The Ashes (The Rebecca Underhill Trilogy Book 2)

by Vincent Zandri

  Trust me, I know how cops think. I’m the daughter of a cop, and I can’t begin to tell you how often I’d overhear him speaking to my mother about crazy-old-man-this or crazy-old-lady-that who was convinced a monster lived under his or her bed.

  “Take a breath and start from the beginning,” Miller says, sitting back in his chair. “I have time.”

  I do as I’m told. Inhaling a deep breath, I take hold of Sam’s hand, squeeze it tightly, and I begin.

  When I’m finished, I feel exhausted, like I’ve just run a three-mile sprint. But I also feel somewhat lighter now that I’ve actually let a member of the Albany Police Department in on the threat. And that’s what Skinner is to me. A real threat. To me and my son. To Robyn and little Molly, too.

  “I can see your concern,” Detective Miller says, after a time. He sits up straight, looks me in the eye. “Let me guess, you waited until now to come to us because you didn’t want to be thought of as a nut-case who was seeing murderers inside the corn.”

  “That’s exactly what she was afraid of,” Sam concurs.

  “Truth is, Rebecca,” Miller goes on, “I’ve been trying to get a fix on Hanover, or Skinner, for a while now. After he disappeared from Mid-Hudson Psychiatric in November of 2015 or, from that van anyway, he seemed to disappear off the face of the earth. We even thought he might be dead. Drowned in the river maybe. It wouldn’t be too unusual for a man who escapes a prison — or prison type environment — to panic, to turn left when he should have gone right, and end up falling off a bridge or an abutment, or what have you. When you’re on the run, you don’t get much sleep, and you make mistakes.”

  “We just came from the Mid-Hudson facility,” I say. “We spoke with Skinner’s physician in charge.”

  “Friedlander,” Miller says, nodding. “I know him. How much he let you in on without violating his oath?”

  “Not a lot,” Sam interrupts.

  “Sam’s right,” I said. “But he did tell me this. That it is entirely consistent with his profile for him to have sought out Whalen’s home — what’s left of it — in the deep woods behind my house.”

  Miller comes around his desk, rests one leg up on the desk, with the opposite foot planted solidly on the floor.

  “I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Rebecca,” he says. “Both the State Troopers and the APD have made a check on that old home.” He shakes his head. “It’s not even a home anymore. The house was torched in the wake of your abduction. It’s now just a hole in the ground filled with charred boards and discarded household objects.”

  My mind drifts eight years back. I see myself tossing a lit match onto a gasoline-soaked floor of a house that’s wrapped with yellow crime-scene ribbon. I see the place quickly engulfed in a blaze of fire, the walls crumbling, the roof caving in on the memory of Joseph Whalen and what he did to my sister and me down inside the cellar.

  “What about the cornfield?” Sam says. He stands as if to add further emphasis to his question.

  “Last I heard,” Miller says, “cornfield’s don’t exactly make the most suitable living spaces for human beings. If you wanna consider The Skinner human, that is. That said, I don’t like the fact that each of the children living in the home claim to have witnessed a man who matches Skinner’s description inside the corn. Could be he’s got his eye on the kids, watching their every movement. When he sees them playing outside near the corn, he enters into it and talks to them. Gets them to trust him.”

  My stomach making its presence known once more. Something hot and acidic comes up on me. But I manage to force it back down.

  “This is really frightening me now,” I whisper.

  My phone buzzes. I pull it from my pocket. It’s a text from Robyn.

  Opening the text: Cant get kids off bus. Need you to do it.

  “Oh shit,” I say. “What time is it?”

  Sam checks his watch.

  “Three.”

  “Oh great,” I say. “That gives us twenty minutes to get home.”

  “What’s up?” Detective Miller says.

  “Robyn, my house-mate, can’t get the kids off the bus which means I need to race home.”

  “Go,” Miller says, going for the door, opening it for us. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “What happens next?” I say.

