“But I’m not going to be buried in the ground.” She would not be able to stand that. Gwen already had the sense that she was leaving, bit by bit, disappearing from the world. “Once I go into the ground, I’ll never be able to get out again.”
“We’ll work on that.”
“You know it’s true, Sadie. I won’t be going anywhere. But you could make it out of here.”
Sadie upended the flashlight to shine it on her widest grin, apparently amused by this odd idea that she could leave without her best friend.
Gwen drew back from the light, wanting the cover of darkness so nothing could be read into the tears flooding her eyes, the weak tremble of her mouth. Her friend would never know that—given the choice and two good legs to run with—she would have left Sadie behind. Gwen pressed hard on the wound to make it sing and shriek with pain.
ten
Sadie wore a canvas sack around her shoulders to ward off the cold and the damp as she finished changing the bandage, and then rolled down Gwen’s tattered pant leg.
“Take my parka,” said Gwen. “I don’t need it. I’m—”
“No, you wear it.” She wrapped both feet in cloth tied on with twine at the ankles. It was too cold to go barefoot. Done with this chore, Sadie walked about under the trees, gathering up the debris of the dummy and collecting it in one pile. She sat cross-legged on the ground, took up her blade and stabbed it into the material of the sweater, over and over again.
Gwen leaned back against the trunk of the dead Samuel tree and watched. “I’m burning up. I don’t need the parka.”
“Well, I don’t want it.” Sadie returned to the rock wall and the less violent work of honing the blade. “Remember the tape we played last Saturday—the really hokey axe murders? Joan Crawford made them keep that movie set at fifty-eight degrees. She said it gave her focus.”
“Sadie, you’ve got to be freezing.”
“Keep it. You have to stay warm. You don’t want to get worse, do you?”
Could she get any worse? She unzipped the red parka and wiped the sweat from her face. Her skin was hot to the touch. The sound of the metal grating on stone was relentless. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“I’m working on plan B.” Sadie rubbed the broken garden tool back and forth across an outcrop of irregular rock. “The blade needs to be sharper. He’ll be wearing a coat, so it has to cut through a few layers of heavy cloth. That’s one of the worst flaws in the movies—when the knife just slides into the body. It’s harder in real life. Hey, Gwen, watch this.” She dropped the knife on the ground, then sank down on her knees. With her legs hidden behind her, Sadie walked forward on her kneecaps. “Who am I?”
“You’re Blizzard, the legless man in The Penalty.” Gwen paused for a moment, stuck on the date. “Is it 1920?”
“Right. Good.” Sadie stood up and clasped her hands behind her back so nothing of her arms could be seen, only the small wings of her shoulder blades. “Now who am I?”
This one was entirely too easy. “Alonso the Armless from The Unknown, 1927.”
Sadie began to revolve in a very slow turn. When Gwen saw her friend’s face come round again, she sucked in her breath. Sadie had a mouthy grin of razor-sharp teeth. But how? Paper—her mouth was full of paper with ink-drawn teeth.
Gwen laughed and applauded. “You’re the vampire in London After Midnight, same year. Good one. You scared the shit out of me.”
Sadie pulled the paper from her mouth. “I’m building up your horror muscles.” She picked up her blade and returned to the dummy’s torso and torn limbs.
Gwen stared at the half-moon shape of discarded paper teeth. “You know what makes a really good horror movie?”
Sadie looked up from her stabbing. “Horror? Sorry—too obvious. I must be getting tired.”
“Well, it’s not the monsters, the really ghouly ones. The scariest thing is one shock in an ordinary world—like your paper teeth. No—like blood on Santa’s beard.”
“I got it.” Sadie hunkered down in the dirt and trained the flashlight on the lifeless body of her old enemy the dog. She redirected the beam to light up her face and a smile of wholesome innocence. “We could eat him.”
