Staring at the image, Patricia swooned, though so slightly it was nearly imperceptible.
“Steady,” Duncan said, almost grabbing her around the waist. But just before his hands moved, it occurred to him that Rachel might not find the gesture all that valiant.
Joan was off the couch now, walking stiltedly toward the group, her wide eyes fixed to the window. Duncan concluded that her awkward efforts were more from shock than arthritis. Concerned nonetheless, he said to Patricia, “Does she have a walker?”
“She’s all right,” Patricia said stoically.
Then something moved. A person entered the field of view. A white man, middle-aged, with a crop of black hair graying at the temples.
There had not been a man in Kathy’s airplane show. Or anyone, for that matter. Well, Duncan thought, that’s what we get for flying coach.
The man was wearing a black shirt, black pants, and a white Roman collar. He was a priest. Or, just liked to dress like one.
“Dude,” Chris observed.
The priest sat down in a recliner, then reached down behind the hidden side of the chair and brought out what appeared to be a wing. It was completely white and about the length of his own arm. He sat the object on his lap, reached down once more, and this time pulled up a clear plastic box filled with buttons, spools of thread, needles, scissors...A sewing kit.
As the man removed the top tray of the box, a pile of white feathers became visible beneath.
He was sitting catty-corner to them, allowing the right side of his face to be discernible. In no time at all, he had threaded a needle and was sewing feathers onto the tip of the nearly completed wing.
As the priest sewed, he displayed an alacrity, a deftness that convinced Duncan that he was not watching a neophyte. On the wall to the man’s left hung a contemporary clock with big white Roman numerals. It was pendulum-driven, and had begun chiming the hour. Duncan guessed that: A) the clock was exactly three hours slow; B) the program Kathy was airing was prerecorded; or C) the clock was tolling in Pacific time.
Duncan stared at the clock. Yet, the ear, it fully knows…By the twanging and the clanging…How the danger ebbs and flows... At that moment, he felt more appreciation for Poe than he did his own mother, may she rest in peace.
“The paramedic!” Rachel gasped.
Everyone stared at her as if she’d just passed wind.
“Inside the ambulance,” she explained. “The paramedic said he saw a man holding wings. The wings of a swan!”
“Maybe this dude’s a taxidermist,” Chris offered. “When he’s not dolling out communion, I mean.”
Giving him the evil eye, Juanita said, “Ssshhhh!”
Taxidermy. Duncan thought that was a good guess. But the very power that was manifesting itself before them would not, he believed, be wasting its energy showing a priest who stuffed dead animals on the side.
“He’s not a taxi-whatever you called it,” Kathy said, her hand almost translucent now, flat and steady against the glass.
Patricia said to her, “You know who that person is?”
“Uh-huh. That’s the man who killed me.”
For a long moment the only sounds in the room were the tags on Pillsbury’s collar clinking together as she scratched herself. The dog was obviously unaware that hushed interims always followed such bombshells, and that strict silence was to be observed until finally broken by a gasp or vulgar utterance. That, or she’d simply decided to hell with it, that etiquette was for poodles.
Kathy’s revelation stunned Patricia far worse than had the window display. Mouth open, she fought for words.
“This is the man who abducted you from the boardwalk?” Patricia said. “A priest?”
“No, something else got me from there,” Kathy said. “He’s the one who dropped me off the cliff.”
Confused, Patricia said, “Then...then...then who in the hell kidnapped you from the—did you just say this man dropped you off a cliff?”
“Yes, ma’am. He wanted me to fly.”
Urgently, Rachel stepped in. “Do you know where this man lives? City, state?”
“No. But I know what he’s doing.”
“With the wing, you mean?” Duncan said.
She nodded. “It’s just like the kind he sewed into my back.”
Patricia shifted from stunned to horrified. “He sewed wings into your back?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then who’s he making this one for?” Duncan said. “Any idea?”
Shrugging, she said, “Probably another little girl. He already killed one before me, because I was his second.”
