Sean let Norman go and he folded to the floor, lying in a crumpled pile against the bars.
“Take your son and leave while you can,” Norman whispered.
Sean turned back to him.
Norman spat a mouthful of blood. Letting his gaze drift from Sean to Jordan, he said, “They’re everywhere now. All around you. And they will take you.”
Kelly dropped the jeep into gear and muttered, “Sure.” She wiped cold sweat from her forehead as she checked her mirrors and pulled out into the lane heading north to the Walters’ house.
They found the house dark, quiet. Standing at the front door they heard no sound inside. No radio, no conversation. It felt empty. She knocked again.
Gertie stomped her feet and hugged herself, a constant tendril of smoke rising past her pale blue toque.
“Billy? Ruth? Open up!” Gertie yelled. “It’s cold out here, dammit.”
After a moment of staring at the empty windows, Kelly suggested that they try the back door, and with a puff of smoke from Gertie’s Marlboro, they disappeared around the corner of the house.
They passed the windows of the attached garage and peered inside. Both vehicles were there, a black Dodge Durango and a green mini-van with The Trading Post emblazoned in orange on the side. Kelly and Gertie continued on to the back of the house and as they rounded the corner they stopped dead in their tracks.
The back door hung open, bumping against the frame. Neither spoke. Something was definitely wrong. It was cold outside, no doubt about that, but a whole new kind of cold filled their insides.
“I don’t like this,” Gertie said. She scanned the backyard as they listened to the door swing, gently creaking on its hinges.
“Stay out here,” Kelly said.
Gertie threw another nervous glance around the darkening yard. “Out here? Alone?” she asked. “Why?”
“Just because. I’m the deputy,” Kelly replied. “I have to go in. You don’t. Go back to the jeep and lock the doors.”
“You’re scaring me, Kelly. I can’t go back to the jeep alone.”
“Why?”
“Someone could be waiting for us to split up.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Kelly shook her head.
“Okay,” Kelly said. “Just stay behind me, okay? Right behind me.”
Gertie nodded and followed the back of Kelly’s government issue brown parka through the swinging back door.
“You have no idea what she is, Sean,” Norman pleaded. “No idea. The Ministry of the Wraith has been trying to find her for a decade. She’s a virus. An infection. She moves from town to town, place to place, and spreads her disease.”
“Don’t you fucking talk about her,” Sean snapped.
“You have to understand. She is a door. A door to—”
“Where? A door to where?”
“Another place.”
Sean snorted and fell back into his chair.
“Another place?” he said, “That’s the best you can come up with?”
“I don’t know where they come from. There’s a world beneath the one you know, a world you can’t even see,” Norman said, almost in a whisper. “But they see you. Through the doors. And they wait and wait for one door to open. Just one. And then they come.”
Snow had blown into the house across the mudroom floor, dusting the coats and hats that hung on a pegboard. Gertie closed the door and Kelly jumped.
“What?” Gertie asked. “What?”
“Don’t touch anything. Nothing. Okay?”
“Okay,” Gertie said, her hands held up in front of her.
The kitchen smelled of apple pie. On the stove the pie plate, with a fork left in it, sat on a burner. Everything else looked untouched.
The snow melted from Kelly’s hair and ran over her cheeks and down the nape of her neck.
“Billy? Ruth?” she called out. “It’s Kelly.”
“And Gertie,” added Gertie.
Kelly headed toward the hall. Gertie whispered her name. Kelly turned and found Gertie frozen in place. She followed Gertie’s gaze to a door off the kitchen left half open. A thin stream of blood ran from beneath the door out over the cream tile floor.
Blindly, Kelly’s fingers fumbled with the strap that held her pistol securely in her holster. She had never drawn her weapon on duty, and only once on the firing range out near Monk’s Head Mine after Jordan had told her that she should at least practice, “’cause you never now, right?” She drew the weapon and was surprised at how heavy it was. Her stomach lurched like it always did when she stood at the edge of someplace way too high for her liking. As she made her way slowly to the door, she aimed her pistol at the gap between the door and the frame.
With her left hand she eased open the door.
“Stay out in the kitchen,” she whispered.
“What is it?” Gertie asked, edging toward the door.
“Just stay out there.”
Blood had splashed across the washer and dryer, small red dots even found their way onto the piles of folded laundry nearby. Blood had pooled on the floor, and handprints were printed in red across the tile. There was blood, a lot of it, but no body. Kelly swept her pistol over the small room, aiming at the shadowed places around the crowded appliances, but there was nothing. She backed out of the room just the same, her pistol trained on the empty space.
“What was it?” Gertie asked from a safe distance away. Kelly didn’t answer, her mouth was as dry as if she’d been chewing chalk. Her heart pounded.
They’re dead.
They’re dead, was all she could think. Somewhere in the house she would find them all. Dead. Oh, Jesus God.
She hadn’t prayed since she was a little girl in Sunday school when Father Marin, a wide, short man with a full dark beard smelling of the peppermints he always had in his mouth, would kneel beside her and lead her through, but she remembered just the same.
“Our Father,” she whispered, “who art in Heaven.”
