The Blood of Seven

by Claire L. Fishback

  “There’s no answer! Doctor Hart isn’t answering.”

  Teresa paused. Where was he, drinking with Ann?

  “Dammit, Betty. I said 911, not Doctor Hart!”

  Tiffany pulled Teresa into the hallway and toward the front door.

  “I can help them,” Teresa said, looking over her shoulder toward their cries.

  “No, Mommy. You can’t.”

  Outside, they ran back to the old house. Ruthie shrieked behind them, gained on them. Tiffany led the way. Her pale form glowed in the moonlight. Teresa’s lungs burned. Her legs burned. Her head swam with the flashing shock of instant regret. She could have helped them. She could go back now and help. Besides, she didn’t want to go back to Yaldabaoth.

  Ruthie’s footsteps thumped behind her. Teresa glanced over her shoulder just as Sheriff McMichael, still bloated, crashed through the fence surrounding the neighbor’s back yard.

  Teresa had never run so fast in her life. Ruthie shrieked. It seemed like she was inside Teresa’s head.

  On the dirt road, Teresa turned and leapt over the creek. The lost souls bounced and bobbed among the tombstones. She fell against a marble epitaph to some long-lost ancestor of the town and caught her breath.

  Inside the abandoned funeral home, Yaldabaoth stood by the pool, gazing into its still depths.

  “Here, it’s done.” Teresa pushed the hypo into his hand. She turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her against him.

  “You’re upset with me,” he said, his breath—laced with lavender and honey and something unsavory—washed over her.

  She pulled away from him. “You deceived me.” She started for the door but turned back. “You made me . . . unfaithful.” She reached for her throat, but he caught her hand.

  “You knew the whole time,” he said. “It was what you wanted.”

  Teresa backed away, shaking her head. “No. I didn’t—I didn’t know and I didn’t want it. I just want to be happy. With my husband and our daughter.” She cast around for Tiffany. “Where is my baby?”

  Yaldabaoth laughed again. “She is in her room.” He indicated a white door that had appeared on the cave wall. “Take a look.” He was suddenly behind her, whispering the words into her ear, holding her arms in a gentle grip. A grip full of tethered power. She resisted the urge to lean back and press against him. He let go of her.

  Inside was the nursery again. She knew it wasn’t real. She stormed to the door, opened it, and stepped out into the hallway in her own house.

  No, not her house. Still the cave. The cave of illusions. Yaldabaoth was toying with her. She went downstairs to the front door, and when she opened it, she was on her front porch, looking out onto the residential street.

  Teresa’s breath came in panicked gasps.

  Where are you, really? Home? The cave? Mountain View?

  She went back inside, and the stone walls reappeared.

  “Stop this!” she screamed. Yaldabaoth’s chuckle echoed, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “I have so much power over you, my dear,” he said, suddenly behind her, stroking her arms again, breathing on her neck. “You are mine.”

  “Please,” she said. “Please let me go home.” Derrick would be worried. Or furious. She had to let him know she was okay. “I need to go home.”

  The room melted into the moldy interior of the abandoned house. She let out a sobbing gasp and ran to the door, into the forest, across the creek, onto the dirt road.

  She glanced back at the house. It glared down at her. How had she ever thought the front steps looked like an inviting smile?

  Chapter 43

  The phone rang. Ann jerked awake. It rang again. She jumped up and ran to the kitchen. The clock on the microwave read 4:08. She picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Detective Logan? It’s Whitney? I’m the night receptionist at the station?”

  “Oh... hi... What’s going on?”

  “I got a call from the Bergs? I guess something’s happened to their daughter?”

  “Marcie,” Ann whispered.

  * * *

  Ann pulled on a clean pair of nitrile gloves and carried her kit to Marcie’s room.

  Flight for life had arrived shortly after she finished taking statements from Betty and Roger Berg. Ann was able to convince Roger that Marcie’s state couldn’t have possibly been drug induced, but he still heard a bump in the night that he swore was that damn Riley kid sneaking in. Betty rode in the chopper with Marcie, and Roger took the car to meet them in Aspen.