“Did he tell you anything else?” Duncan said. “Who he is? Where he lives?”
“I already told you, I don’t know any of that. All I know is that there was supposed to be more.”
Joan finally spoke. “More murders, dear?”
“Uh-huh. More angels.”
Patricia walked over to Kathy, then—hesitantly—reached down and lifted her shirt.
On her tip-toes, staring over Patricia’s shoulder, Joan gasped at Kathy’s exposed back. “Oh, no, my poor darling, oh, no, no.”
Duncan knelt beside her, then delicately drew his finger down one of her scars. “Jesus, Amy, what happened to you?” he whispered.
Kathy turned her head. Smiling, she said, “You cracked out of turn.”
Duncan didn’t know what she was talking about. Then it hit him. “Sorry, Kathy. And where did you pick up a phrase like that?”
“I was a con man in a previous life.”
“Oh,” he said, not sure if she was pulling his leg. Not sure at all.
Now leaning over Duncan, Rachel cried, “When did you get those? You never had those scars before!”
“I’ve always had them,” she explained. “You just couldn’t see them because Amy was in the way.”
“Get away from there!” Juanita shouted suddenly.
During the excitement, Chris had walked over to the edge of the window opposite Kathy and breached the image with his right forefinger. He stirred the corner of the glass like a cup of coffee.
“Señor Duncan!” Juanita cried. “I tell you, he is crazy!”
“Fucking Loony Tunes,” Patricia seconded, still staring at Kathy’s back.
Oblivious to everyone, Chris continued with his finger, then pushed his hand all the way through. Startled, he paused for a moment, then slowly proceeded toward the priest’s left shoulder. He touched it, and the man jumped.
Chris yanked his hand out before the man had a chance to see it. “Totally awesome!”
“Chris, you dumbass” Duncan growled. “Keep your hands in your pockets.”
The priest looked in the direction of his invisible molester. With a devilish grin, he said, “I guess that means I’m it.”
“Shit!” Rachel cried. She retreated to her husband’s side, as if expecting the man to jump through and put his sewing kit to more diabolical use.
“Chris!” Patricia yelled in a soft voice. “Grow the fuck up!”
“Geez, don’t panic,” Chris grumbled. “We can see him, but he can’t see or hear us.”
“But he can feel us,” Juanita reminded him.
“Only if somebody crosses over,” Kathy said.
Very curious now, Patricia said to Kathy, “You mean, if someone wanted to, they could fully enter that house? Just by going through the window?”
“Yep,” she said. “But I wouldn’t advise it.”
Chris, looking ready to dive right through, said, “Screw it! I say we all go through and kick his backsliding ass!”
“Just stay put, Chris,” Duncan ordered.
“But he’s a serial killer, dude! And God knows what else!”
“Are you absolutely positive that this is the man?” Patricia said. “I mean, he’s a priest, for God’s sake!”
“Trust me,” Kathy said, “you don’t forget someone like him.”
Then Duncan saw in Patricia’s eyes something that almo
st made him yank Kathy’s hand from the glass.
Still kneeling, Patricia turned and stared at the man, his image now just inches away from her own face. He was still grinning over his shoulder in their direction, his eyes jeering them on, just begging someone to touch him again.
Finally, she said to Kathy, “From here, could a person shoot a bullet into that man’s head?”
“I guess so.”
Patricia stood, just long enough to seal the thought, then headed for the stairs.
“Oh, shit,” Duncan moaned.
Rachel went after her. “Patricia, let’s think about this.”
“My daddy left a gun case just full of rifles and shotguns and pistols,” Patricia declared as she bounded the stairs, three at a time. “I’m gonna find the biggest one and blow his goddamn head off!”
As she passed the face in the stained glass window, it said, “Patricia, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
She stopped, turned. Pointing at the face, she said. “And you’re next.”
“So,” Chris said to Joan, “do you think she’ll do it from the book depository or the grassy knoll?”
Just then, the priest got up from his chair and disappeared from the living room, leaving the opposite way he’d entered.
