End of Day

by Mae Clair

  Let the beast come.

  The sooner he killed it, the sooner he could seek Dinah’s hand in marriage.

  Jasper rode up beside him, trailing the pack mule. “We should stop soon. Water the horses and allow them to rest. I fear the sun will not favor us this day.”

  “Aye.” The cloud cover had grown heavier, the air cooler. “If we break now, we can push through ’til nightfall.” Darkness, in unison with the beast, was not something he wanted to contemplate. “Hiram.” Gabriel pitched his voice to carry. “Let us find a place to make a brief camp.”

  The big man acknowledged with a wave. Ten minutes later they stopped in a small clearing where ground water formed a narrow stream. The horses drank their fill while Gabriel, Jasper, and Hiram shared salted fish and cups of hard cider. They made no fire and spoke little, each wrapped in private thoughts. Gabriel’s drifted to Dinah and the emerald she’d given him. Idly, he fingered the gem, tucked in the pocket of his overcoat. Would her gift truly keep him safe? If the beast was as sizable as they feared, he and the others needed added protection.

  “You carry a fine weapon.” Hiram swallowed the last of his cider, then flung the clinging residue from his cup with a flick of his wrist. He indicated Gabriel’s rifle, propped against the trunk of a hefty ash. “May I?”

  “Aye.” Gabriel was proud of the weapon. It had cost him a pretty penny, but the Pennsylvania long rifle was as beautiful as it was deadly, constructed with a maple stock and a brass patch box. “I bought it from a gunsmith in Lancaster after I came to America.” He’d known even then he’d need a serviceable weapon if he planned to take up farming. “The bore is rifled, not smooth like a Brown Bess. I’ve heard it said you can bark a squirrel from a tree at three hundred yards.” Heat rose to his face with the exaggeration, leaving him feeling a bit like a schoolboy trying to impress an elder.

  “Ever do it?” Hiram ran a thick-fingered hand down the stock, then held the weapon up to spot through the sights.

  “No.” He felt foolish admitting the truth.

  “Ever kill a man?”

  “No.” Gabriel flung a glance to Jasper, noting his friend looked as startled as he by the question.

  Hiram returned the gun to its resting place. “I carried a Bess under Washington.”

  “Did you…did you ever…” Gabriel couldn’t form the question. A man didn’t fight in that war without taking the life of his enemy.

  “The general had a regiment of frontiersmen with long guns he used as marksmen. The rest of us fired volleys with smoothbores then moved in with bayonets.”

  Gabriel grimaced. Close quarters killing. He’d noticed Hiram’s current weapon of choice was a musket-style gun with a tubular magazine. He’d never seen anything like it but heard someone in the village say it was an Austrian military rifle called a windbusche, or “wind rifle.” He couldn’t summon the nerve to ask how it worked.

  “I…I had heard you’d fought under Washington,” he stammered instead.

  “Did you now?” Hiram strode to his horse. He packed away his tin drinking cup, then tightened the straps on his bedroll and saddlebags. “Rumors follow a man, but not all are true.” He looked over his shoulder. “You remember that, boys. It’s time to get a move on, don’t you think?”

  “S-sure.” Somehow, Gabriel felt as if he’d just surrendered leadership of their group, not that it mattered. This excursion wasn’t about ego or proving himself to a former soldier. He was a farmer, nothing more. All he craved was a simple life with Dinah. If Hiram Blum could help bring that about, he’d willingly follow the man into the damn creature’s den. “Lead the way, Hiram.”

  * * * *

  Present Day

  Jillian attached a leash to Blizzard’s collar then stepped aside as he jumped from the back of the Accord. Even trained in the role of therapy dog, some things remained instinctual to her beloved husky, too ingrained by breeding to overcome. One of the first things her handler had told her was “never let your dog off leash when you’re outside.”

  “We don’t have to worry about that, do we, boy?” Jillian scratched behind his ears. She’d made the mistake only once, spending three hours combing the riverbanks and city streets to track him down. Blizzard had eventually shown up not far from home, a muddy mess, his fur riddled with briars, tail wagging and tongue lolling from his mouth. He’d had his fun, but any running after that incident was done on a leash with her jogging at his side.

