The Judas Child

by Carol O'Connell

  “Yes, I remember that night.” Myles was gloating.

  He had probably relived that dinner party a thousand times, for he had been the one who told her about Susan Kendall’s death. And so detailed was his description of the crime, Ali had seen that tiny body every single day for years—Susan, lying in the snowbank, so cold, dying.

  “That was the first time you heard the story, wasn’t it, Ali? Well, I’m not surprised.” He made a halfhearted kick at Gwen Hubble’s body. Strands of gold hair moved and shimmered with the illusion of life. “This is the only one that ever made national television. As I recall, your parents hustled you off to Nebraska that year.”

  Ali nodded. Her uncle had convinced her father to accept a Midwest job offer. Uncle Mortimer had even volunteered to sell their house, to take over every chore of settling her parents’ affairs so they could move quickly. Ali had been in a hospital for weeks. No one had told her that Susan Kendall had gone missing, that later, she had been found dead.

  “Have you figured out why the old man wanted you out of town?”

  “Uncle Mortimer thought you were going to kill me.”

  “Very good guess, Ali. He probably saw it as the ultimate test of his ethics, the worst torture I could devise for him—killing his brother’s child. Fool—sees himself as a latter-day Job. I swear that muddled old man can’t decide if I’m God or the Devil. He must have died when you came east again. Oh, that was a time.” Myles was grinning, clearly enjoying himself. “The night of that old dinner party?” He seemed almost girlish, giddy now. “I actually told you details that weren’t in the newspapers, things that William didn’t even know, and he was the medical examiner.”

  Was he waiting to be complimented for taking such a risk? She said nothing. There was no need to goad him. Monsters loved to talk about their work. Where was Charlie Croft?

  “That night—did you guess your uncle’s part in it? I always wondered.”

  “Did I know he was treating a child killer?” Uncle Mortimer’s eyes had been so—apologetic. Guilty? Yes, that too. It was the first time she had seen either of those expressions on his face. And that had been the beginning of suspicion, her impression that the old man had heard every gory detail before, perhaps before the corpse had been discovered. “Yes, I worked it out.”

  “But you never caught on to me.”

  How could I, Myles? I was only eighteen years old. No match for you, not yet. She had missed every sign. “Eventually, I did catch on to you.”

  “Liar.”

  “But I didn’t know then, Myles, not that night. It must have been a thrill, talking about the murder so openly—with one of your victims. I don’t know why the strain didn’t kill the old man years ago. His heart—”

  “Now you’re wondering—why was I was still invited to your uncle’s dinner parties?”

  “No, not at all.”

  Myles didn’t like that answer, but she was not lying this time. It made perfect sense. The Penny brothers had always come to dinner once a week. After Susan Kendall’s death, that ritual could not be ended or altered, not without calling attention to Myles. William would have thought it odd. There would have been questions to answer, lies to tell. It was so much easier for Uncle Mortimer to have a child killer at his dinner table than to account for the man’s absence.

  Myles seemed vaguely disappointed in her continuing silence. Was he expecting something more from her, something like food?

  At the hospital, during her uncle’s interrogation, Myles had fed on the old man—all that fear pouring out of Uncle Mortimer as Costello accused him of harboring a child killer. All the while, the monster was sitting three feet away, listening to every word—feeding. And then he had even baited Mortimer into admitting his patient relationship. Another round of fear, anxiety, more food for the—

  The monster?

  But just now, she was facing a rather drab creature without fang or claw, unkempt, socially inept, never asked to the party unless by the grace of his more esteemed brother’s invitations. She looked down at the child’s body. Gwen must have been so repulsed by this man. Of course Myles had to steal the children. What hope did he have of seducing anyone, even a little girl?

  “Your uncle wouldn’t have given me up if I had killed you. But you were such a dull child, Ali. I hardly knew you were alive.”

  She smiled, and that irritated him. “So I didn’t even come up to the standards of a child molester?” She slowly stepped out of the high heels that would cripple her in a dead run for the door. “I suppose that’s the ultimate rejection.” Her smile never wavered, and this annoyed him more and more.