With the kitchen behind her, Kelly walked past the stairs toward the living room in a trance. She stepped down the hall, the hardwood creaking under her weight. With her mind swimming in adrenaline, every creak sounded like cracking ice. The weight of the pistol in her hand made her shoulder ache, as her gun arm pointed straight down the hall to the living room doorway.
“Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come ...”
She shuffled past the main floor bathroom without a sideways glance, for she knew where they were now. Her eyes were locked onto the shreds of blue carpet attached to the floor just inside the door. The walls were bare. No pictures, no lamps or plants. Everything was gone.
“Thy will be done .”
She stepped to the threshold and stopped. Her whispered prayer died on her lips. Every chair, every end table, every stick of furniture had been pushed, thrown, and piled at the far end of the room, nearly blocking the floor-to-ceiling windows entirely from view. The royal blue carpet lay crumpled in a twisted heap, exposing the bare floorboards.
Kelly lowered the gun to her side, letting the heavy lump of metal dangle from her hand.
Except for the furniture, the room was empty.
From where she stood she could see every corner. Unless they were buried under the pile of furniture, Billy, Ruth and Jessica weren’t here.
She took a step onto the bare flooring and felt the dirt and grit grind under her boot. Her slow, scraping footfalls echoed hollowly around the room. She took another step and then another, staring down at the center of the floor.
Sean shook his head, too angry and confused to speak. Jordan edged closer.
“What’s this Ministry of the Wraith?” Jordan asked.
“It’s an organization to protect us,” Norman answered.
“Protect us from what?”
“From the evil.”
“Petra wasn’t evil,” Sean shouted. “I knew her better than anyone and I loved her. Everyone in this town did.”
“A hunter was dispatched to kill her before she could bring any others through the door,” Norman went on quietly.
“From the other place.”
“Yes.”
Sean raised a cup of coffee toward Norman’s cell, “Congratulations then, on a job well done.”
Norman shook his head as he stared into his lap.
“It’s not over,” Norman said. “The hunter failed.”
“Petra is dead,” Sean whispered. “It’s over.”
“She’s not dead, Sean. The door is open. It’s already begun. If the hunter fails, we will all awaken. We will all become.”
“Become what?”
“They’re called Zijin,” Norman answered. “And they’re vicious. They can move among us and look just like you or me, but when they hunt, they—”
Somewhere in the background, a phone rang. Jordan picked it up on the first ring.
“Kelly? Where are you?” he asked. “What are you doing there?”
Sean stared hard at Norman. Norman stared back. Nothing the old man said made any sense. There was no Ministry of the Wraith, no Zijin, and whoever or whatever this guy was, he was no supernatural hunter. He was a man, plain and simple. A man who could take a butcher’s knife in the throat and keep on coming. He pushed the thought away.
Sean looked to Jordan who was rising fast out of his seat, his face pale. His hand shook as he tried to clip his radio to his belt.
“Sean,” Jordan whispered.
Jordan’s face was the colour of ash.
“What is it?” Sean asked.
“Kelly’s at the Walters’ place.”
“And?”
“It’s bad,” was all he could say.
24
When Sean and Jordan pulled up to the Walters’ home, they found Kelly and Gertie sitting in Kelly’s jeep. Gertie had the window rolled down a quarter of the way. A small pile of cigarette butts lay in the snow as she chain-smoked, taking quick drags, her fingers shaking as she tapped the ashes out the open window.
When Kelly got out of the truck, Gertie didn’t budge. She sat where she was and didn’t speak. She looked green and shriveled, buried under all her winter gear. Kelly ran to Jordan and threw her arms around him.
“What is it?” Sean asked, pulling his collar up against the wind. “Are they in there?”
Kelly was crying, her head buried in Jordan’s shoulder, her back shaking. Her gloved hands gripped Jordan tight.
Sean waited. He remembered happier times when he, Petra and Kevin would come here for barbeques in the summer, hockey games in the winter. The house never looked like this. This cold. This gutted.
Kelly lifted her face from Jordan’s parka and wiped her red eyes with the back of her hand.
“There’s something on the floor in the living room,” Kelly said. “I don’t know what it is. It looks like people.”
Sean asked a few more questions and Kelly answered them as best she could until she started to cry again. They left her outside.
Stepping through the kitchen they saw the blood in the laundry room and kept moving toward the living room.
In the center of the floor three human figures were drawn in blood. Each figure was composed of symbols and characters drawn expertly into a tapestry of red. Sean crouched low enough to inspect the drawing of a human hand. He followed tiny grooves scratched in the wood. A woman’s long tapered fingernail stuck up from a floorboard. A shiver ran down his back as he tried to imagine what manner of horror had fallen upon this family. He thought of Ruth and Billy and little Jessica. She was only fourteen.
“What are they?” Jordan asked, getting close to the floor, staring hard at the mysterious shapes. Sean shook his head. He had no answers.
A few minutes later when Sean and Jordan emerged from the house, Sean felt oddly detached. He found himself wondering how normal everyday things could continue after what they had seen. The world waited for no one, you either kept running or you got plowed under.
Kelly and Gertie hadn’t moved. The pile of cigarettes outside Gertie’s door hadn’t grown either. She must be out. She had her arms wrapped around herself, her head down. Kelly stepped out into the cold.
