Sleepers Awake

by Patrick McNulty

  “Take her,” he said.

  Randy sprang from where he stood, flying at her with animal speed. Samantha turned and ran. A scream ripped the air. Her thin arms and legs pumped as fast as they could, propelling her in a straight line to an open door, the downstairs bathroom.

  She slammed the door behind her but her brother got his foot in the jamb and wedged the door open. She pushed and pushed but her brother was too strong. With one big shove he flung the door inward and she was tossed against the toilet.

  He rushed straight for her. She put up her arms to block the blows but the first hit her above the left eye. The next landed square on her jaw and she tasted blood. Her hands flew to her face and then it was over. He grabbed a handful of her hair and slammed her face against the back of the toilet again and again until the girl went limp.

  Randy let go of his sister and she slid to the blood-soaked floor. He heard a noise at the door and found his father standing there watching.

  “Bring her out here,” he said. “We’ll do it in the living room.”

  15

  She stepped into the kitchen expecting wine and roses and the table set with a dinner straight out of one of her Country Living magazines. What she found was the table half set, a bottle of wine on the counter and the kitchen a complete fucking disaster. Shaking her head she pulled a wooden spoon out of a saucepan and the pan came with it. She had to laugh. Sean wasn’t even home.

  Petra found Sean’s note and read it leaning against the windowsill.

  Turning back to the kitchen she thought about cleaning up, but decided that it could wait. So, after snagging a beer from the fridge she made her way down the hall to the bathroom where she ran a hot and deep bubble bath.

  When the phone rang, Petra was just slipping her foot into the soapy water. She sighed, pulled on her robe and padded back down the hall to the kitchen.

  “Hello?”

  Petra wedged the cordless phone between her shoulder and her chin and started picking up the kitchen.

  “Petra, it’s Kelly. I’m sorry to bother you and I swear it’s an emergency, but I need to talk to Sean right now.”

  “Kelly, Sean’s not here.”

  “What?”

  Petra carried the bottle of wine to the fridge along with the china butter dish.

  “I just got home,” she explained. “Sean left me a note that he was going out to Monk’s Head Mine to check on Floyd and Randy.”

  “They aren’t back yet?” Kelly asked.

  “I guess not. What’s up?”

  “Well, my Jordan took a call to Minnie Wilke’s place, out by the trench, and he says it’s an emergency. Could you have Sean call me when he gets in?”

  Petra reached for the handle of the fridge and stopped dead. The bottle of wine slipped from her fingers and exploded across the tile floor, followed shortly by the butter dish. Her hand holding the telephone dropped to her side.

  “Petra? Are you all right? Petra?” Kelly’s voice, sounding very far away, called through the phone.

  Without taking her eyes from the new police bulletin that decorated the fridge door, Petra hit the END button on the phone and killed the connection. She set the phone down on the counter and pulled the bulletin from the fridge. The little ladybug magnets that held it in place clattered to the floor.

  She studied every pixel of the image, found his eyes, dark and hooded, looking right at her. Right into her. She had heard of the Rayford killings in New York City, but now, to come face to face with their killer this way—was it coincidence, an accident? Not likely, not with this one. He had found her.

  16

  Jordan almost called Minnie Wilkes a liar to her face. What he did say was that he was going to check out the Tinsel residence, see if he could get some answers. But she was wrong. She had to be. After all, the old bird was pushing ninety, at least. He thought about calling over to the Tinsels’ house, but it really wasn’t something you could ask over the phone. ‘Hey, I was just wondering, did you blow up a snowplow and cause a massive rock slide in the trench?’ No, it really wouldn’t fly.

  He radioed Kelly again, but no, she hadn’t heard from Sean yet. This was a shitstorm. Sooner rather than later people were going to notice the trench was blocked, and on purpose. Someone, according to Minnie Wilkes the Tinsel boys, blew up a snowplow that formed a natural barricade, trapping everyone in Danaid. They would want answers, they would be angry and scared, and they would panic. Jordan wasn’t ready for that. Not by a long shot. That was Sean’s job and he was happy to let him handle it.

