In his mind he saw his father, eyes searching, lying in the rain.
Dying in the rain.
“Jared? Are you okay?” Marisa whispered.
Jared nodded. He moved with her to the casket. Kyle Duncan was dressed in a new black suit. His hair was slicked back. His skin held the tenuous hue of a faded watercolor.
Jared set down on the wide kneeler and Marisa joined him.
“Such a waste,” she said.
Jared closed his eyes and bowed his head. He said a silent prayer. He tried to relive that bliss in his mind, tried to feel the soul of Kyle Duncan swimming through him. Nothing. Nothing but sorrow.
Marisa stood, and just as Jared opened his eyes, the room erupted with a shout.
Jared stood up and turned. Too late. Already Bobby Duncan was gunning for him.
“You killed my boy!” Bobby shouted again. Jim Tate stood beside him. A step behind them, Ricky Cowen stood with his wife and daughter. The chatter in the room had silenced, everyone gawking at Bobby Duncan.
Bobby tackled Jared and drove him back. Jared tripped on the kneeler and struck the table supporting the casket. The casket rocked and the table jostled. Bobby pummelled Jared, screaming one obscenity after another. Dazed, his jaw throbbing, Jared thought he smelled liquor on Bobby’s breath.
Bobby snatched Jared by the throat. Jared croaked, begging for Bobby to let him go.
“Do something!” Marisa shouted at Jim Tate.
Jim shot forward and threw his arms around Bobby. Bobby drove an elbow into his groin, and Jim slipped back, doubling over. He fell to his knees, and the glass eye didn’t see the fist that came its way. He flopped to the floor in a groan.
Ricky Cowen moved on Bobby then, but Marisa was there first. She grabbed Bobby by the wrist as he brought his arm back to pound Jared. Bobby yanked his hand free, and Marisa snatched it again. Ricky grabbed Bobby’s other arm, and they pulled him off of Jared. Screaming like a man in misery, Bobby broke free and lunged forward.
Jared backed up, and Bobby bowled him over. The impact rocked the casket, the table legs collapsed, and the whole thing came crashing down. The casket spilled over them, crushing Bobby Duncan’s right leg. Bobby screamed, and screamed again when his dead son flopped out of the casket and landed right on top of him.
Everyone was shouting now. Jared crawled away from the casket and got to his feet. Marisa went to him and stood beside him. Bobby Duncan was sobbing.
“You killed him,” Bobby said, his voice failing. “You killed my boy.”
Marisa looked at Jared, clearly bewildered.
Jared was trembling. His heart was racing as quickly as his mind. The room was staring him down.
“Jared—” Marisa said.
But already he was rushing from the room, all eyes chasing him.
~ 15
Jared sat in the Land Rover. His brisk steps through the rain had soaked him, and the humidity and the air pressure had conspired to give him a throbbing headache. His index finger drummed on the steering wheel. Only when Marisa rapped at his window did he stop.
“What the hell is going on?” she said through the glass.
Jared buzzed down the window a couple of inches. The drizzle had turned to a downpour, and Marisa’s umbrella barely protected her. He motioned for her to get in and closed the window.
Marisa hurried to the passenger side and got in, setting the drenched umbrella between her legs. “Jared,” she said softly. “Talk to me.”
Already he was tapping his finger again.
She grabbed it. “Jared.”
He stared straight ahead into the street.
“What happened back there?” she said.
He looked at her, then turned back to the street. Shook his head.
“You don’t know?” she said. “Bobby said—”
“I know what he said.”
“What was he talking about?”
Why didn’t you stay in New York? he thought. What the hell were you thinking? It doesn’t matter how far you run. The truth will always find you.
He bit his lower lip. “I don’t know.”
“What happened at the accident? There’s more to this than you’re telling.”
“There isn’t. Kyle died. I was at his side, just like I told you.”
“Then what’s with Bobby?”
Jared sighed. He turned away from the street and faced her. “I guess he needs someone to blame.”