  “I wish Madison could run with us.” Her gaze tracked to Rest Haven, the private care facility at the front of the parking lot. She’d been doing what she could to ensure her sister maintained her private room. Boyd’s life insurance had only gone so far, and even with Madison’s disability subsidy, the funds were starting to dwindle. The mere thought of moving her sister—once so vibrant and active—to a state-funded institution made her sick in the stomach. “Something will work out. Something has to.”

  Either Madison would recover, or Jillian would need a windfall.

  Or a miracle.

  She bit her lip. “Come on. We might as well tell her the news.” She started walking, Blizzard falling in beside her. At the entrance to the three-story building, she punched out a security code, waiting for the lock on the door to flash green before she continued into the lobby. Rosella, the daytime receptionist, greeted her and asked her to sign in.

  “How’s my sister today?” Jillian scratched her name in the log book.

  Rosella’s eyelids lowered. “Quiet.” She’d come around the desk to greet Blizzard, but now returned to her seat. “Abbie is her day nurse. She had her down earlier for breakfast, but I don’t know that she ate much.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Quiet was better than the alternative—days when Madison relived Boyd’s murder and wouldn’t stop screaming. Food, regardless of how she felt, had become a mechanical function Madison performed during more agreeable moments. Jillian doubted she would understand the significance of Gabriel Vane’s grave being robbed but felt obligated to tell her. There was a time Madison had visited his burial site on a regular basis.

  When the elevator doors closed behind her and Blizzard, Jillian took several deep breaths, preparing herself to block the bombardment of stray feelings waiting on the floors above. It was harder here. Maintaining her detachment in a facility devoted to the care of those who couldn’t function in society due to mental or emotional disabilities was almost impossible, but after three years, she’d learned to seal herself in a cocoon. The first time she’d visited Madison, she’d left in tears, on the verge of a nervous breakdown from the mental barrage. Still a wreck after months, she’d crossed paths with Sherre Lorquet, who’d suggested a therapy dog.

  Blizzard pressed against Jillian’s leg, an extension of the shield she’d built. Stepping from the elevator was like stepping into a slow-motion world. The nurses at the station desk were familiar with her and merely nodded, continuing their work as she passed. A few patients shuffled down the hallway, some escorted by aides, others on their own. Madison’s room was at the end, facing front. Jillian passed several doors, a few open, others closed tight, thoughts and feelings seeping from them all.

  Once in Madison’s room, she breathed easier. The sight of her sister sitting in a chair by the window brought the hint of a smile to her lips.

  “Look, Blizzard. Madison probably saw us pull into the parking lot.” She crossed the small room—fitted with a bed and dresser near the door, a small seating area and table by the window—until she eased in front of her sister. Madison didn’t raise her eyes or turn from her study of the dozen-plus cars tucked into orderly rows outside.

  Blizzard whined softly and lay down nearby. Jillian dropped the leash, set her purse on the table, then eased into the opposite chair. Madison’s expression was blank, her once shoulder-length coppery hair cropped close for convenience. Her face had grown thin, her body frail after three years of l
iving in a world only she could see. Jillian picked up her hand, rubbing her thumb over the bony knobs of her sister’s knuckles. Madison’s arms resembled sticks sheathed in whey-colored flesh. Two years older, she might have been half a dozen or more based on her haggard appearance.

  “Madison. It’s Jillian. Blizzard’s here, too. Can you look at me?” She opened her mind. Wanted to feel something. Anything. But like Dante DeLuca, Madison was closed to her. Her sister’s mind had shattered on the day Boyd died. Witnessing a murder was enough to push anyone over the edge, but an empath? What must it have been like to sink into the black abyss of Boyd’s terror, the mind-blowing edge of his pain? To feel his death as if it were her own?

  Leaning forward, she gripped Madison’s hand tightly. “I just left Hickory Chapel and the old cemetery where Gabriel Vane is buried. You remember Gabriel?” One of us has to. One of us has to keep him alive in our memory.