  But this initial contact was his. He slowed as he approached the Tinsel home. What was the plan? Arrest them? Bring them in for questioning? He swore fiercely at Minnie for sending him here. He cursed Sean for being unreachable at a time like this. He did not want this responsibility.

  He pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. He was going to play it cool, he told himself. No accusations, no threats.

  With a heavy sigh of resignation he hefted himself out of the cruiser and walked to the front door. He took a deep breath, rang the bell and waited. He rang it again and stepped closer to the door, sneaking a peek into the home through the glass inset. Pictures lined the wall: birthdays, summer vacations, parties. He knew he was in some of them. Randy had been one of his best friends since grade school, before he went off to university.

  No one came to the door. He rang again and scanned the inside. The house was dark. He walked back to the cruiser and looked up at the darkened windows of the second floor.

  Not home?

  He circled around the house to the back door that led to the kitchen. He knocked and knocked to no avail. To his right was a high window that looked over the sink. He dragged over a wooden deck chair that was nearly buried in snow and climbed up. Standing on the arms of the deck chair he could just see into the kitchen. He used his flashlight and found the higher cupboards and the counter. Yup, it was the Tinsel family kitchen. Neat, orderly, clean. Everything in its place.

  When he saw the blood on the floor it didn’t register at first. He stared at it, as if he couldn’t comprehend. Then he saw that it was everywhere. It splattered the white cupboards and pooled on the pale brown tile floor. His light found a wide smear of blood on the floor leading into the living room.

  “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. He dropped down to the stone patio and moved toward the door, his weapon drawn. He took a couple of steps back and readied himself to kick open the door. He took a deep breath. He had never done this before and he was rightfully nervous. It looked so easy in the movies. How hard could it be? His heart hammered. He took two quick steps and kicked out hard with his right foot. The shooting pain immediately ran up his leg as he rebounded off the door. The sound of him kicking the door was explosive, but apparently his kick wasn’t. He hopped painfully to the door and tried the handle. It turned easily in his hand. He didn’t know if that was a good sign or bad.

  He pushed the door open slowly and took a step inside. In one hand he held his pistol up and ready, in the other, the flashlight. He couldn’t take his eyes off the blood on the floor. It stood out against the light brown tile like neon. His stomach rolled over as he tried to guess which one of the Tinsel family was the victim. He felt like puking but he held it back. He gritted his teeth, took one step and then another, deeper into the darkness of the house.

  17

  Sean leapt from the moving sled and ran for the back door of his house. He slipped inside, slammed the door and peered out through the window. Floodlights lit the yard behind his house for about fifty feet. Beyond that was darkness. His breath fogged the glass and his heart beat so fast it felt like it would slam into the door in front of him.

  He scanned the black and white landscape and listened for the whine of another sled. He heard nothing but the wind, and his own wheezing breath.

  All the way home his mind had swirled around what had happened at the mine. What was going on? What had chased him? Where were the Tinsels? Nothing
made sense.

  He moved through the ruined kitchen and called to Petra but got no answer. He stepped around the shattered wine bottle and butter dish. He found the phone on the countertop and snatched it up.

  Violet Monroe picked up on the third ring.

  “Violet, it’s Sean.”

  “Oh hi, Sean, how’s the evenin’ going?” she asked.

  “Listen, pack Kevin up and meet me and Petra at the police station.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you. Just pack up Kevin and get him to the station right now.”

  Violet sounded shaky and scared when she finally told Sean she would leave right now. Sean hit end and searched the house from room to room.

  “Petra?” Sean asked. “Are you here? Petra!”

  He found her sitting alone in the darkened living room. The police bulletin he’d brought home for Kevin was on her lap. He whispered her name but she didn’t look up. She didn’t flinch. She seemed lost in thought.

