On the nearby bureau one of our wedding pictures distracted me. We looked impossibly young, happy and unaware, the two us sitting at the head table, Toni in her gown and me in my tuxedo, arms entwined while sipping champagne from each other’s glasses.
Bells from a church about a mile up the street chimed, echoed beautifully in the distance, reminding me today was Sunday.
I reached out and gently laid the photograph face down.
* * *
Milner Avenue was an old, nearly forgotten stretch of desolate road not far from the airport. At the very end of the road sat the shell of an ancient mill that was slowly crumbling from years of neglect. Most of the outer walls were covered in graffiti, and the grass around the property was badly overgrown and unkempt. Garbage littered the area. Amidst the brush and vacant sand lots an occasional ramshackle cottage emerged, remnants of the inexpensive housing provided decades earlier for some of the workers employed by the then thriving mill. Most of the tenements were condemned and boarded shut.
I drove the four-mile length of Milner so I’d know where it came out, and found that beyond the old mill was a dirt road that eventually led to an intersecting paved boulevard. Less than a mile from there, I came across an onramp back to the state highway.
Comfortable with the way in and out, I circled around and this time paid closer attention to the tachometer from the moment I pulled onto the avenue.
A little more than a mile in, in the middle of a dirt lot horseshoed by an expanse of brush and dead trees, I saw a small cottage off by itself just as Mama had described. It was set atop cinder blocks and in horrible shape, but still looked somewhat livable. There were no cars parked alongside the cottage, but there was an old mailbox at the edge of the lot closest to the road. I checked my watch. It was nearly nine o’clock.
I continued on a ways, then turned around and came back again. Diagonally across from the cottage I pulled over to the side and dropped the car into Park. The far-off rumblings of a slowly awakening city battled with the hum of the engine. The desolation of this empty and forgotten corridor on the outskirts of the city made me uncomfortable. It was the kind of place where you could scream, and even if anyone in the distance was able to hear you, odds are, no one would care. I leaned back against the seat and felt my gun press into the small of my back. Although I had never drawn or fired it except at the range, the reminder of its presence gave me a slight sense of security nonetheless.
After watching the house for a few minutes, I climbed from the car and slowly approached the property.
Dulled by the haze of humidity, just over the span of brush and dead trees, the sun hung low but fierce in the sky. I moved across the dirt lot until the shade of the cottage itself blocked the rays. I gave a quick look around. The building was in rough shape, and the screen door and screens on the front windows were old and battered. A filthy bare bulb sat in a socket above the front door and an ancient welcome mat had been thrown down before it. I knocked and waited. Nothing. I knocked again. More nothing.
After a moment I stepped over to the window to the left of the door and leaned into it, cupping my hands on either side of my head so I might see the interior of the cottage. The screen was hard to see through however, and the window itself was so dirty it blurred all that lay beyond it. I backed away, knocked a third time.
I could hear cars rushing along the highway in the distance. Slowly, I walked around the side of the house and peered into the area behind it. An old picnic table that looked like it hadn’t been used in ages was propped against the back of the house and there were two small trash cans parked along the far corner. Another short stretch of dirt led to the beginnings of the brush at the rear of the property, and I noticed a clothesline had been strung from the back left corner of the house to a thin pole several feet away that had been planted there for that specific purpose. The clothesline was bare, and I began to wonder if anyone lived here after all.
Carefully, I walked behind the cottage to the trashcans. Flies buzzed about noisily, and when I pulled the lid free of the first can I realized I still couldn’t be sure if someone was residing here because the garbage was mostly frozen dinner boxes and food, and most of it looked anything but fresh. The smell in this heat was gripping, so I replaced the lid and continued back around the corner of the house until I’d again reached the front door. I looked back across the way. But for my car, it was empty.
I went next to the mailbox near the road. There were two pieces of mail inside. I looked around again then reached in and pulled them free. One was a light bill and the other was an advertising flyer for a department store. The postmark on the light bill was less than a week old, so I knew it had been delivered within the last day or two. I slid them back into the box and closed it.
Once back at the car I hesitated before getting behind the wheel. Maybe this was a mistake, I thought. Maybe it’s just as well she isn’t here. But just as I slid my sunglasses on to combat the glare of the sun, something near the mangle of dead trees caught my attention.
My legs shook and my stomach clenched. I pulled the glasses off, forced a swallow and heard indecipherable whispers breaking over the trees and across the dirt lot. They swirled around me, and I told myself not to be afraid, that this was all in my head, but the fear refused to subside. My mind told me to run, to get into the car and drive away from there without ever coming back. Instead, I drew a deep breath, closed my eyes and held them shut. After a few seconds I slowly opened them.
The whispers had stopped. Or maybe they’d never really been there at all. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter as much now.
I climbed back into the car and headed toward the city proper.
