Children of Eternity Omnibus

by P. T. Dilloway

  “Someone underlined a name, so what?”

  “It was left in the victim’s mouth, sir. He wanted me to find it,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So far we have Steve in Savannah and some farmer’s wife in Iowa and now a doctor here in the Windy City. What’s the connection?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  “I want you to explain something to me,” he said. He put on a pair of reading glasses and opened a manila folder. “You bought a ticket from Dallas to Savannah the night before Steve was murdered, is that right?”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “And you were the first person to find this Coleman woman, is that right?”

  “Am I a suspect?” she asked in disbelief.

  “A ‘person of interest’ at this point.”

  “I didn’t kill Steve. How can you think that?”

  “Then why did you go to Savannah before the murder?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I must have received a tip.”

  He shook his head and opened another folder. “You were a good agent,” he said. “One of the best. I don’t understand what’s happened to you. After that incident in Tucumcari I thought we had all this straightened out.”

  “Tucumcari?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t remember. Have you started drinking again?”

  “No. I, I—” she put both hands to her face as a scene played before her eyes. A stretch of desert highway. A swarm of flashing lights—police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances. She gets out of her car, pushes her way through the crowd, and sees it. A family sedan with its front end crushed and a pick-up truck with minimal damage. Three bodies are laid out on gurneys. She goes over to the first one and sees her father. On the second one lies her mother. Twenty-five years to the day they died the first time. Now it’s happened again. She goes over to the third gurney, on which lies a twelve-year-old girl with her eyes open, staring into Samantha’s. “My God,” she whispered. “My God.”

  “Sam, you need help. I can get you into a good facility, but you have to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I don’t know! Someone keeps giving me these clues. I don’t know who or why. But you have to believe me that someone is going to die if don’t do something.”

  “I’ll talk with the locals and see about beefing up security for this thing. That’s the best I can do. But then you have to come back to Dallas with me to figure this out.”

  “That’s not good enough, sir. A couple extra beat cops won’t stop this guy. I have to be there.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Young.”

  “Sir, please. I know I’ve been a mess these last few years, but you have to believe I would never murder anyone.” She leaned forward with tears in her eyes. “I would never do that to Steve or Judy. They were my friends.”

  “Sam, I want to believe you, but you’re in a lot of hot water here. I can’t let you walk out of here—”

  “Give me until eight o’clock tonight. That’s all I ask.”

  He considered this for a moment and finally nodded. “All right, Sam. I can buy you a few hours, but that’s it.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll find this guy.”

  “You’d better, Young. My ass is on the line now.”

  “You can count on me, sir.” She patted him on the shoulder on the way out and then hurried to the elevator. In two hours Herschowitz would take the stage.

  She flagged down an actual cab this time. On the way to the hotel, she kept looking back for anyone following her. He wouldn’t do that, she thought. He’d known her for a long time. She didn’t know how long exactly, but too long to betray her.

  She raced through the hotel’s lobby up to the front desk. “I need the room number for William Herschowitz,” she said, holding up her badge. The desk clerk gave her the number and she bolted for the elevator.

  Before the elevator doors closed, she caught a glimpse of a woman striding through the lobby in a hurry. Her wild black mane and cocoa-colored skin seemed familiar to Samantha. Had she seen the woman before? She didn’t know.

  The woman continued to trouble Samantha as the doors opened on the seventh floor. She went down the hall to Herschowitz’s room and knocked. “Dr. Herschowitz, this is Agent Young of the FBI. I need a moment of your time.” She waited a moment, but heard nothing from inside. “Please, sir, this is important. You’re in danger.” Still nothing.

  Then she noticed the drop of blood on the carpet. She broke down the door and took the pistol from her jacket. “Dr. Herschowitz? Are you here? Are you hurt?”

  She found him on the bed, a single bullet wound through the heart. A .38 caliber, she thought, examining the wound. The same type as she held in her hand. She felt for a pulse, but didn’t feel anything. He was already dead. She had failed.

