by J. L. Murray
“Redemption?” she said. “For what?”
“Come on. You know for what.”
Beatrice sat back in her chair and crossed her wrinkled arms across her spindly chest, narrowing her eyes at me. “For the fire?”
“Yes, for the fire,” I said, not meeting her eyes. “And what happened after.”
“You didn't do anything wrong,” she said, steel in her voice. “Look at me, Frances.” I looked at her. Beatrice shook her head at me. “You don't really believe that you done wrong, do you?”
“I burned my sister alive,” I said. “I'm a sinner.”
“Fuck that.”
It was startling hearing her curse, though I should have remembered. When Rebecca and I came here as kids, Beatrice was always cussing like a sailor. It was one of the reasons I loved her so much. She didn't pretend in front of us just because we were kids. And she didn't make us feel guilty for everything we said or did.
“Wasn't your sister you killed,” she said.
I froze, watching her. She didn't look away.
She leaned forward. “And you know it.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say. Bea had always been on my side, even when no one else was.
“I know why you're here, Frankie,” she said, “and it's not for redemption or atonement or any other bullshit.”
“Why am I here, then?”
“Because you've seen this before.”
I swallowed hard, remembering my father's face, telling me to run. I closed my eyes.
“It's not the same,” I said.
“I'm saying it's happening again. I'm saying that maybe,” she tipped back the last of her drink, “the killing never stopped.”
I shook my head. “This doesn't make sense.”
“You're thinking too small,” she said, rising stiffly from her chair and leaving the table. She walked to the corner and moved a dusty pile of books, bringing out what looked like gilded picture frame. When she brought it closer, I saw that it was a mirror.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I said, holding the mirror that she shoved at me.
“Look,” she said, clearly annoyed.
I held up the mirror, sighing. I looked at my reflection in the glass, blinking tired eyes, noting the two bumps in my hair again. I thought I'd fixed those.
“Not you, dummy,” she said. “Look around. In the mirror.”
I blinked at Beatrice over the gilded frame. “Bea...”
“Just goddamn do it!”
I looked at the mirror again, skimming over my own face and aiming the mirror over my shoulder. I looked at the reflection of Beatrice's cluttered house, a chair and small side table covered in books and baskets of things, and a wood stove covered with stuff. I frowned at a shape that seemed out of place and moved the mirror back. I blinked, trying to understand what I was seeing.
“What the fuck...”
Staring back at me, her pale skin tinted blue, her blonde curls drained of color, was a child. She blinked, and I nearly dropped the mirror. I stood quickly, knocking over the chair as I spun around. There was no one there. I looked at Beatrice, who was smugly rolling a cigarette.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Look again. You know you have to.”
I held the mirror, aiming it behind me. Again the child blinked morosely at me. She was holding something, and I tipped the mirror to see. It was a hand. A hand connected to another child, her hair cut into a bob, but otherwise identical. I spun around again, looking for them.
But there was no one there.
“What the fuck is going on?” I said, my voice cracking.
“Sit down,” said Beatrice, lighting her cigarette. “We can talk now.”
I held up the mirror to look at the children again. I had no doubt in my mind that these were the Kroger twins.
“Are they ghosts?” I said.
“Not exactly. Your body has to be dead to be a ghost.”
“Their father said they were at their grandmother's,” I said, unable to take my eyes from the children. “Was he lying?”
“No, of course not. Sit down, Frankie.”
I looked at Beatrice, the smoke curling around her hard face. I set the mirror carefully on the table as if it would explode, and picked up my chair from the floor, easing down into it.
“What is this?” I said. “Did you do something to the glass?”
“You think I've got some kind of otherworldly magic?”
“Everyone always said you were a witch.”
“Yeah, I am, but herbs. I'm a healer. You know that. Just a little kitchen witch. Just trinkets and tea, Frankie.”
“Then how is this happening?”
