by Peter Ponzo
staring into the dark street. I guess I was daydreaming because I didn't even notice the door open, and when Clem Broden sat across from me, I jumped.
"Hello there young fella," he said. The steam from his coffee curled up around his withered face and he was smiling. He always seemed to be smiling. Connie was in danger, might be dead even now, and he kept on smiling. "Whatchya doin' in town on a chilly night ..."
"Connie, danger now," I blurted out, incoherently. "I mean, she's in danger ... I mean, she may be in danger. I thought, maybe ..."
"Thought you'd save her from the evil clutches of Father Pollicciano?" he said. "He's dead, you know."
"Yes ..." I didn't know what to say. I just stared at Clem.
"Leave it to the police, young fella. Wise men don't play leapfrog with unicorns," he said.
"But Connie, she may be danger ... uh, in danger. I saw a dance, some people through the window, dancing, a light on the floor ..." I stopped talking. Clem stopped smiling. He set down his cup and grabbed my hand.
"Leave it be!" he said, and I could feel anger in his voice. "It's not for you! The authorities know everything. They'll protect Connie. Go home. There's nothing you can do."
Somehow his anger made me angry and I knew what I had to do. I ran out the door. Clem was yelling after me, but I didn't listen. I headed up the street toward Connie's house. If there had been strangers there last night, then Connie would know. I could talk to her. She thought she was in danger from the priest. I'd tell her that Pollicciano was dead, that she should move out of Dunnborne, that she should stay with me ... live with me ... share my rooms, my life ...
Do I really mean that? Share my life?
I stopped at the end of the long driveway. There was a dim light in the window. Christ, I was shaking all over.
The room was dark except for what looked like a candle in the middle of the floor, and three dark figures were sitting about the flickering light. I stood at the front window for what seemed a long time, but they didn't move. Then, suddenly, two got up, stood for a while, then slowly left the circle of light. I could hear the front door open; I didn't know where to hide. I sat on the wet ground, among the bushes. They walked slowly down the long driveway, turned once to look back, then headed across the road and straight into the field. When I pulled myself to the window again, my heart was pounding in my chest and sweat was trickling salty down my cheek. I looked into the window. The third figure was gone. I was almost relieved and sat again among the bushes.
Then a light came on and I heard footsteps, on the front porch. I was almost too frightened to look. What in God's name was I doing there?
A dark figure stepped down the stairs, onto the grass, walked directly to my bush, leaned forward, parted the branches. I was as small as I could be, curled behing the hedge. I looked up at the face, in shadow from the porch light.
"Terrence?"
Jesus Murphy, it was Connie! I jumped up, fell out of the bush and stumbled toward her.
"Connie! You've danger ... in danger, live with me ..." I gurgled.
She took my hand and I could hardly breathe. Then she led me into the house, to a sofa, and she sat next to me, very close, leaning against me. When I got my breath again I said it, perhaps too loudly.
"Father Pollicciano is dead!"
I expected surprise, relief, some reaction. She just placed her hand on mine, leaned toward me and kissed me gently on the cheek.
"Yes," she said, simply.
"But ... but you said kill you ... uh, he wanted to ..."
Connie put her finger to my lips and I held my breath. She whispered.
"Yes, Father Pollicciano did want to kill me. I knew it the moment I spoke to him in the church. He knew everything. He knew too much. He killed Leah, my best friend. Now the evil man is dead."
"But whoever killed him ... surely is after you ... you're next. Can't you see that!" I couldn't understand how she could be so calm.
Calmly, she said "I know who killed Father Pollicciano." When I opened my mouth, she put her finger again to my lips and continued. "My two jays killed him, to protect me." I opened my mouth again, but nothing came out. "Jonah ... Joshua ...to protect me," she said. "So, you see, the evil one is dead and all is well with the Lord's world for it is cleansed of the devil's kin."
I collapsed onto the sofa, slid to the floor, covering my face with my hands. I wanted to cry. Connie slid beside me and began to caress my cheek.
"No!" I jumped to my feet. "We can't ... shouldn't ... Rita ..." Before I knew it I was out the front door, running down the driveway. I didn't even see Rita. She jumped left, I jogged left and we collided and went down together, embracing.
