Pretty Little Dead Girls

by Mercedes M. Yardley

  “You’re wondering if the attack on Syrina had anything to do with Bryony. It did. You realize that Bryony is somewhat of . . . a target.”

  Detective Bridger’s eyes sharpened on Rikki-Tikki’s. “I can’t say it’s something I understand, but I can’t deny what I felt when I saw her. She is followed by sorrow. But are you saying that the rest of you suffer consequences for being so close to her?”

  Rikki-Tikki took a bite of muffin. “I wouldn’t call it suffering. We hold our own.” He swallowed. “She’s gone home for a few days. Getting married to Eddie.”

  “Who’s Eddie?”

  “Ed Warshouski. He’s a musician.”

  The detective sighed and Rikki-Tikki thought he didn’t look as severely official as he had before. He looked like somebody who played ball and ate chicken wings and would be fun to hang out with during weekends.

  “Eddie Warshouski. I remember his case. They make a pair,” Detective Bridger said. “Good luck to the both of them. I’m afraid they’ll need it.”

  He turned to go but Rikki-Tikki put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Hey, Detective.”

  “Yes?”

  Rikki-Tikki leaned against the door. “You’re all right. You genuinely want to help our Bryony.”

  “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Rikki-Tikki’s grin looked strangely ghostly, and for a second the detective could see a trace of Bryony in that smile. When she was lost (and yes, he would work as diligently as it is humanly possible for a man to work, but the fact of the tragic matter is that she will indeed be lost), Detective Bridger will comfort himself knowing that on sad, rather melancholy days, Rikki-Tikki will smile a rather dismal smile and there will be, at least for a second, a trace of the Star Girl.

  “You’d be amazed at all of the predators in the world,” Rikki-Tikki said off-handedly. “But I want to tell you this: If you continue to help her, you’re putting yourself and your family in danger.”

  Detective Bridger’s voice was calm. “Is that a threat?”

  Rikki-Tikki’s grin brightened, and all of the world was filled with sun. “No, it’s a very friendly warning. I thought you deserved to hear it. Welcome to our team, Detective Bridger.”

  He shut the door and the detective stood silently for a minute, piecing everything together in his head. His heart was pounding a bit quicker as he walked briskly back to the car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  Pain and Peace

  Today was a beautiful day as far as Mrs. Warshouski was concerned. Her darling Eddie was getting married, and what could possibly be better than that? Why, nothing. Nothing. Soon their house would be full of tiny Edwards and . . . what was her name again? A poisonous flower. Oleander? Baneberry? Goodness, that can’t be it. No mother in her right mind would ever name her daughter Baneberry.

  Mrs. Warshouski could just see it now . . .

  “Why, hello, new mother. I am your nurse. You have a tiny baby girl.”

  “Oh, do I? How utterly delightful. I am ever so happy.”

  “As am I. What a pleasure to assist in the labor and delivery. And what, pray tell, are you going to name your little bundle of goodness and light?”

  “I shall call her Baneberry.”

  “ . . . Shall you? Oh my.”

  “Yes. I wish to give my daughter a rather conflicting name, you see, and I felt that being called after a poisonous flower would do just that. First I thought of Elephant Ear, but you can imagine how that would be when she hits twelve or so—”

  “Yes, yes, I see your point,” the nurse would whisper ever so faintly.

  “And there are so many other names to choose from, really. Gardenia and Foxglove. False Hellebore is just right out, you see, but Baneberry . . . ”

  Mrs. Warshouski shook her head to take the image from her mind. What a terrible fate to befall such a sweet girl. Thank goodness her mother had chosen to call her . . . ooh, if only she could remember.

  It is quite an unusual name, she consoled herself as she bustled around the house. One day it will roll off her tongue like pearls, and she and her daughter-in-law will laugh and laugh about how Mrs. Warshouski was quite befuddled over the name, and couldn’t remember it to save her life.