* * *
After nursing a cup of coffee at a local diner for over an hour, I drove around New Bedford for another thirty-odd minutes until I’d summoned the nerve necessary to return to Milner Avenue.
It was nearly eleven when I pulled over in front of her cottage a second time. Everything looked the same, until I realized the front door was open. There were no other cars around so I assumed she’d either been sleeping when I’d come before or someone had dropped her off in the interim.
I stepped from the car and scanned the trees and brush. Visible waves of heat rose from the dirt to distort the landscape, but nothing else moved.
I removed my sunglasses, tossed them onto the dash then walked toward the house with a purposely-unassuming gait. At the screen door I hesitated and craned my neck in an attempt to see deeper into the cottage, but due to the lack of light within, it was impossible. Both of the front windows were also open and protected only by screens. The house was quiet but for a subtle thudding sound from somewhere nearby. I knocked on the screen door but no one appeared or answered, so I listened more carefully.
The thudding was coming from behind the house.
As I turned the corner I saw a large throw rug draped over the clothesline. Behind it, someone was hitting it, knocking dust free with a broom. The thudding stopped rather suddenly, and from behind the rug a woman emerged.
Her hair was cropped short and spiked in a style that made it difficult to tell if it was meant to look disheveled or if she just hadn’t combed it in a while. Hair that had been auburn in the photograph was now jet-black. She looked physically smaller than the photograph suggested, far thinner and considerably older. The woman in the photograph had been no more than early twenties; this person was early thirties. I raised a hand to my eyes to shield the sun so I could get a clearer look at her, but still couldn’t be certain it was the same person.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but are you Claudia?”
She slipped under the clothesline, the broom still in her hands. She wore an old shirt with faint black and white checks she’d only bothered to button to the middle of her chest. The shirt arms had been hacked away with scissors, leaving behind strings and strands dangling awkwardly from sockets where sleeves had been. Heavily worn Levis and a pair of scuffed black
boots rounded out the ensemble. Her left ear was pierced several times but her right sported only a single small hoop. Her complexion was pale, her eyes tired, and it looked as if this was the first time she’d seen sunshine in quite a while. She wore heavy eyeliner but no other makeup.
She sized me up a moment without responding.
“I’m looking for Claudia Brewster.”
“You a cop?” she asked, her voice whispery and a bit deep for such a petite woman.
“No, I’m—”
“Then you’re trespassing. Fuck off.”
“Are you Claudia Brewster?”
“Brewer.”
“Brewer then.”
“What do you want?”
“My name is—”
“What do you want?” She let the broom rest on the ground and leaned on it, crossing her hands over the end of the knob. I noticed small black tattoos just below the first joint of each of her fingers. Each was different—a star, a crescent moon, an ankh, a pentagram—but inked in the same bland, amateurish style.
“I want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
I wiped my hand on my jeans and offered it to her. She glanced at it with disinterest. “I’m Alan Chance,” I said. She gave no reaction. “Bernard was a friend of mine.”
She maintained her distant cool. “Who?”
“Bernard Moore.”
“Never heard of him.”
“I’m not here to play games, lady. Bernard’s dead. He hanged himself.”
After a moment she nodded, face expressionless. “I know.”
“I found this in with his things after he died.” I pulled the photograph from my pocket and held it out for her. “I’ve been through hell trying to find you.”
“You wouldn’t know Hell if you were burning in it.”
The deadpan tone of her voice gave birth to a tide of discomfort—if not outright fear—that fired through me like electrical current. As it dissipated, I pushed the photograph at her again.
This time she reached out, took the picture and studied it a while. The quiet returned until she said, “That was taken years ago. Another life. Long…long fucking time ago.”
“You can keep it if you want,” I said.
“I don’t know what he was doing with it, that was taken years before I met him. An old…somebody I knew back then took it.”
“I figured you gave it to him.”
“Maybe I did. Maybe he stole it. Who knows? A lot of life’s a blur, know what I mean?” She tucked the photograph into her back pocket. “So is that it, you just came here to give me that?”
“I came here for answers.”
“If you got this far you already have them,” she said.
“Some. Not all.”
We stared at each other a while. Her eyes were disconcerting. They had once been rather beautiful—like in the photo—but now looked dull and old beyond her years, soulless. “I need to know what you know.”
“About what?”
“About Bernard. About what he was involved in and about what in the name of Christ is going on.”
She ran her tongue slowly along her bottom lip, moistening it. “Christ ain’t got nothing to do with it.”
“I need to know what you know,” I said again.
“No you don’t. You want to know. There’s a difference.”
“Strange things have been happening since Bernard’s death.”
“I bet.”
“I need your help.”
“With what?”
“With all that’s happening. I need to find the truth.”
