by M. R. Carey
The fox didn’t react in any visible way. Six or seven songs in, Liz stopped, thinking the experiment had been a failure. She was an outsider here, a prisoner, and she couldn’t change her status or negotiate her freedom with REM and Roberta Flack.
Suzanne, the fox growled.
What? Liz wanted to make sure she’d heard right.
Sing “Suzanne” next.
Liz did. Then she went on to “If I Didn’t Have Your Love to Make it Real” and “Hey, That’s No Way to Say Goodbye.” She would never have gone to Leonard Cohen by herself: there was always so much sadness underneath even his sweetest songs. But the fox seemed happy with those choices. Its breathing deepened and slowed, and it lay quiet until she was done. Its eyes were closed, and Liz thought it might actually be asleep until it spoke.
All right, it said. I won’t eat you.
That’s very kind. Thank you.
If I let you go, you have to promise never to come back. If you come back, I’ll bite you or kill you with my sword. Or if you tell anyone else how to get here.
I promise.
After a little while, when the fox hadn’t moved from beside her or said anything else, Liz ventured, Is it okay if I ask what your name is?
Lady Jinx.
A vague memory stirred and came halfway into focus. Wasn’t she a …? I mean, were you a knight? In a forest somewhere? With a … a queen and a bunch of other knights?
Yes. I was. Then I came here.
Okay. I’m pleased to meet you, Lady Jinx. I’m Liz.
Liz Kendall.
Yes.
Zac’s mom.
That’s right. Do you know Zac?
You know I do. You were there on the railway platform.
Yes, I saw you there. But you didn’t talk to him so I wasn’t sure.
I only talk to Fran.
And to me.
You don’t count.
Liz wasn’t about to argue that one. Actually she was careful not to disagree with anything Lady Jinx said. She was convinced now that she was dealing with a child; a child of around Molly’s age but in some ways less mature, less in control of herself. So she used the same strategies she would have used with Molly, coaxing and gentling. Making her feel safe and helping her to find the way back to her better self whenever she was inclined to sulk or throw a tantrum.
She told Jinx about Zac and Molly. How much she loved them. How much she missed them. Moments she treasured from back when she was still with them.
And she let Jinx talk, when she was ready, about the trip to Grove City. Walking into the lair of her worst enemy, Bruno Picota. Wanting to protect Fran from the man who had already hurt her so much. Failing in her greatest test. Being exposed, and running away.
I can’t go back, Jinx lamented. If I go back, she’ll ask me again. I don’t want to tell her! I can’t! But even if I don’t say it, she’ll know it when she looks at me.
Liz didn’t understand this part. She knew the little animal had a secret, and whatever it was Fran had figured it out because of something Bruno Picota had said. She reassured Jinx as best she could, reminding her how much Fran loved her and how long they had been together. Their relationship wouldn’t change on account of something that had happened in the distant past.
Think of all the things you’ve done for her. Watching by her bed at night. Being there for her after her mom died. Taking away the bad memories.
It’s true, Jinx said, a little consoled. I did do all those things.
Exactly. And that counts for more than anything, doesn’t it? Liz hated herself for what she was doing, but she couldn’t let the opportunity slip. There might never be another one. I’m amazed, really, she said softly, that you were able to do it at all. You must be very brave. And very clever.
Jinx gave her a wary look. Clearly that had been laying it on a bit too thick. She plunged on anyway. I don’t think it’s something I could have done. Taking away all those bad memories. Was it hard?
Yes, Jinx said. It was very hard.
If Fran had known what you were doing, it might have scared her. I suppose you had to be very quiet, and very careful.
Yes.
Going all the way into her mind, and all the way out again, without ever making a sound. So she didn’t have the slightest idea. So she never even knew you’d been there.
Jinx was just looking at her now. Waiting. She’d gotten to the conclusion already and was waiting for Liz to come out from hiding and join her there. Being a child didn’t make her stupid or naive.
Will you teach me? Liz asked anyway. Please?