“It's not the one mirror,” said Beatrice. “It's every mirror. Far as I can tell, it's every single mirror in town. I don't see them every time, but when they're there, you can't miss them. These girls, I guess they got attached to me. Alyssa was a friend of mine. She brought the girls over here at least once a week. Kids love me. I've no idea why.”
I had an idea, but I didn't say anything. Instead, I picked up the mirror again.
“It's not just the girls, you know,” she said. “It's all of them.”
“All of who?” I said, watching the girls. One of them had started to mouth something, but I couldn't hear anything. I squinted at her face, trying to understand.
“Every death, every house in this damn town. They're everywhere.”
“You can see the dead in the mirrors?” I said. The girl with the short hair was holding her hand towards me, looking alarmed. I frowned.
“Not the dead,” said Beatrice. “The survivors.”
I flicked my eyes to meet hers.
“Almost every accident was a murder, far as I can tell,” said Beatrice, stubbing out her cigarette in an ashtray. “And every time, at least one in the family of survivors, I can see them in the mirrors.” She nodded at my look, her eyes softening. “Yeah, I've seen your mother, too. The real one. Not your sister, though. At least, not anymore.”
“So these little girls,” I began, trying to wrap my mind around it. “The real Kroger twins are in this room. And the girls walking around in their bodies–”
“Makes your skin crawl, doesn't it?” said Beatrice. “Those poor kids.”
“Alyssa was murdered by her own kids?”
“Not her kids,” said Beatrice. “Just like that wasn't your mother. And it wasn't your sister that you killed, Frankie, no matter what you think.”
I looked back into the mirror and almost jumped when I saw that both the girls were screaming. There was no sound, but their faces were frantic. They were pointing to something. Something behind me? Behind the mirror? I squinted.
Then a movement caught my eye. My reflection. I watched my own face, the bumps on my head seeming bigger than before. The face looking back at me was smiling. But I wasn't. I couldn't pull my eyes away. It was my face, my reflection, but it was moving on its own. I watched as it narrowed its eyes at me. Then it raised a hand.
“Frankie? What is it? Let me see.”
Beatrice was hobbling over to me, but I didn't look up. I was watching the reflection that looked just like me as it raised a hand, a blazing blue hand print rising through the glass, burning like blue flame for a moment. When the reflection took her hand away, the blue hand print stayed.
“Oh gods,” Beatrice said under her breath.
The reflection had gone back to normal. Except for one thing. As the blue hand print faded, disappearing slowly, like frost melting on a window, I looked at the top of my head in the mirror. I reached up to touch my hair, but it felt smooth, just as it had that morning.
“Frankie,” said Beatrice. She sounded terrified. She gripped the back of my chair. I suspected she might fall over if she let go.
On top of my head, in my reflection in the gilded mirror, two small horns rose out of my hair. I felt my head again. Nothing.
My reflection winked.
“Shit,” I breathed.
“That's not go
od,” said Beatrice.
“What does it mean?” I said, throwing the mirror on the table face-down. “Bea, what the fuck just happened?” I was standing again, staring at the back of the mirror. “What is going on in this goddamn town?”
Bea's eyes were wide and she kept moving her mouth like a fish trying to breathe in the open air. She was staring at me like I was already dead, her eyes filling with tears.
“Don't do that,” I said, anger in my voice. “Don't you look at me like that. I'm already dead, remember? They can't steal my soul. I haven't got one.”
“Of course you do,” said Beatrice, finally able to stutter out some words. “Look at you. Just look at yourself.”
“The blue hand print,” I said. “What does that mean?”
“I don't know,” she said, biting her lip.
“You're lying!” I screamed. “Why are you lying?”
“Because!” she shouted back. “You're as good as dead now.”
I blinked at her, trying to catch my breath. My heart, usually slow, was beating so fast I thought it might burst.
“Explain,” I said, my voice low and quiet. I sat down slowly, watching Beatrice's face. She shook her head, her eyes weepy. “Explain, Beatrice.”
