CHAPTER FIVE
Now Jacob did give a shit. “Before?”
Sheriff Kwinault inclined her head. “On previous occasions, we’ve tested her drug and alcohol level.”
The silence that followed was long. Sheriff Kwinault was content to wait for Jacob to decide what he really wanted to do.
He really wanted to end the conversation. He didn’t want to be involved. He wasn’t curious. He damned well wasn’t concerned about his crazy neighbor. Yet the question popped out of his mouth. “Why did you test her?”
“Apparent hallucinations. Public scenes. Illegal use of firearms.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know that I would say there’s anything wrong with her. A couple of things happened to her. When she was in college, she was the sole surviving witness of a massacre in her dorm room. Crazy guy—the janitor—with a knife and a fingernail filed to a point. Four girls—friends—dead. You might have heard about it?”
He shook his head. “Out of the country, probably. How did she escape?”
“She hid under the bed and called campus security. The call gave away her position. The nutcase knocked over the bed and went for her. Campus cop arrived and shot him. Killed him.”
“Jesus.”
“A couple of years later, her fiancé was murdered, his throat cut.” Based on the concise way Sheriff Kwinault gave her report, she must have been in the military. “Assuming she had an unstable mental state, and given the security of the premises and the fact that she was holding a pistol, law enforcement believed she did it.”
“You said his throat was cut.”
“She didn’t save him. Maybe she held him at bay while her accomplice finished him.”
Jacob closed his eyes. “People are stupid.”
“Agreed. Seemed unlikely to me. Lack of evidence led to her release.”
“Case never solved?”
“No.”
He looked back at the skinny, short girl talking, gesturing to her insurance agent over the phone. “Everyone in Virtue Falls knows that?”
“Gossip circulates.” Sheriff Kwinault waited while he processed the information.
This sheriff was an irritating woman. Good cop, though. He recognized those tactics. He could end the conversation, and she would be satisfied. She would have delivered her warning packaged as common knowledge. Or he could ask more questions.
He didn’t want to ask more questions.
But Maddie was still talking, the deputies were headed toward the house, and if Jacob wanted to know, he didn’t have much time. Inevitably, his mind moved into the familiar pattern of inquiry.
“She’s violent?”
“Not at all. Well…” Sheriff Kwinault gestured at the vehicle parked in his house. “This.”
Deputy Sheriff Gunder Bergen and a young redhead wearing a badge that identified him as Officer Rupert Moen joined them.
Sheriff Kwinault turned to them. “What did you find out?”
Bergen said, “Quite a lot. Lots of witnesses. A couple of them are even credible. Mrs. Butenschoen was out watering her new rhubarb starts.”
“Mrs. Butenschoen saw the whole thing … that’s a stunner,” Sheriff Kwinault said. To Jacob she said, “Nosy neighbor.”
“She said she noticed Miss Hewitson because she was driving erratically. Miss Hewitson’s head was nodding. She almost didn’t make the turn onto the street. At the last minute, she corrected, then overcorrected, then hit the gas.…” Like Sheriff Kwinault, Bergen gestured at the vehicle.
They all looked at Maddie.
She was making a second, rather tearful phone call.
Officer Moen said, “Hey, Kateri, did you tell Mr. Denisov that Madeline Hewitson has a history of erratic behavior, and she was accused of murder?”
Sheriff Kwinault turned to face Moen. “I didn’t put it quite so bluntly. The sheriff’s department would not like to be accused of slander.”
“Oh. Right.” Moen had that fair complexion that turned blotchy when he blushed, and he blushed now.
Jacob recognized the weak link in the chain, and with the full weight of authority in his voice, he asked, “What kind of erratic behavior?”
In a panic, Moen looked at Sheriff Kwinault.
She inclined her head and pushed her hand toward the floor. Not too much, she meant.
Even with Jacob throwing his weight around, even with Bergen being annoyed at the role of second-in-command, she was in charge. This might be her first post in law enforcement, but she’d had military training, or she was a natural, or both.