  Sean reached out and touched her shoulder, and her head whipped toward him. Her eyes flashed and for a split second he saw something swell and flex behind her eyes. Something burned there, bright and dark all at once. Cold shivered through Sean’s belly.

  “I called you,” he said. “You didn’t hear me?”

  Her gaze softened and slowly her head swiveled back to facing front.

  “We have to go,” he said. “Violet’s gonna meet us at the station with Kevin.”

  Petra’s expression didn’t change. She stared placidly into the darkness, unfazed.

  “Petra, I went to the mine and ... and something was there. I think whatever it was tried to kill me. I think it might have killed Floyd and Randy Tinsel. I trapped it behind a door, but I don’t know how long it will hold. We have to go. Now.”

  Sean took the police bulletin from her lap.

  “I thought I saw him today at the cemetery,” Sean said.

  Petra leapt from her seat and stepped toward him. Her face was deadly pale, her eyes wide.

  “Then he’s here? I knew it. It isn’t safe.”

  “Listen to me, baby,” Sean said, taking her by the hands, “It’s all right. But we have to go. Something is happening and I don’t know what it is. Until I figure it out, I want you and Kevin somewhere safe. Safer than this place. So please, help me get going here.”

  18

  Kelly was fast asleep in the jail cell when Jordan burst through the front door. She jumped out of her makeshift bed and staggered into the main office area.

  “What is it?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

  “Did Sean call in?”

  Jordan’s face looked like ash. He was shaking.

  “What’s wrong, sugar?”

  “I would have gone to his house but the station was on my way.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Kelly was fully awake now and getting more worried by the second. Jordan looked scared and that scared her.

  “Jordan, honey, talk to me. What happened?”

  Jordan snatched up the phone.

  “They’re gone,” he said. “All gone. Just blood and ... skin, left on the floor.”

  “What?”

  But Jordan was dialing a phone number. He misdialed twice he shook so badly. On the third try he heard the phone ring on the other end.

  “Oh, come on Sean, answer,” Jordan whispered. “Answer the goddamn phone. Please.”

  He thought about the phone ringing in Sean’s house, about Sean and Petra and Kevin reduced to oily curls of skin and the phone ringing on and on and he felt ready to puke. Greasy waves of nausea climbed his throat and he swallowed hard and prayed for Sean to answer.

  Sean was in the bedroom throwing clothes in a duffel bag when the phone rang. He grabbed the cordless from the bedside table.

  “Jordan, slow down, Jesus Christ. Slow down,” he said and then listened to his deputy. “Okay, okay, just stay there. We’re coming now. Violet and Kevin should be there any minute. Don’t go anywhere till you see me.”

  Bishop stopped dead at the ringing of the phone. He listened until he heard Sean talking somewhere deep within the house and then moved through the living room.

  He found her in the kitchen. A seven-inch blade slid from inside his sleeve into his hand.

  From the bottom of the stairs he watched Petra drink orange juice from the carton as she leaned against the counter. Until that moment he had seen only pictures, grainy black- and-whites taken from a distance. Until right then he had tried desperately to treat her like any other target. Not anymore. Tight, tanned skin, auburn hair the color of burnt copper. She was beautiful.

  She replaced the carton in the fridge. He couldn’t move. The blade felt heavy in his hand, his feet rooted to the floor.

  For a moment Bishop hoped that Petra would never turn around. He hoped that she would keep her back to him and walk through the back door to the yard.

  Then Petra turned. Her scream shattered the silence.

  Bishop charged, blade up and ready to strike. Big strides quickly ate up the distance between them. He was four feet away, reaching out for her, when he was tackled from behind and slammed into the wall. His knife spun across the white tile floor. Sean lay flat across him, pinning Bishop to the floor.

  “Run! Get out of here!” Sean screamed as Bishop thrashed and kicked beneath him.

  Bishop threw his head back and smashed it into Sean’s face. Blood squirted from his nose, running down his chin and Sean’s grip slipped. Bishop squirmed loose and scrambled toward the kitchen table where his knife lay under a chair, but Sean wrenched him back. Bishop drove elbow after elbow into Sean’s face, but Sean held on, arms and legs wrapped around the intruder.