“That’s not funny.” Gwen shook her head, for evidently Sadie had completely misunderstood. “The dog isn’t . . .” Her words trailed off. She was stunned as she watched Sadie working over the dead body, taking blood from the dog’s wound and smearing it on her face. Then Sadie looked up to show her that she had understood—perfectly, though this didn’t seem the most practical implementation, not quite what Gwen had in mind. “I don’t think he’ll be afraid of—”
“I bet he’s never had an enemy larger than a little kid. He’s a coward.” She said this in anger, an alien tone that took Gwen by surprise. Sadie’s voice gentled as she ran one hand across the pelt of the dead animal. “This dog was more of a man.”
“He’s too big, Sadie. He’s going to—”
“Think it through. You had the right idea—the blood on Santa’s beard. The Fly is bigger. All the power is on his side, right? So when we go after him, he’ll be totally weirded out. It’ll be the last thing he ever expected.” She dragged one bloody finger down the side of her face in a jagged line. “He’ll pee in his pants. Does this look like a lightning bolt?”
Gwen nodded.
Sadie admired her reflection in the sharpened blade that had once been half of Miss Vickers’ garden shears. “I wish I had my Technicolor blood kit. We can improvise with the real thing, but it’s just not the same.”
“Sadie, we can’t hurt this man. We tried. If the dog couldn’t do it, we can’t.”
“What about Freaks?”
Gwen nodded, conceding the point gracefully, but not with her whole heart. Sadie was alluding to the movie’s dwarfs and midgets who had brought down an enemy of adult stature. And then the little people had quite literally cut their opponent down to size. She still had the occasional nightmare about this vintage film, the pride of Sadie’s collection.
“You know what Mr. Caruthers would say.” Sadie stroked her imagined gray beard and stared into space with a squint. “It’s an interesting problem in logic.” Then she was all Sadie again. “If we just sit here, he’ll come down and kill us.” She sank her blade into the dummy. “So we’re going to kill him first. An hour ago, you were all for it.”
Gwen covered her eyes to block out the beam of light, not wanting to see what the other child was doing with the dog’s blood. There was no way to explain this change of heart, not in any way that would make sense to her best friend, the master of terror. Bravery came in moments. Gwen could not sustain it for an entire hour. Perhaps a moment would come again—perhaps not. Though the dead dog lay only a few feet away, the concept of killing was as far from her as the moon.
To kill a man—this was unthinkable, impossible.
“It’s wrong to take a life.” Gwen knew this was a lame substitute for truth, but plausible. She watched a spider crawling along the ground near her foot. She was terrified of the bugs that lived under the ground. However, this arachnid seemed fairly benign, all eight legs heading in a definite direction, a creature with places to go and things to do. “Father Domina says life is sacred. All life.”
When Sadie smiled, her dog’s-blood lightning bolts jumped. “You’re losing your sense of humor.”
“Do you understand what death really is?” Gwen raised her hand high, and though she was weak, she managed to smash it down on the hapless spider. When she turned her hand over, the creature’s sticky innards were spread across her palm. “That’s death. You can never undo it. Never.”
All the insect legs twitched independently for a while. The girls watched the spider, fascinated, until it jerked one last time and was still.
“Cool,” said Sadie. “I think you’ve got the hang of it.”
And it was interesting. Gwen shook the bits of the spider’s body to the ground. The remainder of the poor innocent little beast was on
ly a smear on her hand.
Well, that wasn’t so bad.
“One good shock,” said Sadie. “That’s what we need to work on. He’ll lose his mind when he sees this.” She held the flashlight to her face to highlight the blood. “You get it? Like dogs reverting to wolves.”
“I think he’s seen scarier things than that,” said Gwen, appraising the symmetrical rows of jagged streaks on either side of her friend’s bloody face. Then her gaze wandered down the rows of mushroom tables, each with its own wooden cart. Why had he dug the graves in the middle of the row? Why not at the end or the beginning? Unless some of the—
“All right,” said Sadie. “But surprise will still work. We need a distraction—something really gross. So we wait by the door, see? Maybe not under the ground, just a little covering of dirt—camouflage. And then when he comes in, he’ll see something at the other side of the cellar. When he goes over there to get a better look, we run outside and lock him in. Neat?”