Moen said, “Miss Hewitson has done some pretty crazy—”
Sheriff Kwinault shook her head.
Moen started again. “The sheriff’s department has had to come to Miss Hewitson’s home several times to check for intruders that do not exist and open doors that are already unlocked.” He looked to Sheriff Kwinault.
She nodded approvingly.
Jacob kept his attention on Moen. “What kind of intruders?”
He answered, “They—or rather he, she is quite specific that it is a he—moves her furniture, eats her food, and occasionally wakes her out of a sound sleep to threaten her with a knife.”
“No evidence?” Jacob asked.
“None.” Sheriff Kwinault silenced Moen with a glance and took over the answers. “The first incident included a shooting.” Sheriff Kwinault had obviously saved the best for last.
“She shot at this nonexistent intruder?”
“Yes.”
“She owns a gun?” Jacob clarified.
“A pistol.”
“It’s registered to her?”
“Yes, and in Colorado she took classes in how to use it as well as gun safety.”
“Didn’t take, huh?” Amateurs with firearms made Jacob jumpy.
“Miss Hewitson’s night in jail, the judge’s stern lecture, and the fine for firing said weapon within the city limits impressed upon Maddie the importance of not firing said weapon at dark, man-shaped shadows who appear out of nowhere and swoop down on her.” Sheriff Kwinault smiled tightly.
“Huh.” It was a thin line between PTSD and certifiably crazy. It sounded as if Madeline Hewitson had crossed that line. The sheriff’s department believed that at best she was a nuisance and at worst a killer.
What he knew for sure was that she’d driven when she shouldn’t have. “Does she have relatives in the area?”
“No,” Moen said. “She’s from Connecticut.”
“Colorado,” Bergen corrected.
Moen shrugged. “Yeah. Colorado.”
“Why’d she move here?” Jacob asked.
“Why did you?” Sheriff Kwinault countered.
Because someday I’m going walk down to the end of this street and jump off the cliff into that killer ocean. “This picturesque tourist town surrounded by nature at its most glorious is irresistible.”
Sheriff Kwinault glanced at his blacked-out windows. “I can see why you’d think so.”
An alert sounded, an abrupt squall that worked like a live electric wire touched to the base of Jacob’s spine. All three law officers groped for their phones and looked at the text.
In unison, Bergen and Sheriff Kwinault said, “Damn it.”
Moen said, “Ho-ly shit.”
The officer and the deputy ran toward their vehicle.
Sheriff Kwinault put her phone away and said to Jacob, “Mr. Denisov, we have a situation at the other end of the county. Is it possible for us to sign off on this case until tomorrow?”
Must be one exciting situation if all three of them were headed out, leaving him with Mad Maddie Hewitson. “Sure.”
Sheriff Kwinault seemed to know what he was thinking. “I’ve seen no evidence that Miss Hewitson is violent, and I promise you I would not leave you alone with her if I thought she could or would hurt you.”
He looked pointedly at his chair, then pointedly at the SUV’s hood. “On purpose, you mean.”
&n
bsp; “Yes. On purpose. I’ll make sure she understands she cannot remove her car until the insurance adjuster has made an assessment.” Sheriff Kwinault was saying the right things, but clearly she had already mentally moved on to the next crisis. She walked toward Maddie.
Bergen peeled off.
They were leaving. Finally.
But the crowd on the sidewalk was getting thicker.
Jacob needed to escape. Sun shining. People talking. Gossiping. Staring. He wanted to sit in the dark in his chair. But the dark was gone. He could escape to his bedroom. It was so small he only had room for a queen-size bed and a dresser. But aluminum foil blocked those windows, too, and he could curl up on the floor in the corner and—
Maddie put her hand on his arm.
He jumped. He turned on her, hand upraised.
As if by instinct, Maddie lifted her arm to protect her face.
That brought him to his senses. “Don’t touch me,” he said. “Just … don’t.”