  “Well, that was then, Ali. Things change.”

  “Uncle Mortimer betrayed you, Myles.” How would she fare against him in a fight? “He finally cracked—gave all your little trophies to the police.” Myles was larger, but she was younger, faster. “They know everything.”

  “Mortimer didn’t even know he had my—”

  “He found them.” Should she run? “I was in the greenhouse when he showed them to me.” Could she win in a fight? “Half the cops in the world were there when he gave you up.” Should she wait for Charlie Croft’s return?

  “He’d never surrender a patient.”

  “Hiding your trophies in Mortimer’s greenhouse was so smart.” Did he plant them on the day they met for drinks? She edged off to one side. He no longer blocked her way to the door, leaving her two options now, fight and flight. “Good move, Myles. You could retrieve your little souvenirs when you felt safe again. But if the police found the stash, they’d never connect it to you. Very smart. Like keeping the children in someone else’s house.”

  “It’ll be my house soon. I made a generous offer to the probate attorney.” He reached into his coat pocket. For a scalpel, a knife? She looked at the door, so far away. Her bare feet were cold against the earth, and dead leaves crackled with the shift of her weight.

  What?

  She stared at the thing in his hand, not quite believing in it. Myles with a gun? This was not the weapon of choice for a sadist. Did it belong to the dead policeman, Sorrel? Would Myles know how to use it? Well, everyone had seen nightly demonstrations on television. Just squeeze the trigger, and the blood flies. So simple. Where are you, Charlie Croft?

  “Last words, Ali? Something I can tell Mortimer at our next session. This seems so cut and dried.” He pointed the gun at her face. “Even after I kill you, your uncle still won’t give me away.”

  “I told you, Myles, he’s already done it.”

  “No, I don’t think so. Mortimer’s twice the monster I am. He has a conscience, but he never listens to it.” The gun lowered a few inches. “Oddly enough, in Mortimer’s mind, this passes for nobility. A good man would’ve sacrificed his reputation and his ethics to save this kid.” He pointed the barrel of the gun toward the body. “But not a noble man—not Mortimer. His fault that it’s dead.”

  It?

  “I wasn’t lying, Myles. Think. How did I know where you kept your trophies?” Why was he smiling?

  “You’ve been living in Boston too long, Ali. You’ve forgotten about life in a small town. Everybody’s heard about the search of Mortimer’s greenhouse. I know he didn’t give up the jewelry. The cops found it. I wanted them to find it.”

  He had been playing with her. The sadist’s game—he would let no opportunity slide. Strange that she should feel humiliation even now.

  “Oh, and you’ll love this, Ali. They’re over there right now, ripping up the greenhouse again. This time, they’ll find a medallion.” He looked down at the little corpse. “Something for its mother to identify. But I don’t expect Mortimer to live long enough to stand trial.”

  “The police know about this place.”

  Myles was close to laughter as he looked around the vast room. “So where are the cops and their shovels? Why are they over at Mortimer’s? Why aren’t they here, digging up all the little graves? Why is the kid’s body still here?”
/>   “I called them as soon as—”

  “As liars go, you’re not much of a challenge, Ali. You’re pathetic.”

  He was right about that, but even her truths were not believed. “I thought you wanted to be caught, Myles. Isn’t that why you left the purple jacket on the road? The first break in your pattern. You wanted the police to find it—to find you.”

  “Pattern? Why go for such a convoluted idea when it’s so obvious? I wanted them off my back and searching in the wrong direction. Sometimes life really is that simple.”

  She faltered, baffled by his condescending smile. Evidently, she was no better than Myles at discerning truth from lies. One more try. “What about the truffle? The police found it in the jacket lining. That ties the murders back to this place. Isn’t that what you wanted? Not to lead them away, but to lead them here? The truffles grow in the ground, so you must have put it—”

  “Truffles? Oh, hell no. You’re way off. The damn dog was so hungry he was digging them up. There were truffles all over the place before he finished them. So your logic—your second-rate analysis won’t hold up, Ali.”