  Ann surveyed Marcie’s room. A desk sat against the wall with stacks of celebrity gossip rags and teen fashion magazines towering over a laptop.

  She grabbed the camera out of her bag and set about following protocol for taking pictures.

  By Marcie’s bed, Ann dropped to her knees. The crispy substance lay in a line, shattered to pieces. She took several pictures of the stuff, then collected as much of the substance as she could in a little envelope. She pulled out the fingerprinting kit and got to work.

  The inside of the window only came up with prints on the latch and the two areas where one might pull the window open or push it closed. Probably Marcie’s. Outside, she dusted the exterior of the glass.

  One full flat hand print revealed itself in the powder. Ann held her hand up to it for comparison and found it to be about the same size. Not George’s then. His hands were like a bunch of bratwursts. Maybe Marcie? If she’d sneaked out, this was probably how she got back in. Ann collected the print on the tape and hoped the station had the equipment needed to analyze it. Otherwise, she’d be calling in a favor to an old friend.

  She collected Marcie’s laptop from the desk. If nothing else, she could compare any prints pulled from the machine with the ones from the window.

  A piece of paper stuck out from under a stack of textbooks. Ann pulled it out and unfolded it. She gave a short laugh through her nose.

  The Local Inquirer.

  Photographed, Written, Compiled, and Printed by Brent Winter. How the community paper allowed him to use their equipment, Ann would never know. Someone scrawled a hand-written note across the top.

  Meet me behind the library at noon tomorrow. Love, Pinky’s Pal.

  A secret note. Not so secret name, though. Ann shook her head. Good job, Brent. Now you’re a suspect.

  Ann flipped through the pages and found four pictures amongst the articles with ridiculous headlines: Ann herself, Louise in the middle of the diner with her arms spread wide, and Teresa Hart coming out of the old funeral home. Ann collected the newspaper as evidence.

  A visit to Brent’s house was definitely in order. Not just to question him, but to see if Pinky, in fact, was a victim in Yaldabaoth’s grand scheme.

  She also wanted to see Derrick, find out why he had been unavailable. Teresa, too. Maybe they were preoccupied with mending their relationship. She could only hope.

  She finished collecting anything she felt was evidence and packed it out.

  Next stop, the sheriff’s department to drop everything off. Tomorrow she would search the storage cell. She hoped if they had a microscope they had other equipment, too.

  Chapter 44

  Tuesday

  Fingers tucked Teresa’s hair behind her ear. She opened her eyes. Derrick pulled his hand back like she’d snapped at him. He sat on the edge of the couch with a cup of coffee in his other hand.

  “Hey,” he said in a soft voice. Teresa sat up and shifted away from him. Was it really him, or was she still trapped in the old funeral home, Twilight Zone, Hotel California?

  “Hi.” Her voice rasped. She cleared her throat. He handed her the cup of coffee. “What time is it?”

  “Nine,” he said.

  “Maggie,” Teresa glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen, worried about having failed to make breakfast and lunch for the child. Wondering how she’d slept through their morning preparations.

  “I took care of her,” Derrick said.
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  He picked up another mug of coffee from the table and sipped it, staring straight ahead at the fireplace across from the couch.

  “Gave her some lunch money and stopped at the bakery on the way to school.” He glanced at her. “Where have you been?” His voice held tender curiosity, but the muscle in his jaw jumped.

  “I was . . . I . . .”

  “Don’t lie to me, Teresa.” Tenderness gone. He knew. He could smell her indiscretions. Yaldabaoth. He knew everything. No. He couldn’t know. She bit her lip.

  “After you hurt me,” she said, sliding into a sitting position and holding out the wrist with the most bruising for him to see, “I went to a friend’s house.”

  “A friend?”

  You have no friends here.

