by Jan Burke
I pounded on the keys as I wrote my story and noticed that whenever I looked up, Frank was watching her sashay hither and thither. He would feel my eyes on him somehow, and look down at me and smile. It would be a double homicide, I decided.
I stood up and cleared my desk, and left without so much as a “toodleloo” to Stacee. Frank got up and followed in my wake, puzzled.
When we got to the car, he said, “What’s eating you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re jealous.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You are jealous!” The bastard was laughing.
I started up the car. “I am not jealous! I’m embarrassed that a man who is close to forty sat there and mooned over a twenty-year-old twit.”
At this, he only laughed harder. I fumed silently.
Eventually he was subdued enough to find his voice. “Irene, she can’t hold a candle to you.”
My jaw was clenched too tightly to respond.
WE PULLED UP in front of the house, and I looked over to see he was still very much amused, but was wisely maintaining silence. Outside the car, the air was chilly and clouds rolling past the moon threatened rain.
I stomped up the walk, but came to a halt about five feet from my front porch. There was blood on the steps. And there was some object on the porch itself, a lump. I felt fear clawing at me, taking me down into some welcomed oblivion.
As if from far away, I heard Frank moving up quickly behind me, felt him grab my shoulders, heard him say, “Oh, for Christsakes…”
The lump was a human heart.
16
MY STOMACH CHURNED and I ran to the side of the house, where I vomited. I heard Frank come up alongside me and ask if I was okay, but I couldn’t answer. I leaned against the house, shaking. I reached down and turned on the garden hose, and rinsed out my mouth. I splashed some cool water on my face. I felt a little better. Frank held me. “I have to get out of here,” I said, feeling as if I were in a small box instead of outdoors.
He walked me over to my next-door neighbor’s house, carefully steering me away from any view of the porch. He rapped loudly on Mr. Hottlemeyer’s door. Mr. Hottlemeyer and I had a nodding acquaintance — we were pleasant but anonymous to one another. I’m sure it was quite a surprise to have us at his door at midnight. He ran a hand through his rumpled gray hair and asked politely what he could do for us.
I heard Frank explain in his most authoritative voice that this was an emergency and that he needed to use the phone. He also said that I had received quite a shock and asked if Mr. Hottlemeyer would sit and talk to me while he called.
I know we had awakened him, but Mr. Hottlemeyer was as pleasant as he might have been if we had come to pay a Sunday afternoon visit. He brought me a small glass of sherry and sat down next to me. It’s not my favorite drink, but it helped to steady my nerves. Frank came back from using the phone, and asked if I could stay while he waited at my house for investigators to arrive. Mr. Hottlemeyer was agreeable, and Frank left.
He made small talk, asking me questions about anything but what had happened next door. Did I have a garden? What sports did I enjoy? Had I seen the new comedy program on television last Tuesday night? At first I was irritated; invading images from the front porch made his questions seem inane. Soon though, I understood he was trying to distract me, and so I cooperated by forcing myself to concentrate on his voice and what he was asking me. I’m sure his efforts were all that kept me from becoming hysterical.
Soon we saw the flashing lights of squad cars, and I began to feel as if I were back at Frank’s house the night Mrs. Fremont died. But Mr. Hottlemeyer was never out of questions for me. After what seemed like a long time, Frank came back and asked me if I thought I could handle going over to the house.
I felt panic, which had never been far away, rise within me. Frank took my hand. “They’ve taken it away,” he said quietly. I bit my lower lip and nodded my consent to leave this neighbor’s safe haven.
We thanked Mr. Hottlemeyer, who shrugged as if to say, “It was nothing.” I knew better. To his credit, he had kept at bay any curiosity of his own about the events which had frightened me. For that alone I would be grateful for a long time to come. As we left, I wondered why I had not tried to get to know him better before that night.
Outside, before we crossed the yard, Frank held me for a long moment, then asked me if I was sure I was ready. I nodded, and leaving an arm around my shoulders, he led me back to the house.
In my front yard, several people were bending over the front stairs, and I felt bile rising in my throat again. I stopped moving.
“Irene?”
I shook it off. “I’m okay, Frank.” And I started asking him the questions that had been creeping up on my mind. “Is the rest of…”
“No. There wasn’t anything else,” he said firmly. He paused, then added, “It might not be a human heart, Irene.”
I shuddered, but said, “It’s human.” Something told me Frank knew that as well as I did. “Is Cody — is he okay?” Horrible visions crossed my mind.
“I couldn’t find him,” he said. Feeling me freeze up, he added quickly, “I haven’t really had a chance to look. If they had done anything to him, they would have made sure we could see him. All of this activity has probably scared him. I’m sure he’s just hiding. Maybe you shouldn’t do this yet.”
“I want to look for Cody. I’ll be okay.”