Jinx scowled and bared her teeth. No, she said. I won’t. That’s like saying can I borrow your sword I won’t do any harm I just want to feel how sharp it is.
But I won’t, Liz protested. I won’t do any harm. Not to Fran, I swear. I just want to—
The fox rose and shook itself. I know what you want, it said. Do you know what I want?
A multicolored haze enveloped her for a second. When it faded Jinx was standing on her hind legs—and dressed from neck to toe in silver armor. A broadsword hung at her waist. There must be a hole in the back of the armor for her brush, which rose higher than her head and flickered as though it was on fire.
Liz was awed in spite of herself. Everything in this place was like a dream, but she had never in her life had a dream as vivid as this. Jinx as a knight was imposing and beautiful. There was still something simplified and cartoonish about her, but she looked the part, all the same. A warrior, standing on her dignity.
To keep Fran safe, Liz guessed. Because duh.
To keep Fran safe. And telling you how to get into her mind and take pieces out of it won’t do that, will it? I’m not going to tell that to anyone.
Liz had allowed herself to hope. The flat refusal almost plunged her back into despair, except that despair was a luxury she couldn’t allow herself. Not while her children were in Beth’s hands. She would have to find some other way of fighting her.
All right, she said. I understand. If you’ll just show me the way home, then … She faltered and stopped. Jinx was shaking her head slowly. You said you’d let me go!
That was before you started asking me those questions. About Fran, and how to get into her thoughts.
No! Not Fran’s thoughts. Beth’s thoughts!
It’s all the same. You just want power. Like Lady Subtle when she betrayed Queen Yuleia. I’m sorry, Liz. I won’t hurt you, but I’m not going to let you go. You’re clever and you tried to trick me. It’s better if you stay here.
Liz felt a wave of fury and frustration. She fought her way through it. Jinx was just a little girl. A little girl who happened to have the power of life and death over her. She had messed up badly by underestimating both the fox’s intelligence and her paranoia. Which meant she had blown the only chance she had of getting out of here.
She groped desperately, wildly, for another argument to throw into the scales. Jinx was turning away, preparing to leave. What could she do or say to change the decision she’d already made?
Will you at least give Fran a message from me? Ask her to pass it along to Zac?
No. If Beth is a monster, Fran should stay away from her. I won’t tell her anything about you.
Liz almost screamed. The logic was impregnable. She needed to make Jinx an ally, but Jinx’s priorities were simple, rigid and remorseless. There was only room in her head and heart for one thing.
But that one thing did come in a candy-coated, cartoon wrapper. It occurred to Liz, in a moment of chilling calm, that there was an obvious way of finessing Jinx. It was the same way Jinx finessed herself. You didn’t get around a knight by being devious. Knights had a code. They came pre-programmed.
All right, she said quickly. I understand. I won’t ask you to trust me.
Good, Jinx muttered. She was already walking away. The conversation was over.
But you belong to the forest table, Liz called out. And they’re sworn to protect the innocent. Or did
I miss a memo? Do you just do what the hell you feel like now?
The fox slowed. Stopped. She turned to face Liz with something like a warning written on her face. It’s the Woodland Table. We’re the shield of the righteous and the sword of the defenseless.
Well, that’s exactly what my children are, Jinx. They’re righteous and they’re defenseless. They’re trapped in a monster’s dungeon with nobody to save them or care whether they live or die. Please say you’ll keep them safe. Swear to me on your honor that you’ll go to them and keep them safe.
Jinx hesitated. Liz saw the doubt in her hyper-expressive, cartoon face and pressed her advantage. I’m asking you to do your duty as a knight. You can’t say no. If you say no, you’ll be shamed in front of—of the whole table. All the other knights. Your queen. Can you imagine what your queen will think of you?
A shiver ran through the little fox. Liz could see she was pressing the right buttons; also that what she was asking Jinx to do was hard. Very hard. It pulled her away from the one task that defined her and made sense of her, which was protecting Fran.
But it played into the narrative suggested by the armor and the sword, however insane and inexplicable those things were.