  She sat down on the bed next to him, dropping the gun back into her pocket. Fitzgerald, then Judy, and now Herschowitz. “I’m sorry,” she said. She looked over at his wrinkled face, the skin still a livid pink. His eyes drilled into her, just like the girl’s in Tucumcari.

  “You two have a good time,” he says.

  “Thanks, Mr. Herschowitz,” she says. They step through the gym doors. She feels like Cinderella arriving at the ball to meet Prince Charming, except her prince is already here, his arm around hers.

  She self-consciously runs a hand along her dress. “Do I look all right?” she whispers into his ear.

  “You look beautiful,” he says. He kisses the stray hairs behind her ear. Her face blushes with heat. She knows everyone is watching them, laughing at her. Who’s that? someone is bound to ask. That’s the gawky orphan girl who lives with that crazy old lady outside town, someone else will answer. What am I doing here? she wonders.

  She shouldn’t be here. She hates this dress. She hates its pinkness and its ruffles that make her feel three years old. She hates wearing her hair up like this with the flowers woven in, digging into her scalp. “You look muy bonita,” Aunt Beth had said. “My beautiful senorita.” She flashed one of her toothless smiles that made her cringe and laughed her wicked witch cackle that scared the neighborhood children away. Why did he have to ask her to come to this?

  He guides her across the crowded dance floor, where everyone bops along to some ancient song. “You want some punch?” he shouts into her ear to be heard over the music. She wants to shake her head, but doesn’t want to upset all the hair and flowers piled on top; he gets the message from her irritated glare. “How about we sit this one out,” he says.

  He leads her over to the bleachers where the dateless wonders and chaperones have gathered. He tries to put his arm around her, but she shrugs it off. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Dances aren’t really my thing,” she says.

  “You only get one senior prom,” he says. “May as well have a good time.”

  He gives her that lopsided grin of his, the one she fell in love with the first time she saw him two years ago. Back then he didn’t know she existed. She was just the tall, shy girl with a curtain of black hair covering her zits skittering along the hallways. Such a handsome boy who stalked the hallways so confidently could never have an interest in her. And yet, here they are. “I’m boring you,” she says.

  “No you aren’t. I’m not much of a dancer either. That why I play baseball: it’s all left turns.”

  She giggles at this. He always knows how to cheer her up. How did I ever get so lucky? she wonders as she has since they started going out.

  She remembered hearing that Stacey, his girlfriend, broke up with him over Valentine’s Day and staring at the telephone for hours to work up the courage to call him. All weekend she sat by the phone, wanting to dial the number but always unable to go through with it. Then, as if reading her mind, he came up to her locker on Monday. “I left my algebra book at home. Could I borrow yours for third period?” he asked.

  “Yes! I mean, sure. It’s no problem.” She r
eached into the locker with trembling hands and found the book. Her hands were shaking so badly that she dropped it onto the floor. “Oh, I’m sorry. Let me—”

  He stooped down to pick up the book. “Thanks. I’ll bring it back later,” he said.

  “I’ll be here,” she said. Before fifth period he returned, handing the book to her with a wink. She stood there in shock a moment before she realized he’d left a note in the book. The note said, “Thanks for the book. I’d like to see you again. How about the Blue Hole Café after school?”

  He sat alone in a corner booth with a Pepsi and a stack of thick books. Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Nabokov. “That’s some pretty heavy reading,” she said.

  “I don’t read them. I just carry them around to help me stay in shape,” he said. He flashed that grin of his, this time meant for her and only her.

  He’s right: they only have one senior prom. She might as well have a good time. A Carpenters tune comes on and she takes his hand. “This sounds more my speed,” she says.

  He leads her onto the dance floor and soon proves he wasn’t kidding about being a poor dancer. They spend half the song stepping on each other’s feet until they stop trying to move and just sway together. She clings to his body, closing her eyes to focus only the feel of him against her. Nothing else matters.

  When the song is over, he kisses her. “I love you, Jackie,” he says.

