Iron and Salt

by Calinda B

  “You seemed cold and disinterested when I told you about Sarah,” she said, though her anger had already faded.

  A scowl creased his face. “Hardly disinterested. More like busy. I just saw Sarah yesterday. She looked all glowy and shit from her recent marriage to Hornsby.”

  His scowl deepened.

  “So, you did care,” Marie said, sitting forward.

  “I never said I didn’t, did I?” he asked. He picked up the joint from the ashtray and took another puff. Then, he crushed it out, frowning.

  “No, but you never said you did, either. Your response was like I told you the sky was gray, or my shoes were dirty.” Marie stood and stepped toward the sink. “I need some water. How about you?”

  “Nah. I’ve got whiskey to keep me company and drown my sorrows.” He reached down and retrieved the bottle.

  “Which sorrows are you drowning?” Marie said, her back to him. She reached for one of the glasses on the shelf and filled it from the tap.

  “The ones in which I feel extremely sorry for myself for letting Sarah get away. But, I’m taking the high road. Better to be three sheets to the wind if the ship I really wanted has sailed, ya know, sis? Soldier on and all that, like our dear mum, would say. Speaking of mum, here’s to righteous redheads,” he said.

  She turned around to see him hefting the bottle and pouring a slug of whiskey into his mouth.

  “To our mother. And to love lost.”

  He gave her a sorrow-filled gaze that made her breath catch in her throat.

  She lifted her glass and took a sip of the water. “Neither of us is particularly lucky in love, wouldn’t you agree?” She crossed the room and sat closer to him than before. Nudging his shoulder, she kissed him on his stubble-lined cheek.

  He smiled, wanly, and put his arm around her. “It never would have worked with Sarah. I’m too wild and uncontrolled. And she’d shit a whole lot of bricks if she knew what I am.”

  “Yeah, there’s that,” Marie agreed. “We’re secret keepers. I doubt if we’ll ever find love.” She sighed.

  “Don’t look so glum,” he said. “Since you don’t turn into a horrible, butt-ugly beast, you’ll fare better than me. The only secret you need to keep is of me, Mum, and Dad. Oh wait,” he said with a sneer. “We’re supposedly protected by magic. But magic won’t stop someone’s lips flapping, you know? Saying the wrong thing would make us look like lunatics and arouse suspicion. I hate having to hold all these secrets inside. That’s why I can’t afford to let anyone in.” He picked up the joint, retrieved a lighter from his pants pocket, and lit the end again.

  “Truth,” she said, staring into space.

  He took a long drag. “So, who are you in love with?” he said, through a stream of smoke.

  Her cheeks reddened. “No one. What makes you think I’m in love?”

  “Your rosy cheeks, for one thing. Who is he?” He leaned back against the sofa.

  “There’s no one.” No one I have any right to be in love with that is. “Let me ask you a question. Were you at the Dearg-Due’s grave day before yesterday?”

  William scoffed. “Don’t be daft. I work. Every damn day. That’s all I do, lately.”

  “Are you sure?” she said, sagging with relief.

  “No, sis, I’m lying. That’s me. One big, fat liar like you accused me of the other day.” He flashed her a look of annoyance.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she considered his answer. She and William had always been able to tell when the other lied. And, she didn’t sense any untruths to his statement. “Okay, I believe you.”

  “Lucky me,” he said with an eye-roll. “Let’s change the topic. I’ve got guests coming soon. You can stay and watch, or you can leave. Your call.”

  “Are your guests women?”

  “What do you think?” He smirked.

  “Knowing you, the answer is yes.” She pushed to standing, then leaned over and kissed the top of his curly hair.

  “Love you,” he said, without getting up.

  “Love you more,” she replied.

  As she exited the room and walked down the stairs, her thoughts were conflicted. Sure, a lightness filled her heart that William hadn’t messed with the gravesite. But, then, who had disturbed the stones? Either someone else did it, or, the Dearg-Due was getting restless.

  And, either answer was really fucking bad.