You have to, she finished. You’re their only hope, Lady Jinx. I don’t have anyone else to turn to.
Something happened to Jinx’s stance over the space of half a dozen heartbeats. She stood up straighter. Her right hand slid down, almost imperceptibly, until it rested on her sword hilt. Her chest expanded as though she was drawing in a deep, slow breath.
I swear on my honor, she said. Her eyes were wide and her teeth were bared. She seemed surprised, and not in a good way, by the words she was saying. I swear on my sword, Oathkeeper, whose touch no evil thing can withstand, that I will keep your children safe. The monster Beth will not have them.
Thank you, Liz said. Feeling the insanity of the moment almost like a flavor, a salt-sea tang in the gray air. Thank you, Lady Jinx.
When the fox turned and walked away from her, fading quickly into nothingness, she tried to follow. But the walls closed in around her again and she was alone.
Some of the details had only come clear to Beth when she was already embarked on the plan, but the broad shape of it was there from the start. The start being the moment when that little streak of muddy pump water looked her in the eye and said, “I know what you are!”
Oh, she played it cool. Of course she did. The Bakery Square Cineplex was not the right place to have this out. The best Beth could do was to put a scare into said little streak, and at the same time to leave her with the sense that that was all she was going to do. A very minimal, very precisely judged act of violence, and a few carefully chosen words: I’m cutting you a break. Send the kid away feeling like she’d gotten off with a mild spanking this time.
But now … well, now Beth had to deal with it. Really deal with it so the problem (or problems, plural, because Beebee Brophy and the Pittsburgh City Police were looming in the middle distance too) would go away forever.
Alone at home, before Zac and Molly got back from their boating adventure, she thought it out coldly and dispassionately. She could see the shape of a solution, but she approached it with extreme caution, examining it from every angle. She was afraid she might be doing a number on herself, dragging unrelated things together to propel herself down a certain road so she could say afterward that she had no choice.
There was a story that would play well, up to a point. The story was a tragedy in one act. Francine Watts, a fruitcake of long standing, goes up to Grove City to confront her nemesis, Bruno Picota. It does not go well. She comes home to Pittsburgh in a highly agitated state, and over the next twenty-four hours or so she sinks deeper and deeper into depression. Finally she kills herself, putting a sad but unsurprising end to a tortured and fucked-up life. She does this in the very place where her life was derailed ten years before: the Perry Friendly, a conveniently secluded and deserted site that could be stage-dressed in any way Beth thought appropriate.
But after Fran had been found, some worms might start to spill out of cans. Zac knew all about the kid’s trip up to Grove City and what she was trying to do there. He might not be convinced by a suicide scenario, and he might have suspicions. If he shared those suspicions with the police, the whole thing could easily unravel.
And then there was Molly, who was soon to be questioned by the police about the night of Marc’s disappearance. If she remembered even half of what had happened that night—or even a single salient detail like the blood all over Mommy’s face—then Beth was cooked.
She followed these troubling ideas as they grew from thin trickles of possibility into a broad, inexorable torrent. But there was a part of her that was flailing and fighting the current. She couldn’t name what she was thinking, even to herself. She could only play it out in her mind in wordless images. Three kids at the Perry Friendly, not one. A suicide pact. The older kids drugging the little one, then bashing her head in with a rock before cutting their own wrists and bleeding out, side by side, on rotted linoleum.
Her stomach twisted. She ran into the bathroom, bowed down in front of the toilet like a supplicant while waves of nausea cramped and sweated her. But when the crisis passed, the picture was still etched on her eyes. The three sprawled shapes. The silence. No risk of exposure, now or ever.
No. No no no. Not her kids.
Exactly. They were not her kids.
But at the same time they absolutely were. That she couldn’t love them, that she had come almost to hate them and fear their touch wasn’t their fault. It was hers. She had run from her own death, again and again and again, until finally she ended up here. Back where she started, except that the road she ran turned out to be a Moebius strip and now she was upside down to everything that mattered.