“Truth’s overrated.” Claudia swung the broom up behind her head until it rested behind her neck, then slung an arm over either end the way James Dean had held a rifle in that famous pose from the film Giant. Even in her own space her movements were telling, her body language indicative of someone for whom most of life had been spent in situations where she was unwelcome, made to feel self-conscious or didn’t want to be. At once a longtime victim and battle weary survivor, she possessed an inherent toughness and a deliberately honed exterior that left no doubt about the authenticity of either. At close range, it was easy to believe she had likely been victimized in more ways than I could ever imagine, but she was far from a helpless waif. She looked as strong and potentially dangerous as she did pained, just as capable of victimizing someone else, if need be. She seemed to me the kind of person who would kill if cornered, and perhaps already had at some point.
I stood there awkwardly. “Will you help me or not?”
“What do you want from me?” She shook her head. “I don’t even know who you are and I’m supposed to just—”
“I told you, my name is Alan Chance. I was a friend of Bernard’s.”
“So fucking what? You’re just a guy in my yard. I don’t know you.”
I sighed and ran my hands through my hair. They came back damp with perspiration. “I’m sure Bernard mentioned me.”
“Yeah,” she said, “he did. But you were his friend. Not mine. He kept things—people—separate. If he hadn’t we would’ve met a long time ago, right?”
“I take it you’ve heard what’s been happening in Potter’s Cove?”
“I’ve been away for a while. Just got back yesterday, but yeah, I heard.” She nodded. “What’s any of that got to do with me?”
“You tell me.”
The broom came down from behind her neck and she held it by her side. “You accusing me of something?”
“Are you guilty of something?”
She turned toward the house. “Get the fuck out of here.”
I reached out for her arm. “Claudia, wait, I—”
She spun around, bringing the broom with her, and in a split-second the handle was less than an inch from my eye. “You put your hands on me again, asshole, and I’ll drive this thing right through your fucking brain, you hear me?”
I believed her. “I’m sorry.” I raised my hands but otherwise stood perfectly still. “I’m not looking to hurt you. I only need your help.”
Claudia lowered the broom and relaxed her stance a bit. After a beat she said, “I told you, I just got back into town. I’m here a few hours and already I got a call from some old friends downtown—friends who aren’t friends anymore, who I don’t want to hear from no more—telling me there were people looking for me, causing all kinds of trouble. That crazy old bitch Toots giving me warnings and throwing her hexes around, as if anybody besides greenhorns and marks give a shit, and then I got you sniffing around like some dog with his nose up my butt. I don’t want any of this, OK? I just want to be left the fuck alone.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this, either,” I said quietly.
She looked at the sun and drew the back of her hand across her forehead, wiping away some sweat. “I don’t expect you to understand this, and I don’t give a shit if you do or not, but I want to make a clean break of things this time. I’m starting over. I don’t want no part of whatever problems you got. I got enough of my own.”
“I’m not expecting you to get involved. All I ask is that you tell me what you know.”
She let go a brief, ironic smile. “Oh, is that all?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need your help.”
Claudia leaned the broom against the back of the house. “I don’t know anything.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
She threw me a defiant shrug.
I sighed. “Like I said, strange things have been going on since Bernard’s death.”
“Oh yeah?” As she dug a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of her shirt, I noticed an oddly benign flash in her otherwise apathetic expression. She slid an unfiltered Lucky Strike between her lips then patted herself down for a lighter, which she eventually found in her jeans. “Like what?”
“You mean besides bodies turning up in Potter’s Cove?”
Claudia drew a deep initial drag on her cigarette, held the smoke a bit longer than
normal then released it in a slow steady stream from her nostrils. She gave me a stern look that made it apparent my question didn’t warrant an answer.
“I know this is going to sound crazy, but—”
“We’re all crazy. The world’s crazy.”
“Since Bernard’s death,” I began again, “we’ve all had the same dream, we—”
“We?”
“My friends—Bernard’s other friends—Rick and Donald.”
She waited a moment before responding, as if what I’d said was slowly solidifying in her mind. “He used to talk about you three a lot.”
I flicked a bead of sweat from my temple. “We all started having nightmares not long after Bernard’s death. Identical nightmares. And I’ve been–” I forced myself to say it, “I’ve been having hallucinations or visions or waking dreams, I—I don’t know for sure exactly what they are. Then the other night, that woman—Toots—she told me—”
“I know what she told you,” she said. “The fat bitch thinks you’re possessed, said she saw your demons and they attacked her, drew her blood.”
“Do you believe her?” I asked.
“You’d be surprised what I believe.”
“I know it’s all tied together. I know Bernard was involved in—”
“Why are you so sure I know anything?”
I stared at her without answering.
“Even if I do,” she said, “why would I tell you?”
“To help me.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, how about because it’s the right thing to do?”
“What the hell universe you living in?”
“Thought you said you wanted a fresh start.”
She left the cigarette perched between her lips as tendrils of smoke crept past her face. “That gun on your belt loaded?”
The Bleeding Season Page 26