  “Oh, Mama, you are ever so funny,” the dear girl would say, and kiss Mrs. Warshouski’s cheek. She did hope the child chose to call her Mama, especially after Eddie told her the poor thing didn’t have a mother of her own. Mrs. Warshouski was enough mother to mother them both, and by golly, that was what she was going to do.

  She flung open the windows to the upstairs guest room, letting the night freshen the air. Although she was not quite well enough to board one of those horrid airplanes and traverse the country to attend a last minute wedding. Mrs. Warshouski had asked Eddie, without being pushy, if he and his darling new bride would be willing to come and stay with her so they could enjoy each other’s company.

  “You just want to scope her out, don’t you, Ma?” Eddie teased. Before she even had a chance to chide him for being cheeky, he said: “Of course we’ll be there. I can’t wait for you to meet her, Ma. You’ll love her. And she’ll be just wild about you, I guarantee it.”

  What a nice boy, a sweet boy. A gentle boy who thought about his mother and knew that more than anything she wanted to be liked and accepted by his wife. She wanted to be a part of the family and spend time with the couple, and hold all of their sweet babies. She knew there would be babies, and lots of them, and there would be laughter and joy and frantic phone calls where her charming new daughter would say a bit breathlessly: “Oh, Mama, the little tiger is teething and I have no idea what to do. What is your advice? What do you suggest?” And they would discuss, and she would dispense her sage advice, and the girl would nod on her end of the phone. Then she would say: “Yes, oh yes, that makes so much sense! Thank you. When can you come and visit us?” and they would plan Christmases and Easters and leisurely summer vacations together. It will be splendid.

  “My heart . . . is full,” she said aloud, and it sounded exactly right. She chose to say it again. “My heart is full.”

  So pleased and full of heady dreams was our precious woman that she didn’t even hear the slight sounds were coming from the ground floor of her home. There was the sound of sliding and something tipping over and being gratefully caught at the last minute, and the sound of somebody breathing through their mouth because they were too panicked to breathe through their nose. There was the sound of feet trying their hardest to sound stealthy and the sound of precious-looking things being slid neatly into a backpack. If Mrs. Warshouski would have been thinking about the weather, perhaps, or the Current State of the Economy, it is quite likely she would have been eagerly brought back to reality by such sounds. But alas, she was thinking Happy Thoughts, and Happy Thoughts have a way of inhabiting your mind and soul the same way joyful music or a parasite does, and she was not aware of the oddly peculiar sounds at all. And the creator of the mysterious downstairs sounds was obviously not that aware, either, because he was most surprised when Mrs. Warshouski burst into the room he was currently robbing.

  “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Warshouski. There was a red headed boy with freckles and frightened green eyes staring at her in surprise. He had a beautiful mouth and her mother’s wedding ring in his hands.

  “You weren’t supposed to be home,” he told her. His hand shook, and he slipped the ring into his backpack. He pulled a gun awkwardly out of his waistband.

  “Well, I am. I’m sorry; I didn’t realize I was supposed to be somewhere else.”

  Mrs. Warshouski is a polite woman, a woman who chooses to always think the best of others, and as an end result, she simply could not believe this freckled young lad was training a gun on her. Why, it simply wouldn’t do. Where is the respect he should be showing her? At the same time, her mind ducked low and wrapped its arms around itself protectively.

  “I’m going to have to shoot you, ma’am. I’m sorry of it, I really am, but I ca
n’t have you telling my mother or the police.”

  The young man went deathly white under his freckles, and something in this jogged Mrs. Warshouski’s brain.

  “Ah, Bryony!” she sighed, and the gun went off, and she clutched at her heart and fell to the ground quite heavily. Something snapped underneath her, and there was so much pain and redness and the terrified face of the young wild boy, but there was also peace.

  Bryony. Bryony. That was her name. Ah, yes. What joy. What happiness.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  If You Had Never Met Me

  The phone was ringing back at Stop’s home. It rang for several minutes, silenced itself long enough to take a breath, and then rang again. Stop hobbled into the house, cheeks still glowing from the wedding. Bryony and Eddie were close behind.

