“After that, everything was just an excuse to let go. At first I didn’t even realize it. I honestly thought that I was reacting reasonably to extreme provocation, and that there was no reason to feel bad about what I was doing. It took my friends rubbing my nose in it for me to understand what was happening, and to be ashamed of it.
“I’m still me, I think. I’m not angry at more things, just more angry at the same things. And I can control it, mostly, but sometimes I go too far.” I didn’t say why out loud. I didn’t say that sometimes it felt too good to stop. That I couldn’t.
She nodded and said, “Okay.”
I knew that I needed her help, but I said it anyway. “We should part ways at the airport.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere, Abe.”
“Why not? Henry told you that I might be crazy or dangerous, or both. And honestly? I can’t say he’s wrong.”
“Because he also said something else.”
“Which was?”
“He said to trust you. And I do.”
I let out the breath that I had been holding. “Might not be smart.”
“You mean smart like when I decided to help you chase down a guy who makes his own serial killers? I don’t think you have to worry about me doing the smart thing all of a sudden.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ve never turned on my friends.”
She smiled. “Good to know.”
“Now, if that’s settled, tell me how I smell.”
She reached across the cab and took my hand. Her fingers were warm and firm across my palm. She raised my hand to her face and inhaled deeply. “There’s a faint smell like them, but mostly you smell like a thunderstorm. Like lightning.”
“Patty used to call it ‘goosey.’ I’ve heard him describe that smell about other things. The lightning smell, not the bag smell.”
She gave my hand a squeeze and then let it go. “I thought you said that unnatural things smelled bad. Are you saying now that some do and some don’t? What, like evil smells bad and good doesn’t?”
“I asked him the same thing. He told me that good and evil didn’t exist, but wrong did. Some things don’t fit in here, their existence isn’t compatible with ours. They shouldn’t exist at all. Wrong smells bad.”
“So there are other things out there that don’t smell bad?”
“Most things, I would guess. Not everything we tracked down was wrong for this world.”
“Like what?”
I shook my head and smiled. “I said they fit in here, I didn’t say they were pleasant.”
I felt content, maybe even happy. It wasn’t all the afterglow of the violence, either. I was alive again. I was out in the world, and I wasn’t alone. It felt damned good.
14
I had expected more trouble getting the police shotgun through airport security, but it turned out to be easy. It was unloaded and in a checked bag, so after a minimum of fuss and some paperwork, into the cargo hold it went.
Harder was taking the altar piece with me in my carry-on duffel. It radiated a sick dread that seemed to affect everyone around me. By the time we landed, the passengers and stewardesses were so close to bloodshed that the captain ordered everyone to their seats and cancelled drink service.
It seemed not to affect Anne and myself outside of making us uncomfortable, which made me wonder if being tainted by the unnatural made us more resistant. In any case, I couldn’t wait to be rid of the greasy, evil thing.
We rented another car and then stopped at a big discount store to get shotgun shells and ammo for my.45. Guns you can check pretty easily, with ammo it’s better to just buy it when you land.
Afterwards we had dinner at a vegetarian Indian restaurant. Anne was smug about dragging me in there, but the joke was on her, the food was delicious. By the time we were done it was getting late, so I checked us into a hotel.
You don’t go visiting elderly widows at midnight unless you’re looking for jewelry and pain killers. The hotel didn’t have adjoining rooms, so we got one with two beds. Safety won out over privacy.
The room was cheap, but clean. The carpet was mint green and the walls were yellow, but the room lamps weren’t bright enough to make it painful. I let Anne have the shower first because I like to think that I’m a gentleman. I stared at the ceiling listening to the sound of the water while I waited for my turn.
Shad’s narrow, rat-like face scowled at me from my memory. “I know,” I said under my breath. “The point of no return is coming up.” I began to weigh the lives of a lot of people that I didn’t know against the life of one girl I barely knew. It should have been easy math, but I guess I’m as selfish and shortsighted as the next person.
On the one hand, I felt responsible for whatever mayhem Piotr was up to these days, since I didn’t try to stop him when I had the chance. On the other hand, I increasingly felt the irresistible tug of life, and being able to confide in someone who knew my secret was a big part of it.
The fact that she was smart, funny, and beautiful didn’t hurt, either. Could I sacrifice her well-being, maybe even her life, in pursuit of righting an old wrong? Was it right to let countless people die to protect her, or did the greater good demand whatever sacrifice might be required?
I assumed that I wasn’t going to be coming back, but then I knew more than she did about what we would be facing. It’s one thing to hurl yourself onto a suicidal course with understanding and intent, but blindly following someone you trust down that path is something else entirely.
I heard the shower shut off, and Anne came out with one towel wrapped around her head and another around her body. She padded across the carpet and began digging around in her duffel. “Turn around.”
“You’re getting dressed in here?” I turned my back to her just in time to hear the towel drop to the ground.
“Well, you’ve already seen my ankles, there’s no mystery left now.”
“Very funny. I’m not that old.”
“Okay, I’m done.”
I turned back around, only to find that she was wearing nothing but a thin T-shirt and panties. “I thought you said you were done?”
