by Todd Ritter
“I woke up three weeks later in the burn unit at Mercy Hospital. They had put me into an induced coma, knowing it was the only way my body would be able to heal itself.”
He had emerged from the coma surrounded by a horde of doctors, all gray-faced and serious. They told him about the car catching on fire and burning part of his face. They told him about the chunk of glass that sliced him from ear to lip.
“Then they told me about Gia,” Henry said numbly. “She died upon impact. The baby died with her. The funeral was held a few days after the crash, while I was still unconscious. I closed my eyes and when I opened them again, twenty-one days had passed. My wife was two weeks in the ground, my child was dead before it was even born, and my entire life was gone.”
Although Gia’s death was the worst of it, there was more trauma to come, playing out while Henry remained a prisoner in the cold, sterile burn unit.
“The truck driver survived,” he said. “While I was under, he told police I had been speeding and driving out of control. When I was healthy enough to answer their questions, the police asked me for details of the crash. I told them everything. Mostly.”
In his fear and confusion, he had left out the part about the beer. But the police already knew about that. They had talked to the restaurant’s owners, who showed them a copy of the bill.
“I thought they would arrest me,” he said. “I wanted them to. I deserved it.”
But there was no evidence he actually drank all four beers. No proof he had been drunk while driving. The arrest never happened and he eventually healed.
But the scars remained.
In the five years since the accident, Henry had never considered plastic surgery to correct his deformity. He wanted the scars. He needed them. Every time he looked in a mirror, he wanted to be reminded of what he had done and all that he had lost.
THIRTY-ONE
In the morning, Kat returned to the hospital bearing flowers and two cards handmade by James. The one for Amber boasted flowers scrawled in every conceivable Crayola color. Nick’s featured a Magic Marker puppy. Both had glitter.
Amber, surrounded by her bleary-eyed parents, oohed and aahed over both the card and the bouquet. Her mother and father were less touched. They gave Kat the stink-eye as soon as she walked through the door.
It was a look she had grown accustomed to since the previous night. She noticed it everywhere—walking down the street, buying bread at the Shop and Save. Everyone at Awesome Blossoms was so cold to her that she was surprised the store didn’t freeze over.
She knew everyone blamed her. Not for the actual crimes, of course, but for failing to stop them.
Amber, on the other hand, didn’t seem to blame anyone for what happened to her. It didn’t matter that her right eye was swollen shut, her left arm was broken, and two of her ribs were fractured. She knew she was lucky to be alive.
When the requisite small talk about itchy casts and bad hospital food was over, Kat got down to business.
“You know I need to ask you about last night,” she said. “Is there anything you remember that might help us identify who tried to kill you?”
“You mean, did I see him?”
Yep. That would do the trick. Just a hint of description about Amber’s attacker would be more than what they presently had.
“Anything,” Kat said. “Height. Hair color. Anything you might have seen.”
“He came at me from behind. So I didn’t get a look at him. The lights were out, so his clothes looked black, but they could have been any color.”
“Did he say anything? Make any sort of sound?”
Amber shook her head. “It all happened so fast. And then I passed out.”
That was because of the handkerchief doused with chloroform, which was found in the wrecked van. Also inside were a wheeled handcart, which the killer likely used to transport the coffins, and a shattered fax machine with a missing serial number. No doubt used to send Amber’s premature death notice.
What they didn’t find in the van was the gun that Jasper Fox had kept in the glove compartment. Nor were there any fingerprints, fibers, or blood. That last one amazed Kat. The killer was able to run away from a van wreck and not even bleed. It was the only time in her career that she wished the airbags had failed.
Kat was about to ask if Amber was conscious during the crash, but she was interrupted by Gloria Ambrose, who entered the room with three state troopers. Dressed in matching uniforms, they formed a silent wall behind her.
“I hate to bust in on you like this,” she said in the quick, efficient tones of a schoolmarm. “But we can take over from here.”
“Why?” Kat asked.
The way Gloria Ambrose explained it, the state police investigators were more accomplished at coaxing accurate information out of traumatized witnesses. But Kat knew the score. After two murders and one near miss, they were taking control of the case.
Kat didn’t argue. She didn’t even put up a fight. Turf wars weren’t her style. If the state’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation wanted to take over, she’d let them. Just as long as they caught the Grim Reaper and dragged his ass out of her town and into jail.
Before leaving, she hugged Amber and got more cold looks from her parents. Then it was up to the third floor, where Nick was located.
It was quieter there. Also more empty. The only person Kat saw was a burly man posted at the nurse’s station. He sported a buzz cut and a tattooed band around his left bicep.
“Are you family?” he asked Kat when she started to enter Nick’s room.
Kat halted, her hand on the door handle. “No. I’m a friend.”
“Then you can’t go in there.”
“Why not?”
“ICU,” the man said. “No visitors except for family.”
“He doesn’t have any family.”
The nurse shrugged. “That’s not my problem.”
Kat stepped closer, hoping her uniform and badge would intimidate him. They didn’t.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Gary.”