Gwen dropped her head. “It won’t work.” Once buried again, no matter how light the covering dirt, she didn’t believe she would ever climb out of her own grave. Buried alive—dying slowly with the dirt in her eyes, the bugs crawling in her ears and her nostrils. And then they would crawl into her mouth when she opened it to scream—unable to fight back against the smallest insect.
And Sadie believed she could win against a full-grown man. Impossible.
“You know I can’t run.”
“Yes you can,” said Sadie. “I’ll help you.”
“Hiding is better.”
“We can’t do that—not if you won’t go into the ground.” Sadie pressed on. “Doing something is better than doing nothing, better than—”
“I know Miss Vickers isn’t coming back. But what about our parents? The police? You think they’ve given up on us, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t. But it may take a very long time before they find us.” She knelt down beside Gwen and touched her face. “You’re on fire. I have to get you out of here.”
Gwen lay back on the ground, resting her head in Sadie’s lap. It was a fight to keep her eyes open. “Even if you think I’m dead, don’t put me in the ground. Promise me?”
“I promise you’re not going to die.” Sadie gently stroked her burning forehead with a cool hand.
Gwen sat up and shined the light on her friend’s face. This time she had to know she wasn’t being told a comforting lie. “You won’t do that—you won’t bury me?”
“I promise. Don’t think about death anymore.” Sadie stood up and walked over to the dog’s body. She shrouded it with a plastic trash bag, so Gwen would not have to look at death, either.
But there was yet another sense of mortality in the stench, for the dog had lost control of his bowels at the end. This smell mingled with the putrid odor of her wound and added a little to her growing store of knowledge about death.
“Take the parka, Sadie.” Gwen struggled to get out of the down jacket, but she was too weak to work her way out of the sleeves. “You take it! You might have to walk a long way before you find help. It makes sense that one of us—”
Sadie pulled the parka back over Gwen’s arms and zipped it up, gently scolding, “You’re very sick.”
“Sadie, never mind about me. Run for it when you get the chance.” Please don’t leave me alone. “He has a gun. Your knife can’t beat a bullet.” If you leave me, I’ll die. “You can’t fight a grown man. You have to run.” Don’t go.
One child folded into the other, arms entwining, cheek pressed to cheek, soft as flower petals. So quiet now. Then Sadie whispered, “How could I leave you behind?”
Arnie Pyle and Rouge Kendall sat on the office couch. Ali Cray was seated on the other side of the desk, facing Captain Costello. Only Marge Jonas remained standing as she stared through the blinds of the second-floor window overlooking Cranberry Street. The sun had been snuffed out by a heavy overcast. Behind her back, Costello was answering Ali’s question.
“No, your uncle hasn’t told us a damn thing. No confession, no denial, nothing at all.” The captain sat back in his chair. His eyes made a slow roll to the ceiling, as if he could not believe his own words. “Dr. Cray waived his rights to a lawyer, but the DA insisted that we have a doctor present.”
Now he turned to the large woman at the window. “And Marge? Find out how those local cops just happened to turn up a damned heart specialist in three minutes flat. Sometimes I get the feeling that I’m not in charge anymore.”
“I’ll look into it,” said Marge, without turning around. He knew her every expression; she couldn’t afford to face him when she lied. The first flakes of snow sifted down from the dark gray sky. Though it was the noon hour, she would not have been surprised if the thick clouds had parted to show her the moon; it had been that kind of a day.
Three people stopped on the sidewalk. They appeared to be together, yet there were no greetings, no conversation passed between them. And there was no sun to cast their shadows. The strange little trio turned in unison to stare up at the window. Marge took one step back, feeling suddenly naked under the bright light from the office ceiling.
Costello was still talking to Ali Cray. “So the DA says to me, ‘Suppose the old guy has a fatal heart attack. We don’t want to see a crucifixion on the evening news. Get a doctor.’ And then two village cops come whipping around the corner with this bastard, this—”He looked down at his paperwork. “Dr. William Penny in a bathrobe. You know this guy, right?”
