Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands

by Richard Montanari

  The woman in the coffin was Nicci Malone.

  92

  Byrne and Vincent crested the hill overlooking the theme park. The moonlight cast a clear blue light over the valley, and they got a good overview of the park’s layout. Canals snaked through the desolate trees. Around each turn, sometimes back to back, were displays and backdrops reaching fifteen to twenty feet in the air. Some looked like giant books, others like ornate storefronts.

  The air smelled of earth and compost and rotting flesh.

  Only one building had light. A small structure, no more than twenty by twenty feet, near the end of the main canal. From where they stood they saw shadows in the light. They also spotted two people peering into the windows.

  Byrne spied a path leading down. It was mostly snow-covered, but there were markers on either side. He pointed it out to Vincent.

  A few moments later they headed into the valley, into StoryBook River.

  93

  Jessica opened the door and stepped into the building. She held her weapon at her side, pointing it away from the man on the stage. She was immediately struck by the overpowering smell of dead flowers. The coffin was brimming with them. Daisies, lilies of the valley, roses, gladiolas. The smell was deep and sweetly cloying. She almost gagged.

  The peculiarly dressed man onstage immediately turned to greet her.

  “Welcome to StoryBook River,” he said.

  Although his hair was combed straight back, with a razorlike parting on the right side, Jessica recognized him immediately. It was Will Pedersen. Or the young man who had said he was Will Pedersen. The brick mason they had questioned the morning Kristina Jakos’s body was found. The man who had come to the Roundhouse—Jessica’s own shop—and told them of the moon paintings.

  They’d had him, and he had walked away. Anger twisted Jessica’s stomach. She needed to calm herself. “Thank you,” she answered.

  “Is it cold out there?”

  Jessica nodded. “Very.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like.” He turned to a large Victrola to his right. “Do you like music?”

  Jessica had been here before, at the border of such madness. She would play his game, for the moment. “I love music.”

  Holding the rope tautly in one hand, he turned the crank with the other, lifted the arm, placed it on an old 78 rpm record. A scratchy rendition of a waltz began, performed on a calliope.

  “This is ‘The Snow Waltz,’ ” he said. “It is my absolute favorite.”

  Jessica closed the door. She glanced around the room.

  “So, your name isn’t Will Pedersen is it?”

  “No. I apologize for that. I really don’t like to lie.”

  The idea had needled her for days, but there had been no reason to chase it down. Will Pedersen’s hands were too soft for him to be a brick mason.

  “Will Pedersen is a name I borrowed from a very famous man,” he said. “Lieutenant Vilhelm Pedersen illustrated some of Hans Christian Andersen’s books. He was truly a great artist.”

  Jessica glanced at Nicci. She still couldn’t tell if she was breathing. “It was clever of you to use that name,” she said.

  He smiled broadly. “I had to think quickly! I didn’t know you were going to talk to me that day.”

  “What is your name?”

  He thought on this. Jessica noticed that he appeared taller than the last time they had met, broader through the shoulders. She looked into his dark and penetrating eyes.

  “I have been known by many names,” he finally replied. “Sean, for one. Sean is a variation of John. Just like Hans.”

  “But what is your real name?” Jessica asked. “That is, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I don’t mind. My birth name is Marius Damgaard.”

  “May I call you Marius?”

  He waved a hand. “Please call me Moon.”

  “Moon,” Jessica echoed. She shuddered.

  “And please put down the gun.” Moon pulled the rope tight. “Put it on the floor, and kick it away from you.” Jessica looked at the crossbow. The steel arrow was aimed at Nicci’s heart.

  “Now, please,” Moon added.

  Jessica lowered her weapon to the floor. She kicked it away.

  “I’m sorry about before, at my grandmother’s house,” he said.

  Jessica nodded. Her head throbbed. She had to think. The sound of the calliope made it difficult. “I understand.”

  Jessica stole another glance at Nicci. No movement.

  “When you came to the police station, was that just to taunt us?” Jessica asked.