  “Oh, Andre, I love you too,” she says. They’re about to kiss again when a hand taps her on the shoulder.

  “I need to speak with you,” Mr. Herschowitz says. His face is more flushed than usual. She wonders what she could have done to get in trouble. Andre moves to follow her and Mr. Herschowitz until he adds, “In private.”

  “I’ll be right here when you get back,” Andre says.

  In front of the trophy case outside the gym, Mr. Herschowitz takes her hand. “I’m very sorry, Jackie,” he says. “I just received word from the police. There’s been a terrible accident. Your aunt has passed away.”

  “What? How?”

  “There was a fire. The entire house is lost I’m afraid. She didn’t get out in time. I’m sorry. I know this must be awful for you—”

  “You don’t know anything!” she screams. Her parents and now Aunt Beth. Dead. She doesn’t have anyone. Except for Andre. He loves her. Everyone I love ends up dead, she thinks. I can’t do this to him.

  She pushes Mr. Herschowitz away and bursts through an emergency exit. The sound of a fire alarm rings in her ears as she escapes into the night. Like Cinderella she leaves a shoe behind as she runs all the way to the highway to hitchhike in her prom dress. After a few minutes of waiting, a tractor-trailer pulls over. When she climbs up into the cab, the driver asks, “Where you heading?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I’m going to Albuquerque. I can drop you there.”

  “That’s fine,” she says.

  “You come from a wedding or something?” he asks.

  “A funeral,” she says. A funeral for both Aunt Beth and Andre. She’s alone now, for the rest of her life.

  A click brought her back to reality. “Hands up,” the agent in the T-shirt and shorts said.

  “I didn’t kill him,” she said. She knew this would do no good. The murder weapon was the same caliber as hers. She was here at the same time the murder happened. That was more than enough to keep her for questioning.

  She turned around with her hands up just as Assistant Director Tanner came into the room. “I’m sorry, Sam, but you’ve left me no choice,” he said.

  “I’m sorry too,” she said. She ripped the gun away from the agent in the T-shirt, knocked him to the floor with an elbow, and then shot his partner in the knee before he could fire. This left her to deal with Tanner. She aimed the gun at his chest. “I’ve got to leave now,” she said.

  “You won’t get out of here,” he said.

  “We’ll see.” She turned back to the body of Mr. Herschowitz for a moment. Sticking out of his belt she found a brochure for St. John’s Senior Community in St. John’s, New Hampshire. “This isn’t over yet, sir.”

  She brushed past Tanner on her way out. In the hallway she found another pair of agents. She disposed of them in short order and then ran to the stairway. She pounded down the steps to the ground floor and then went out the fire exit as she had when she left Andre at the prom.

  As she ran down an alley, her mind turned to the woman in the lobby. This was the killer. She would stake her life on it. In a way, I already have, she thought.

  Chapter 18: The Fountain

  Molly paused on the hilltop to bend down and pick a flower. She studied the round yellow blossom. It smelled sweeter than any flower in England. She couldn’t remember anything so lovely since leaving Ireland.

  She lay down in the grass, thinking back to when she was a very little girl—four or five, she couldn’t remember—and Mama and Papa took her to visit cousin Danny out in the country. She gawked at the lush green hills that were unlike anything in Dublin. “What is this place?” she asked Mama.

  “These are meadows, dear,” Mama said.

  Later on, while the grown-ups were talking about grown-up things, Molly went outside to run through the meadows. The air, the grass, even the dirt smelled fresh and clean. She flopped onto the ground, rolling around to soak in the scent until her white dress turned green and brown.

  She got up and continued running into a field dotted with flowers similar to the one she held in her hand. Beautiful yellow flowers, each as bright as a miniature sun. She breathed in the flower’s perfume, savoring it in her memory for years to come. When she returned to Dublin with Mama and Papa, she cried at the stale air tinged with rotting garbage and animal waste. “Mama, when can we go back to the country?” she asked.

