Father Soltera averted his eyes and instead focused on Michiko’s ebony hair, long and shiny, woven with cotton strands into a very tight ponytail. Her frame was small but muscular, and every move she made was economical, one foot to the next across the path, deftly avoiding branches and rocks that could’ve tripped her. This reminded him of why he had to pay more attention to the path himself. A fall here, a twisted ankle or a broken hip, would probably be a fatal mistake.
After some time, the path ahead curved sharply to the right and into a clearing free of bodies. He sighed in relief, but it was only a short reprieve before more trees with hanging bodies came into view, further away but visible as the fog cleared once more.
He realized that all the bodies he’d seen so far had been dressed in clothes from different eras, some in fifties clothes, others garbed in seventies or eighties fashion. Some were even older. He knew little of Eastern culture or history, but he was willing to guess that the two up ahead that were in thick, colored robes, were from the days of feudal Japan.
The faces of the bodies were a gallery of emotions; some were sad, others peaceful, some held expressions of agony in the end, while some conveyed a final look of desperation, gouges in their necks from where they’d tried to loosen their nooses too late.
Some of the bodies were too hard to look at. One was a teen who had tied a ukulele to his wrist with twine, and another, horribly, was a young woman who’d killed herself in her wedding dress.
Regardless, when they began to whisper again—one at first, then five, then twenty—Father Soltera felt something inside him become unhinged. He broke out in a cold sweat. Feeling overwhelmed, he instinctively whispered a short prayer of St. Thomas.
Michiko turned sharply and chastised him. “No. Not aloud. To yourself, yes, but to pray aloud here is—”
But it was too late. A shock of movement scattered through the ferns, leaves bending in a frenzied pattern as many things began to move in various directions. Father Soltera stepped back in fear as Michiko drew her long sword, and with both hands held it firmly in front of them.
The soil surrendered the pitter-patter sound of hundreds of tiny footfalls. Father Soltera stared into the ferns and tried to track ahead of or behind each trail of movement to get a glimpse of what was out there. Occasionally, he would catch a blur of something but not see nearly enough to identify a body or shape.
“What’s happening?” he said under his breath to Michiko.
Her response was less than comforting. “I don’t know.”
Whatever was darting around out there, the entire group was moving swiftly in their direction. Michiko lowered her sword tip to nearly ground level and then everything stopped.
Except for the black, swaying branches of the ferns, nothing more moved. Then, slowly, one of the pathways came alive again until it broke through the edge of the meadow and revealed its source: a blackish-gray cat with a glowing red chest and belly, as if it had consumed burning embers. It sat and stared at them.
For a minute or so, as the ferns stilled and silence again filled the air, nothing happened. Nothing at all. The cat stared at them and they stared at it.
When a female voice, hollow and filled with disdain, broke out into the air, Father Soltera nearly jumped out of his shoes.
What are you doing here? the voice asked.
Father Soltera was incredulous. It was the cat. The cat was speaking to them telepathically.
“We aim simply to pass through,” Michiko replied.
The cat licked a paw and swept it over its head, then looked from Michiko to Father Soltera and then back again. And why would we allow that?
“Because we mean you no harm.”
The cat’s reply was nonchalant. That’s nice. Putting its paw back on the ground, the cat tilted its head. We, however, mean you nothing BUT harm.
In spite of a strong urge to stay silent, Father Soltera couldn’t help himself. In a shaky voice he did not like, he asked, “Why?”
When the cat looked at him this time, it held him in its gaze, its black eyes beginning to glow a soft red. The feeling those eyes created in him made Father Soltera wish he’d never opened his mouth. It was combination of doom and paralyzing angst.
The cat turned its attention back to Michiko and asked with a disdain that bordered on disgust, You not only bring a human, but you bring a man of GOD here?
“I did not bring him,” Michiko replied with hesitation in her voice.
Ah. Then he is ours to begin with and you are just interfering?
“No.”