  Moon looked hurt. “No, ma’am. I was simply afraid you would miss it.”

  “The moon drawing on the wall?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Moon circled the table, smoothing Nicci’s gown. Jessica watched his hands. Nicci did not respond to his touch.

  “May I ask you a question?” Jessica asked.

  “Of course.”

  Jessica searched for the right tone. “Why? Why have you done all this?”

  Moon stopped, his head down. Jessica thought he hadn’t heard. Then he looked up, his expression sunny once more.

  “To bring the people back, of course. Back to StoryBook River. They’re going to tear it all down. Did you know that?”

  Jessica found no reason to lie. “Yes.”

  “You never came here as a child, did you?” he asked.

  “No,” Jessica said.

  “Imagine. This was a magical place where children came. Families came. Memorial Day through Labor Day. Every year, year after year.”

  As he spoke, Moon slightly loosened his grip on the rope. Jessica glanced at Nicci Malone, saw her chest rise and fall.

  If you want to understand magic, you have to believe.

  “And who is this?” Jessica gestured toward Nicci. She hoped this man was too far-gone to know she was just playing his game. He was.

  “This is Ida,” he said. “She will help me bury the flowers.”

  Although Jessica had read “Little Ida’s Flowers” as a child, she could not remember the story’s details. “Why are you going to bury the flowers?”

  Moon looked vexed for a moment. Jessica was losing him. His fingers caressed the rope. Then he said, slowly, “So that next summer they will bloom more beautifully than ever.”

  Jessica took a small step to her left. Moon did not notice. “Why do you need the crossbow? I can help you bury the flowers if you like.”

  “That is kind of you. But in the story, James and Adolphus had crossbows. They could not afford guns.”

  “I’d like to hear about your grandfather.” Jessica edged to her left. Again it went unnoticed. “If you’d like to tell me.”

  Tears immediately rimmed Moon’s eyes. He looked away from Jessica, perhaps in embarrassment. He wiped away the tears, then looked back. “He was a great man. He designed and built StoryBook River with his own hands. All the amusements, all the displays. He was from Denmark, you know, just like Hans Christian Andersen. He was from a small village called Sonder-Oske. Near Aalborg. In fact, this is his father’s suit.” He gestured to his costume. He stood straighter, as if at attention. “Do you like it?”

  “I do. It’s very becoming.”

  The man who called himself Moon smiled. “His name was Frederik. Do you know what that name means?”

  “No,” Jessica said.

  “It means peaceful ruler. That’s what my grandfather was. He ruled this peaceful little kingdom.”

  Jessica glanced past him. There were two windows at the back of the room, one on either side of the stage. Josh Bontrager was working his way around the building to the right. It was her hope that she could distract the man long enough to get him to drop the rope for a moment. She glanced to the window on the right. She didn’t see Josh.

  “Do you know what Damgaard means?” he asked.

  “No.” Jessica took another small stride to her left. Moon followed her with his
gaze this time, angling himself slightly away from the window.

  “In Danish, Damgaard means ‘the farmstead by the pond.’ ”

  Jessica needed to keep him talking. “That’s pretty,” she said. “Have you actually ever been to Denmark?”

  Moon’s face lit up. He blushed. “Gosh, no. I’ve only been out of Pennsylvania once.”

  To get the nightingales, Jessica thought.

  “When I was small, StoryBook River was already on hard times, you see,” he said. “There were all these other places, big noisy ugly places where families went instead. It was bad for my grandmother.” He tightened the rope. “She was a hard woman, but she loved me.” He gestured to Nicci Malone. “This was her mother’s dress.”

  “It’s lovely.”

  A shadow by the window.

  “When I went to the bad place, after the swans, my grandmother came to see me every weekend. She took the train.”

  “You mean the swans in Fairmount Park? In 1995?”

  “Yes.”

  Jessica saw the outline of a shoulder in the window. Josh was there.