  “Hello?” Stop said into the phone. His voice was merry and young, and it reminded Bryony of when she was a child. Stop used to rollerskate with her. He taught her how to climb trees. “Yes, he’s right here. Hold on a second.”

  He handed the phone to Eddie. Eddie grinned at him.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  He didn’t speak for a long time after that, just listened. His face went paler and paler until he rivaled Bryony herself. She pulled a chair over to him and he sat down.

  That’s when she knew.

  Stop must have realized it, too, because he put his arms around his daughter, smoothing her hair. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. It’s not your fault.” His newfound youthfulness was a lie, a dreadful deceit, for he was an old man, and old men cannot always hold back their tears. They ran down his face, and Bryony hugged him with all her strength before she went to stand behind her new husband of less than fifteen minutes.

  “Thank you,” he said faintly into the phone, and Bryony took it from him and hung it up gently. She knelt in front of him and put her hand on his cheeks.

  “Eddie,” she said softly. “Tell me.”

  The words were almost more than he could say, but Eddie is a strong man. A brave man and he wanted to do what was right, even if it was difficult. He swallowed and tried to give voice to his mother’s spirit.

  “My mother. Back home. The neighbor . . . found her.” Bryony gasped, but Eddie continued speaking. “There was a robbery, and she must have walked in on him. He has already confessed, this kid. He’s just a kid, looking for money. My mother . . . ” Tears ran down his face, then, and Bryony climbed into his lap and her starry bracelet shimmered as she threw her arms around him. “She’s dead, Bryony. She’s dead. We were getting married, and she . . . ”

  “Oh, Eddie. I’m so sorry. If only you hadn’t met me, Eddie. It’s a horrible thing to say, but it’s true, and we both know it. If only I had gone somewhere else, picked a different market to wander through that day. If only I hadn’t chased you down with those yellow jonquils and demanded to know why you didn’t like me! Oh, Eddie, you didn’t like me at all, and that was a hurtful thing to me, but it was safe for you. Perhaps I should have let it be, because then your mother—”

  He tried to say consoling things but was too distraught, and she tried to say equally consoling things, but was even more distraught. Stop quietly stepped out of the door and stood on the back porch, giving them time to grieve.

  The desert laughed.

  Stop heard it, and it was a sickly sound, a dark and ancient sound. It sounded even older than Stop felt, and it hardly seemed possible.

  “You wicked, hateful thing,” he said aloud. His bones felt like they would powder right there as he stood, and the desert would lap them up and mix them with its sand. It would create a golem Stop, and nobody would know the difference, except maybe for Bryony, and she wasn’t long for this world either. “You’re nothing but spite and malice. You are an evil, evil old horror.”

  The desert laughed and laughed. The sound made Stop shiver.

  Inside young Eddie and his broken bride still cried.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  He Has a Name

  The murderer was thrilled to see Bryony back on the trail. It had been a few days, not so long, as he was beginning to despair of ever seeing her again, but long enough that he had killed twice more in her absence. Nobody spectacular or even very special; just some random people he deemed suitable. But now she was back and ready to play.

  Only . . . only there was something different about her, and he couldn’t quite figure it out. Something about the way she held herself, something about the shape of her mouth.

  Ah, yes. Grief.

  How unusual. She was a woman born of grief, and yet somehow she was breaking under the weight of it. It was a lovely thing to see, actually, like the branches of a tree snapping under an ice storm, a sort of beauty in the pale horror of the event, but at the same time, he didn’t enjoy seeing her suffer. She moved him in a way he hadn’t often been moved. It was like watching a ghost fade away after you had just grown accustomed to it. It was a difficult thing.

  Well. He would see what he could do.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said, jogging up to her. He made a show of stretching his muscles and kicking around in place for a bit to demonstrate he really had been jogging for a long time, and had not been lurking behind the blackberry bushes like some pervert.

  She looked up in surprise, her shoelaces still in her hands. “Why, hello. Can I help you?”

  He was a familiar man, one she had seen every now and then as she ran past. His hair looked like it was combed very neatly just before his run, and he seemed to have an exorbitant amount of energy, judging by the way he leapt and bounced all across the trail.