Marge looked back over her shoulder to see Ali Cray nodding, but volunteering nothing. Apparently, Chief Croft had called it right. William Penny had preferred to keep the details of his improper arrest to himself—along with the facts of his affair.
More people had gathered on the sidewalk below, though not many. A sprinkling of pale faces and dark ones were tilted up to the lighted window. What did they want? Well, nothing dangerous. They had the look of a small band of alien tourists lost on a strange planet and seeking guidance.
Behind her back she could hear Costello tapping his pencil on the desktop—sure sign of an impending storm. He was still addressing Ali. “Has William Penny always had this bad attitude about cops? You think the guy might’ve had a prior run-in with the law?”
Marge winced.
“I wouldn’t know,” said Ali. “He’s my uncle’s doctor. I never heard anything about his personal background. Is Uncle Mortimer all right?”
“Oh, yeah, he’s just fine. Old Willy boy, the damn heart specialist, sedated your uncle five fucking minutes into the interview. Then this twit heart surgeon smiles at me—pure evil—like he really enjoyed pissing me off. That’s when the lawyer showed up. I’m pretty sure Dr. Penny called him. So the lawyer pulls all the right strings to have your uncle sent home in the doctor’s care.”
“That isn’t right!” Rouge Kendall stood up, angry and incredulous. “I identified that ankle chain. It was my sister’s.”
Costello shrugged. “Unfortunately, that’s evidence in a closed case. We’re not investigating that death.”
“But they’ve got to be tied together. All those—”
Costello put up both hands in surrender. “Hey, Rouge. This is the DA talking—not me. Mortimer Cray visited Paul Marie at the prison. We don’t know that the priest wasn’t the source of the ankle chain. If we can’t prove there wasn’t a prior doctor-patient relationship, that visit taints the evidence.”
Marge watched more people gathering outside the building, and others were coming down the sidewalk and from across the road, so silent in their gathering. And the snow continued to fall. Still she had no sense of anything sinister. They seemed helpless. Some were holding hands for courage or comfort in the dark of midday.
“For all we know,” said Costello, “the shrink collects souvenirs from all his patients. Could be five different perverts contributing to his little stash—that was the lawyer’s argument. The only descriptions on the rest of the jewelry are in Ali’s case
notes. So the fuckwit DA says that’s not enough to charge Mortimer Cray with murder, conspiracy or obstruction of justice. Not even if we prove every single trinket is tied to a dead kid.”
Costello cast his eyes down to read from the sheet of paper on his desk. “This comes from the DA’s office. ‘A psychiatrist cannot be compelled to give evidence against a patient for a crime committed in another state.’ ” He looked up at Rouge. “That tears it, kid. Your sister is a closed case. All the other trinkets belong to cases outside the state. True, it’s a gray area of law, and the local DA is a moron. He’s also pissed off that I challenged him on a warrant, so this paper could be legal bullshit. But he’s got jurisdiction. I can’t shop around for charges.” The captain pushed his chair back. Turning away from Rouge, he spoke to Ali, “And both of those kids are dead by now. You know that. You were right about everything. Merry freaking Christmas.”
Marge sank down to a chair by the window. She thought Ali Cray was about to say something. Was there still a chance of finding the little girls alive? Apparently not, for Ali’s shoulders slumped, and there were other signs of resignation: her eyes were sad, so close to tears, and her hands balled into fists of frustration.
So the children were dead.
Marge stole a glance at Costello in profile. He hadn’t shaved this morning—a bad sign. She found worse omens in the clutter on his desk. Fast-food wrappers and take-out containers were breeding on and under the furniture.
She turned back to the window and looked up to the sky. Had the ceiling of cloud cover dropped in these past few minutes? Was it falling as she watched? Yes, indeed, Chicken Little, the earth and the sky, the night and the day are trading places.
Oh, and now more zombies were gathering on the sidewalk, escapees from an entirely different story. She counted fifteen people standing beneath the window, all staring upward. Marge looked at the bright fluorescent tubes spanning the office ceiling.
Perhaps the light was attracting them.
The Judas Child Page 35
