And curse was what it was. There was no spin-doctoring that. He saw souls, like some kind of circus freak. Opened a window to the heart—and tore it apart.
And his encore? He’d opened one to some dark place, where shadow and shape came to play.
Came to kill.
And then there was Mar. Not only had he fucked her over seven years ago, here he was, fucking her life up again. Not to mention putting her son in the line of fire.
Maybe he needed to go. Maybe placing three thousand miles between him and Kit would sever this connection. Close the gateway. At the very least, it might stop all the violence. It was possible that being so far away, he’d be out of range. For all he knew their connection was like Wi-Fi, dropping off when the signal grew too weak.
Was that possible? Perhaps. But it was also possible—and frighteningly likely—that their personal network extended farther than he could imagine. A gateway flowed like the purest water, a kind of black energy that went beyond science, beyond paranormal … beyond reason.
He started tapping on the side rail.
What if this dark door couldn’t be shut? What if the killing never stopped? And—while it seemed absurd at this point, damn his zany brainy—what if all of the bodies in Torch Falls kept piling up, until only he and Kit were left standing? What then? Where would the monster go?
Anywhere, he thought. Everywhere.
~ 118
Jared checked the time on his phone. Quarter past six. There was still no call from Marisa, which was why he was so surprised when he heard her voice in the hospital corridor. When she poked her head around the curtain near his bed, he had never felt such mixed feelings. He wanted to hold her; wanted her to scream at him for all the shit he’d caused her and to tell him to leave. He deserved it.
She came round the side of the bed and kissed him. “I’m so sorry,” she told him. He told her the same.
Her eyes betrayed her.
“I know,” he said. “I’m a bit of a train wreck.” He turned to the sad, cloudy eyes staring at him from around the curtain. “It’s all right, Kit. I look worse than I feel.”
Kit hesitated. He seemed distant, yet vigilant.
Marisa coaxed him and he stepped to the other side of the bed. He was still staring.
“You okay, Kit?” Jared said.
“Yeah, I’m good. But you look sick.”
“Kit,” Marisa said.
“No, it’s fine,” Jared said. “He’s right. But I’m just a bit run down, Kit. I’ll be better in no time. Maybe we can get that kite out for a fly.”
“Okay.” Kit stared at Jared’s hands. He looked up at Marisa, who appeared just as repelled.
“I don’t want you to be afraid of this,” Jared said to him. “It’s just temporary. Just until I get better. Okay?”
Kit didn’t reply. Instead, he reached into his pocket and offered the calming stone.
“No, no,” Jared said. “You keep it.”
“Take it. Please.”
Jared looked at Marisa, and she smiled. Trying his best to ignore the ache in his fingers, he put out his hand and opened his palm slowly. The skin there was disturbingly gray.
Kit placed the stone in Jared’s hand. Despite his clear hesitation at touching them, he folded Jared’s fingers around the black stone.
“Thank you,” Jared said. “But don’t you need it?”
“I’ve got others.”
“Do you want to sit, baby?” Marisa said.
The visitor’s chair seemed to swallow Kit as he climbed into it.
“I wanted to call,” Marisa and Jared said at exactly the same time.
“I came over as soon as I heard,” she said. “I didn’t know about any of this. I was out getting groceries. The girl at the checkout started talking about all the commotion at the hospital. I spoke with a nurse, but she didn’t tell me much.”
Jared glanced at Kit, then gave Marisa a look. He didn’t know if they should be discussing this in front of him. He could tell she was thinking the same.
“Kit,” she said, “can you wait out in the hall for a bit?”
Kit got down from the chair and did as he was asked.
“Has he said anything to you?” Jared said.
Marisa looked out into the corridor. Kit was leaning against the far wall. “No. Why?”
Jared told her of the premonition—of the strange phrase that had come to him—Una rosa de rose. After he’d translated for her, she held the muddled look he’d expected.
“Kit didn’t say a word about this,” she said.
“I’m not surprised. It wouldn’t have made any sense to him. Much less make him think it was something bad.”
“What’s happened? All I know is that there were police here today.”
“Rose Tillman … she’s dead.”
“Oh, no.”
“Mar … it wasn’t from her tumble at the park.”
“What happened to her?”
“Kingsley.”
“Wade Kingsley? What do you mean? What—”
“He killed her. Then himself.”
“What? What? That’s not possible. That’s—that’s crazy.”
“Easy,” he said. “I need you to keep it together.”
“I’m trying. I am.”
“Mar?”
She was on the verge of tears. “Why Rose? It makes no sense. None of this makes any sense.” And then, panicked: “What if it had been you? What then? My son?”
“Listen. You’ve got to calm down. He needs you to be strong.”
She took a breath. “He’s scared, Jared. And not just about all this crazy stuff going on. Bobby paid me a visit.”
“What? He went to see you?”
She told him about the run-in. The calls. Gwen Cowen.
“Jesus, I’m sorry, Mar. Are you okay?”
“Better than Bobby. Took him down with one of these.” She showed him her kick.
“Totally bad-ass.”