  “Yes.” She smoothed her hand over her hair. Oh, God, what kind of mess was her hair right now? Her make up? She imagined she looked fresh out of a horror movie and glanced at her shirt. She remembered then. Coming home and throwing her bloody shirt in the trash. She’d pulled on one of Derrick’s souvenir shirts from Steamboat Springs.

  “I made a friend the other day.”

  “Who?”

  “Is it so hard to believe I can make friends, Derrick?” She got up and edged toward the hall bathroom, but Derrick grabbed her wrist. He immediately let go when she shied away from him.

  He sank onto the couch. Silence for one beat, two beats. He stared into his coffee cup.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “If you’re going to apologize, at least have the decency to look me in the eye.”

  He didn’t. She left.

  The bathroom mirror reflected a not-too-horrible version of her usual self. Her makeup had managed to stay in place, and her hair, though a little mussed, held a sort of careless order to it. She shrugged. Not bad, actually.

  When she came out, Derrick was in the hall.

  “You look pretty,” he told her. “By the way—I don’t think I tell you enough.”

  She straightened her shirt and lifted her chin. “Thanks.”

  “I like it when you don’t try so hard.” He looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry—for bruising your wrists.” He lifted his hand, and she watched it near her face. He tucked her hair behind her ear again and opened his arms to her.

  Teresa scrutinized his face, his eyes, the faint scar on his chin from a frat boy drunk fest in college, before stepping into his embrace. He rested his cheek on the top of her head. He held her like that, wrapped in his arms, safe and comfortable and familiar.

  She could forgive him, yes. She could forgive him for what he’d done. They could move on. A smile came to her lips. A real one. Not a prearranged version for appearances.

  He shifted again and kissed the top of her head, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Something else was coming.

  “I think we need to take a trip to Mountain View,” he said in a soft voice. His arms tightened, as if predicting she’d pull away. She did and backed into the bathroom doorway. She gripped the frame.

  “What? Mountain View? Why?”

  “Just for an analysis. That’s all.”

  “An analysis? What does that mean?” Her voice had gone shrill, and she hated the way it sounded. Fear tremors rippled through her.

  “You haven’t been yourself lately. You refused my offer of pharmaceuticals. I just want to help you.” His face saddened.

  “By doping me up? Is that what you want? You want the zombie version back?” She stormed past him to the kitchen and stood at the sink. “Four years, Derrick. Four years I spent in a drug-induced fog behind those walls. Two more out here, at home. I can’t do that again. That wasn’t living. That wasn’t even existing.” She swiped a hand across her forehead. “You can’t tell me you want that version of me.” Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “I don’t,” he said after a few seconds. “I want the version before Tiffany . . . died.” His shoulders dropped. He looked weary.

  Teresa didn’t know what to say. She didn’t remember who she was back then. Her only clues were the pictures on the piano. Their smiling faces and endearing gazes. A distant memory of being happy and carefree. Six years spent in a drugged haze. In the end, after weaning off of all the anti-psychotics, anti-depressants, anti-living drugs, all she was left with was what her mother taught her about being a good wife.

  Tiffany would restore their happiness. She snapped her eyes to Derrick.

  “I can be that version again. I will be, soon,” she said.

  Three more.

  She gulped.

  His eyebrows came together. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m working on some things,” she stepped toward him. “Things that will bring us great happiness again.”

  He raised one eyebrow and cocked his head at her. “What are you working on?”

  What, indeed.

  “Just . . . things.” She shrugged and toyed with her necklace.

  Derrick let out a long, slow breath. “I need to get to the clinic.” He turned, hesitated. “Whatever you’re up to . . .” He sighed and didn’t finish whatever he was going to say. “I’ll see you later.” He continued down the hall.

  At the door, he turned again. “Consider what I said. About an analysis. Please?”

  Teresa nodded, though she couldn’t even consider it. She would never go back. Not even for an analysis. Derrick closed the door behind him.

  Teresa paced. She needed to get this done or risk going back to her personal Hell. She needed to finish her business with Yaldabaoth, bring Tiffany back . . .