  Chapter 10

  Sunday night – Paul

  The night after discovering the brutal attack against Sarah, Paul hammered a nail into a smooth, planed plank of wood, letting each blow obliterate his grief. He stood in his father’s wood-shop, surrounded by the past. His father’s tools hung neatly on the wall. His father’s yardwork boots stood in the corner. Even his father’s coat, the one worn on the day of his death, dangled on a hook on the wall. This whole space served as a shrine to Dylan Riordan.

  Usually, Paul felt comforted being in here. Today, nothing would soothe his heart.

  His dear friend Sarah clung to life, barely hanging on.

  His sorrow began leaking from his eyes. Angrily, he swiped at his face with his shirt sleeve.

  “God damn it to fucking hell,” he yelled. “How many more will lose their lives?” He picked up another nail, positioned it on the wood, and pounded it with his father’s hammer.

  Teaching himself woodworking had helped him stay close to his biological father. He’d grown up thinking dad was a good guy who met a tragic ending. When his ma had shared her journal of what really happened, including the affair, his mind had shattered. His dad became a source of conflict, as his childhood good-father image warred with the philanderer. Still, he couldn’t let go of this place. Since it was the only piece of his bio-father left, Paul had insisted on keeping it intact.

  “Did this start with you, bio-dad, huh? Was your indiscretion the key to unlock all this horrible loss of life and love?” He tossed the hammer to the ground, where it landed with a ringing clatter.

  Footsteps crunched along the gravel path leading to the workshop. Paul knew it wasn’t his ma. She never set foot in this place. And Bres avoided it, too.

  He lifted his head to see who dared to enter.

  Marie threw open the door and sailed through the doorway. Her dark mane of hair swirled around her head. She flopped on a half-finished chair.

  “You’re lucky I screwed and glued the legs on that chair,” Paul said.

  Marie glanced down at her seat. “Am I? Think I would have minded if I’d gone crashing to the floor? It would have been the best thing that happened to me in days.” She sat up taller. “Hello, Paul. Mind if I come in?” She smirked.

  “Hello, Marie. Come on in and make yourself at home.” He smiled, pulling up an only slightly more finished chair.

  Marie eyed the wood he’d been hammering. “What are you working on?”

  She pushed to standing and stepped over to inspect his craftsmanship.

  “I’m not sure, really. I think I’m simply pounding out my sorrow.” He rose from his chair, sidled next to her, and picked up the box. He turned it around and around before his face. “I’ll call it Ode to Misery.”

  “Will it have a purpose?” Marie asked.

  “It will hold sorrows. That’s it.” Paul brightened. “I’ll set inlays in it, and it will be a sorrow box. Everyone needs a place to store tragedy.”

  “You can make them for the whole village. Even William. He was more upset about Sarah than he let out,” she said.

  “William was shaken up, huh?” Paul frowned.

  “He was.” Marie nodded.

  “I miss our friendship.” Paul fingered the sides of the box.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t miss who he is currently. William’s a mess and a half,” she said.

  Paul tsked and set the box down. “So, what brings you here today? Is this a social call?”

  Marie shrugged. “Sort of. I’m just checking in on you. Losing a co-worker and then a good friend must be rough. And here you are pounding nails into wood
with a vengeance. I think I’m right to worry.”

  “Yeah.” Paul wiped his face with his hands. “It’s been a fucking rough day following a fucking horrible week.”

  “That’s a lot of fucking for a guy who works at a Catholic school,” she said.

  “I’ll confess, say a couple of Hail Marys, and stop swearing, don’t worry,” he said. He turned and leaned against his father’s workbench.

  Marie did the same.

  “I’m not worried. Don’t you ever get creeped out working in here with the ghost of your father all around? Why not make it your own?” she said, casting a studious gaze around the place.