Bea swallowed hard, looking down at her gnarled hands. “Alyssa told me,” she began, wringing her fingers together, “the last time I ever saw her. The last time I ever saw the girls in the living world. She told me Brianna told her Kyra’s reflection was laughing at her.”
“Laughing?” I said, closing my eyes. “And?”
“And she saw a blue hand print,” said Bea, her voice barely a whisper. “When Alyssa looked, there wasn't anything there. But Brianna couldn't stop crying. Said her sister's reflection was a monster.”
“So the hand print is, what?” I said, opening my eyes and meeting hers. “A warning?”
“More than that,” said Bea. She reached across to take my hand, but I pulled away, balling my fists in my lap. Bea looked away. “You never did like anyone to touch you.”
“The more things change,” I said coldly, not sure why I was angry with Beatrice. It wasn't her fault. She was the only person who had any earthly idea what was going on. I was scared for the first time in a long time. What I really wanted was something to blame. Something to kill.
But how do you kill a reflection? And if you kill the thing, what happens to the person? The soul? Are they trapped in the mirror forever, like a ghost?
“They're marking you,” Beatrice said, her voice suddenly steady, steely. “That's what I think it means. Since you asked so sweet.”
I felt the shadow of a smile cross my face.
“Bea, I'm sorry,” I said.
“Nothing to apologize for,” she said, sniffing. “You're not here for me. I know.”
“How is no one noticing this?” I said, feeling overwhelmed.
“I suppose you have to know what you're looking for,” she said. “You have to be open to it, maybe. Could be, you have to be touched by death. Or maybe people don't really pay attention to what they see in the mirror.”
“They see what they want to see,” I said.
“But what are you going to do about it?” said Beatrice. “Those little girls are not who they appear to be.”
“They're at their grandmother's,” I said.
“They won't kill again, not for a time. You have time to find out how to stop them.” She was watching my face.
“You mean I have time to find out how to save myself,” I said. Beatrice was quiet for a long moment, and when she spoke again her voice was quiet.
“You know I didn't stop loving you the moment your father died, don't you? No, don't answer. What I mean to say is I know you feel like all the love went out of the world in the instant you saw the life go out of him. I know you, Frankie. I know your whole world revolved around your father and his moods. He loved you more than anything, it's true. And I cannot imagine what it did to you to see those things kill him dressed like your family. But he's not the only one who loved you. I bawled for weeks when you were executed. I was inconsolable.”
“I'm not very good with this stuff, Bea,” I said.
“I know. But it's important I say it. Do you believe me?”
“Yeah,” I said, irritated. But I sneaked a look at her that wasn't annoyed at all. “Yeah, I believe you.”
“Good,” she said.
“One thing, though. You said you saw my mother in the mirror.”
She stiffened. “Yep.”
“Where?”
She met my eyes. “Where do you think?”
I frowned. “The old church,” I said, knowing it was true. Knowing that was her favorite place, the place she'd felt closest to God. As a child, I never understood. Church always made me itch. But I knew now. Church had been my mother's Beatrice, her favorite place. The place she'd felt safe.
I reached for the mirror, careful not to look at the glass.
“Can I take this?” I said.
“Take anything you want.”
It was scorchingly hot when I left Beatrice's house and I had the windows down when I pulled up to the place where our church used to be. I walked to the steps with the mirror in my hand. Taking a deep breath, I turned around and held up the mirror. My reflection seemed to follow my movements, despite her horns rising even higher off her head. They'd gone from a milky pink to a dusky black, forking and coming to four sharp points. Even though I knew I wouldn't find anything, I couldn't help but feel the top of my head.
“I need another drink,” I said.
I turned the mirror, looking for someone I never thought I'd want to look for. My mother may have been misguided in nearly everything in her life, but now I knew for certain she hadn't murdered my father. Murdered him with my sister, who hadn't been my sister after all.