Somehow I made it past the front steps. Once I was inside and away from where I could see that porch, I was better off. There were cops everywhere; I noticed Lieutenant Carlson talking to Jake Matsuda, one of Frank’s friends in Homicide. Frank watched them, but didn’t participate or comment. I wondered if it was hard on him, but he seemed to take it in stride. He told me they had found signs of a forced entry at the back door. So much for my new lock.
Matsuda walked over and asked me to look around to see if anything was missing. The first thing I noticed was that Sammy’s clothes and journal were gone from the couch. I casually looked around the rest of the house before glancing over at Frank.
Reading his face, I knew he hadn’t said anything yet about the clothes and journal, that he was waiting for me to give out whatever information I had on my own. He was trusting me. I was grateful.
“As far as I can tell,” I said to Jake, “my cat is missing, and some items I had brought here from Casa de Esperanza earlier today. I went to the shelter to pick up some clothes and a journal belonging to a young girl who had been staying there. They’ve been taken from my couch. She ran off from the shelter a few days ago, but she’s contacted me by phone twice. I wanted to try to find out where she might have gone.”
Before Jake could ask me more, a startled look crossed his face. I turned and saw Captain Bredloe walking toward us. “Hello, Frank, Miss Kelly,” he said easily. Bredloe doesn’t usually get involved in investigations at this level, and so it was surprising to see him there.
I thought there might be animosity between Frank and Bredloe, but if there was, they weren’t letting it show. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said to Jake, who nervously glanced over to where Carlson stood talking to a forensics man, then back to me.
“You said some clothes and a journal belonging to a young runaway were taken tonight?” Jake asked.
I explained the whole Sammy story to him, starting with Jacob’s contact with me and ending with that evening, leaving out only the fact that Frank had known about my activities for a few hours. He had enough problems with the department.
Bredloe exhaled loudly when I finished. “Why didn’t you contact us about the girl? I suppose you’re aware that what you’ve done isn’t exactly legal?”
“Are you going to press charges?”
“I ought to.”
“Well, go ahead then.”
Bredloe shook his head. “I see what you mean, Frank. And I thought you and Baird were exaggerating.”
Frank smiled until he caught my
glare, then quickly tried to compose himself.
Bredloe intervened. “Don’t be insulted, Miss Kelly. I can see you learned at the knee of the late Mr. O’Connor. If you should hear from the girl again, would you please be so generous as to give us a call? We’d like to talk to her.”
“I would be happy to, Captain Bredloe,” I said, my tone as falsely sugary as his own.
He ignored me, and turned to Frank. “Pete let me know you had called this in. I just thought I’d stop by. Everything okay with you?”
Frank nodded. “Thanks, Captain.”
Bredloe seemed relieved, and turned to leave, then hesitated and looked back at me. “Don’t press your luck, Miss Kelly. You had Detective Harriman with you tonight, but that won’t always be the case. You’d be better off keeping us informed.”
“Captain Bredloe—” I started huffily, but Frank was squeezing my elbow in a plea for mercy. “Thank you for your concern,” I finished, although I hadn’t been able to keep the acid out of my voice.
Bredloe looked from Frank to me and back again. He grinned and said, “Good luck, Frank,” then walked away from us.
My anger with him managed to snap me out of the state of fear I had been in since coming home. Carlson left on Bredloe’s heels, not saying a word to either one of us. As the last officer left my house, I turned to Frank and said, “I’ve got to find Cody.”
Most of Cody’s favorite hiding places are in my bedroom, so we walked back there. Frank searched the closets while I got down on the floor. Two almond-shaped eyes blinked back from the far corner under the bed. I started crying. “He’s under here, Frank,” I managed to say. Frank got down on the floor as well, and started to reach for Cody.
“Don’t — he’ll scratch the hell out of you. He’s scared.”
“I suppose I’ve got to get something from the refrigerator for him,” he said, standing up and absently reaching his hand to a place on his face where Cody had once clawed him.
He came back a few minutes later with a piece of steak. “Steak?” I said. “Isn’t there anything cheaper in there?”
Frank ignored me and got down on the floor again, and started coaxing Cody with the meat and cooing to him. For some reason, it amused me. Cody’s stomach will always conquer his fear, and he was out from under the bed after allowing himself the bare minimum amount of proper cat obstinacy.
I held him up to my face for a kiss, and realized he smelled like Sammy’s clothes. Frank was still on the floor, looking under my bed.
“Yes, those are dust bunnies,” I said. “And no, I don’t clean as thoroughly as you do.”
He was trying to reach something under the bed, and I groaned to think of what pair of underwear or old pantyhose I might have tossed there during a look-who-just-dropped-by-to-say-hello rush clean-up operation. He got up and crawled over the top of my mattress and reached down, grunting as he pulled his hand free from the tight space between the wall and the bed.
In that hand was Sammy’s journal.
“Hiding treasures, Cody?” Frank asked with a triumphant grin.
Cody continued his post-steak wash-up without so much as a pause to reply.
“I suppose we should call Carlson or Bredloe and tell them about this,” I said, plopping down next to Frank on the bed.