  Paul shrugged. “Sometimes I do get a little twitchy in here. Those are the times I think of my father as a philanderer—the kind a vampire would murder and plant his tongue in his hand for deceiving my mother.” He shuddered. “I wish my ma had never told me that tale. But, she wanted me to know the truth. There’s a woman for you. Telling you the truth to bring you peace and instead scarring your mind for life.” He side-eyed Marie. “Speaking of feisty women who mete out their own justice—there’s no hidden agenda to you coming here, right? You used to approach me with a smile, disarming me, then pound my body for something I didn’t remember doing to annoy you.”

  She chuckled. “What, like the time I gave you a black eye at the tender age of nine? I was in a mood that day. You said something that pissed me off.”

  “I got you back by ripping your pretty dress,” he said, smiling.

  “And we both got no television for a week,” she said. She brushed some sawdust from her sleeveless tank top. “And then you got it into your head to try and date me when I was eighteen. I put an end to that by shoving you into a ditch.”

  Paul crossed his arms over his chest. “That was all Ma’s idea. She thought you and I were well-suited. ‘What with she knows your secrets and you know hers,’ she told me. I caught her signing the same thing to Bres last week, as a matter of fact.” He mimicked a woman’s voice and said, “‘I wish those two would get together. They’re so well suited.’ Bres gently signed that if we haven’t figured that out on our own by now, stop wishing for it.”

  “Never going to happen,” Marie said.

  “Thank God,” Paul said with a smirk.

  “Hey, now. I’m a good catch,” she protested. She vigorously ruffled his hair with her hand.

  He pushed her arm away and scrambled out of reach. “At the rate things are going, you, me, and William are going to die old and shriveled, found in a cottage surrounded by feral cats.”

  “Right?” Marie said. She lunged at him.

  He ducked behind a chest of drawers he hadn’t finished.

  “You know I can catch you,” Marie said, placing her palms on the dresser.

  Paul picked up the hammer he’d tossed and waved it at her. “You can, but I have tools at my disposal.”

  “Cheater,” she said, grinning. “So, maybe we’ll all be living at Great-Great Grandmother Roberta’s place. She’ll be haunting us, and Crusty McKitty will tell all his friends to come and live with us.” She laughed.

  “Damn. That cat used to spook the shit out of me,” Paul said. He joined her in laughter.

  “He’s a strange one. I wonder if he’ll live forever as Mum’s familiar. Lord knows they have the same temperament.” Her laughter became hysterical.

  Paul laughed so hard his sides hurt. He figured their mirth served as some sort of stress release. A disturbing thought flitted through his brain, putting the brakes on his delirious merriment.

  “What?” Marie said. She wiped the corners of her eyes. “God, that felt good. I haven’t laughed like that in weeks.”

  “Me, too. But I just thought of something,” Paul said. He began to pace along the sawdust covered floor. Then, he stopped and faced Marie. “William probably isn’t just upset about Sarah.”

  “What do you mean?” Marie frowned.

  Paul placed his hands on his hips. “He dated Helen Pelletier, too, right?”

  Marie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, God, I never thought of that. He’s been pretty-closed mouthed lately. I haven’t been able to winnow out his secrets. Not the way I usually can. What if he…What if that Bluebeard fellow is targeting…” She shook her head, unwilling to finish her sentence.

  “Right. What if your brother is somehow linked to the murders? That’s what I wonder, too. Until Sarah, Bluebeard’s victims have all been concentrated around Dungarvan where William lives.” Paul rubbed his jaw.

  “Oh, poor William! And here Mum and I have been giving him a hard time. Do you think there are other women he dated who have been killed by Bluebeard?” She paced in a tight knot.

  He chided himself for blurting out his stupid conjecture. “I’m sorry I said anything. I was only musing. I should have kept my thoughts to myself,” he said in a rush. He stepped toward her to comfort her.

  Too late.

  Marie raced out the door and sprinted down the path, heading for the driveway.

  No way could he catch her now.

  Chapter 11

  Late Sunday night into early Monday Morning – Paul

  At 2 am, Paul’s cell phone shook him out of a deep sleep. It gave him a weather report and began blathering his daily schedule. Then, it spoke to him with insistent urgency. “Unknown caller. Unknown caller. Unknown caller.” Groggily, he rolled to his side and fished the phone from whatever Hell realm it currently resided under the bed.