“Señor Duncan!” Juanita cried moments later, pointing.
In the scene, located at the far end of the hallway, was a boudoir mirror. Upon exiting the living room, the priest had entered the kitchen area, leaving the door ajar. This allowed the mirror to reflect part of the kitchen counter, cabinets, half a table and two chairs, and the window above the sink, beyond which stood a telling landmark. It was a good distance away, and a thick haze was rendering it nearly invisible. Still, there was no mistaking what it was.
“The Space Needle,” Duncan whispered. “Seattle.”
Chris stepped in, peered closer. “You a Mariners fan?”
“No,” Duncan said distantly, staring at the structure. “But then, neither is anybody else.”
Kathy looked up at Duncan. “I can’t hold it anymore.”
“That’s okay, sweetheart,” he said. “You did great.”
She pulled her hand from the glass, and instantly the Bently’s front yard—not half as stark and fallow as it had earlier seemed to Duncan—materialized before them.
Patricia was descending the stairs with a rifle in one hand, a shotgun in the other, and two semi-automatic pistols stuffed into her jeans. Duncan recalled the old west picture of her and Kathy, and thought she looked more like an outlaw there than she did here. Now, she just looked like a frightened, desperate mother who, for all she knew about firearms and getting even, would have been better off hurrying down the stairs with her monogrammed bowling ball.
Rachel was right behind Patricia, still trying to reason with her. Burdened now with boxes of ammunition, she was having a hard time gesturing with her hands.
“Think about the possible repercussions,” the face in the stained glass window pleaded with Patricia as she hurried by.
“Fuck off,” she said. Then, as she neared the front window, she blurted frantically, “What happened? Where’d he go?”
“I couldn’t hold it anymore,” Kathy said, as if she’d just wet her pants. “Sorry.”
“Well, young lady, you just march right back over there—”
“She can’t,” Duncan said, stepping in front of Kathy, “so leave her be.”
As Patricia stared at Duncan, she let both weapons fall from her hands. They struck the wood floor like fetters on a gallows.
Her eyes were venomous. “Don’t you ever tell me to leave my daughter—” She stopped, frozen in mid-sentence. Finally, she said, almost inaudibly, “You people tricked me. She’s not my daughter, not my daughter at all...”
With an understanding smile, her mother held out her hand. “C’mon, dear, I’ve got some pills that’ll take the edge right off.”
As they started for the kitchen, Duncan pointed to the guns in her jeans. “Why don’t you just leave those with me.”
Avoiding his eyes, staring into a place only she could see, she handed both guns to Duncan.
“Don’t you worry, Patty,” Chris promised. “We’ll catch the bastard. And when we do, he’s all yours.”
“Easy, Romeo,” Duncan said, his words sliding down a sidelong glance. “Don’t start writing checks your balls can’t cash.”
8.
The tranquilizers her mother prescribed had calmed Patricia considerably; however, there wasn’t likely a pill in existence that could have relieved the affliction in her eyes. With the exception of Katherine, who was close by in the living room, playing fetch-the-toy with the dachshund (who she’d complained of being considerably less feisty than she remembered), everyone was sitting at the dining room table, poring over the photo albums Patricia had brought down earlier, absorbed in Kathy’s maturation from infancy to a pretty, bright-eyed girl of ten.
Her evolution from there, of course, was pure speculation. Well, perhaps not entirely, Duncan thought, given what they’d just recently learned from a plate-glass window.
When someone asked about a particular photo, Patricia would answer with a short, precise history, delivered in the same stolid yet unerring manner of a bored tour guide, one shuttling her ticket-holders through her own conchology exhibit, explaining the symmetry and color and geographical distribution of every seashell. And sometimes, in spite of herself, she still couldn’t help but point at a particular one and smile at its beauty.
Duncan thought she probably had the creased and grainy features of every photograph entrusted to memory. Not just duplicates of the still images before her, but titanium rolls of film, expertly counterfeited and strung along the reels of her memory should thief, flood, or fire ever take the originals.