I moved the mirror around, searching until I wanted to scream.
“Mom, are you here?” I said aloud, feeling stupid. “If you're here, I really need to see you. Please.”
The crickets seemed louder. The hot wind blew my hair behind me, and rattled through the pine trees.
“You know, I never really felt like it was you,” I said, looking behind me in the mirror, watching the line of forest, the tall grass being taken over by knapweed, the lines around me that used to be walls. “It couldn't have been you who killed him. You loved him. Even when maybe he didn't deserve it. Those women...” My voice cracked and I had to take a breath. “I didn't know for sure, Mama. I didn't know until today how it happened. When I killed her, I don't know what I thought. But not this. But I need you to tell me something. I need to know.”
I turned and nearly jumped when I saw someone there. She was blue, like the little girls, her hair on top of her head just like she'd always worn it, her long dress barely kissing the ground. She was moving closer, step by step, until she was almost touching me. If I reached behind me, I could almost...
But my hand grazed nothing but air. And my mother's ghost was crying, her hand reaching up to touch my hair.
“What did I do?” I said, not caring that my voice was full of emotion. Not caring that my face was wet and soggy with tears. Right now, I wished I'd let Bea touch me. Hug me. Whatever normal people did when they needed affection. “You have to tell me, Mama. Did I do something to her? Or was she already gone when I burned her?”
I watched my mother for what seemed like hours in the mirror. But she didn't answer me, no matter how many times I asked her. She only stared, sobbing silently on the other side of the mirror. After a while, the shape of her faded away like morning mist.
A raven cried.
chapter seven
T
he sun was low in the sky when I finally pulled into the Pinecrest. I walked into the bar and blinked in the darkness, then made a beeline for the bar and sat down on a stool. Roo hurried over to me.
“Look, I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier,” I said. “But you have to understand–”
“You've
got to get out of here,” Roo whispered heatedly.
“What? I said I was sorry, Roo.”
“No, Frankie, you listen to me now.” She was leaning forward, something on her face desperate. “You have to go. This guy has been here all day. Something about working with you in the Chicago P.D. And he's not asking for any Gina Franklin. He's asking for Frankie goddamn Mourning. You're not really a cop, right?”
“Where?” I said, scanning the bar.
“I mean, he knew you were pretending, I think. I mean, he didn't say that, I just...He's big and mean-looking even though he's being polite, and Frankie, you have to get the fuck out of here before he comes out of the bathroom and–”
“Frankie!” a voice boomed as the door to outside opened. Shawn Delaney came walking quickly toward me.
“Jesus Christ, keep your goddamn voice down,” I said, getting off the stool and getting ready to run for the door. “I'm not here, remember, Shawn?”
“No, you're not leaving this bullshit in my lap,” said Shawn. “I'm not your fucking lapdog anymore, Frankie. I'm not going down for this.”
“What are you talking about?” I said, looking for the sign for the bathroom and finding it. My fight or flight was telling me to run, and I was inclined to agree. Fuck this town, whoever I was working for was just going to have to find someone else. Things had become too complicated. Too many people knew me here. I’d told too many people the truth.
“Frankie, look at me,” said Shawn. “Do I look like a bitch?”
I almost laughed. “Do you really want me to answer that?”
“Goddammit, you said it was just the car. You didn't say anything about what was inside the car. Fuck you, Frankie. This isn't my mess.”
“Inside the car?” I finally focused on Shawn. “What was inside the car?”
“Right. Like you didn't know. Is this to get back at me for turning you in? For talking to the cops? I don't know how you're here, but I'm not getting rid of your fucking dead body.”
Roo and I both stared at him.
“You asked him to get rid of a body?” she whispered.
“No!” I turned to Shawn. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, no, I'm not falling for that,” said Shawn. “This is not happening. I'm not doing this. You're like fucking poison, Frankie Mourning. You always were.”