They weren’t her kids.
They were, but they were not.
And this was life or death. Life after death, that she had grabbed and held on to in the face of a whole frothing, flaring universe of random agony. She had walked into the promised land across a thousand stepping stones, each and every one of them a death. She wasn’t ready—wasn’t able—to give up what she had now and go back down into the dark.
Beth had given up doubt a long time ago. She had only survived so long by paring herself down to a fine edge of utter certainty and self-belief. That paring wasn’t something she could undo or step away from. The edge was inside her now.
She would do this awful thing. And she would hate herself for a long time, perhaps forever. But she would survive that too.
Once she had decided, she went about it methodically. She researched Fran Watts. She lulled Zac’s suspicions and interrogated him. She prepared dinner, which was no small part of the plan. And in her head, she worked out the logistics. The best way was the simplest, which meant dividing first and conquering afterward.
She claimed to have lost her phone, and borrowed Zac’s. She intended to put it to use immediately, opening up a dialogue with Fran. Texts were the perfect medium because they were terse as hell and only came in one flavor. Lying was a lot easier if you didn’t have to worry about nuance. But before she plunged in, she scrolled back through previous messages to get a feel for the rhythms of Zac’s messaged prose. She was glad she did. There were rich pickings there that sparked new ideas.
But all she needed to do for now was to give things a little push to get them moving. SHE SAID SHE SAW YOU, she typed. WHAT HAPPENED???
Fran replied at once, which made it even easier. Now she had something to play off. They batted the unspoken ball back and forth a little. DON’T TRUST HER was interesting. It validated everything Beth was doing. The threat hadn’t taken. If she hadn’t decided to act, the kid would now be rallying her own family against her.
When Fran stopped responding, Beth flung a few more text messages into the void and then returned to the other half of her plan. There was still plenty of time. She fried up the steak, baked up the ri
ce and called the kids to table.
“Wow,” Zac marveled as he tucked into the meltingly tender meat. “This is amazing, Mom! What’s it called?”
“Weeping tiger,” Beth told him. “It’s from Thailand.”
“Is it made of tiger?” Molly asked, thrilled.
“No, baby girl, just regular cow. But they have to find a cow that’s got tiger stripes.”
This lame joke made Molly giggle fit to bust. Beth ruffled her hair and let the hand rest there for a moment or two, tears and emotions welling up despite herself.
“Can I have my phone back?” Zac asked.
“No phones at the table, mister. You know that.”
Except for her. She slipped away a couple of times under the pretext of preparing something mysterious for dessert. Actually she was just texting Fran again and again, laying the groundwork for the big finale.
“I’m sleepy,” Molly complained, chasing a piece of steak lethargically around the plate with her fork. Beth took the fork from her, speared the meat and held it to the little girl’s lips. “No dessert unless you clear your plate,” she chided. Molly opened her mouth and accepted the morsel without complaint. She chewed on it for a long time, decelerando.
“Mom,” Zac mumbled. “I feel kind of weird.”
“You’ll be fine, dollface,” Beth told him. “Don’t be scared.”
Molly’s eyes were glazing over. The half-chewed meat slid out of her mouth and fell down onto her plate. A moment later, she fell sideways off her chair. Beth caught her before she hit the floor and lowered her gently down. When she looked up again, Zac was slumped at an angle, his eyes half-closed, his posture unnaturally still.
Beth checked his pulse with a finger at his throat and was reassured. It was important to her that the children didn’t suffer any more than was necessary: to that end she had ground up eight temazepam tablets, using the handle of a knife as a pestle, and added them to the marinade. The intense spices hid the bitterness very well.
Loading the kids into the car was a great deal easier than it had been when she did the same thing with Marc. They were lighter, for one thing: even Zac wasn’t too heavy for her to lift and carry over a short distance, and Molly was a piece of cake. The Rogue helped a lot too. It was a bigger and frankly a better car than the Kia had been, with a capacious trunk into which—once she folded the back seats down—two inert bodies fitted without any fuss or strain.