  Then Derrick would know. He would see. They would be happy again.

  She needed to speed things up. But how? Tiffany always came to her with the next task. She stopped pacing.

  Yaldabaoth had sent Tiffany.

  Though the thought of seeing him again so soon filled her with unbelievable dread, Teresa went down the hallway to the front door, pulled on her coat, and left the house.

  Chapter 45

  When Ann arrived at the station, George was already at his desk with his face smashed against his hand. She closed the door, and he heaved a great sigh.

  “Hey, George,” Ann said. “Where were you between three and four a.m.?”

  “Sleeping.” He lifted his head and looked at her. “Why?”

  Ann pulled her chair over to his desk and sat near him.

  “The station got a call from Betty and Roger Berg,” she said. George sat up a little straighter. “Something’s happened to Marcie.”

  “She’s gone? Abducted like Sheriff and Ruthie?” George moved to stand, but Ann put a hand on his shoulder and made him stay.

  “Hold on. Let me finish,” she said. “Marcie is alive but in shock. She lost a lot of blood. Flight for Life took her to Aspen General Hospital.” Ann considered her next words. Would George want to know? Would he care? “She lost the baby.”

  “I have to go to her,” George said, rising again.

  Ann stood and pushed him back down into his seat. She leaned over him, hands on the arms of his chair, a posture she’d used before when questioning stubborn suspects.

  “Listen to me, George. You can’t go to her. Her parents think you poisoned her or stabbed her or did something to cause this. To be honest, it makes sense why you’d do that, but I know deep down you never would.”

  He opened his mouth.

  “Shush. Listen to me. I know you wouldn’t, but there are implications. So tell me, right now—is there anyone who can vouch for where you were last night? Specifically between the hours of three and four in the morning?”

  George blushed and nodded. He let out a lip-flapping breath.

  “I was here most of the night,” he said. “With Whitney. She’s the night receptionist.” He glanced at Ann, then away. His face turned full-on crimson.

  “Were you here when she got the call from the Bergs?”

  He shook his head. “I left close to four.”

  Ann went back to
her own desk where she’d set the evidence.

  “We played strip Go Fish.” He grinned, Marcie’s plight apparently forgotten.

  Ann held up her hand. “I don’t need the details, thanks.”

  “It was her idea.”

  “Please.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Good for you,” she muttered. “For . . . moving on. Or whatever.” Ann pulled out the prints she’d collected. “Do we have any way to analyze fingerprints?”

  “We have a scanner and an old computer in the sheriff’s office,” George said. “But no way to analyze stuff. That’s what the lab is for.”

  Ann let out a long breath and went into the office. The beast of a computer sat on the floor. The monitor took up half the desk, the scanner the other half.

  “It’s slow,” George said from the doorway. “But it works—after a while.” He leaned against the frame. “What are you gonna do?”

  “Scan the prints I collected and send them to a friend.”

  “FBI?” George seemed impressed. “CIA?”

  Ann shook her head. “Not quite.” She turned the computer on, and it whirred to life with a high-pitched whine.

  A burp and a fart later and the operating system finally booted. George came around behind her.

  “Click that icon there.” He touched the screen, smudging the layer of dust. “The program for the scanner will open.”

  “Thanks.” Ann clicked it and, after the computer percolated a pot of coffee, the software opened. She scanned the prints and waited while the processor rendered the images.

  When they came up, she picked up the phone and looked at George.

  “Give me a minute?”

  He shrugged and left the office.

  Ann dialed her ex-CBI friend’s cell number. She chewed a hangnail on her thumb while the phone rang. Joey Rigsby could have been the top analyst in the state, possibly the country. He’d graduated from high school two years early, attended prestigious colleges, held a job with the CIA before CBI. Then, he got shit-canned for his penchant for marijuana and inability to keep secrets. His voicemail picked up, and while Ann left a message, he called her back. After their usual banter, he convinced her to have dinner with him the next time she was in Denver in exchange for hacking the various systems and running the prints.