  The images returned in rapid succession—an open grave surrounded by yellow caution tape, the marker she’d lovingly tended over time with the barely legible scrawl of his name, the boarded-up chapel hunched at her back like a silent guardian.

  “Gabriel’s gone, Madison. Someone dug up his grave and stole his remains.” She squeezed slightly, pressing on Madison’s fingers. Slowly, her sister swiveled her head, her gaze resting on Jillian.

  Madison’s eyes were blue-green, once a vivid teal when caught in the right light. Today, they appeared washed-out, faded like old denim. Her mouth tightened, accentuating fine white lines at the corners. She wouldn’t speak. She never did. The only sound to issue from her throat was the high-pitched wail of her screams.

  Jillian wet her lips. “Do you remember Mom and Dad telling us we had to keep Gabriel in our memory? It was our responsibility to see he was never forgotten, a duty our family has carried for generations.” Remembering Gabriel and the importance of their obligation might piece together some fragmented part of Madison’s mind. It wasn’t as if Jillian had never tried before, but Gabriel’s remains had never been missing. Thinking about the potential damage sent a flutter of anxiety through her stomach.

  “Madison, I know you can hear me. I know you’re in there somewhere.” Gripping both of Madison’s hands, she squeezed harder. If only touch could reach where she couldn’t. “Gabriel’s life was taken against his will. You still have a life, if you’d only crawl out of the dark place you’ve created for yourself.”

  Her sister’s stare was blank, as it always was.

  Overcome by despair, Jillian looked out the window. At the cars in the lot below, the white cement sidewalk stretching to either side, flanked by boxwood hedges slowly browning with the rust of autumn. Anywhere but into the empty shell of the person sitting across from her.

  Three years. How much longer could she do this? Time after time of sitting and pleading with someone who’d allowed themselves to be stripped of all they were.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Blizzard whined and shuffled to a sitting position. He nosed Madison’s leg, but Jillian’s sister gave no indication she knew the dog was there. His tail thumped weakly against the carpet. The low-pile nap was the same bleached almond as the walls. Peaceful, serene.

  Drab.

  The lack of color helped reinforce the impression there was no life in the room.

  Jillian refocused on her sister. “Mom told us that a man dies three times. Once when he dies. Once when he’s buried. And once when there is no one left to remember him. When that happens, he suffers the Third and Final Death. Remember how Mom used to take us to Hickory Chapel Cemetery when we were little? We helped her tend Gabriel’s grave. Then when she and Daddy died in a car accident, it was up to me and you to look after Gabriel. We used to take turns before”—the words stuck in her throat—“before Boyd was killed.”

  In the first weeks after her brother-in-law’s murder, Jillian had feared mentioning his name to Madison, but soon realized doing so had no effect. Somewhere under all the horror she’d suffered, Madison must have known Boyd signed his death warrant the day he started dealing drugs.

  The corner of Madison’s mouth tipped up in a feeble smile.

  “Maddy?” Jillian’s heart lurched. Who was she smiling about—Boyd? Gabriel? Some dusty memory of their mother or father? Giddy elation boomeranged from Jillian’s head to her feet. “Maddy, you’re smiling. You—”

  The meager hint of amusement vanished in half a pulsebeat. Madison stared blankly, the emptiness of her gaze carving a black chasm through Jillian’s heart.

  “No. Oh, no.” She buried her face in her hands, but after three years, had no tears left.

  * * * *

  Jillian couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried over her sister. In the beginning, she’d spent days huddled in bed, sobbing uncontrollably. It didn’t help that Boyd’s killers had never been caught. The murder scene indicated two, possibly three men. Boyd was bad news from day one, but he hadn’t deserved to be butchered like a pig. In forcing Madison to watch, his killers had murdered her, too. Maybe that’s why they’d left her, broken and howling by the mutilated remains of her husband. Slitting her throat would have ended her misery, but they must have known her mind was blown. Why else would they leave her alive, giving her the chance to ID them? If only she could talk.