“No. I won’t.” She licked her lips as if they were dry. “I wanted to say … the insurance adjuster is on his way.”
“Shit.” Jacob was going to have to stay out here, in the light, on display.
“When I told Mr. Wodzicki what happened, he laughed.” She looked like she was about to shrivel from shame.
“Shit.” Now he was feeling sorry for her. He looked around. Looked for an escape.
“My brother said … he said it just figured.”
Jacob’s gaze lit on the small brown box sitting on the floor beside his chair. He picked it up. “Here.” He handed it to her.
She stared like she didn’t recognize it.
“The sandwich is good. The pasta salad’s okay. I ate the cookie.” She was pale. Probably in shock. Maybe she needed sugar. “Do you have anything to drink?”
“I had a Dr Pepper in the cup holder. It blew all over the dash.”
That explained the brown stains on her clothes. He headed into the kitchen, got a Coke off the counter—he never got around to putting them in the fridge—and brought it out.
She was still standing there, holding the box, staring at the people who were staring back at her.
“Sit!” He barked out the order with every expectation that she would obey.
She did, abruptly, in his straight-back chair.
“Eat!” He was still in command mode. Old habits die hard. He popped the tab on the can and put it on the scarred table beside the chair and stood there, waiting.
She put the box in her lap, opened it, and pulled out the half sandwich. Her fingers had that fine tremble that proved she was low on carbs. She took a bite.
Okay, he had done his good deed for the day, and for the very woman who had crashed into his house. Yay for him. If he kept this up, he would almost be human.
He headed for the back of the house. Now he would lock the bathroom door and sit in the dark …
A car drove up.
Maddie whimpered.
His hand hovered over the doorknob.
He didn’t care. He didn’t care. He didn’t care.
He turned, and saw why she was distressed.
A middle-aged man in a dark suit, white shirt, and blue tie had pulled up in a white car. A sign on his door proclaimed WODZICKI INSURANCE. The guy got out, chatted with the crowd, called a few by name, then turned toward the house and did a staged double take.
The crowd laughed. A few applauded.
Jacob looked at Maddie.
She sat frozen, pale, staring fixedly at the street, as if it had occurred to her she had made his house, his asylum, into a stage that opened onto the street. The fork loaded with pasta salad shook, spilled cooked macaroni and mayonnaise back into the box.
“Drink the Coke!” he barked.
She startled, then blindly reached for the can.
He picked it up and stuck it in her hand. “Do not spill it. We’re already involved in a farce that guarantees the front page of the Hayseed Herald.”
“The Virtue Falls Herald.”
“What?”
“The newspaper. The Virtue Falls Herald. It’s online only, so it’s a virtual front page.”
He examined her to see if she was mocking him. She seemed quite serious. “Drink. Your. Coke,” he said.
As she took a swallow, the can rattled against her teeth, but when she pulled the can away, her hand was steadier, her face a little less strained.
The insurance agent followed the same route as the cops, climbing the debris into the house. He headed right for Jacob. “Mr. Denisov, I’m Dennis Wodzicki.” He took Jacob’s reluctant hand and shook it heartily. “I heard about you on the news. It’s an honor to meet you, sir. A returning veteran. A national hero. We shall never forget!”
Jacob yanked his hand free.
The insurance man was oblivious. He fumbled for his phone. “Can I get a picture with you?” He glanced at Maddie, then dismissed her, stepped close to Jacob, and extended his arm.
A selfie. The stupid bastard wanted a selfie to put on his social media and slap in his advertising, mouthing patriotic crap about how he loved America, and all the while buying dog food from China and cars from Germany.
This son of a bitch had worn a tie to keep the foreskin from flipping over his head. “Save that crap for someone who believes it.” Jacob shoved him aside and walked away, through the kitchen and the bathroom, and into the bedroom. He slammed the door behind him and realized—the old-fashioned lock required a key and he didn’t have any idea where that would be. So he pushed the chest of drawers against the door—it took all his feeble strength. And in case the fatuous insurance POS didn’t get the message, he picked up his glass and flung it at the door.