  Moon placed a few more dead flowers in the coffin, gently arranging them. “My grandmother died, you know.”

  “I read it in the paper. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The tin soldier was close,” he said. “He was very close.”

  In addition to the river killings, the man standing in front of her had burned Walt Brigham to death. Jessica flashed on the immolated corpse in the park.

  “He was smart,” Moon added. “He would have stopped the story before it was over.”

  “What about Roland Hannah?” Jessica asked.

  Moon raised his eyes slowly to meet hers. His gaze seemed to bore right through her. “The Snow Man? There is much about him you do not know.”

  Jessica moved further to her left, drawing Moon’s eyes from Josh. Josh was now fewer than five linear feet from where Nicci was. If Jessica could just get the man to drop the rope for a second …

  “I believe people will come back here,” Jessica said.

  “Do you think so?” He reached over, started the record again. The sound of the steam whistles once more filled the room.

  “Absolutely,” she said. “People are curious.”

  Moon went distant again. “I didn’t know my great-grandfather. But he was a seafaring man. One time, my grandfather told me a story about him, about how, as a young man, he was out at sea and saw a mermaid. I knew it wasn’t true. I’d read it in a book. He also told me that he helped the Danish people build a place called Solvang in California. Do you know that place?”

  Jessica had never heard of it. “No.”

  “It’s a genuine Danish village. I’d like to go there someday.”

  “Maybe you will.” Another step to the left. Moon looked up quickly.

  “Where are you going, tin soldier?”

  Jessica stole a glance at the window. Josh had a large rock in his hands.

  “Nowhere,” she answered.

  Jessica could see Moon’s expression shift from affable host to utter madness and rage. He pulled the rope taut. The mechanism of the crossbow groaned above Nicci Malone’s prone body.

  94

  Byrne sighted down his pistol. Inside the candlelit room, the man onstage stood behind a coffin. A coffin with Nicci Malone in it. A large crossbow aimed a steel arrow at her heart.

  The man was Will Pedersen. He had a white flower in his lapel.

  The white flower, Natalya Jakos had said.

  Take the shot.

  Seconds earlier Byrne and Vincent had approached the front of the schoolhouse. Jessica was inside, trying to negotiate with the lunatic on the stage. She was working her way to the left.

  Did she know that Byrne and Vincent were there? Was she maneuvering out of the way to give them a clear shot?

  Byrne raised the barrel of his weapon slightly, allowing for the distortion of the path of the bullet as it passed through the glass. He wasn’t sure how the slug would be affected. He sighted down the barrel.

  He saw Anton Krotz.

  The white flower.

  He saw the knife at Laura Clarke’s throat.

  Take the shot.

  Byrne saw the man lift his arms, the rope. He was going to trigger the crossbow mechanism.

  Byrne couldn’t wait. Not this time.

  He fired.

  95

  Marius Damgaard pulled the rope as a gunshot thundered through the room. At the same instant, Josh Bontrager slammed the rock through the window, smashing the pane into a shower of crystalline glass. Damgaard staggered back, blood now blossoming on his crisp white shirt. Bontrager gained his footing on the icy shards, then lunged across the room, onto the stage, toward the coffin. Damgaard reeled, fell backward, his full weight on the rope. The crossbow mechanism triggered as Damgaard disappeared through the shattered window, leaving a slick scarlet trail on the floor, the wall, the windowsill.

  As the steel arrow launched, Josh Bontrager reached Nicci Malone. The projectile slammed into his right thigh, passing through it and into Nicci’s flesh. Bontrager shrieked in agony as a great burst of his blood shot across the room.

  A moment later, the front door crashed in.

  Jessica dove for her weapon, rolled on the floor, aimed. Somehow Kevin Byrne and Vincent were standing in front of her. She scrambled to her feet.

  The three detectives dashed over to the stage. Nicci was still alive. The arrowhead had cut into her right shoulder, but the wound did not look serious. Josh’s injury looked far worse. The razor sharp arrow had sliced deeply into his leg. It may have hit an artery.