  “I hate this drive.” Jillian gritted her teeth, fingers white-knuckling on the steering wheel. Every time she made the forty-minute trek to Palmer Point and Rest Haven, her mind blundered into the past. Madison’s shaky suggestion of a smile had reawakened memories of Mill Street and her joy when she and Boyd had bought their small house. For someone who barely held a job, Jillian should have questioned where the money came from. Boyd flitted from random paycheck to random paycheck while Madison had just started a new career in real estate, nowhere near established or lucrative enough to afford a mortgage.

  “Damn you, Boyd. Why’d you have to set your sights on my sister?”

  Blizzard paced in the cramped back seat. The dog could read her moods like a book.

  She sent him a glance in the rearview mirror. “I’m okay, just ticked. Lie down. In another twenty minutes, we’ll be home.”

  She passed Eli Yancy’s office on the left, a black SUV she didn’t think belonged to Yancy in the lot. Maybe she’d fiddle with his website when she got home. She was behind schedule as it was, and a few hours on the computer might prod her from her bleak mood.

  Ruminating on the thought, she jerked to awareness when her car engine died.

  “What the—” The steering wheel locked in her suddenly sweaty grip and pressing the brake had no effect. Panic shot through her. She fought the wheel, struggling to guide the Accord off the side of the road. When the vehicle finally rolled to a stop, she blew out a breath and turned to make certain Blizzard was okay. Unharmed, the husky nosed her shoulder.

  “Sorry, boy.” She patted his head. “I don’t know what happened.” Fortunately, she hadn’t been going fast, and there was no traffic this far north on Wickham Road. Placing the gearshift in park, she switched the ignition to the off position, then tried to restart the engine. A half dozen warning lights flashed to life on her dash, but the motor refused to turn over. No sound, not even a click.

  “Great.” Probably a dead battery. At least she hoped it wasn’t anything more involved. “Looks like we need to call Triple A.” That meant sitting and waiting for a jump. Not fun, but manageable given her already disastrous morning. A grave robbery, the ghost smile on Madison’s face, and now a car that decided to go belly-up.

  “They say things come in threes. It can’t get any worse.” Jillian pressed the power button on her cell. Then pressed it again when nothing happened. Like a lead weight, her heart plummeted to her gut. “I take that back.” She pounded her fist against the steering wheel. “I’m such an idiot. I forgot to charge my phone!”

  * * * *

  Dante had only driven half a m
ile when he spied the blue Accord off the side of the road. The hood was up, and a woman with a long, blond braid over her shoulder stared forlornly at the guts of the vehicle. The rear passenger window was cranked down far enough to allow a Siberian husky to thrust his head through the opening. The dog looked far happier than the woman who glanced up when Dante parked his 4Runner behind her car.

  “Hey.” He jogged toward her, still a few feet away when he recognized her. “Jillian Cley, right?”

  She nodded.

  “I didn’t get a chance to thank you last night for telling me about Elliott.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yeah. A few scrapes and bruises. You know kids.” His gaze skewed to the side, taking in the open hood and exposed engine. “I’d asked if you’re having car troubles, but that’s obvious. What’s the problem?”

  “I don’t know. It just died on me. I was going to call Triple A, but my cell’s dead, too.”

  “Sounds like a bad day.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Any chance you can give me a jump?”

  “Sure. I’ve got cables. Let me pull around in front of you.” Dante jogged for his truck. He pointed to the husky, who’d paced to the opposite side of the vehicle, thrusting his head through the window to watch. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Blizzard.”

  “Great name.” He wondered if Elliott had befriended the dog. The kid was going to need something to get his mind off the fall he’d taken in the cemetery. It was true he’d come through the ordeal with a few scrapes and a broken cell phone, but it’s what he hadn’t said that bothered Dante. A kid didn’t play in a place he was frightened of, and only two nights ago, Elliott had been terrified by the thought of monsters lurking in Hickory Chapel Cemetery.

  Dante had a feeling he knew exactly who the real “monsters” were. He’d had more than a few in his past.