The only person not thoroughly engrossed was Chris, who looked like he’d rather be on the carpet with the dog, chasing rubber balls.
“I have a question,” Chris said lazily. “Why did you name the dog Pillsbury? I mean, it doesn’t look anything like the Dough Boy.”
“We didn’t name her that because we thought there was a resemblance,” Patty explained. “Classic case. See, one day while coming home from work, I saw her lying on the side of the road. Just a puppy then. I thought she was dead, but pulled over anyway, just to make sure. Well, she wasn’t of course, but almost. Thought she’d been hit by a car, so I rushed her to the veterinarian. Found out she hadn’t been run over, but probably would have been better off if she had, according to the vet. Turned out she was nearly dead with parvo, a bad doggy virus. The vet strongly suggested that I let him put her to sleep, put her out of her misery, but I said no. So, I brought her home, and the three of us—me, Mom, and Katherine—did everything in our power to get her to eat. She’d take water, but no food. We tried everything from fresh veal to Snickers bars, but she refused. Then, just when we were ready to call it quits and dig a hole in the backyard, Mom accidentally bumped the table as she was setting dinner and dropped this steaming bowl of chicken stew. It went crashing to the floor, bowl breaking, stew everywhere. Gawd, what a mess that was. Anyway, smelling this, that dog literally crawled over to the closest splatter and began eating! But she was only picking out one ingredient—the biscuits mom put in the stew.” Patricia took a sip of coffee. “That’s why we named her Pillsbury.”
Chris looked troubled. “But then, wouldn’t Dumpling have been a more appropriate name?”
Patricia laughed. “Shut up, Chris.”
“These pictures, they give me the goose bumps,” Juanita said. “They are one in the same, Kathy and Amy.”
Patricia said to Duncan, “After having met you, I was never again able to look at Katherine and not see your face in hers.”
Rachel looked up, as if she wanted to comment on that. Then her eyes rolled diffidently down to the pictures again; reserved, for now.
“The resemblance is striking,” Joan agreed. “To Mr. McNeil, I mean.”
“
Where is her real father?” Juanita said.
“Long gone.” Pouring from a carafe, Patricia warmed her coffee. “I met him at church, of all places. Well, I shouldn’t say it that way. I was actually going to church at that time just to meet men. Pretty pathetic, huh?”
“Of course not,” Duncan said. “Episcopalians have been doing it for years.” He flipped to the next page in the photo album. “Besides, I can’t think of a better reason to go.”
Juanita’s huge bosom rose ever so slightly in indignation, then caught there. Duncan could see she wanted so badly to remind them both that, yes, just as in the church, so could a copy of the Holy Bible be found in a motel room—but similitude stopped there, white linens included.
Contritely, Patricia smiled at Juanita, her left dimple far more prominent than her right. And Duncan was reminded that it had been just those very features with which he’d fallen in love so many years ago.
“So, what was her father’s name?” Rachel prodded.
“Jack Fortune,” Patricia said, her smile yielding to the words.
“Really?” Rachel said. “Sounds like some sly character from The Young and the Restless.”
Patricia nodded. “Being tall, dark, and mysterious, he could have played a good one, too.”
Chris piped in. “You forgot handsome.”
With a puzzled expression, Patricia said, “That’s the funny thing. I don’t remember what he looked like. I couldn’t even tell you for sure if he was black, Asian, Hispanic—although he obviously wasn’t any of those. It’s just...hard to explain. It’s as if...well, as if his features have been stricken from my memory, and—and I know this sounds crazy—my mind won’t even let me make up a face to put in the void.”
“Sounds like you retired his jersey,” Duncan said, “and now no one else can wear that number.”
“Yeah, exactly,” she said. “I didn’t know if I was making any sense.”
Recalling his own bout of bowdlerized memories, Duncan said, “No, you’re making perfect sense. I’m beginning to think there’s a...glitch in the program.”
“Anti-virus program, dude,” Chris sagely offered, then excused himself to the kitchen.
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