“Well, Gary. I just wanted to give Lieutenant Donnelly a card my son made for him. Please see that he gets it.”
The nurse, who definitely needed to work on his bedside manner, took the card and immediately opened it to read the message James had written inside.
“I’ll try,” he said. “No guarantees.”
On her way out of the hospital, Kat was stopped by Martin Swan, who was on his way in. He carried his ever-present pen and notebook, which were at the ready before Kat had a chance to make a quick escape.
“Just a few questions, Chief,” Martin said, already scribbling. Since she hadn’t said a word, Kat assumed he was describing the way she looked as detail for his article. She imagined him writing that she looked haggard. Also tired, defeated, and not allowed to investigate murders that took place in her own town. Or maybe she was just projecting.
“About what?”
“Were you here to see Amber Lefferts?” he asked.
“I was.”
“How’d she look?”
“Like she almost died.”
Not catching her sarcasm, Martin jotted down the response.
“In light of last night’s events, do you know if the Halloween Festival is still on?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask the mayor.”
“I did. He said it is.”
Kat already knew that. She had met with the mayor and the town council late in the night to discuss the pros and cons of continuing the Halloween Festival. The main pro, espoused by the town officials, was that businesses needed the event if they wanted to break even for the year. Also, many visitors had already arrived, and most of the vendors had their booths set up downtown.
The officials had listened politely as Kat shared the only con—there was a killer on the loose. But, as usual, commerce won out over safety, and the festival would go on as planned.
“Are you worried about the re
sidents during such a large event?” Martin asked.
Kat was, but it was out of her hands. She and Carl and a few sheriff’s officers were scheduled to be there for crowd control. But she had a feeling it would turn into crowd surveillance. If someone started to act suspicious, she wouldn’t hesitate to arrest him.
“There’s safety in numbers,” she said, pushing out the door as Martin scribbled every single word.
From the hospital, it was off to Oak Knoll Cemetery. Although Kat no longer had a role in the investigation, she didn’t see the harm in poking around a little. And she knew exactly which person she was going to poke.
Pulling into the cemetery parking lot, Kat saw she wasn’t the only person visiting that morning. There were a half-dozen other cars there, all with out-of-state plates. About twenty visitors roamed the graveyard itself. Most of them were in their late teens or early twenties, and many were draped in black. Trudging through the cemetery, Kat saw three girls with pancake makeup and blue streaks in their hair pause at Troy Gunzelman’s grave. Two of them smiled in front of it as the third took a picture with her cell phone.
Vultures, Kat thought. That’s what Perry Hollow had become since the murders began—a perch for vultures. She expected to see more of them later that night, when the festival kicked into high gear. She wasn’t looking forward to it.
Lucas Hatcher stood away from the tourists, raking leaves between the graves. He wore his usual uniform—dirt-smeared jeans, dirt-smeared jacket, dirt-smeared gloves. The only new addition to his ensemble was a pair of sunglasses that obscured his eyes.
“What’s with the specs, Lucas?” Kat asked as she approached.
The grave digger dropped the rake and leaned on the nearest tombstone. “Just keeping the sun out of my eyes.”
Kat lifted her eyes to the sky. It was chilly and overcast, with the sun nowhere to be found.
“I can see just fine,” she said. “What’s the real reason?”
“Haven’t you harassed me enough?” he asked. “I’ve been keeping my nose clean, just like I told that state police asshole I would.”
Lucas was being honest in that regard. The hole he had used to bury people alive had been covered up in July, and the coffin Bob McNeil sold him was destroyed. Every week, Kat sent Carl to the cemetery to make sure he wasn’t reopened for business. So far, he wasn’t.
“I’m not harassing. I just want to know where you were last night.”
“That’s none of your business.”
But it was Kat’s business, despite what Gloria Ambrose said. Something terrible was happening in her town, and she had an inkling Lucas had something to do with it. She didn’t regret keeping his shady graveyard activities a secret from his parole officer. Nick had promised Lucas they would keep silent, and that promise is what led them to Art McNeil. But the grave digger was up to something, and she wasn’t going to wait around for the BCI to figure it out.
“Were you at the Jigsaw again? That’s your usual excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse,” Lucas said. “It’s the God’s honest truth.”
“So if I walked over there and asked, I’d be told that you were there?”
“Yup. Just like the last time you thought I was the Grim Reaper.”
Kat decided to give up for the time being. She was exhausted, and going around in circles with Lucas Hatcher wasn’t making her feel any better.
But as she started to make her way out of the cemetery, she saw Lucas bend down to pick up the rake. The sunglasses slid from his nose and fell off. He tried to catch them, but it was too late. With the glasses gone, Kat could clearly see a gigantic bruise around his left eye, still raw and throbbing.
THIRTY-TWO
Christ, Henry, look out!
Henry had experienced the dream so many times that he knew exactly how it would unfold. First, there would be a scream, followed by the jackknifed truck appearing like an apparition through the rain. Then the driver, sprinting into the road. The car would skid, both truck and driver getting closer. The driver would bounce over the windshield and then—the inevitable.