Yes. If he was meant to come here, then you have no say in the matter.
“I disagree. Some are sent here that are still not meant for here.”
Standing to stretch its back, the cat yawned. Then leave him be for a few days. Right here. My brothers and sisters and I will do the same and we’ll see if he does it.
Father Soltera looked confused. “Michiko? What’s it talking about? ‘Do’ what?”
The cat snapped its attention to Father Soltera.
“Stop speaking, tomodachi,” Michiko said softly.
Oh. This is too good, the cat said, and incredibly its tiny lips folded up into a tight smile. He doesn’t know, does he?
“Just let us pass,” Michiko repeated.
The cat’s eyes were burning into him now. In spite of Michiko’s orders, Father Soltera pressed. “Doesn’t know what?”
Come now . . . Bernardino, is it? Yes. I mean, how many times have you thought of doing it?
“Doing . . . what?”
Why, stringing yourself up like all the flesh-ornaments around us.
“What? Never!”
Really? How about during the chemo treatments for the cancer that I can smell, right this second, eating away at the insides of your body?
“No.”
No? Hmm. Okay. How about when you let that man who killed those little girls get away?
Michiko glanced uncomfortably over her shoulder at Father Soltera, as if she were learning things about him for the first time.
Father Soltera exhaled with nerves that rattled his body. “No. Not then either. How dare you. Who are—”
Ahhhhhh, the cat purred. Ahhhh, yes. That makes sense.
“What does?”
The woman, Bernardino. SHE is the fulcrum in you.
Father Soltera felt his face go slack.
The cat nodded its head knowingly. There it is. Like a teeny-tiny mouse. Peekaboo . . . I see you. And the cat’s voice was ominous now, tinged with an evil sort of glee.
“No. That’s not true.”
You loved her, didn’t you? How many times, man of God, did you speak words of temptation and desire to her—
Father Soltera felt the sudden urge to run, past whatever was out there, even though he sensed that would mean a terrible death. Still. He felt he might do anything, whatever it took, to get away from this creature’s words. “I won’t listen to you—”
—using the same lips with which you blessed the Eucharist. Or spoke words of forgiveness for the sins of OTHERS.
“Stop it!”
“I will not ask again,” Michiko said firmly, obviously seeking to intervene. “Let. Us. Pass.”
No. I think not, the cat said coyly. Night is coming and that is when we feed.
Michiko looked up and so did Father Soltera. The cat was right. The gray glare of the sky was on the fade. The woods were growing darker like they always did in the forest, from the ground up.
And, the cat added, standing on all fours and glaring at Father Soltera, there are no bones with sweeter marrow than those of a hypocrite.
The ferns came alive again and before long they arrived: hundreds upon hundreds of cats. Some came out to join their leader. Others climbed the tree trunks and began filling out the branches, which bent beneath their weight. Some were black, others gray or brown, a few were a splattered mix of color, but one thing was consistent: the fire-glow of their bellies that cast the woods with splotc
hes of orange.
Father Soltera barely noticed Michiko move into a defensive stance. Instead, his focus was absorbed by the lead cat’s eyes as they burned right into his soul. It spoke directly to him. Tonight, sir, I will feast on your bones. And you will be alive, I assure you, for every . . . single . . . bite.
When Maggie entered the ICU and saw the frail body of Father Soltera, small and vulnerable looking, surrounded by so many machines, she could barely recognize him. Stunned, she gasped. Detective Ivy was at her side and she put an arm on his shoulder to steady herself.
Again, she barely knew this priest or anything about his life. It didn’t matter. What had happened to him was obviously something that should happen to no human being. Ever. It took a few minutes for the shock to wear off, but when it did, it was immediately replaced with a gut-wrenching rage. She wanted, more than anything, to go find Felix and show him what it was like to fight someone who could fight back, and not a weak old man who was no doubt sworn against violence.
