. He stubbed out the butt in the ashtray and turned down the radio.
“Move over,” Sean said.
Jordan turned to find Sean standing at the driver’s side door. His eyes were red and his look gave Jordan no option. Without a word the deputy climbed into the passenger seat as Sean slid behind the wheel.
“Where we going?” asked Jordan.
Sean drove a little too fast for Jordan’s liking, fishtailing around corners, sliding through stop signs, but they got there in record time, especially in the snow. They finally parked in the northwest corner of the Danaid Cemetery and stepped out into the snow.
“What are we doing here, Sean?”
Jordan pulled another cigarette to his lips and waited for an answer. Sean didn’t give one. He stepped one way, down a few rows, and then came back, looking for something.
“It looks different from in here,” he said.
Sean finally seemed to catch the scent of the thing he was after and took off marching through the lines of plots toward the fence. Jordan followed.
When Sean started to run, Jordan lost sight of him for a second. Suddenly he found himself alone among the tombstones. He turned in a circle, scanning the cemetery, and spotted Sean next to two tall, thin grave markers. When he was close enough, he realized that there were actually three tombstones, two tall ones bracketing a smaller third. He read the inscriptions:
Bishop Kane
1940 - 1976
* * *
Sara Elizabeth Kane
1941 - 1976
* * *
Eve-Marie Kane
1966 - 1976
* * *
“He was here,” Sean whispered.
Jordan looked at the gravestones, each in turn, and then back at his boss.
“Who?”
“The guy from last night. The same guy stood right here looking at these gravestones,” Sean said. “I saw him and he looked right through me.”
Jordan watched his boss, waiting for him to make the connection.
“Who are these people?” Jordan asked. “Why would he visit these graves? They his parents?”
They looked at each other and said, “Norman.”
22
The deadbolt slid back and the door creaked open. Norman peered out at them from between the door and the frame. “What’s going on, Sheriff?”
Sean’s face was swollen and bruised, but his eyes burned with the ferocity of a zealot.
“I need your help, Norman,” Sean said. “Can we come in?” Sean wasn’t asking. He stepped over the threshold before Norman could answer.
Norman threw a nervous look over his shoulder.
“Jesus Christ, what happened to your face?” Norman asked as he stepped aside, allowing the two men inside.
“Have you seen any suspicious people in the area?” asked Sean. “Or had any out-of-town visitors lately?”
“Visitors?” Norman replied, shaking his head. “No, can’t say as I have. You guys looking for somebody?”
“Norman,” Sean said. “Petra’s dead.”
“Dead?” he whispered. “How? When?”
“Last night a man broke into our house and tried to kill her. We got away but he followed us and ran us off the Old Bridge. Petra drowned. I saw the man who did it. Here.”
“Here?” Norman asked, his eyes looking anywhere
but at Sean. “Jesus, Sean. My God.”
“Yesterday. He was standing at one of the plots out there in the northwest corner. I need to know what he was doing out there in the cemetery.”
Norman nodded, yes, yes.
“But folks that come here to pay their respects don’t usually check in with me, you know,” Norman said. “It’s a free country, and everything.”
Jordan moved toward the stairway that led upstairs. “Mind if I have a look around?” he said as he started up the stairs.
Norman nodded, but he didn’t take his eyes off Jordan climbing the stairs.
“You all right, Norman?” Sean asked.
“Yeah, sure, just a little shaken up is all. I mean, I can’t believe it. I just, jeez ... I’m sorry, Sean.”
“Open your web site,” Sean ordered. He stood behind Norman as he sat down at his computer, clicked on the web site and called up the search engine. Norman dragged the cursor to a waiting box.
“What was the name?”
As Sean spoke their names, Norman’s hands slipped away from the keyboard to his lap. The old man’s shoulders slumped forward as he tried to turn in his seat.
“Sean,” was all he could get out before the barrel of Sean’s pistol pressed at the base of his head.
“Do it.” Norman’s fingers stayed where they were. “Now.”
Norman found the keyboard and typed in the request. As the message SEARCHING scrolled across the screen, Norman whispered, “Please Sean, take Kevin and go.”
The computer chimed and announced that it had found one related article. Sean poked Norman with the gun barrel and Norman clicked on the link to the article.
It was a short obituary of Bishop, Sara and Eve-Marie Kane. The family was killed when a gas leak triggered an explosion, obliterating their house. Norman scrolled to the bottom of the article where a small black and white picture showed the Kane family.
The barrel dropped from Norman’s head and nearly dropped from Sean’s hand. He stared at the computer screen, at the smiling family. It was too much to be a resemblance. Too close to be a coincidence. It was him. Bishop Kane.
Norman’s head fell forward, his eyes turned away from the computer screen. “Please, Sean. Take Kevin away from here. Leave this place before you lose anything else.”
Sean stared down at the scared old man looking up at him, pleading with him.
“Please. Leave.”
Jordan stepped into what looked like a spare bedroom. Single bed, narrow chest of drawers, a lamp on the chest and a picture of a seascape on the wall. Strictly for the odd guest, he thought. He opened the drawers and then checked under the bed. “Well, what do we have here?”
He pulled out the battered, black leather suitcase and dropped it onto the bed. He released the clasps and the case opened with a creak. Rows of knives and other edged weapons, carefully stacked clips of ammunition and explosives were neatly packed in the worn case. He whistled through his teeth and whispered, “Goddamn.”
He left the case open, turned toward the closet and bumped into a pale man in a leather coat. Jordan’s eyes popped open and he reached for his gun. The man drove his right fist into the deputy’s solar plexus driving him to his knees. Jordan fought to pull his gun, but the man slapped his hand away and squeezed the boy’s throat, getting his full attention.