Goddamn thing was plastic. It bounced back and hit him in the face.
Abruptly, rage became anguish and depression. He sank down on the floor, curled into a little ball, and waited for the pain to batter him again.
It always came back.
It always would.
She’s afraid to go to sleep. It’s better than a movie, watching her struggle to stay awake.
CHAPTER SIX
Monsters live in the real world. Monsters and ghosts and ordinary human beings capable of incredible cruelty.
I am a warrior of the night. I hunt them all.
Maddie used pen and ink in the slow, meticulous re-creation of the heroes and horrors that lived in her mind. Black ink stained the side of her finger and slid under her nail, and she frowned ferociously as she imagined her alter ego, a woman-warrior who trembled with fright yet fought to avenge lives lost and innocence slaughtered.
Then she delved deeper into the old, terrible memories to bring forth the soft-spoken man who started out so normal-looking, then, as the blood began to flow, transformed himself into a monster: hideous, warped … and in that moment, happy. So happy to bring forth fear and loathing, pain and death. Seared onto her mind was that moment when he pulled the leather glove off his left hand and she saw that long nail, pointed and—
Long, skeletal fingers scraped at her window.
Maddie started. Her heartbeat surged.
Logically, she knew the bush outside swayed in the breeze and scratched at her house. No pointed fingernails waved in slow, crooked circles, taunting her, threatening her.
Abruptly, she was outside, a ghostly watcher who drifted above the lawn, and glimpsed the hunched and decayed form dressed in a long black businessman’s coat and a wide-brimmed hat, risen from the grave …
With a gasp, Mad Maddie Hewitson lifted her head from her desk.
She was awake.
She was inside. And awake. Wide awake.
She had fallen asleep, that was all.
She wasn’t crazy.
She was not insane.
But she reached trembling fingers toward the window, making sure the blinds were real and closed. She traced the outline of the blood spatter that marred the corner of her walnut desk. She looked at the clock: 3:24 A.M. Only a few more hours of d
arkness. Surely she could keep herself awake until the sun peeked over the horizon at 5:32 A.M.
When night pressed in and the world filled with slithering darkness, sleep was the enemy. Like a vampire, she always knew what time the sun set and what time it rose.
In daylight, the window looked out over her lawn and the street and, after yesterday’s ordeal, right into Jacob Denisov’s house. In daylight, she kept the blinds open, reveling in every second of cloudless sun and vanquished fear. In daylight, she worked at her desk, the desk her mother had left her, building worlds, creating emotions from words, and crafting pictures that told the stories of her heart.
Her psychiatrist, the good one, had suggested she draw the monster that haunted her. He said getting the beast out of her head and on paper would help exorcise the ghost.
Her brother had agreed that was a good idea, had liked that she could put those art classes she had taken in the sanitarium to use. He pointed out graphic novels were extremely popular with readers and would be great companions to the horror novels she wrote and that they published under his name.
She had refused to draw the monster. She feared to give him form.
Andrew said it was time for Maddie to stop being such a coward.
He hadn’t always been so impatient with her. Yet recently he snapped more easily.
She did try to be brave. She really tried. She used all kinds of coping mechanisms. But she saw things that weren’t there. Of their own volition, pieces of furniture moved in her house. Bowls of rotting food appeared in her refrigerator or on her desk. Worst of all, her lights flickered; she was always afraid they would go off completely, and leave her at the mercy of the demon who took form and sustenance from darkness.
So she didn’t admit to anyone, not even Andrew, that she had finally started experimenting with pen and ink. In the daytime, she wrote on the computer and turned in her allotment of words. When the sun set, she closed herself in. She lowered the white accordion blinds that protected her from ambush by the fiends that hunted, not her alter ego, but her. And she drew.
A metal folding chair like the ones set up in school auditoriums served as her desk chair. It was cold and uncomfortable, but it kept her awake long past the hour when her forehead would have hit the paper.
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