  “Run, Petra! Run!”

  But Petra didn’t move.

  Blood covered Sean’s face and his knees buckled.

  Finally, Bishop delivered a knee to Sean’s chin that knocked him backwards onto the floor spitting blood toward the ceiling. Bishop scooped up his fallen blade and turned as a butcher knife arced out of the air and straight through his throat. Bishop gurgled a cry as he reeled back, clawing at the blade in his neck. Falling backward, he lashed out at Petra with his own blade and slashed her across the belly. Petra whirled away screaming. She fell against the cupboard as bright crimson bled through her t-shirt.

  Sean was barely conscious. He crawled to where Petra sat slumped against the cupboard holding her stomach. Blood flowed freely between her fingers and over her thighs.

  “Oh Jesus, no,” Sean wailed.

  He grabbed a dishtowel and pressed it against her wound. Petra’s skin looked waxy, sweaty and white. She shivered from

  loss of blood.

  “C’mon, get up,” Sean said

  “No, I ...” Petra replied, the rest of her words smothered by a mouthful of blood. Sean wiped her mouth with his hand and said, “You have to. You have to get up. C’mon!”

  Sean grabbed her under the arms and lifted her to her feet. Her knees wobbled beneath her. Sean picked her up and carried her in his arms. He snagged his car keys from a hook by the door and stepped out into the snow.

  Sean slipped her into the passenger side and pulled on her seat belt. He slid in behind the wheel and peeled out onto the street with the lights flashing and the sirens blaring.

  Bloody footprints led down the hall to the bathroom where light spilled from the doorway. Bishop leaned over the sink and stared into the mirror. He fingered the handle of the knife, wriggling the tip of the blade that had pierced his throat just above his Adam’s apple. Without ceremony he ripped out the blade. A small stream of blood wept from the wound before it sealed. Soon there was no trace of the injury. He rubbed his newly healed throat.

  “Bitch.”

  He dropped the butcher knife into the sink and headed for the door.

  Sean’s right hand was pressed against her gushing wound. Petra looked drained. “Stay with me, Honey. Stay awake. C’mon, you can d
o it,” Sean whispered. But Petra’s eyelids drooped. Her mouth was slack, her skin white. Sean could barely see the road through the drifting snow.

  A pair of headlights gained on them, filling up their rearview until the Bronco rammed them, throwing them forward in their seats. Their seatbelts saved them from kissing the windshield. Sean’s Jeep skidded to the right, plowed through the snow and twisted sideways before he regained control and stomped on the gas, putting some distance between them. The Bronco accelerated, charging through the snow to slam into them again.

  Sean grabbed the wheel with both hands and fought the skid, as Petra hung limply over her shoulder belt, her hair hanging in her face. “Hold on!” Sean screamed as he spun the wheel and tapped the brakes, skidding through a sharp turn onto a narrow lane.

  The Bronco’s headlights shook back and forth in the rearview, and for a moment there was nothing but snow and the night behind them. Then the headlights were back.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Again Sean goosed the engine as he tried to shake the tail. He turned right onto Old Bridge Road and blew right through the red stop light at the foot of the bridge.

  Picking up speed as he hit the wooden planks his eyes were glued to the rearview. He never saw the headlights coming straight at him. A sudden blast from a car horn snapped his eyes forward in time to see a pickup truck barreling down on them. The truck slammed on its brakes. Sean did the same, but it was too late. They slid across the wet boards.

  The Bronco ran full tilt into the back of Sean’s Jeep. Sean cranked the wheel to the left as the Bronco hit them. The Jeep bounced off the pickup truck and crashed through the side of the wooden bridge tearing through the old wooden barriers as if they were cardboard.

  It exploded through the wall and flew through the air, dropping through twelve feet of darkness to crash headlong into the frozen river, punching through the ice in a spray of black water.