Only this time, the dream was different. After Gia’s scream of warning, her voice grew normal. It lowered in volume and worry, becoming conversational as she turned to give him a bittersweet smile.
“Henry,” she said, hands cradling her rounded stomach, “you know I’m not going to survive this.”
On the edge of his vision, he saw the faint outlines of the truck emerge through the rain. Henry ignored it.
“I know,” he said. “I don’t want this to happen.”
The truck was fully visible now, stretched across the entire highway. A blur appeared on the side of the road. The truck driver, running in front of them.
“We can’t stop it,” Gia said. “It’s inevitable.”
The truck driver hit the windshield. As he bounced up the glass and over the car, Henry kept his eyes locked on Gia. She looked back at him with so much love and tenderness that Henry wished they could remain that way, frozen forever.
A tear stuck to Henry’s eyelashes, balancing there until it dropped onto his unblemished cheek. Gia reached out and brushed it away with her hand. Henry leaned in slightly, relishing the way her soft skin felt against his.
Through the windshield smeared with the truck driver’s blood, Henry saw the truck getting inexorably closer. It wouldn’t be long before impact. Seconds, maybe. The last seconds he would ever spend with his beloved wife.
Another tear fell from Henry’s eyes, dripping onto Gia’s fingers, rolling over her knuckles.
“I’m going to miss you so much.”
“I know you will,” Gia said. “You need to say good-bye, and then you need to move on.”
The truck loomed large in front of them, a solid wall they couldn’t avoid. This was it. This was the end.
Henry grabbed Gia’s hand and kissed her palm. “I love you.”
They were upon the truck now, mere inches away. Gia was about to be snatched from him forever. Somehow he knew he would never again gaze upon her face, not even in his dreams. Because he knew this, Henry pressed Gia’s palm against his lips and held it there.
The car smashed into the truck. Glass rained down upon them as steel twisted around their bodies.
Henry felt Gia’s hand pull away from his face. He reached out, catching two of her fingers. Gripping them tightly, he made sure the feel of her was seared into his brain. That way he would never forget her.
Then, only because he had to, Henry let her go.
When he woke up, Henry knew he would never have the dream again. There had been a finality to it that was both freeing and sad. He wondered if he would see his wife again in other, happier dreams. He certainly hoped so.
Standing and stretching, Henry knew what he needed to do next. He had to follow the instructions Gia had given him in the dream. He had to say good-bye.
He shaved and showered quickly. Once dressed, he made a few phone calls to book train tickets and reserve a hotel room in Pittsburgh. He packed. He typed up his resignation letter and delivered it to the publisher of the Perry Hollow Gazette.
When all that was taken care of, he walked to Deana’s house. The door was unlocked, so he let himself inside. He heard Deana upstairs in her bedroom, preparing for the birthday dinner that would never happen.
“Is someone there?” she called.
Henry started to climb the stairs. “It’s me.”
He had reached the second floor by the time Deana emerged from her room. Although she was wrapped in a bathrobe, her hair and makeup were perfect.
“You’re early,” she said. “Or am I running late?”
Her face sank when Henry said, “We need to talk.”
Silently, Deana took his hand and led him to the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of her bed, facing the photograph of her shattered family, Henry started to tell her about his own broken life.
“Five years ago, my wife died in a car accident. I was badly hurt. During the ti
me of the crash, she was nine months pregnant. Paramedics couldn’t save her or the baby.”
Henry waited for a response. It came in the form of a gentle caress at his temples. Deana’s silent way of telling him to continue. He did, detailing what happened before, during, and after the crash, leaving nothing out. It was his second confession in as many days.
Once he had finished, Deana leaned on his shoulder and said, “I knew all about that, Henry. My brother told me long ago.”
Surprise didn’t begin to describe Henry’s reaction. Deana had known all this time yet never mentioned it.
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”
“I didn’t see the point.” She reached up and stroked his face, her fingers smoothing lightly over the mottled skin at his temples. “We’ve all done bad things in our lives. All trying to escape our pain. That’s why you came to Perry Hollow, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I thought I could escape everything. Now I know I can’t.”
Deana’s caresses stopped. Her hand fell away.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”
“I’m sorry,” Henry said, nodding slowly. “I have to.”
“Will you come back?”
“Hopefully someday. But for now, I need to go back to Pittsburgh.”
And once there, he needed to visit Gia’s grave for the very first time. It would be hard, he knew. But it was necessary.
“If it’s what you need to do,” Deana said, “then I support your decision. Just try not to forget about me.”
“I won’t. I couldn’t.”
Both of them descended into silence, choosing instead to let their hands do the talking. Deana lightly touched Henry’s chest, her fingers running down his stomach. Henry responded in turn, delicately palming her breasts. With rising desire, he rolled on top of her.
“When are you leaving?” she asked.
“Tonight.”
“If this is good-bye,” she said, “let’s make it memorable.”
They made love for the last time in her dusk-shrouded bedroom. When it was over, Henry got dressed, kissed her quickly, and departed. As he descended the stairs, he heard Deana rise from the bed. Her footfalls crossed the room. He heard a click as she picked up the phone.