  “Hello,” he croaked, once he’d managed to slide the Connect icon in the right direction.

  “Paul?” A frightened, trembling female voice met his ears.

  “Who is this?” he said.

  “It’s…it’s Anne,” she whispered.

  “Anne!” He bolted up in bed. “Are you okay?” He reached for the water he kept at his nightstand and took a couple of swallows to clear his throat.

  “I’m…I’m not sure. I think someone’s trying to break in. Either that or spy on me. It’s dark in here so I can’t see. I…I don’t want to get close to the window to see. What if it’s…” She let out a strangled cry. “What if it’s Bluebeard?”

  Paul rolled out of bed and grabbed his pants from the floor. With his phone balanced between his ear and his shoulder, he hopped about, trying to get the fucking pants over his legs. “Stay put. I’m coming right over. Call the police.”

  “No!” she hissed. “They’ll think I’m making this up.”

  “Call the damn police, Anne. Please.” He tapped the speaker button on and dropped the phone on his bed. Then, he snatched his shirt from the floor and yanked it over his head.

  “Inspector Brown scares me,” Anne whispered.

  Paul snorted. “She scares me, too, and I grew up with her.”

  A ghost of a laugh escaped through the phone, landing in his ears.

  “But she’ll want to know,” he continued. “Trust me.”

  Anne gasped. “I hear more noises. Scratching noises, like someone’s fingering the window sill.”

  Paul’s throat tightened. “Don’t move, Anne. Stay away from the window. Keep the lights off. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” He opened his dresser and retrieved the switchblade William had given him when they were eighteen.

  “You never know when you’ll need it,” William had said. “There are a lot of bad people in the world.”

  He’d scoffed, telling William he spent too much time with unsavory people. But now, he silently thanked his once good friend.

  He slipped his bare feet into his loafers and took off at a Marie-worthy run out the door. He glanced next door at his ma and Bres’s house. All the lights were out, as they should be. It’s the middle of the night. May Ma and Bres sleep in gentle peace.

  Once in his red electric Renault, his hands gripping the wheel, he sped toward the school, hoping against hope that Inspector Brown was somewhere in sight. But no, he was only met with the dark landscape surrounding the school. He parked in the school parking lot and leaped from
the car. Then, he jogged toward the living quarters, glancing in all directions for signs of an intruder. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he used his staff key to quietly unlock the building door. He eased it open and tip-toed down the hall, past the wall of mailboxes and the pictures of Christ and Mother Mary. He didn’t want to alarm Father Gillespie, who slept upstairs.

  At Anne’s door, he tapped softly on the hardwood. Then, he pressed his palms against the door.

  “It’s me. It’s Paul,” he whispered.

  The door whipped open. Anne stood, trembling, dressed only in her nightgown. It clung to her body, leaving little to the imagination.

  Paul swallowed and directed his gaze at her face.

  “Oh, Paul,” she said, reaching for his hand. She tugged him to her.

  Surprised, he hesitated.

  When her arms snaked around his waist, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

  She clutched him and whimpered into his shoulder. The press of her warm body against his felt far too good.

  She eased away.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she said, her blue eyes earnest.

  He missed her warmth against him, but let his arms drop lest he seem too forward.

  “I didn’t know what to do. I heard a thud outside. And then I saw the outline of a figure. And he…he just stood there. Watching me through the sheer curtains. It horrified me, and I froze like a rabbit. I didn’t know what to do,” she repeated, glancing at the window. “But I haven’t heard anything for the last few minutes, so…” Her shoulder rose and fell in a stiff shrug.

  Paul said, “It’s all right. You did the right thing by calling me. Did you call the police?”

  She shook her head vigorously.

  “No,” she whisper-hissed. She backed away and sat on her bed.

  Paul stood stiffly near the door. He fished in his pocket, retrieving the switchblade. “Do you know how to use this?”

  Her gaze darkened, and she looked away from him. “Maybe.”