“You were expecting a housecoat, maybe? I wasn’t planning on sharing a room with anyone when we bought clothes, and this is how I sleep. You’ll survive.” She put her damp towels in the bathroom, then slid into her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. “There, happy?”
“Only if you go up another foot.” I took my shower.
A sound woke me. Red numbers floated next to my bed in the dark room, illuminating nothing. Icy dread gripped me as I became convinced that somehow a worm-infested killer had snuck into the room while we were sleeping. I listened hard, and I heard the sound again. It was a low, harsh gasp, and a faint rustle of bedclothes. It was coming from Anne’s side of the room. I slipped out of bed, my eyes perfectly at home in the dark as always.
Anne’s head was thrashing back and forth on her pillow and her hands were clutching and wrenching at her sheets. Her eyes were closed, but her face was filled with fear. She was whispering “please” and “no” over and over in her sleep.
I put my hands on her shoulders and said, “Anne?” Her eyes flew open and she screamed. She tried to throw herself out of bed, but I held on tight as she struggled. “Anne! It’s me. It’s Abe. You’re okay. It was just a nightmare.”
“Abe?” She sagged, suddenly limp. “Can you turn on the light? Please?” After I did, she searched my face, squinting in the sudden light, and then threw her arms around me. She held on tight, forcing me to sit down on her bed next to her. I held her in return. She trembled and cried silently.
I stroked her back and murmured the same familiar reassurances that we all do at times like this, knowing that the words didn’t matter. It was the act of compassion that was important. She let go and sniffed and wiped her eyes when she was done. “You need a tissue?”
She shook her head. “No, I used your shirt.” She barked out a little laugh
.
“Bad dream?”
She nodded. “I’m fine, really. Just embarrassed. I haven’t had a nightmare since I was little. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“That’s okay, I read somewhere that we old people don’t sleep much anyway.”
“I wasn’t me, Abe. In the dream, I mean. I was getting ready for work and I was a waitress or something, because I could see myself in the mirror and I was wearing a uniform and an apron. I kept trying to put my makeup on, but I couldn’t because my hands were shaking too much. I remembered trying to hurry and at the same time not wanting to leave the bathroom because it was the only place I was left alone. But I couldn’t stay too long or he would come in to get me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, the man. So I gave up on the makeup and just washed my face. I looked terrible. There were black circles under my eyes, and my head hurt from not sleeping and from being scared all the time. It seemed like I had been scared forever. I came out of the bathroom, and he was standing in the hall like usual, waiting to take me to work.
“He had to drive me, because I wasn’t allowed to have the keys any more. I wasn’t allowed to be alone and I wasn’t allowed to drive. He made me cook, but all the knives were gone, except for the one he carried. He cut anything that needed to be cut. We went out to the car and started driving, and that’s when you woke me up.”
“Well, it’s over now. The things you’ve been through in the last couple of days? I’m surprised you only had a nightmare. Anybody else would have lost it by now. You’re a tough nut.”
“It was so weird. It didn’t feel like any dream I’ve ever had. I don’t know how to describe how real it was. I know everyone has dreams that seem real at the time, but this was way beyond that. Oh, and one other thing. The man in the dream, his skin was never still, like there were tiny wires moving underneath it all the time. He was a bag.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. If anything was going to give me bad dreams, it would be them.”
“Did my grandfather ever have dreams like this? Maybe this is part of that thing that we have.”
“Not that I know of. He knew when something was close, and he could get a fix on it, but that’s all.”
“Maybe he just didn’t tell you.”
I shrugged. “I guess. But I slept ten feet away from him for almost a year, and as far as I know he slept like a baby the whole time. Besides, we would tell each other anything that crossed our minds when we marched. Most days were long and boring, especially in the beginning. We talked about dreams, plans, made-up stories, you name it. He never made a secret of his gift, so I don’t know why he would hide something like this. Why, do you think this is more than a dream?”
“I don’t know. It sure felt real.”
“Well, at this point, I don’t think we can rule anything out. You ready to go back to sleep?”
“No, but I can try.” I snapped off the light and started to get up, but she pulled me back down. “Stay. Please.”
“Sure.” I swung my legs into the bed and propped myself up against the headboard. She lay down next to me, and after a few minutes, I heard her breathing even out as she fell asleep. I put one arm around her and waited for the dawn, content.
15
Anne was asleep when I slipped out of bed and dressed. She had dozed fitfully for hours after our talk, but now, sleeping in the light, she was at peace. I doubted that this episode happening on her first night spent in the same room with the altar piece was a coincidence. I was re-packing my duffel and thinking about having to do some laundry when she woke up.
“Hey. Did you sleep?” She seemed a little embarrassed as she said it.
“Sure. Any more nightmares?”
“Not that I remember. But the one I did have is going to stay with me for a while.” She rubbed her upper arms with both hands. “Give me a few minutes to get ready, and we can go.” She snagged one of her bags and disappeared into the bathroom.
While she was gone, I went to the hotel lobby and got directions to the address Henry had given me. By the time I got back, Anne was ready to go, as promised.