“Of course,” Frank said, opening it to the first page, and holding it so that I could read it with him.
17
WE LAY THERE reading Sammy’s cramped script, prying into thoughts too personal for a best friend’s ears. The first entry was made on February 14 — Valentine’s Day. That fact, taken with the opening sentences, made me acutely aware of how isolated Sammy was.
2/14
RM talked to me all day about how happy he is with JC. It’s killing me, of course. I’ve loved him so much for so long, but I don’t think I’ll ever be more than a “kid sister” to him. I guess I should be happy for him and not wait around for them to break up anymore. I didn’t like her at first, didn’t think it would last. But now I see I was wrong. I must have known this a long time ago to give them those nicknames.
I hate Valentine’s Day.
I can’t blame him for choosing her. She’s pretty and smart and popular. I’m ugly and skinny and I don’t know how to make friends. Besides, no one will want me now. No one good.
The Bastard wanted me tonight. I told him I was on my period. I want to die. It’s Valentine’s Day, he should be with the Bitch. I wonder if they do it anymore.
“Do you know who any of these people are? RM, JC, the Bastard?” Frank asked.
“RM and JC have got to be Jacob and Julie, but I don’t know how she came up with the initials — must be the initials for the nicknames. No clue as to the Bastard or Bitch.”
He looked as if he was going to suggest something, but changed his mind. We read on. Disturbingly, it became clear that the Bastard and the Bitch were her parents. It was obvious that she stayed away from home as often as she could. She wrote of nights hiding out on the streets. No wonder she had left home. Pages venting her anger, fear, and sense of betrayal passed before we reached any mention of the coven.
3/24
I met some kids at school today who seem really cool. After school, they invited me to go to the park with them. They were really nice. They’re into witchcraft. It’s pretty interesting. I think we get along because the other kids think they’re weird, too. I admire them for sticking to what they believe in. Not like my parents, who are the biggest hypocrites on earth.
We read of a gradual bond being forged between Sammy and her new friends. Against the previous passages of isolation, she now wrote of acceptance, the thrill of participating in something forbidden, the feelings of power that came with her act of rebellion. There was the sense of belonging and devotion to other group members that being in this secret society engendered. The allure of magical power was also drawing her closer to the coven. In more than one passage, she wrote of rituals and incantations.
4/15
Learned some really great spells and chants from some books I bought at Rhiannon today. I really like the air spells. You can raise the wind by whistling three times. There’s a spell to get rid of fear. You have to light a candle and let the flame take your fear away from you, then you take the candle outside and when the wind blows out the flame, the fear is gone. So you have to raise the wind before you start the part with the candle. I’m going to try this.
This one book tells about all kinds of things you can use — stones, water, knots, feathers, even mirrors. It’s all natural and from the earth. It doesn’t harm anyone. There is so much power in it, but it’s good power. Well, some people might try to do some black magic, but they’ll be sorry. If you misuse it, it will come back on you. That’s not what my coven is into. We practice an old religion — wicca. It makes me feel as if there is hope after all.
“Romeo and Juliet,” Frank said.
“What?”
“The initials for the nicknames stand for Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet.”
“Have you been thinking about that all of this time?”
“No, I’ve been reading. But I kept trying to figure it out while I waited for you to catch up with me at the end of the page.”
“I read fast,” I said.
He only shrugged and pretended to go back to the journal, but he had a smirk on his face.
“You are most clever, Mr. Speedreader. I don’t know if I would have figured that out.”
The smirk became a smile. “Yes, you would have.”
“Excuse me, I better read. Don’t want you to fall asleep between pages.”
Between tales of learning chants and working magic, the sections on the coven revealed that there were apparently a number of loosely connected groups in the area. The one she was in seemed to be based more on a “feminist spirituality” that had been revived in the 1970s than on anything even remotely satanic. It was nature worship, and if it was alien to my own traditions, it was nevertheless gentle an
d nonviolent.
9/1
Haven’t had time to write anything in this journal for a few days. Things have been crazy. The Bitch found my altar and ruined it. She was screaming her head off at me, telling me I was possessed by the devil and a bunch of other bullshit. I told her I didn’t believe in her God. I asked her, if her God was real, why didn’t He protect me from my own father? She told me I was lying again and screamed at me to get out. I told her she was the one who was going to burn in hell, and my dad would roast right next to her, then I left.
I spent a couple nights at my friend’s houses, then RM told me about this shelter, so I came here. KS and MB live here. So far, it’s okay. Met Mrs. Fremont. She’s ancient, but nice.
“It’s the only time she’s written out a name,” Frank said.
“Maybe if you’re ancient, you get special privileges.”
He flipped ahead a few pages.
“What are you doing?”
He ignored me, found what he was looking for, and started laughing. He placed a finger on the page he had turned to, right under “Miss Kelly.”
“Speak to me, oh ancient one.”
“Shut up.”
He kissed me lightly on the forehead. “Remarkably well-preserved.”
“So glad you think so. But you know what? This old lady is tired.”