  The murderer/jogger man grinned in what he calculated to be a disarming way. “I was just wondering if you could tell me the time. I have an appointment to get ready for and I forgot to bring my watch.” That works, he thought. Believable, friendly but not creepy. At least he hoped. Totally not creepy, right?

  The girl shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand, and a slender ring of stars ran around her wrist. “I’m sorry, I don’t wear a watch,” she said, “but I’d guess that it’s about . . . oh, I don’t know. About seven now? Seven oh five?”

  She was right, actually. He had glanced at his watch quickly before tossing it in the bushes.

  “What makes you say that?” he asked curiously.

  She smiled, just for him, and something inside of him puffed up in joy. He knew he could do it. He knew it! All of these years he feared his lack of talent, his ultimate ordinariness, and now he finds he can make this stunning stunning being feel something—peace or joy or safety or whatever she might be feeling—enough that her sorrow can fall from her body like ancient metal armor, and she can actually smile.

  “It’s the light,” she said. “This is seven o’ clock light, still filtered and the air is full of mist. It’ll burn off soon, and the light will become clearer. I can just usually tell.”

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, what was that?”

  “Nothing. I just said ‘I’m grateful.’ Okay, thanks a lot!”

  He bounded uncreepily away, resisting the urge to glance back and see if the girl was still watching him. He was almost certain that was the case, and he didn’t want to look like an idiot. He put his eyes on the prize, so to speak, and kept up a great, impressive pace until he turned the corner of the trail and disappeared from sight. Then he ducked into the bushes again.

  Our murderer was not a runner, not really. He was built for speed, and a little bit for strength, but not really for endurance. That didn’t matter much anyway, since he tended to pop out and surprise his victims instead of chasing them down the street like a brain dead Neanderthal. Really. Did people actually still do that these days? Wasn’t it the 21st Century?

  Still, he did hunt on the trail, and he did spend a lot of time in his carefully chosen running shorts and a shirt that wicked away perspiration. He quite enjoyed reading the labels on these clothes aloud as he shopped in the stores, because it plea
sed him to say the word “wicking”. In fact, he used the word “wick” and its variances as often as he could.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but would you say that this particular shirt wicks away perspiration?”

  “I don’t know. Does it say anything on the label?”

  “Well, let me see. Ah, yes, right here. ‘Special fabric that wicks away perspiration.’ I suppose that is exactly what I need. In fact, I would like all of my clothes to wick. Would you be so kind as to show me to the wicking section, please? Wick wick wick wick wick.”

  It cannot be said that our murderer does not find enjoyment in life.

  It wasn’t two minutes later that Bryony came running up the trail from behind him and whooshed right past his spot in the bushes. Her gait was relaxed and her arms swung loosely as she ran, not that super tight Barbie doll form so many of the women had these days. Women are supposed to look fabulous in a little black dress. They rear the children, are the workplace’s brainy sexpot, and cook delicious and nutritious dinners. They write bestselling novels and monitor the house’s Internet use while clipping coupons. It was wearing them out. He had noticed that his last few victims gave up on their fight much quicker than the women in the past, and this distressed him. They had a type of weary “Gee, finally-it’s-over” sheen that skidded over their eyes like clouds, and it was, to be honest, disappointing. He expected more.

  In fact, his last victim gave up so quickly that he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

  “Why are you giving up?” he whisper/shouted at her. “This is your life that we’re fighting for!”

  “I’m tired,” she said, and fell limp.

  He held the knife up to her throat, and she didn’t even flinch. “Your life is so much more precious than you think. You really should have fought for it.”

  A quick pull of his knife, left to right, and her body spasmed heavily. He wanted to leave a note on her corpse saying, “She didn’t even try to live. The satisfaction I received from this kill was substandard,” but he decided against it. For one thing, they might be able to trace the note, and he really didn’t want to be caught any time soon. For another . . . it would have been stupid. And Peter Culpert was not a stupid man.