"Shit on this, Cleaver," she grunted and pushed me away. I jumped to my feet, offered her my hand. "Screw you," she said.
Clem Broden
I saw them leave, both of them. They climbed into that beat up Chev and left town in a cloud of blue exhaust. I walked down the street and stood for a long time staring at the old grey brick house with its green shutters and bloody awful purple picket fence. One day I'll paint that fence.
I could see Connie in the window, holding the curtain aside. I'm sure she saw me, too, but she let the curtains fall and walked away and soon the light blinked out and the house was dark. Her brothers had come, taken Connie, then brought her home again. A funny pair, those brothers.
I looked at my watch. It was almost eleven o'clock and I had a big day tomorrow. I'd write up the whole Fenton affair for the Thursday paper. I'd say that "usually reliable sources implicate Father Pollicciano in the death of Leah Farrel".
It wasn't true ... but I'd write it up that way anyhow.
Terry Cleaver
The winter seemed colder than usual, and longer. Then Rita's aunt died, in early February, and I never felt so cold and alone. Rita went into hiding. I didn't see her for weeks at a time. She wouldn't answer the phone and when I walked to her house - it was now her house since her aunt had left everything to Rita - she wouldn't answer the doorbell. I'm sure she was really broken up, but Rita didn't like to see people cry, especially herself, I think. I had checked with that bastard Buck Tormin and he confirmed that Rita had showed up for work every day. When I tried to see her at the mill, the black suit stood in my way. When I think of it, old Buck seemed to be protecting Rita's privacy. Maybe he's not such a bad guy.
Anyway, by mid-February I was going bananas and was ready to bash her door down just to see that she was okay.
I got a job at the law firm of Sawyer and Maskowski, computerizing their files, and that often meant working evenings and weekends when the office was closed. It was Sunday, the last day of February, and although I had often worked Sundays at the law office, I had this day off.
When Mrs. Harris called down, her voice was almost shaking with excitement.
"Terry! Somebody special to see you!"
"Send him down, please."
I rarely get company - well, if the truth be known, I never get company. So I ran into the washroom, straightened my shirt collar, pushed my hair back out of my eyes and walked as casual as I could into the living room. Rita was standing by the stairs.
"Rita!" I ran to her, grabbed her in my arms and tried to kiss her soundly.
"What's all this shit?" she said and backed away, but I could tell she was pleased to see me. "Just came by to see how's things hangin'." She looked at me straight, the hint of a grin on her face and I saw that she had been crying. I tried to push her hair from her eyes - she had let it grow long and sort of tangled - but she would have none of that.
"Sit," I said, pointing to the sofa. "What's been happening? I tried to phone, to see you at work, to ..."
"Yeah, I know," she said. "I been busy. Aunt died, you know. Gotta look after a fuckin' stack of papers, talk to the lawyers, get things straight ... shit like that."
"I was sorry to hear about your aunt," I said. "Guess you miss her." I felt I shouldn't say too much because she wa
s about to break down and cry.
"Didn't know her, not too much, just looked after her a bit, until she went and ... and dropped dead on me."
"Well, let's not talk about it," I said. "Let's talk about ..."
"Cleaver, I been gettin' pink letters," she said, all of a sudden. Then she did cry, big heaving sobs, and she let me hold her, even tightly and she cried hard on my shoulder. I was taken aback and it felt so good that I hadn't really paid attention to what she had said. Then it hit me.
"What! Letters! What you said, pink letters?" The words came rushing out, crazy. "Pink letters? Is that what you said?"
She didn't say anything for a few moments, just holding me as though she didn't want to leave my arms. Then, slowly, she reached for her bag - an old green duffle bag - and pulled out the envelopes; three of them. I took them and read them aloud. They were identical.
Sister of the devil, no more shall man covet thy body. Thy wickedness shall be dismantled.
"When did you get these? There's no date," I said.
"Each Monday mornin', for three weeks. They's stuck under the door. I stayed up all night last Sunday, waiting for the dirty shit. Nobody came. I dressed, left the house for the mill, and the letter was there, again, under the door. Tomorrow ... tomorrow ..." and she began to cry again, falling into my arms.
"Yes, I know," I said. "Tomorrow is Monday."
It had started again. The pink letters, the threats, the sister of the devil, just like with Connie Fenton. "I thought it