“You don’t understand. You probably never will. If you want to live, tell him. Tell him to take his son and leave this place. Now.” Jordan struggled for air as the man squeezed his windpipe then let him drop to the floor.
Sean looked up at the ceiling at the sound of a weight hitting the floor above. “Jordan!”
Sean bounded up the stairs and reached the bedroom as the tail of Bishop’s leather coat slipped through the window and disappeared. Sean ran to the open window but Bishop was gone. Behind him Jordan struggled to his knees, sucking wind, rubbing his throat and his chest.
“Are you all right?” Sean asked as he bolted past him to the door.
He ran down the stairs, through the kitchen and exploded through the side door out into the cold. Norman’s pickup was backing out of the drive as Sean ran after it. He aimed for the windshield and put a bullet six inches from center. The pickup’s tires spun over the ice and snow, and for a moment Sean gained on it. He aimed low and hit the hood. The pickup finally grabbed enough road to blast forward, jerking left and right down the narrow lane. Sean reached the lane, out of breath and shaking from the adrenaline, and fired twice at the fading taillights before they turned right onto Quaker Road and disappeared.
Sean came back into the house and found Norman and Jordan in the kitchen. Norman sat slumped in a kitchen chair. The gray skin of his face hung loosely from his skull. He looked about a thousand years old.
“You don’t understand,” he said.
Sean ripped the old man out of his seat like he was a bundle of rags and slammed him against the wall, rattling dishes and knocking a calendar to the floor. Jordan moved to get between them but froze when Sean drew his gun.
Ruby snapped to attention with a low growl in her throat.
“I don’t understand? Is that what you said? I don’t understand?” Sean asked, pushing the barrel of his gun to Norman’s cheek. “I understand that my wife is dead. Dead, you fuck!”
“Sean,” Norman pleaded.
“Who is he? What does he want? Why did he kill Petra? What the fuck is going on here?”
Norman slumped in Sean’s grip, but Sean pulled him up straight.
“Sean, please, I don’t—”
Sean slammed him against the wall again. The man’s ribcage creaked under the pressure. Norman’s bony hands, like bird’s claws, tried to pry his hands away.
“You fucking know. You know. Who is he? I saw him take a knife in the throat and keep coming. What is he? Bishop Kane. He died over thirty years ago. He’s buried out there in the cemetery. Now tell me what you know!”
Finally, Norman began to sob. “You have to leave. Please. You have to go. Right now. Take Kevin.”
Sean pulled Norman’s face up close to his own.
“Don’t you ever say his name again.”
“If you don’t leave,” he whispered, “she’ll come for him.” “Who? Who will come for him?”
“Petra,” he croaked. “She’ll come for all of us.”
Sean stared into the old man’s wild eyes and shook his head.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Get your coat.” He let go of Norman letting him sink to the floor.
Petra ... will come for him.
23
It was twenty after eight and the sun was having a hell of a time trying to break through the snow clouds that hung low to the town when Kelly drove past the Trading Post.
Gertie sat on a bench bundled from head to toe in homemade gear: knitted hat, scarf, even her coat was a heavy cable knit job with big round wooden buttons. The only thing store-bought was her Thinsulate gloves, the ones where she could button back the mitten part to uncover her fingers, just in case she was outside doing something that required finger dexterity. Like chain-smoking her way through a fresh pack of Marlboros.
Kelly pulled the jeep over close to the covered porch of the store and rolled down her window.
“Closed today, Gertie?”
Gertie shrugged her bony shoulders and lit a new smoke with the old one before she pitched the old one into the snow. “Not that I know of. All I know is that I’m freezing my baggy ass off.”
“Hop in.”
Gertie slid inside and put her thin fingers to the air vent and moaned as the heat warmed her papery skin.
“Where’s Billy?”
“Don’t know,” Gertie replied. “Called his house but there’s no answer. I was gonna head over to Mabel’s and wait him out.”
Kelly’s stomach dropped. She buried her face in her hands.
“Jesus, Kelly, what’s wrong with you? You gonna be sick?”
Kelly shook her head. After a moment she straightene
d up and took a deep breath.
“You knocked up? Got morning sickness?” Gertie asked.
“No,” she hissed. “God no. Just, I don’t know, flu, I guess.”
Kelly knew what was coming next and silently begged her not to ask. Please ask me to drive you anywhere in the state but over to the Walters’ house. Please God, if you’re listening, please don’t let her ask me.
“You think you could run me up to Billy’s house to see what’s what?”
When Sean and Jordan arrived at the station, it was deserted. Kelly wasn’t due in for another ten minutes. Jordan led Norman to their only cell and pushed him inside. Norman sat on the end of the cot with a squeak of rusted springs.
“Please Sean, listen to me. Please!”
“Tell me what you know,” Sean said. “Who am I chasing?” Norman’s eyes were red-rimmed and ringed with black.
“Tell me!” Sean thundered. “Who am I chasing? Who did this?
The guy at your house—”
“He’s here to save us, Sean.”
“By killing Petra?”
“Yes. “
Sean gripped the bars and lowered his head.
“There was no other way. She had to be destroyed.”
Norman reached through the bars and touched Sean’s hand.
“I know it’s hard to accept—”
Sean grabbed Norman through the bars. He pulled the old man off his cot and slammed his face into the metal cage. Blood gushed from his head where the bars dug in.
“You listen to me, you crazy fuck,” Sean spat, “I don’t know what happened to you, old age, mental breakdown, I don’t give a fuck. You and your little friend who ran away from us tonight are never leaving this town. I swear to God. I’m gonna bury you here for what you did to Petra and the others.”
Sean slammed Norman against the bars again, bringing fresh blood.
“You hear me?” he repeated, whispering fiercely. “I’m gonna bury you.”
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