  “I assume you want me to make a thorough check on the property,” he says. “And that’s what I’m going to do. In cooperation with the Sheriff and the State Police, of course. Rensselaer County is out of our jurisdiction. But we work with them all the time, and they will cooperate to the fullest extent of the law, believe you me.”

  “Thank you, Detective Miller,” I say.

  We go to the door.

  “Rebecca,” Miller adds, as we enter back into the wide-open booking room.

  “Yes?” I say, turning to face him.

  “I knew your dad,” he says. “I was a very young cop. A rookie. Your dad was already a senior member of the State Troopers. He was a hell of a guy. He witnessed things inside that Whalen home that no one should ever have to witness. The remains of that mass murder. The remains that haunted him all his life.”

  Whalen as a young man, shooting his family in their beds with a shotgun while they slept. A mother, a father, a little sister . . . Their heads evaporated . . .

  “I know,” I say. “I know how sad he’d become after that day.”

  “If you possess even an ounce of his strength, you will have nothing to worry about.”

  My stomach, aching. Nauseous.

  “Let’s pray that’s the case,” I say.

  “Go get the kids,” he says.

  We haul ass.

  He is careful to position himself a safe enough distance away from the road so that the children don’t look at him too closely. From where he’s standing, maybe one hundred feet away from the driveway’s edge where the school bus is coming to a safe stop — its bright red and yellow safety lights flashing, a red octagonal STOP sign mounted to the vehicle’s side automatically opening up like a flower in the sun via mechanical arm — the two little children will see Robyn. They won’t suspect that anything is wrong with her, or that she’s not the same woman she was when they left the house this morning. She will simply be the Robyn Painter they have always known their entire young lives. The Robyn little Molly knows as Mommy, and that Mike Jr. knows at Aunt Batman and Robyn.

  Skinner inhales. Breathes in not only through his own nose but through Robyn’s lips and nostrils. He runs his pink tongue over not only his own lips but over Robyn’s lips, tasting the salty goodness of her blood. He raises his hands, runs his newly manicured fingers through her thick, shoulder-length blonde hair. He feels her warm skin tight against his own facial skin, the human mask of flesh still malleable, still smelling of fresh blood with a hint of rose petal perfume. Skin that’s still living. Still human.

  He’s surprised how well her overalls fit his own wiry body. How the breasts that still occupy her bra fill out the chest to precise dimensions and proportions. Even her sandals fit his rather small, if not delicate, shoe size. The only thing missing is her sex organ. But then, the Skinner didn’t have the time for such a complicated procedure. And what would be the point? Sometimes, you have to draw a deep line in the sand . . . In the flesh.

  Holding up his hand, he waves to the children as they hop off the bus. He extends the wave so that the bearded bus driver sees him as none other than Robyn, and returns a friendly wave before closing the accordion-like door and pulling the bus forward, onward toward his next step, far away from this old farm.

  Skinner sings aloud as the children happily jog down the long driveway toward him.

  “Ring around the Rosie a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down!”

  “What are you singing, Aunt Robyn?” little Mike asks as he approaches The Skinner.

  “We know that song very well, Mommy,” little Molly says. “The man in the corn sings it for us almost every day. He’s the Boogeyman.
”

  “He’s not really the Boogeyman,” Skinner says, leaning down, grabbing hold of both their hands tightly. “But he is a man who loves his little kittens very much.”

  “We’re never going to make it,” I say, while we cross over the four-lane bridge that spans the Hudson River. “The bus comes in five minutes, and it’s going to take us at least twelve or fifteen to get home.”

  “Try Robyn again,” Sam suggests.

  Speed dial her cell. It rings and rings, just like it has the past ten times I’ve tried to call. All I get is the same voicemail message. “Hi, you’ve reached Robyn Painter. Paint me a message, and I’ll get right back to you. You have yourself a bright and colorful day now.”

  I slap the phone down on my lap. I could try texting again, but what’s the use? If she’s not answering her phone, she’s nowhere near it. Or her phone is suddenly on the fritz at a really inconvenient time.