“And Sonia?”
“What about her?”
“She was asking about the accident.”
Jared turned back to the street. He shrugged. “Just looking for a story, I guess.”
Marisa pondered. “Can I ask you something? And I want the truth.”
He nodded.
“Is there anything you’re not telling me about the accident? Anything at all?”
“No. Nothing.” He turned to her. “Nothing.”
She drew back, just a little. She looked into his eyes. “I believe you.”
~
Jared drove Marisa home and parked in the driveway behind her gold Mazda hatchback. The rain had ebbed to a drizzle.
“Have you talked to Judd?” she said. “You haven’t … have you.”
He paused. Shook his head.
“You need family,” she told him. “There’s nothing you need more.”
He looked at the dashboard clock. It was almost one. “You never did give me an answer.”
“About what?”
“The other day. Lunch.”
“How can you think about food at a time like this? After what just happened?”
“Dinner, then?”
“Jared,” she said, a little flustered.
He couldn’t tell whether she was interested, put off by his timing, or if she didn’t want to let him down. He figured Door Number Three. “It’s okay, Marisa. I understand.” He shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
He stroked his hands, and suddenly became very aware of his scars. He folded his arms. “I, uh … I’d better be going.”
She nodded. “Think about your brother, okay?”
“I will,” he said. She got out into the rain, and he had started to back into the street when he heard a rap at his side window. He hit the brake and buzzed the window down.
“Next Saturday,” she said. “Seven o’clock.”
He smiled. She smiled back.
~ 16
Jared drove with a small grin stuck on his face. He felt guilty about it given all that had happened, but he couldn’t deny the power in the smile that Marisa had given him. It lifted him. Inspired him. Just as it always had.
Energized, he drove home and spent the next week hitting the web. His flaky Internet decided to behave for the most part, and the research went well. But by two-forty-five on Saturday morning, he was beat. His mind was mud. He’d had enough of the Phantom.
He switched off his laptop and killed the light of the desk lamp. He got up, stretched, and stepped out onto his deck. A light breeze kissed him as the glow of the moon rippled across the river.
Think about your brother, Marisa had said. The thing was, not a day went by when he didn’t.
He would see him next week. Maybe invite him over for a nice steak dinn—
A wolf bayed. He thought of the colt. How Jack Henneman had said that wolves had fought over the head.
His research had uncovered some interesting facts. While his first experience with the Phantom had been in ’78, the first recorded incident had taken place in 1965. Incredible as it seemed, for the next forty-three years—like clockwork, indeed, as the gruff rancher had pointed out—there were mutilations every spring and fall. The last had occurred in May of 2008.
Had the Phantom died? Since there had been no event in the fall of that year, it seemed the logical conclusion. Seemed the only one. After nearly four and a half decades, surely the beast had perished.
Yes. Despite the colt and its eerie similarities to the previous killings, his ea
rlier belief that el Fantasma was back was shadowed by doubt. Clearly, this had to be the work of a copycat. Didn’t it?
Digging deeper, he had discovered that there had been previous mutilations in the county, most of them occurring right in town. The thing was, the killings held no ritualistic bent. They were disturbing, but seemed more the work of unfocused anger than meticulous sacrifice. Moreover, the victims were not farm animals, but dogs and cats. Some squirrels. Further, there was no pattern to the location or timing. They had occurred at random intervals in ’54, ’57, and ’59. And, like the later events, simply stopped.
It’s a copycat, he thought. After six years of nothing, it has to be. Either that, or it really is some alien, and your book really is a true-crime novel.
The notion was ridiculous, of course. The perpetrator was no more alien than he was. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it wasn’t the Phantom.
It just couldn’t be.
Can’t it?
The date the colt was killed—May 11—was the same day that the killings had started back in 1965. It gave him the chills.
Look—it’s just a copycat. They found the date the same way you did: research.
It was easy to believe that.
Way too easy.
