“How much time did they each spend with her?”
Peggy sighed in exasperation; it was too late for these sorts of questions. This was closer to a bureaucratic inquest than an investigation. The last time she’d had to draft and revise a timetable of the period each nurse and doctor spent with a patient, it’d been for the hospital’s board members for an internal inquiry about supposed malpractice. The police usually just interviewed the nurses or doctors on shift and then left, but questioning was rarely necessary in this crime-free town, and it seemed like the agent was more interested in placing blame. “Well, I don’t know. Why does it matter?” she snapped. “I suppose Mr. Chamberlain and Brian spent several hours a day with her. Dr. Nguyen checked on her during his rounds, and I did, too.” She usually wasn’t curt, but she didn’t like this agent. Not only had she walked in on him manhandling her patient, but he was also shady; it was as if he was trying to hide something. While the previous one had simply been blunt, he had become more polite as the conversation had progressed and she hadn’t been irritated by his mere presence.
“Anybody else? What about Mrs. Peterson?”
“She was only here a few days. I don’t think she could bear to see her daughter like this. I think she spent most of the time at their house keeping it clean and cooking and such so they wouldn’t be so stressed.” Peggy made a mental note to check up on her; while Mrs. Peterson had taken her husband’s death in stride, she didn’t think she’d be able to weather her daughter’s condition as admirably.
The agent frowned as he made another note. He stared at his pad for several moments, so Peggy assumed that she was free to leave, but he spoke up before she crossed the threshold. “One more thing: Has anything like this happened before?” He gestured toward Marilyn’s bed.
Involuntarily, Peggy remembered the night Derek Winchester beat down her door. It was a warm summer evening, and the cicadas were beginning their symphony in her backyard. She’d brewed herself a small cup of tea and was set to relax on the back porch, when she heard him pounding on the front door. Old as she was, several of the senior residents preferred to see her rather than “bother” a proper doctor, and she enjoyed their trust because she’d been practicing in the town for most of their lives. She opened the door to see Derek clutching his left hand, which had warped into an atrophied, desiccated claw. Despite her protestations, she couldn’t persuade him to tell her the exact nature of the accident or to go to the emergency room to seek proper care. He insisted he would be fine as long as she helped him, and knowing little else to do, she treated him for shock and gave him some painkillers that she kept in stock. Eventually, his pain subsided, but his hand never returned to normal. She now realized that the drawn, brittle skin of Derek’s hand resembled Marilyn’s.
“No,” she replied hastily and excused herself to complete the rest of her rounds. She didn’t need her concentration disturbed as she worked, and she wondered whether Marilyn’s condition would evoke the memory again now that she’d made a connection between them. If that was the case, she’d learn to deal with the odd, unsettling incident; Marilyn still needed a nurse.
- - -
Robert knew that something inexplicable was happening to his wife. He couldn’t recall the details of the accident: the four-way stop sign hidden by low-hanging tree branches, the bright lights blinding him through the window, or the harsh impact that had turned his reality inside out. He remembered his wife’s head on his lap, her shoulder crushed against his ribs, and warm black—no, dark red—blood spreading everywhere. He knew that the truck driver had pried his crumpled door open to pull him from the car and that an ambulance technician had injected him with a cushion of detachment on the ride to the hospital. After that, there had been bright lights in his eyes and disembodied faces above him, and a cacophony had filled his head.
He’d also known when he’d woken up that Marilyn was dead. In his dreams, there had been hope that she had survived and might even be in better condition than he was, but he’d felt it in his heart as soon as he’d awoken that she had passed before he had been told. When she’d revived at her funeral, it had been a miracle—a sign from God that they should never part again.
He could overlook her pallid skin and the lack of warmth in her touch because she could still look at him, though her clouded eyes may not see him. Her head wound might refuse to heal, but when she was released from the hospital, he’d buy her a wig so beautiful that no one would ever suspect it wasn’t her real hair. No one would notice her confinement to a wheelchair when she was dressed in her normal, brilliant wardrobe, although he might have to hire someone to assist her with her makeup since he had no aptitude in that regard.
No, no matter how hard he tried, the troubling parts that he could not deny were her continuing dispossession of a heartbeat and some of her interior having been supplemented by newspaper padding to mimic the plumpness of life for her funeral. By all rights, his beloved should have been in her grave and should have remained there, and medical science could not explain her presence. Eventually, someone would question her inexplicable condition to the point that she would be removed to the cemetery, and that would be the end of their unnatural reunion. In the meantime, he planned to enjoy their fleeting time together for as long as it lasted. Perhaps the sheer force of his affection would revive her permanently.
- - -
Melissa lounged half-dressed on her bed as she wasted her free time on one of her many phone apps. She’d probably download another in less than an hour; none seemed to really capture her attention like they used to, and she needed something to occupy her. The doorbell rang, and she heard Nana answer and exchange words with some man. Though she didn’t recognize his lightly accented voice, he must have been a family friend, because her grandmother invited him inside. After a few more minutes, Nana called her to join them downstairs in the living room. Melissa rolled her eyes and obeyed in her own time; she might as well start the download for her next game while she got dressed and saw what Nana wanted.