A nurse walked in behind them. Dark skinned, with her hair in a tight bun, she had soft eyes and sympathetic face. “Are you his daughter?” she asked.
Maggie shook her head. “N-no.”
“She’s a close friend. I agreed to bring her in under supervision,” Ivy said.
“Sure,” the nurse replied with a nod. “My name is Elaine if you have any questions.”
Maggie did. “I’m Maggie. Thank you for taking care of him. What happened? I mean, I know he was attacked but . . . his injuries, I mean. How bad are they?”
The nurse glanced at Detective Ivy, who nodded at her.
“Well. It’s going to be a bit hard to hear, but he was stabbed, eight times—”
“Oh God.” Maggie put a hand over her mouth as her eyes filled with tears.
“They missed his heart—”
“They?”
Detective Ivy intervened. “He was stabbed from behind and in front, which shows that there was more than one assailant. Actually, we have at least one witness who saw three.”
Maggie shook her head. Three men. It was beyond unfair. It was savage.
“Anyway,” Elaine continued, “most of the wounds are to his torso. Four made no major damage, but the other four did. His liver was punctured, as was one of his lungs, his pancreas and one kidney.”
The machines around Father Soltera were humming away, their red and golden-yellow lights blinking or remaining static depending on their task. IV bags hung on either side of the bed and an endotracheal tube was pushed down his throat and connected to a ventilating machine situated near the headboard.
Overcome with sadness, Maggie walked up to his bedside as Elaine continued. “He lost a lot of blood, needed multiple blood transfusions and only got out of surgery a little while ago, so it’s too early to say how things went. But, at his age, it’s a miracle he made it this far. The doctor can tell you more.”
Numb, Maggie nodded. “Okay. Thank you for the information.”
Looking down at Father Soltera, she noticed that his thinning hair was a complete mess, so she combed it into place with her fingers, going from the memory of the one and only time she met him. In seeing him up close, she also felt a newfound sense of urgency to get to Luisa, as if she were being prodded into action by the unconscious man before her.
“I’ll give you a few moments, but we can’t stay long, okay?” Detective Ivy said.
Maggie nodded.
A beige chair was nearby, and he went to sit on it while he tapped away on his smartphone.
She leaned over and counted the wrinkles on Father Soltera’s closed eyelids beneath the harsh light of the overhead lamp. Spittle was dried to his lower lip and a faint smear of blood that someone had forgotten to clean up was on his neck. She looked around for some wipes or something, but there were none.
Then she did something that surprised even her. “Father?” she said very softly.
This was ridiculous. It wasn’t like he could answer her. But still. She felt him there, not very far away at all, on the other side of those eyelids.
“Father, it’s me. Maggie.”
His heart monitor jumped a bit and there was the tiniest of stutters in his breathing, all mostly unnoticeable and no doubt completely random.
But. No. Maybe not.
Closing her eyes, she leaned over him.
You can’t do this, Maggie. You’re not asleep. You can only do this, whatever this is, when you’re—
His voice clanged through her brain like a metal bell. I’M LOST.
She jumped and gripped the guardrail of the bed with suddenly sweaty hands.
This isn’t possible. You’re imagining—
Again, his voice came to her. I’M SCARED.
Maggie felt her lower lip trembling as her mind scrambled with one idea after another of what to do next. She decided to deal with the “how is this happening” part of the equation later and instead deal with “what do I say back.”
Then, three more words from the void. ARE YOU THERE?
She tried to think her words back to him a few times. But nothing. Then she realized that she had spoken aloud to him before, softly, and he had heard her that way, so she switched back to a whisper. “Yes. I’m here.”
Detective Ivy stirred in his chair but was no doubt trying to give her space to do what most people did in this situation: try to talk to an unconscious person. Glancing over quickly, she confirmed that he was far enough away to hear her talking but not close enough to hear what she was saying.
I’M LOST. I’M SCARED.