~
Sleep did not come easy, but a nightmare did. His father died in his arms, gasping for air. Jared heard his faint whispers … and then it all went black.
~ 17
For Jared, the day passed slowly—and quickly. He longed to see Marisa, couldn’t see her soon enough. And yet, so nervous was he that time seemed to quicken with his growing anticipation, and by the time he picked up the bouquet of orange Gerbera daisies, he had forgotten where she lived. Thank God he had saved her address in his phone. Fuck that quack in New York.
He turned down Elm and stopped at 31. Marisa’s hatchback sat in the driveway of the modest brick-and-siding home. It took two rings of the doorbell before the door opened. Big brown eyes, slightly gauzy, slightly distorted, looked up at him through a pair of nerdy black-rimmed glasses. Bulky magnifiers sat attached to the top rim of each lens.
Jared raised his brows. He glanced back at the car. Checked the number on the mailbox. Thirty-one.
“Uh … is Mar here? I mean, is Marisa Judge here?”
The boy was thin and pale. He nodded. “Are you Mr. Cole?”
“Yes,” Jared said, smiling. “And you are?”
“Christian Judge.”
Jared crouched unimposingly and put out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Christian Judge.”
The boy gave him a look, smiled, and shook. “My mom’s upstairs. You know, preening.” Christian ran his tiny fingers through his cropped black hair. “I’ll get her.” He disappeared and called out for his mom.
When Marisa finally came to the door, Jared was tongue-tied. “Wow. I mean … wow.”
Marisa was stunning. Her hair was curled down around her shoulders, teasing the top of her flowered dress. Her lips were perfect, her eyes alive. She looked exactly the way he had always remembered her.
She smiled. “Thank you, Jared. It’s been a long time since I’ve done myself up. Motherhood.”
“Motherhood,” he echoed.
“Surprise!” she joked. “Life goes on. Come in.” She led him to the living room and offered him a chair. “Don’t be so nervous.”
“Nervous? I’m not nervous.” He sat.
“You’re practically hiding behind those flowers.”
“Oh!” He held them out. “These are for you.”
“Thank you,” she said happily, taking them. “They’re beautiful. You remembered.”
He poked his temple. “Not quite senile yet. How could I forget your favorites?”
“Kit?” she said, turning.
Another one? Jared thought. But then, almost comically, Christian poked his head out from the entrance to the kitchen.
“Kit, did you take your pill?”
“Uh huh.”
“Did Sarah call while I was upstairs? I thought I heard the phone ring.”
“Yes. She said she’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Sarah’s the sitter,” Marisa explained. “Lives across the street.”
“Ah.”
She looked at the bouquet. “Give me a few minutes to put these in a vase, okay? And try to relax. He’s just a boy.”
“I’m fine,” Jared insisted. He sat back, feeling every bit as stiff as he probably looked.
“Same old Jared,” Marisa said, chuckling. She disappeared into the kitchen.
Kit joined him, sitting across from him on the sofa. His small legs kicked back and forth. Silence stood between him and Jared like a brick wall.
Kit put a hand to his glasses. “I can take them off if they bother you.”
Jared sat up. He didn’t realize he’d been staring. “No, no, that’s fine. I mean, they look good.”
“It’s okay,” Kit said. “I know they look silly. I don’t like them, either.”
“They’re really something. And they don’t look silly.”
“They do. But I need ’em. I don’t see so good.”
“How do they work?”
“Trifocals,” Kit said. He pointed to the tiny telescopes at the top of the lenses. “These are for when I need to see far stuff. And these little things on the bottoms are bifocals. For reading stuff. The middle has normal lenses. You know, to see regular stuff. Like you.”
Jared noticed the telephone on the end table next to him. It had oversized buttons and a large LCD display.
“Are you okay, Mr. Cole?”
“Me? I’m fine. Why?”
“You seem a little tense.” Kit nodded to Jared’s index finger tap-tap-tapping on his right knee.