  “Wish we could call someone else,” Sam says. “It’s not like we can call the next-door neighbor. I am the next-door neighbor. Other than the few scattered houses and trailers, the closest one after me might as well live in downtown Troy.”

  “I could call the Sheriff,” I say. “But then, how does that look? Two single mothers who are incapable of properly taking care of their children.”

  Sam shoots me a glance, his face lit up. “Hey, why not try the bus garage. I’ll bet they can radio the driver.”

  I feel a spark of hope swim through my nervous system.

  “Why didn’t I think of that before, Good Man?”

  I use the voice-activated Google search to locate the phone number for the Rensselaer County school bus depot. The number pops up on the digital smartphone screen in blue numerals. I press down on the numerals, and the call is automatically engaged. I’m not much for the digital age, but under the immediate circumstances, it’s a Godsend.

  A man answers the phone. Voice gruff like a pack-a-day smoker. In the background, the sounds of a bus garage. Metal striking metal, engines revving, men laughing or shouting.

  I tell the man my name and my problem.

  “Underhill?” he says. “Let me check with dispatch. Hang on.”

  This isn’t a high-tech-digital-Muzak-filled hold system. Rather, he simply sets the phone down hard onto a solid surface like a desk or a counter. I hear him talking to someone over a radio. “Underhill,” he says. “And Painter. Little boy and a little girl on Garfield Road out in the boonies.”

  My eyes on the road and the highway speeding under our wheels, I listen to the sound of his heavy boot steps once more approaching the phone. He picks it up.

  “Ms. Underhill?” he says. “You’re all set. Kids were dropped off on time to one of the two appointed guardians we have on record.”

  “They were?” I say instinctually. But in my mind, I’m thinking this: If that’s the case, why isn’t Robyn answering her phone? Why didn’t she at least send me a second text explaining that she could get the kids off the bus after all? I guess it’s possible her phone died very soon after the initial text.

  “You’re sure about that?” I say.

  I shoot Sam a look. His hands gripping the wheel, he returns my gaze.

  “Dispatch claims the driver recognized Ms. Painter. A blonde-haired woman in her forties, am I correct?”

  “That’s right,” I say. “Blonde.”

  “Will there be anything else, Ms. Underhill?”

  “No,” I say, a general unsettledness sinking into my body. “I guess not.”

  He says goodbye and hangs up. I press the phone down on my thigh.

  “Dispatch spoke with the bus driver. He said Rob was there in the driveway to get the kids.”

  “Listen, Bec,” Sam says, “I’m sure it’s just a matter of Robyn’s phone running out of juice. Happens to everyone at some point. We’ll be home in a few minutes. Let’s not jump to any conclusions until then.”

  I nod. Just for the hell of it, I pick the phone back up, dial Robyn once more. Same series of rings, same voice message. I tap Stop with my index finger.

  “Step on it,” I urge.

  Sam pulls off the exit and onto the county road that will lead to Garfield Road. The road Sam and I live on out in the dark country.

  We pull into the driveway. I’m already opening the truck door before we even come to a stop.

  “Bec, be careful,” Sam warns.

  I jump out, bound up the porch steps, two at a time. Retrieving the house key from my pocket, I pull open the screen door, unlock the heavy wood door, throw that open, bolt into the house.

  “Robyn!” I shout. “Kids! You here?!”

  I sprint the length of the corridor and enter the kitchen. A woman distraught with worry. Rather, a woman who knows in her aching gut that something is not right. That regardless of what the bus garage attests about the children being delivered safely to the edge of their driveway into the arms of a woman who at least matches Robyn’s description, something is most definitely not right and, in fact, completely wrong.

  I hear the front screen door slam. Heavy footsteps into the kitchen. He stands in the kitchen doorway, body stiff and nervous. Like he, too, senses the worst.

  “They’re not here, Sam,” I say, my voice trembling. “They’re not here, and they should be sitting right here having their snack. It’s what they do every day when they get home from school. It’s what they do, Sam.” A tear falling down my cheek. I scream. “Sam, it’s what they do!”