Frank Eaton’s widow, Georgia, turned out to live in a tiny tract house in Brentwood. We made small talk on the way, sipping donut shop coffee and staring out the windows. Brentwood was a pleasant part of town, old enough to have history and well kept enough to show that people were proud to live there.
Groups of white and powder-blue wooden houses with peaked roofs sat in the center of tiny manicured lawns one after another, separated by ancient sprawling strip malls and low brownstone office buildings. It was the kind of place where only the cars had a sense of the present day about them.
We parked on a side street and peered at the small black address numbers on each house until we found it. There was a tiny porch of white painted wood tacked on to an otherwise unrelentingly square building.
It was mid-morning on a workday, and the street was quiet except for the faint barking of a dog inside the house next door. I rang the bell. After a few moments a pleasant, albeit wavering, voice came out of the speaker grill by the door. “Yes? May I help you?”
“Mrs. Eaton? I’d like to talk to you about your late husband Frank, if you have a moment. May I come in?”
“Oh, my. Frank? Is this about his pension? I get it until I die, that’s what they said.”
“No, ma’am. It’s not about his pension. May we talk for a few minutes?”
“What about? Who are you?”
“My name is Abraham Griffin. I’m named for my grandfather, who knew your late husband.” The lie rolled off my tongue effortlessly, but I couldn’t help but glance at Anne as I said it. She gave me a little nod, like she was absolving me.
The door buzzed and opened, revealing Georgia Eaton in a pink sweater and house slippers, looking like everyone’s great aunt. The smell of baking cookies and cinnamon washed over us.
“Why, if you aren’t the spitting image of your grandfather! I knew him very well, you know. Him and your grandmother both. Come in, come in!”
She ushered us through a small living room, and into an even smaller kitchen. Anne and I were seated around a tiny table that could just fit four if they were very friendly. There was a window over the sink that was draped with lace curtains that let in the light, but still provided privacy. The refrigerator and stove were ancient, with the art deco rounded corners and oversized handles that characterized appliances in the fifties. The plastic countertops were off-white with little gold stars sprinkled across them.
The cinnamon smell was coming from a couple of small candles in the center of the table. The combined smell of the candles and the baking was strong in the small kitchen, but not offensively so. I glanced at Anne and touched my nose, and she shook her head. I hoped that meant that we beat the bags here. “Thanks for inviting us in, Mrs. Eaton.” I gave her my best smile.
“Well of course. I was just about to make some coffee, would you care for some?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She busied herself at the stove and talked over her shoulder. “Your grandfather and my Frank were great friends. How is he, by the way?”
“He passed on a few years ago.”
“I’m so sorry, dear. He was a good man. I saw him at Frank’s funeral. But that was a long time ago. You’re just as handsome as he was. Sugar?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Would you care for some sugar in your coffee?”
“Oh, no thank you. Black is fine.”
She ferried cups one at a time to the table, setting them down carefully before returning with another. At last she sat down with her own cup and blinked at me with rheumy eyes. “So, what brings you here?”
“Did Frank ever talk about the war?”
“Oh, yes. All the time. I swear that man had a story for every occasion. He had quite a few about your grandfather, as I recall. Would you like to hear one?”
“Well, I don’t know that we have time …”
&nbs
p; Anne interrupted me with a smile. “We’d love to, Mrs. Eaton.”
Georgia leaned forward conspiratorially over her coffee cup. “The first thing you need to know is that during the war, none of those boys were married. They were young, and they were away from home. Now, before they went off to Achnacarry in Scotland to become Army Rangers, they were all fresh out of boot camp and waiting for orders to go overseas. They had been trained at Camp Gruber, and not too far away was Star Lake.”
I stifled a groan. This would have been one of Frank’s favorite stories, the bastard.
“It so happened that one night, the boys arranged to meet some young women at the lake. You’ll notice I did not say ‘ladies.’ This would have been your grandfather Abe, my Frank, Shadroe, and Don.”
“Not Patrick?” asked Anne.
“This was before Achnacarry, dear, so the boys hadn’t yet met Patrick or Henry. No, it was just the four of them. That night, they snuck out of camp and went down to the lake. It was about three or four miles away, and they didn’t have a car, but being strong young soldiers, a four-mile run wasn’t going to get in the way of the evening that they had planned.
“So, they went to the lake, and sure enough, the girls were there waiting for them. They walked around the lake a bit, away from the road for more privacy. The girls had brought blankets and wine, you can imagine what for, and pretty soon each couple was moving off into the trees.
“Well, the way Frank tells it, he and his girl had decided to have their wine and watch the moon, unlike everyone else, and while they were engaged in this innocent pastime, they heard a commotion from the trees. He didn’t think much of it, until he heard Abe start screaming and yelling in terror.
“Just then, Abe’s date ran past them with her clothes clutched to her chest, making straight for the girls’ car. Frank ran back into the trees and found Abe, stark naked, up in a tree. Down below were two black bears, angry as can be.” Georgia laughed and fanned herself with one hand.
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