  “The police know where I am. A cop drove me out here. He might be outside. If he hears the shot—”

  “Must I repeat everything twice? The cops are in Mortimer’s greenhouse. I doubt if anybody knows exactly where you are. A hired woman worked in this house for years, and she didn’t know about this room. Evy Vickers always gave Rita money to kennel the dog when she went on vacation. But Rita never wanted to spend it. So William—he’s humping her—he leaned on me to feed the damn dog, and that’s—”

  “Rita Anderson. Her husband’s medical bills are bleeding her dry, aren’t they? She did know about this room, Myles. She told—”

  “First you malign Mortimer, and now Rita.” He shook his head in grinning wonder. “She’s a terrible cleaning woman. Never would’ve occurred to her to sweep behind a furnace. And if she’d ever found that door, ever set eyes on these trees, don’t you think everybody in town would know by now? Logic isn’t your best thing, is it, Ali? Well, I can see why you didn’t make the cut for St. Ursula’s Academy.”

  “So how did I know Rita’s medical—”

  “Oh, who doesn’t know about her medical bills and her husband’s heart condition.” He changed his voice to an effeminate falsetto. “My husband’s an invalid.” He was smiling, voice back in a male’s lower register, saying, “Those were the first words out of her mouth, right? Not even a good try. Poor Ali, still not the brightest kid in town. Ugly and slow.”

  Her face was burning. Could he see the flush? Was he loving this? “Then you know I did meet Rita, and she told me about the door in the—”

  “You found this room by accident, just like I did. Well, maybe not the same way. I was kicking a dog into the corner behind the furnace when I happened on that little door. You were double-checking the cops—looking for bodies. And that was your only good idea. They didn’t spend two seconds in that laundry room upstairs. I should know. I helped them search the house.”

  The gun was rising to her face. He was waiting for her to scream in fear, to feed him. “Chief Croft is on—”

  “Oh, give it up.” His irritation was growing. “You’d never tell the cops you were coming out here to check on their work. It’s time, Ali. Wish I could’ve dragged it out a bit longer.”

  Yet he did drag it out. He pointed the gun at her left eye, bringing the muzzle closer. The seconds crawled by while he allowed her to look down the barrel, to imagine what was going to happen to her. There was time enough to know that she was going to die in this place. And finally, he lowered the gun and aimed it at her chest.

  Ali heard the explosion of the shot. She looked down in disbelief and saw the red spot spreading from the dark hole in her blouse, in her body, and then she was falling to her knees. There was an absurd moment of surprise, for this was not the television death she had been conditioned to expect; she was not propelled backward by the blast. She toppled forward into the dirt, facedown.

  The man knelt by the child’s body, his head bent low, so close, stale breath blowing across the small white face. He was only inches away when Gwen’s eyes snapped open, and she showed him her teeth, curling her lips back, just as the dog had done.

  He was surprised. No—better than that, she had frightened him. She snarled, and he never saw her arm rising as he was drawing backward, sucking in his breath. Gwen’s hand flashed out, hurling the green fertilizer into his wide and startled eyes. The gun tumbled from his hand. He clawed at his face, fingers probing the burning sockets, and his scream was pure agony. He was on his knees and stumping forward like Blizzard the legless man.

  Lon Chaney, 1920.

  And now she was certain that he was blind. Again, he screamed in pain. Gwen outshouted him, yelling, “Geronimo!”

  Dry dead leaves went flying as Sadie came out of the earth, sitting bolt upright. The loose covering of soil streamed down her savagely decorated face. Sadie’s bloodred lightning bolts were wasted on the blind man, but they gave Gwen a little courage. Sadie held the blade high as the man teetered on his knees, and then she plunged the point into his thigh. His face was horribly distorted. He bellowed in his new pain and struck out blindly with a closed fist, hitting Sadie in the side of the head and sending her reeling into the stone wall.

  Sadie! No! It was not supposed to happen this way.

  Sadie was sliding down the rock-faced wall. And the man turned around to look at Gwen.

  You can see.

  One of his eyes was bloody and bubbling up oozy green, but the other was only bright red and wounded. He was moving toward her, reaching out.