  Byrne tore off his coat, his shirt. He and Vincent lifted Bontrager, tied a tight tourniquet around his upper leg. Bontrager screamed in pain.

  Vincent turned to his wife, held her. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” Jessica said. “Josh called for backup. The sheriff ’s office is on the way.”

  Byrne looked through the shattered window. A dry canal ran behind the building. Damgaard was gone.

  “I’ve got this.” Jessica applied pressure to Josh Bontrager’s wound. “Go after him,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” Vincent asked.

  “I’m sure. Go.”

  Byrne slipped his coat back on. Vincent grabbed his shotgun.

  They ran out the door into the black night.

  96

  Moon is bleeding. He makes his way to the entrance to StoryBook River, winding his way through the darkness. He cannot see very well, but he knows every turn of the canals, every stone, every display. His breathing is wet and labored, his pace is slow.

  He stops for a moment, reaches into his pocket, retrieves his matches. He remembers the story of the little match seller. Barefoot, and with no coat, she found herself alone on New Year’s Eve. It was very cold. As the evening grew late, the little girl struck match after match for warmth.

  In each flare she saw a vision.

  Moon lights a match. In the flame he envisions the beautiful swans, shimmering in the springtime sun. He strikes another. This time he sees Thumbelina, her tiny form on the lily pad. The third match is the nightingale. He remembers her song. The next is Karen, graceful in her red shoes. Then Anne Lisbeth. Match after match glows brightly in the night. Moon sees each face, recalls each story.

  He has just a few matches left.

  Perhaps, like the little match seller, he will light them all at once. When the girl in the story did that, her grandmother came down and lifted her to heaven.

  Moon hears a sound, turns. There is a man standing by the bank of the main canal, just a few feet away. He is not a big man, but he is broad-shouldered, strong looking. He throws a length of rope over the crossbeam of the huge trellis spanning the Østtunnelen canal.

  Moon knows the story is ending.

  He strikes the matches, begins to recite.

  “Here are maidens, young and fair.”

  One by one the match heads i
gnite.

  “Dancing in the summer air.”

  A warm radiance fills the world.

  “Like two spinning wheels at play.”

  Moon drops the matches to the ground. The man steps forward, ties Moon’s hands behind him. Moments later Moon feels the soft rope coil around his neck, sees the gleaming knife in the man’s hand.

  “Pretty maidens dance away.”

  Moon is swept from his feet, high into the air, moving skyward, heavenward. Below him he sees the beaming faces of the swans, of Anne Lisbeth, of Thumbelina, of Karen, of all the others. He sees the canals, the displays, the wonder that is StoryBook River.

  The man disappears into the forest.

  On the ground the matchlight flares brightly, burns for a moment, then grows dim.

  For Moon, there is now only darkness.

  97

  Byrne and Vincent searched the grounds directly adjacent to the schoolhouse, flashlights held over weapons, finding nothing. The tracks leading around the north side of the structure had been Josh Bontrager’s. They dead-ended at the window.

  They walked along the banks of the narrow canals that snaked through the trees, their Maglites cutting thin beams through the utter gloom of the night.

  After the second turn of the canal they saw the footprints. And blood. Byrne caught Vincent’s eye. They would search on separate sides of the six-foot-wide channel.

  Vincent crossed the arching footbridge, Byrne stayed on the near side. They hunted through the turning tributaries of the canals. They came upon the decayed displays, all decorated with fading signs: THE LITTLE MERMAID. THE FLYING TRUNK. THE STORY OF THE WIND. THE OLD STREETLAMP. Real skeletons sat on the displays. Rotting clothes swaddled the figures.

  Minutes later, they came to the end of the canals. Damgaard was nowhere in sight. The trellis that spanned the main canal near the entrance was fifty feet away. Beyond that, the world. Damgaard was gone.

  “Don’t move,” came a voice directly behind them.

  Byrne heard the rack of a shotgun.