  “Soon, dear, very soon,” Mama said. They never did go; Mama and Papa died of fever a few years later and Molly was sent not to Cousin Danny in the country but to hateful Aunt Clara in dreary old England.

  Until she came here to the New World, Molly never thought she would smell anything like those flowers in the meadow again. Reverend Crane said they had found paradise and she had to agree. This place must be the lost Garden of Eden with its enchanting sights and smells that made her feel so alive.

  She decided she must get Mrs. Gooddell out of that dank old tent and up to the top of the hill. Surely the wonderful flowers would cheer her up; she’d been in such a terrible funk for the last day. Mrs. Gooddell said even less than usual and almost anything made her cry. Molly wondered if the missus weren’t receiving a visit from Miss Redbottom as Aunt Clara used to say. Or more likely Mrs. Gooddell was feeling sad about her husband going off to talk with the savages.

  Molly couldn’t understand why Mr. Gooddell wanted to talk with them. Reverend Crane said the savages were heathens and couldn’t be trusted to keep their word like God-fearing people. She couldn’t doubt an intelligent—and handsome—man like Reverend Crane, even though Mr. Gooddell had been nice to her for these last five years.

  The sooner the mister went out on his trip and came back, the sooner Molly supposed Mrs. Gooddell would come to her senses. Or at least as close to her senses as she ever came. There was something never quite right about the missus. She acted nice and polite enough most of the time, but her eyes were always darting about like she was looking for a way out. Molly couldn’t imagine what could make a body so jittery. She thought once again about bringing Mrs. Gooddell out here. Among the pretty flowers, the missus might feel safe enough to relax.

  Molly breathed in another lungful of the air, letting it wash through her. When she closed her eyes, she imagined taking Reverend Crane here, walking hand-in-hand through the grass. He stops to pick one of the flowers and gives it to her. She tucks it into her hair as he leans forward to kiss her. “I love you,” he says.

  “But Reverend, if anyone found out—”

  “I don’t care. I can’t hold back my love for you any longer. I simply must have you, Molly. Rig
ht here. Tonight,” he says. He unbuttons her dress. Then he takes her into his arms and eases her down among the soft grass. The perfume of the flowers mixes with that of the reverend—

  Someone tramping through the grass nearby broke Molly’s spell. She opened her eyes to find the night sky looking down on her. Oh no, the mister and missus are going to be so angry with me, she thought. Mr. Gooddell is probably looking for me.

  She lifted her head to see not Mr. Gooddell searching for her, but the stowaway creeping through the grass away from the camp. Molly flattened herself on the grass so the boy wouldn’t see her unless he happened to walk right on her. What’s he doing here? she wondered.

  Molly had heard Mrs. Bloom and Miss Baker tell Mrs. Applegate about a red-haired stowaway. Molly bristled at first, thinking they were referring to her. When they mentioned he called himself Wendell, she relaxed. This Wendell had almost killed Mrs. Bloom and then locked both young women up during the meeting. No one had seen him since, but Mr. Pendleton said Wendell was a no-good thief and liar and they were all better off if he never came back.

  She followed Wendell with her eyes as he disappeared into the forest, carrying something in his hands. He must have sneaked back into the camp to steal something from some poor person. Maybe he had killed someone. She ought to go down and check on the mister and missus in case they were hurt. But then again, if she came back now they would be angry with her for disappearing for hours.

  If she came back with information about where this stowaway was hiding and what he was up to, then they would consider her a hero. She stood up and followed Wendell into the forest. The trees blocked out most of the moonlight, but there was enough for her to track him by his red hair. She hoped he didn’t look back and see her own red hair.

  She did her best not to make a sound as they went deeper into the forest, but every now and then she stepped on a twig or ran into a low-hanging branch. At these moments she froze and ducked behind cover. The stowaway looked back twice; she felt his unseen eyes on her. He cocked his head to listen while Molly held her breath. Then he moved on into the forest. She waited a moment to follow him.