  The gun lay only a few feet from her hand. She had heard the noise this weapon made and regarded it as a bomb. Because her leg would not work, would not run with her, she ran away inside herself, and in the dark of her mind she went round and round in screaming terror. To look at her still body, no one would have guessed at the rising hysteria, for she had gone rigid again, eyes screwed shut, mouth sealed and silent.

  Only one hand was not a coward.

  Her eyes opened. Sadie was struggling to a stand. Gwen felt the muscles loosen in her shoulder as her arm followed the crawling fingers that were inching toward the gun. Would she even be able to lift it? In sidelong vision she saw him hoisting Sadie off the ground. Gwen’s hand was closing on the cold metal. Now she could only see Sadie’s feet running madly in midair.

  Another hand covered Gwen’s, and the startled child looked into the face of another monster: it was marked with a scar, jagged like the lines Sadie had drawn with dog’s blood—but this one was real. The red mouth was twisted, and the teeth were bared. Blood was pouring from a hole in the woman’s body, and the face was flooded with terrifying emotion. Gwen had never been this close to hate, never looked into its wide-set eyes. She recoiled as the metal slid out from underneath her smaller hand.

  The woman was propped up on her elbows, the gun was rising, taking aim. And then the cellar exploded with another deafening shot.

  The man was falling.

  Sadie! Where was Sadie?

  Gwen’s body stiffened again as the man rose up on his forearms and crawled toward her. She was paralyzed. The gun in the woman’s hands banged out again, but not so loud this time. How was that possible?

  And now the half-deafened child watched the bits of a man’s skull, his hair and flesh fly away from the back of his head. Gwen felt oddly detached, hardly noticing the spray of blood from the last bullet.

  It was unreal.

  “Sadie?”

  The whole world had gone utterly silent. With all the strength she had left, Gwen tried to stand, but her body only rolled to one side, and now her face was half buried in the dirt, one eye in darkness and one turned to the light.

  Two men were rushing through the door. One had great sad eyes, and the tails of his long coat flapped like black wings as he ran toward her. The other man with the brown jacket and dark red hai
r was first to reach her side.

  She could hear now—a pounding of more feet on the stairs, and then she saw the pant legs of other people running into the cellar. Their voices and their footsteps blended into the chatter and static of radios; all the sounds seemed to come from a great distance. Though she lay still, Gwen had the sensation of moving away from these people, away from the light, gliding along on black water. She knew this river, but what was its name?

  Back to the world again—cold, so cold. Strong arms were rolling her dead weight, and her face was turned out of the dirt and toward the bright lights of the ceiling. The man with the dark red hair was lifting her up from the ground and holding her close, bringing her inside the sheepskin jacket, warming her with his fleece and the heat of his body.

  All the while, the other man’s voice was crying, “Ali, Jesus, Ali!”

  But what of Sadie?

  Gwen knew nothing anymore but the darkness of her passage through delirium and the lightness of floating on the black river. As the current gently rocked her in a warm fleece-lined boat upon the water, she slowly turned to face the other child, small and solemn, left behind on the receding shore—left behind.

  twelve

  Ali Cray had lost her paper slippers, and the belt on her hospital robe came undone as she ran barefoot down the corridor of the pediatric wing, racing toward the room of the screaming child.

  The doctors had encouraged her to walk on the day after surgery, but now, more than two weeks later, the short run down the hall had exhausted her. She leaned against the door frame, catching her breath as she watched the spectacle of two adults terrorizing a little girl who could not even walk yet. Half of Ali’s sympathy went to the terrorists, for the parents meant well.

  Marsha Hubble was hovering over her child. “We talked about this, Gwen. I know you—”

  “Don’t say it!” Gwen put her hands over her ears, yelling, “No! Don’t you say it again!”

  “Oh, honey, please,” her father was begging. And now they both fluttered around the little girl, trying to calm her with soft words and helpless gestures, reaching out to touch her. Gwen batted their hands away, then covered her ears again, screaming to block out their words. The parents would seem like monsters to this ten-year-old; their speech would be the ramblings of lunatics. Even as the Hubbles were professing their love, they were trying to stab the child in the heart with their own vision of what had happened in that cellar.