A man in a suit was waiting for her. He introduced himself as a special agent, like out of the movies, and sat across the couch from her. She didn’t like the way he spoke down to her as if she were still a child instead of a teenager, which she considered herself at age eleven. Nana wanted to sit in on the session with her, but the agent suggested that Melissa would speak more freely without her present and requested that she leave the room. He asked Melissa about school and her opinion on his limited knowledge of her interests until he decided to broach the real topic that was on his mind. “Tell me about the garden,” he said, and she scowled, not really comprehending what it had to do with anything, until he pointed to their mother’s garden. It had begun to decline since their mother’s accident; yet, when she looked at it, it was not the shriveling collection that she had seen that morning. Despite brittle stalks, the tomato vines twisted around their metal stakes and bore desiccated fruit as if newly blossomed. Its neighbors yielded fuzzy gray yet plump strawberries attached to green vines. Her mother’s petunias, which had long ago died of neglect, no longer drooped; they stood up, spreading what few petals that were left toward the sun. The rest of her mother’s patch had undergone similar transformations, having perked up in macabre likenesses of life. However, the grass bordering the garden suffered conversely: Its vibrant green had become a mottled yellow patchwork extending a foot outward from its edge. The strange effect had been confined to a small circle; further away, the grass had remained untouched. Melissa recognized her brother’s handiwork immediately.
“What about it?” she asked reticently.
The agent pointedly looked away from her, glanced back at the garden, and clarified himself. “Don’t you think it’s a bit odd how pert it is despite its appearance?” She shrugged, not really wishing to answer the question. It wasn’t the first time she had experienced the strange phenomenon, but to her displeasure,
the incidences were becoming more frequent. The agent turned his attention back to her, staring intently as he added, “A bit like your mother, eh?”
“That’s not my mother!” she snapped despite herself, and he broke eye contact long enough to write in his notebook. She scowled at her outburst; despite knowing that her mother’s resurrection went against nature, she didn’t want to betray her brother’s part in it. She denounced his talents—not him—and acknowledging the resurrection would invite investigation. She might not know how Brian had gained his talents, but she’d seen enough movies to know that the government would take him away and torture him. She’d even seen it on the evening news before her parents had changed the channel to happier family programs; the government didn’t like its enemies, and due to his demonic abilities, she didn’t think they would consider Brian an ally.
The agent’s gaze didn’t waver during the several minutes of silence between them, but he was the one to finally break it. “Do you want to explain what you mean?” She shook her head, and he set aside his notepad and pen before speaking deliberately. “Look, I know you’re going through a lot. It’s very sad losing your mother to an accident, and what’s going on right now is scary, but I’m here to help.” He gave a pained smile, attempting to express sympathy. “That’s what I do: I help people in your situation. But I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”
Melissa also considered what her parents always taught her: Obey the laws and authorities of the land. But once she’d reached the cusp of adolescence, they had supplemented this lesson with a seeming dichotomy: She had a civil duty to disobey rules she considered morally wrong, and she needed to develop this new moral code on her own from the foundation that her parents had provided. However, neither directive did much to aid her now. If Brian had broken the law, then the right thing to do would be to turn him over to the authorities. At the same time, wasn’t she supposed to protect her own family? Which was the correct choice: turn him in or keep quiet?
“What will happen?” she asked quietly, still conflicted.
The agent’s lips became a thin line. “It depends on what’s happening. It can be very complex, and it varies with the situation. My agency provides training to special individuals, and it’s my job to figure out who qualifies.”
She looked down at her hands in her lap and studied her fingernails intently for a few minutes before taking a deep breath. She divulged her story slowly at first, as if she had to remember the words before she could speak them, but as she continued and the agent seemed to fade into the background, her memories became easier to relate.
She’d become acquainted with Brian’s abilities when he’d been three years old. They’d been playing in the yard when they’d witnessed a squirrel get struck by a car. Its head had been crushed by the tires, but its legs had still twitched, and as Brian had bawled hysterically, it had risen up on its haunches and had started to stammer its way grotesquely across the street toward them. Luckily, it had been struck by another car before it had reached them, and it had not risen again.
She’d also watched her grandmother’s hands shrivel as she’d turned Brian over her knee to give him a spanking. They’d returned to normal once she’d released him, but Melissa believed that her grandmother’s hands aged more quickly than the rest of her body. She’d seen plants wilt and droop in Brian’s presence when he’d thrown a tantrum, and he’d kept dead bugs as puppets alongside his regular figurines until she’d told him to stop. Even though she’d realized immediately what Brian had been attempting to do at their mother’s funeral, she’d been unable to change his mind or stop him before the act had been completed, and while she’d initially believed that Marilyn’s resurrection had been a miracle, she’d realized by her first effort at conversation with her mother that she’d been only another of her brother’s dolls.
When she looked up again, she noticed that the agent wore a concerned frown. He’d scribbled most of their conversation in illegible shorthand, and she wondered now if divulging her brother’s secret had been the best idea after all. Regardless, the agent caught her gaze again. “Your brother needs help,” he said softly. “I need to assess him further in person. That means I’ll need to talk to him.”