A million thoughts ran through her panicked mind all at once. She couldn’t do this. It was impossible. She felt overwhelmed again by the idea that reality was more than just a three-dimensional thing. She knew this place, this other side of “what was real,” and she never expected to come back to it, and the last time—
An idea struck her. Yes. The last time she’d been here, she’d spoken to her grandmother.
MAGGIE? Father Soltera cried out in pure panic.
Her grandmother. Father Soltera. Latin. That was the connection, the key. But no. It wasn’t. Not right now. Not this time, at least.
She wrinkled her brow in utter confusion as a word came to her from seemingly out of nowhere.
Selah.
Greek, maybe? Or Hebrew? It was a Bible word. She’d seen it a few times in catechism class. Did it mean amen? Or what?
It didn’t matter. She could look it up later. There was no doubt that this was the message she was supposed to pass along, so she leaned over, closer to his face, and said it firm and clear. “Selah.”
Nothing miraculous occurred. The room did not shake, the machines did not start flashing like something in a TV show. Detective Ivy did not stir and Father Soltera did not open his eyes.
But the message had been sent and received, she knew it to her core.
Just like she knew without really knowing how that he’d sent one right back to her, almost immediately.
LUISA.
She was halfway to the door before Detective Ivy realized she was leaving and rushed to follow her out.
Chapter Nine
Parker thought his apology would be enough, but it was obvious that Trudy was tired of letting things go.
Green eyes on the boil, framed in a pale face with a smattering of light freckles on each cheek, all beneath a tousled crown of hair so red it seemed to set the room on fire. She was not a woman to be trifled with, and she was pissed, but she was his. So, he listened even when he didn’t want to.
“You need to start getting a grip,” she said, cupping her coffee mug in her palms as she sat cross-legged on the cloth chair opposite the couch in the living room.
It was hard to concentrate because he still had Napoleon front and center in his mind, and as result a detached sort of feeling about the entire world was starting to gnaw at the edges of his concentration.
He tried to deflect it all. “Trudy, I really just don’t—”
“—want to talk about it. I know. Same shit, different day,” she said with an exaggerated shrug.
“That’s not helpful, you can’t rush—”
She looked at him firmly. “Yes. I. Can. Somebody has to rush you, Evan. Before it’s too late.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Her expression wavered, then melted. “Most nights you don’t get more than four or five hours sleep. And that’s if you don’t wake up screaming about that damn place and what happened to you there.”
He looked to the sky and set his coffee cup down on the table between them. “It’s just sleep.”
She bulldozed right past him. “No. It’s not. What about the nights when you zone out? When we’re watching TV or in the car together? You just teleport off somewhere and sometimes I literally have to poke or shake you to snap you out of it!”
“Dr. Mertz says—”
“Yes. I know. We both know what Dr. Mertz says. And listening to your therapist is a good idea that we can both agree on. But, really, you don’t listen to her.”
“That’s not true.”
Trudy had thrown on a Stanford sweatshirt over blue sweats and now used the sleeve to wipe the tears in her eyes before they could scoot over her freckles. “You have exercises you’re supposed to go through, correct?”
He lowered his head. “Yes. And in my sessions—”
“Not just in your sessions.”
Parker sighed hard, against his growing frustration. The couch they’d bought was modern with an offset checkered pattern of blues and greens that Trudy loved but that was too small for his frame. His knees were jammed in place and he put his hands on them. “On my drive into work I do the memory one, with the step-by-step shit.”
“The step-by-step ‘shit’? There ya go. That shows how serious you are about all of this.”
He clenched his teeth but couldn’t stop himself. “Look! I’m doing my best! Okay? Get off my back!”
The silence that followed was like another piece of furniture set between them. Behind her was a pot with a smiley face painted on it. A craft she’d painted the day they’d taken Efren to Color Me Mine, it now seemed to be mocking him, its bright-yellow smile silently telling him that happy days were a lie the minute they faded into the past.
The Parker Trilogy Page 39