“I’ll take Gertie home,” she said.
“No, it’s all right,” Sean replied. “I’ll take her. You two head back to the station.”
They didn’t complain. Jordan wrapped an arm around Kelly and led her to Sean’s jeep. Sean even thought he saw a flicker of a smile on Kelly’s lips.
After dropping Gertie off at her house, Sean didn’t head back to the station. He headed to Violet Monroe’s.
25
Sean walked up the stairs, opened the door to Violet’s kitchen and right into her stare. She leaned against the counter, her arms crossed over her heavy breasts.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she began.
“Violet.”
“You didn’t see his face when we went back this morning and you were gone. Gone without so much as a phone call.”
“Violet, look, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry to me. I know what you’re trying to do. I know. But he needs you now. Now, Sean.”
“Violet—”
She spun away and started peeling an enormous potato.
“Don’t talk to me. I’m going to make you some supper. You need to go and talk with your son.”
“Where is he?”
Without turning around Violet pointed down the hall with her potato peeler.
Sean eased open the bedroom door. The light from the hall fell on his son’s face. He was in his pajamas, sitting up in bed, waiting for his dad. His blue eyes opened wide and his mouth pulled into a smile when Sean slipped through the door. Looking at his son, Sean saw his wife smiling back at him and he felt a pain in his chest that stole his breath away.
“Hi.”
“You all right?”
Kevin nodded and Sean slipped around the door into the room. He took a seat on the edge of the bed and sat there patiently. He wanted to say something, but nothing came. Kevin stared at him.
Finally, Kevin asked, “Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to catch the man that killed Petra?”
Instantly Sean felt the rage that had run through him at the station. He bit back the urge to say, “Yes, of course I’m going to catch him, tie him to a fucking tree and make him beg me to let him die.”
“Are you, dad?” Kevin repeated.
“I’ll find him,” Sean replied. “I promise.”
Kevin looked relieved. His tiny shoulders relaxed and his smile grew because at that age a boy believes in the strength of promises.
Sean leaned in close and kissed his son on his forehead. “Now, get some sleep.”
Kevin threw his arms around his dad’s neck and held him tight. In his arms Kevin felt so small, so vulnerable. Sean squeezed him harder.
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you too, Kev,” Sean whispered.
“Could you stay with me?” Kevin asked. “Just till I fall asleep?”
“Sure.”
Kevin made room on the double bed and Sean slipped in beside him. Kevin curled up close to his father, a hint of a smile on his face for the first time in a long time. Sean held his son close, felt the warmth of his body, the delicate beat of his heart.
“I miss her,” Kevin whispered, his face buried in Sean’s chest.
“I miss her too,” Sean said. “Go to sleep.”
Kevin squeezed his father tight and closed his eyes.
Kelly washed her face with soap and water and tied her hair back into a ponytail. Nothing was going to take down the swelling of crying all day, but at least the smear of eyeliner and mascara were gone. With her face freshly scrubbed a bright pink, she snapped off the bathroom light and stepped out into the main office.
Since she had been gone, Jordan had fallen asleep in his chair, his head hanging off the back leaving his wide neck exposed. His Adams’ apple bobbed
as he snored.
She shook him gently. “Honey, wake up.”
Jordan awoke with a start, snorting as his eyes popped wide. He looked around the station house as if he’d never been there.
“Go home,” Kelly said.
“No, it’s okay,” he replied, his voice thick with sleep. “I’m okay.”
“You’re tired, honey, look at you.”
Jordan leaned over his knees and rubbed his face.
“Jeez.”
“Yeah, go home, catch a few winks. Then come on back in a couple hours and relieve me, okay?”
He nodded and pulled himself to his feet.
“Give me a kiss,” she said, tapping her puckered lips. Jordan obliged with a quick peck and then she walked him to the door.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said.
“Drive safe.”
Jordan opened the door and winced as the cold wind ripped into him.
“I’ll see you soon,” he said then disappeared into the storm.
Bishop drove in circles, staying away from the downtown area until he found a dark spot behind a few shops off the main street.
The situation was quickly spinning out of control. He had let the target go. She had escaped. He needed to find her. Bishop slammed his fist against the steering wheel. He took a deep breath, one in, one out, and tried to calm down. This wasn’t over.
Inside the cab the temperature dropped sharply. His slow deep breaths shrouded him in mist.
“Where is she, Oliver?”
“We’re looking,” Oliver replied. “But it’s getting worse out there. Reports are coming in from all over town.”
Oliver explained that the Zijin were sweeping through the little Alaskan town like wildfire. Of the hundred and seventy- three people left in the town, the wraiths reported that at least thirty had become Zijin. And the number was steadily rising.
The lights were off in the truck. Only what moonlight filtered through the falling snow allowed Bishop to see. And that was all he needed. A small wraith, he looked no more than ten years old, shuffled cautiously up to the truck in the darkness. His fragile image trembled as the snow fell through him. His face was pale and his once fierce green eyes were flat and cold. He drifted up to the driver’s side window. Bishop rolled the window down.
Sleepers Awake Page 12