She nodded hesitantly and led the agent to where she thought her brother would be. He was playing with his cars in the front yard, which was in easy view of their grandmother out the bedroom window. Melissa realized then that her grandmother had probably overheard her conversation with the agent, and she worried what she might think of the situation. Nana had to know about Brian, as she had experienced his sapping ability firsthand, but Melissa had never overheard her speak about it. Despite no one ever acknowledging his abilities, perhaps she should have tried to talk to Nana about it anyway. Maybe Brian’s abilities were a family secret she’d misguidedly revealed to the agent.
Brian made explosive sounds as he crashed his cars into one another. Unlike other children his age, his performance delved into more detail, adding the dramatic screaming of the victims and pleading cries for help. The performance made Melissa cringe. Even though he may have watched something similar on television, it might as well have been a reenactment of their parents’ car accident, and she was evidently more sensitive about it than he was; he didn’t appear to notice the resemblance. A fire truck made its way to the scene, and the agent crouched down beside Brian as imaginary firemen filed out of the vehicle. “What’s going on here?” asked the agent in an uncharacteristically chipper voice.
Brian eyed the agent’s suit indifferently. “Did you come from a funeral? A lot of people dressed like that at Mommy’s funeral,” he said. When the agent replied that he had not, he followed with “Work?” After a nod, as if that meant something significant to the boy, Brian answered, “Playing with my cars.”
The agent appeared uncertain and, after a brief hesitation, bent down and picked up one of the cars, but Brian slapped it out of his hand. “Mine!” he shouted angrily, seizing the fallen vehicle and clutching it to his chest possessively. Melissa chastised him for his rudeness and apologized on his behalf, but the agent seemed more diffident than offended by the outburst. Brian picked up his other car and placed both on the grass away from the agent yet still within his small reach.
The man sighed and shifted from his crouching posture to a more comfortable position on his rear. He watched Brian with a pensive expression for several quiet minutes, not even taking notes, before he made another attempt at conversation. “Do you miss your mother?” His voice was quieter, as if the conversation were to be a secret that Melissa wasn’t party to.
“Mommy is at the hospital,” Brian replied plainly, but his conviction to his amusement faded as he pushed his cars halfheartedly around his grass-stained knees.
“What if she were to come home?”
He shrugged. “She can’t. Hospital won’t let her.”
“But let’s say she did,” he said encouragingly. “What then?”
Brian scowled, scrunching his face together until he turned red. “Missy says she already went to Heaven and that the Mommy in the hospital isn’t really her,” he answered, his voice becoming shriller with each word. “Nobody can bring her back because she’s gone!” he screamed. Then he grabbed a car in each hand and ran toward the backyard, where he hid in his cardboard fortress.
Melissa’s heart jumped into her throat, and she tried to swallow it back down. She’d done the right thing—she’d told her brother he’d created an abomination rather than resurrecting their mother—but that realization did little to ease the guilt she felt after hearing Brian’s inarticulate grief. She missed their mother as much as he did, and she wished he could make her whole and truly bring her back. The agent bowed his head and retreated quietly as she deliberated on what she should do. It seemed the agent read her thoughts, for he answered her, whispering as he passed, “Don’t allow him to see her again.
Just let her pass peacefully.” Then he departed, leaving her alone on the lawn.
- - -
It was dark—almost pitch-black. Connor didn’t remember it being after nightfall. The hardened shelters were faded—not the pale gray they were at night—and the people around him were oily shadow caricatures. The sounds were muted and distorted as if his ears were filled with cotton, and he drifted on a wave of pressure whose presence reverberated at the perfect frequency to cancel out all noise. The pressure remained, driving his spine and all that it was attached to into the ground. His scream wedged in his throat, becoming a flat croak that turned into a rasp as he awoke abruptly from his nightmare. His breath and heartbeat were quick, but consciousness allowed them to slowly resume their usual rhythm as he brought them back under control.
As he began to wipe the drool from his chin, he realized that it was actually a combination of pooled condensation and spilled whiskey, and he sneered contemptuously at the mess on the table. The glass had not tipped over, as he had expected to find, but it appeared he had been careless in pouring. He grabbed a towel from the bathroom to clean it up. The remaining whiskey in the glass had become watered down, and the ice in the bucket had long ago returned to its liquid state. He wondered how long he had been out.
The television caught his eye. The newscaster was reporting that the police still hadn’t identified the Johnstown victim, and it now appeared that she was merely the first victim among those found in an impromptu graveyard. The bramble patch in which her body had been found was making excavation difficult, especially since it might contain additional evidence, but there had been confirmation of recovered remains from an estimated three victims. Despite there being no official statement as to the nature of the crime, the media was already speculating about a serial killer. It was only a matter of time before they named him something ridiculously sensational and turned their wild speculations into supposed public safety announcements. Since this was a repeat of a story he had seen earlier, Connor knew that he’d slept continuously for several hours, which was a first for him.
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