  He comes to me, takes me in his arms, holds me.

  “There’s got to be an explanation,” he says. “Maybe they’re upstairs.”

  “I shouted for them. They would have heard me.”

  “At least let me check,” he says.

  Releasing me, he heads out of the kitchen, back out into the hall, and up the stairs. I’m listening to the pounding of his boot soles on the old wood floorboards overhead when I spot something sitting out on the long kitchen table. More precisely, two separate items placed on placemats set in the places where Mike Jr. and little Molly normally sit.

  Heart pumping in my throat, my feet moving but feeling as if I am wading in knee deep mud, I go to the table. What caught my eye are two drawings rendered on green construction paper. One drawn by my son and the other by Robyn’s daughter. I don’t pick the drawings up but, instead, go around the table and peer down at them.

  The first one is Molly’s. It depicts a round face . . . her mother’s face, or so I can only assume. It’s the same face she always draws when using her mother as the subject. The face round, if not circular, the hair long, blonde, and parted in the very center of her forehead. The eyes big and blue. Under normal circumstances, Molly would draw her mother with a happy, smiley face. But in this case, the face is distorted, with a scar running down the center that’s shaped like a Z. The scar was drawn in red crayon as if to indicate its freshness. The eyes are not blue, but dark brown. Almost black. Molly was so agitated when she was coloring them in, she went outside the lines with jagged streaks of black and brown. They don’t look like eyes at all, but instead, the sockets where bright eyes once existed. And something else. The construction paper is spotted and pimply in places, telling me Molly was crying as she drew this, the tears having dropped onto the paper.

  I shift myself to Mike Jr.’s drawing.

  This drawing is better. More accomplished and accurate. It’s the drawing of a child who possesses the skills of an artist far older than his years. A schooled artist. Sam is making his way back down the stairs when my eyes lock on the drawing, and I see his version of Molly’s theme.

  Robyn’s face.

  A face that is now attached to the body of a man dressed in Robyn’s clothing. The face is distorted and dead now that it has been detached from the body it once belonged to. I reach out with my fingertips, press them against the crayon-colored face.

  “Oh my sweet Jesus,” I say. “Robyn.”

  Sam is once more standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the ha
ll. I manage to catch a quick glance at him before my knees give out and . . .

  The chair occupies the center of the concrete floor. The floor is old and cracked, the ground water having frozen and expanded during the harsh winters, only to thaw in the spring and shrink once again. There’s a drain installed in the floor, and it is located directly under the chair. The drain collects the blood from the body that is bound to the wood chair. Because of the ground water, the drain doesn’t work very well. The blood has pooled, forming a wide oval pond around the drain where it will remain for days.

  The children hold hands while circling the lifeless body and the blood beneath it. They try to avoid looking at the body or the blood, even though the fear that fills them is so profound, so tangible, it masks the reality of the event. For the children, time has slowed to a crawl, and all movement and speech is like a film being projected at one-third its normal speed.

  Skinner stands off to the side, the flaying knife gripped in his hand.

  “Sing my little kittens,” he insists. “Sing your little hearts out.”

  “Ring around the Rosie,” Mike Jr. and little Molly sing, their young high-pitched voices trembling, quaking with each forced syllable uttered, “a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.”

  Suddenly the children stop. They focus their eyes not on the body, nor on The Skinner, but instead, down at their feet. The feet are planted not inside the blood pool only inches away, but inside the stark white cone of light that shines down from the lightbulb. Still, they can’t avoid the blood forever.

  “Fall down, my little kittens,” The Skinner says.

  Molly once more bursts into tears. Michael Jr. squeezes her hand. The tears fall from his own eyes.

  “Fall, fall, fall,” Skinner repeats, slowly raising the flaying knife. “We all fall down, little kittens.”

  Mike Jr. pulls on Molly’s arm, and together they sit down in the pool of Robyn’s blood.