“Yeah, well, this bad-ass can’t keep it up. Their minds are made up about my ‘involvement’ in all this. If things get worse, it’ll only get worse for us, too. They’ll bring torches, for God’s sake.”
“Which is why I need you to be strong. Now, more than ever.” He was tapping his thigh.
“What are you talking about? And stop that.”
“All of this,” he said. “It’s just like you said. It’s because of the gateway. Because of what I am.”
“More guilt, Jared? Really? So what’s next? Are you going to tell me you’re leaving again?”
His silence said it all.
“I can’t believe this,” she huffed. “You can’t do this to me again.”
“Please, just listen. This gateway—this connection between Kit and me—I have no idea how to close it. I don’t even know if it can be closed. But maybe, if I get far enough away, it’ll break the connection.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No. I don’t.”
“And if it works? What then? I’ll never see you again.”
“… I’m hoping that won’t happen.”
“Hoping?”
“People are dying, Mar.”
“And hiding is the answer.”
“I’m not hiding. I’m hoping I can stop this thing in its tracks by going underground.”
“Word play, Jared? Are you kidding?”
He didn’t reply.
She shook her head. “I can’t believe you’re doing this. You need me to be strong? Did you ever think that I might need you?”
“You’re not listening, Mar. This might be our only chance for saving your son.”
“You bastard. Don’t pretend this is about Kit. It’s about you. It always is. You and your goddamn guilt.”
She turned to go, and Jared struggled to sit up. “Mar. Marisa—”
She stopped and turned back to him. “You’re a fucking coward. Fine. Go. Go back to New York. It’s not like you’ve got family here, is it? Or anyone you really care ab
out.”
He tried to ignore the hurt. But his eyes told a different story.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No … you’re right. Guilt? You bet. It’s eating me up. Coward? Paint me yellow. This is my fault. All of it. I’ve got so much blood on my hands I can’t begin to tell you how much it hurts. I’ve got a brother who wouldn’t miss me if I dropped dead. I’ve put your son in peril. Peril I couldn’t even dream up in a book. And I’ve put the woman I love right in the middle of it all.”
“Jared—”
“No. Let me finish. This has to end, Marisa. Your son looks at me like I’m the monster. Maybe running away is the solution. Maybe it’s not. But one thing I do know is this: Staying is only going to make things worse.”
“So that’s it. You decided this all on your own.”
“I can’t hurt anyone else,” he said. “Can’t you see that?”
“Can’t you see you’re hurting me?”
“I’m hurting, too. You have to know that. But I have to try something.”
“Don’t you dare try to dress this up like it’s some big sacrifice. I won’t let you.”
“Are you even listening to me? There’s no other way. At least, not that I can see right now.”
“And what if the killing doesn’t stop? What then?”
“Then I’ll come back.”
She gave a sarcastic laugh. “You must really think I’m a fool. I guess I am. I guess I always was.”
“How long are you going to hang that on me?”
“I’m not,” she said. “Not any more.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I was there for you, Jared Collado. I was always there for you. But it’s a one-way street with us. You have a brother who would have taken a bullet for you. You pissed that away. Now you’re pissing us away. But that’s what you do, isn’t it? You wouldn’t take a stand for us then, and you won’t take one now. You wrap it all up in that fucked-up brain of yours that what you’re doing is the right thing to do. News flash: Whether your plan works or doesn’t isn’t the issue. By the time you get back—and you and I both know that’s the biggest if—it could be too late. My son could be dead.”
“Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you? I need time to figure this out.”
“Time? Time is what we don’t have.”
“Mar—”
She stormed from the room. He tried to get up, but the fever took him. The room spun, and he had to lie back. He curled up, trembling, still holding the stone.
~ 119
Marisa left the medical center and drove past the library across town. She was in no mood for cooking dinner, and now she sat across from Kit in the pizza place. Kit was mowing down his fourth slice of double-cheese and pepperoni. She was still on her first slice, picking at it.
Kit sipped his root beer. He’d been silent the whole time. “Is Jared okay, Mom?”
“Yes,” she said. “No. I don’t know.”
“You had a fight, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But don’t worry about it.”
“It was about me, wasn’t it.”
“No! Why would you say that?”
“Because of all the bad stuff.”
“Oh, baby, this isn’t your fault. None of it is. Jared and I are just trying to figure a few things out. Okay?”
“Okay. I guess.”
She wanted to ask him about his premonition, but didn’t. She just didn’t have the strength.
“When will we see him again?” Kit said. “He said we could fly my kite soon.”
She didn’t answer.
“Mom?”
“Finish your pizza. I have to use the washroom.”
She locked the door to the ladies’ room and stood at the mirror.
And wept.
~ 120
As Marisa pulled into her driveway, she hit the brakes hard.
She stared at her front door. At the word splayed across it in blood-red spray paint.
“That’s a bad word,” Kit said.
“Don’t look at it! Just don’t.”
She hurried him into the house, then stood on the stoop. Searching up and down the street, she saw no one. She didn’t call the police. She didn’t need any more questions, not now, not ever. Instead, she went down to the storage closet in her basement. She found a can of years-old white paint, stirred it up, and headed upstairs with a paint brush. On the stoop she got on her knees, and as she swallowed her anger, began to paint.