Jared stopped and put his hands together. He pulled them apart. They were clammy. He set his arms on the armrests.
“What are those scars?” Kit said. “On your hands.”
“That’s not polite, Kit,” Marisa said from the kitchen.
Kit stood up and stepped in front of Jared. He reached into his pocket and drew out his hand. “You should try this.”
“A stone? What do you mean?”
“It’s hematite,” Kit said. “A calming stone. Hold it for a bit. It’ll help.”
Jared spied the jet-black gem. “Thanks. But I’ll be all right. I’m okay.”
“Like this,” Kit said. He clasped his hands around the stone and closed his eyes. Gently, he caressed the stone between his palms. He started to count backwards from ten, breathing deeply, slowly, and methodically. At one, he opened his eyes. Again, he offered Jared the stone.
Jared waved him off politely. “I’m sure it helps.”
“Dr. Vogel says it’s silly,” Kit said, stuffing the stone in his pocket. “But it works.”
“Do you use it much?”
“Only when I need to.”
The boy seemed so calm, it was hard to imagine him being anxious about anything. Jared was about to ask when that might be when the doorbell rang.
“Kit? Can you get that?” Marisa said.
Kit opened the door and invited the sitter in. She was tall and slim, no more than sixteen, with stylish blonde hair curled along her face. When Jared saw it, he immediately thought of Jennifer Aniston’s iconic style, “The Rachel.”
The girl had her arms crossed, holding a paperback behind them. “Oh … my … God,” she said, as Jared rose to greet her. “You’re Jared Cole.” She went to shake his hand, and the book dropped to the floor. “Oh! I’m such a klutz!”
Jared reached down for it. It was Insanity, his latest novel.
“Well?” he said, rising, flipping it to the front cover. “What do you think?”
“I love it!” she blurted out. “It’s awesome. It’s just awesome.”
“It is,” Marisa said, joining them. She set the flowers on the coffee table.
Jared thanked them.
“Would you sign it for me?” the girl asked.<
br />
“Of course,” Jared said. “Do you have a pen, Marisa?”
Marisa fetched him one and handed it to him. He flipped the book open. “Sarah, right?”
“Sarah Coleman,” she said. Jared started to write, but she stopped him. “Just Sarah.”
“To Sarah,” he said, echoing the words he was writing, “my awesomest fan.” It was lame, he knew, but when he signed his name and handed the book back to her, her eyes lit up like his father’s newspaper back in 1978.
“And you call yourself a writer?” Marisa said, almost laughing.
Jared shrugged and handed her the pen.
“No, I love it,” Sarah said. “I love all your books, too. But Luscious is still my favorite. Are you going to write a sequel? You should.”
“Maybe I should,” Jared said. “My agent has said the same thing.”
“Can I read it?” Kit said, asking the sitter.
“Not a chance, Kit,” Marisa told him. “Maybe in ten years or so.”
“Does it have bad people in it?” Kit said, directing the question more toward Jared than his mother.
“Uh … yeah. Kinda,” Jared said.
“Why do you write about bad people?”
Marisa raised a brow to Jared. She grinned, folding her arms. “Yes, Mr. Cole. Why do you write about bad people?”
Jared squirmed, a little embarrassed. “I don’t know,” he said, turning to Kit. “But you know what? The bad people in my stories always get what’s coming to them.” He looked at Marisa, his eyes begging for her to bail him out.
“Not always,” Sarah said, glancing at Jared knowingly. She blushed. “I mean … yes, they do, Kit. In Mr. Cole’s stories, the bad people always get punished.” She looked at Marisa and mouthed, “Sorry.”
“Kit,” Marisa said, “why don’t you and Sarah play a game?”
“Sounds good,” Sarah added. “How about Scrabble?”
“Okay,” Kit groaned. “I know when I’m asking too many questions.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cole,” Sarah said, tapping the book.
“Jared,” he said. “And thank you for reading it.”
“Can I call you Jared?” Kit asked.
Gateway Page 5