~ 121
The man stood in the dark field. In one hand, he held a polished apple; in the other, a serrated survival knife. A hundred paces beyond the rise that concealed him, the imposing silhouette of the farmhouse veiled the lower curl of a waxing moon. The night was soundless, save for the rhythmic thrum of his heart. He closed his eyes, and listened to that fading voice of reason that stirred inside of him.
You can stop, he thought. You can end this now.
But then the lie died, the lie he had told himself season after season. He would walk yet again through this valley of death, walk alone, walk in shame. How easy it was to be seduced by the hunger. How easily was his rotting soul bought.
He breathed slowly and deeply. The moment required focus and discipline, and to fight the hunger would only hinder. This he had learned.
In his mind he saw his prey. Saw his skilled hand work the blade across its throat.
As if rising from a deep slumber, he opened his eyes. The mare stood only steps away, her bold eyes glistening in the silvered moonlight. Her slick chocolate coat held a streak of alabaster, its fine sheen painting her perfect form like the work of an artist. He coaxed her with an offer of the apple, and she came to him, eager. As he stroked her delicate mane, he shed a tear. What beauty she possessed; what grace.
What life.
~
He slipped the bloody bone saw into a plastic bag, then placed the bag beside the bagged survival knife inside his seasoned Gladstone medical bag. He froze. Even after all these years, all these decades of the hunger, his heart still skipped at the slightest sound in the night.
He risked a glance past the small rise. He listened for the next sound, and there it was, distant yet inescapable: the sharp click of a cocked shotgun.
The farmer stood at the stairs of the wide veranda. He was no more troubling than the last, Jack Henneman. No more troubling than any of the others. Peering into the fields, limited by his feeble porch light, he moved erratically, sweeping the barrel back and forth at nothing. At a phantom.
The dog, a German shepherd, barked and skipped down the steps. He would silence the beast if it came to it, but as he expected, there would be no need. The farmer barked at the dog, and it returned to its master’s side.
Now would come the words of warning, thrust in a shout to the darkness. And yes, there it was. A warning shot might follow—unlikely—and then the front door creaked open a second time, and the farmer and his companion disappeared inside. The house went dark.
He drew his hand from the medical bag and found it trembling. Even now, his pulse still raced from the kill. The thrill.
He set down the baling twine. The mare’s amputated hind legs weren’t quite right. He straightened the distal limb that formed the bar of the left cross, adjusted it twice more, and when he was satisfied, nodded approval.
You can stop, he told himself again. You can end this now.
Again came the words. But this time, they slipped from his lips.
He paused, almost in a trance … then drew a length of twine and continued his work.
~
There were no further interruptions, and by the time he positioned the mare’s severed head just above the torso, the moon had slipped out of sight. He had only the stars to guide him. From the bag he took a penlight with a flexible clamp, and he secured it to the bag’s stiff frame. He switched it on and adjusted the lamp, which was painted red to preserve his night vision.
He took a small zippered case from
the bag and set it on the dewy grass. Unzipping it slowly, he splayed it open like a book. He decided on the middle blade of five, and freed the lancet from its leather clasps.
He set the edge of the blade to the soft, curved depression of the mare’s forehead, on a point on an imaginary line exactly bisecting her lifeless black eyes. With great care, he made a long, vertical incision. A second incision perpendicular to the first completed his vile ceremony, and now, on his knees and crossing his chest at his sacrificial handiwork, he thought not of his shameful act, not the blood on his hands nor of God’s judgment, but instead, wondered how it was that such a sick mind could be so meticulous.
~
The drive back to town was uneventful, deliriously dull, yet troubling. The hunger. Always the hunger.
At half past two in the morning, he came to a four-way stop. The street lamp at the corner was enough to illuminate the skeletal scaffolding that ruined the face of the old theater. He sat, engine idling, recalling the fond memory of his first trip to this grand movie house with his parents. A Disney picture, Lady and the Tramp. It had been two years to the day since they had visited his uncle in Munich. A year to the day since his first kill.
And what a kill it had been. What revelation. Like the squirrel he had mutilated, he had been taken by complete surprise. The day had been sunny and warm, a brisk walk from this very spot, not far from the fir tree near the park fountains. He had lured the creature with no ill intent, offering salted peanuts from his pocket. He had studied it as it stuffed its bulging cheeks, and he remembered laughing out loud. And he also remembered how he had smiled when he had snatched the squirrel and snapped its tiny neck. He did not understand the sinister force that had swept him up, only that it had, and that such raw desire had been utterly compelling. Of course it was wrong then, was wrong now, yet in this conflict he held no resolve to deny it. The heart wanted what it wanted. He had learned to live with the sickness and the shame.
He was about to cross the intersection when four teenagers came up the street. The lone girl had an arm wrapped around the tallest boy, and seemed to giggle at everything he said. The handsome lad shared a joint with his handsome friends, but the girl refused.
Gateway Page 28
