by J. L. Murray
"Fucking gods," I said.
I didn't understand the world anymore, but I did smell coffee. A paper cup with a lid was next to me on the nightstand and I picked it up. The coffee was piping hot. I took a grateful sip. If any of this was real, it could wait until there was caffeine in my bloodstream. But as I sipped, the dream became less and less real, the yarn easier to forget, this current world arriving, colorful, and loud, with Mr. Corvid and Coyote fading and receding.
"Morning," said Dekker, coming out of the bathroom.
"Oh, God, you're a morning person," I said.
"What's with you?"
I shook my head. "Sorry. Weird dreams. Really weird." Then I took him in. He'd cleaned up, combed his hair back and shaved. He looked slightly self-conscious as I looked him over, his black suit sitting well on his broad shoulders, the knot of his tie perfectly straight.
"What?" he said, suspiciously.
"You look nice." He glared at me. "I'm serious. Being fake FBI suits you. Get it? I said suits."
"You're not as funny as you think you are," he said.
"No one's funny in the morning. Did you bring me coffee?"
"Yeah, are you hungry?"
"You brought me food, too? Again?"
"No, but there's a decent pancake place next door,” he said.
"Pass," I said, holding up the coffee. "I've already got breakfast."
"Come on," he said. "It's early, and it'll give you time to practice."
"Practice what?"
"Being Special Agent Dolores Peck." He grinned as I rolled my eyes and took a long drink of coffee. Dekker went to the closet and tossed my pantsuit on the bed, followed by my ugly shoes.
"Why is yours nicer than mine?" I said.
He shrugged. "I can't help it if I look good."
"You're not wearing grandma shoes."
"I'll buy you boots if it'll make you happy," he said.
"Where do you get all this money?" I said. "You're always paying for things." I gulped down coffee and set the empty cup on the nightstand.
"I have my own ways of making money, I don't need to steal it."
"Really? You're going there? First thing in the morning?"
"No," he said, "I'm going for pancakes. Get dressed."
"Coffee," I muttered darkly to the chipper waitress who kept an insane grin on her face as she took our order.
"You have to at least try to eat something," said Dekker. "It's going to be a long day." He turned to the waitress. "I'll have the Home Run Breakfast, coffee, orange juice, and my friend here will have a short stack of blueberry pancakes and coffee."
"Blueberry pancakes?" I said.
"Don't you like blueberry pancakes?"
"Of course I do," I said. "Everyone likes blueberry pancakes. I've just never had someone peg me as a blueberry pancakes kind of girl."
"Just drink that coffee and wake up," he said, as the waitress came back with a battered brown carafe full of strong coffee and left it on the table, eyeing me warily as she headed to the kitchen.
For once, I didn't argue. I wasn’t sure why I was so pissed off. My suit was itchy and the restaurant was hot, and I felt a prickle of sweat run down my back. I was exhausted from my dream the night before, and I couldn't get the image of the red yarn, falling to the floor in tiny bits. I'd obviously still been dreaming, that was the only explanation. If I went back to the room right now, I wouldn't find a bunch of red threads on the carpet, I was sure of it. But still, it gave me a funny feeling. And play-acting FBI agents seemed like an unnecessary risk, no matter how good Dekker looked in a suit. I downed the mug of coffee and poured another cup from the carafe.
"So last night," Dekker said, watching me, his voice low. "You want to talk about it?"
"Here?" I said.
"Not the sex," he said. "The other part. The wraith, the creepy owl."
I shook my head. "Not really." I raised the cup to my lips.
"None of that was weird to you?" He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table.
"Everything about my life is weird. If I start categorizing it, we're going to be here all day."
"So the fact that Abel's missing hasn't been on your mind all night?"
I reached for the carafe again, refilling my cup for the third time. "It's curious."
"Yeah, I would say curious is the word of the day."
"Tell me about the murders," I said, trying to change the subject. "You said they were frozen."
"Down to their marrow," said Dekker, sighing at the change in subject matter, but going along nonetheless. "The odd part, though, is that nearly all of them were seen an hour or two before they died."
"Alive?"
"Alive and full of vim and vigor," he said, refilling his own mug. "All were active, athletic types."
"Like you?"
"No," he said. "Like, go out and climb rock walls on the weekend, take crazy dangerous hikes up in the mountains. Camping and kayaking and shit. One woman was planning to swim the English Channel next year."
"So they didn't go out for a pack of smokes and never come home?"
"Not literally, no."
"How many were there?"
"As of a few days ago, before I set out to find you: six."
"That's not so many."
"In two weeks."
I stopped. He was watching me still, his ability to bore right into me always a shock. It always seemed like he could see right into my head. And when I caught those eyes looking at me, I didn't necessarily want him to know what I was thinking.
"Two weeks?" I said. "That does seem excessive."
"Most were tourists, from Portland and Eugene, Nevada, California, here to take in the coast and do some sporty shit. Kayaking, mostly. But a few were locals. The whole town is pretty freaked out. The only murder they've had here in recent years is from a pot dealer getting murdered by a couple of guys who owed him money. It's quiet here."
"And they're all missing their hearts."
"Yep." He shook his head. "Hell of a world."
I took a moment, setting my mug down and turning it slowly around and around on the table as Dekker continued to watch me. "What are the cops like?" I said finally. "Not like the last law enforcement we encountered in Montana, I hope."
"They're not covering it up, if that's what you mean."
"I could figure this out better on my own, Dekker. If I could just do my thing, talk to some people, it would be easier. No one likes talking to cops, and feds are even worse."
"Not this time, Frankie," he said, something solemn and edgy in his voice. He leaned back in his seat. "This way, we have unfettered access. Just roll with it, okay? For me. I'll take you to the morgue first thing and you can see what I'm talking about. Just do it my way this once, okay? Let me take the lead."
"I don't really like morgues," I said. "It's a personal thing." I could still taste the formaldehyde from when I woke up after my execution, cold on a slab and all stitched up. I shuddered.
"It's not a morgue, exactly. More makeshift. It's in the basement of the hospital."
I took a breath. "Okay, but I was serious about the shoes," I said, wiggling my toes in my vinyl atrocities. "I can't live like this."
"Deal."
The waitress came with our food and, to my surprise, I found myself ravenous. I started in on the pancakes with a fervor that bordered on passion. I heard Dekker laugh and I looked up at him. He shrugged. "I've just never seen you actually eat," he said. "Not an entire meal. I knew you had to be starving. Especially after last night." He leaned toward me. "That time I was talking about the sex."
"Yeah, I got that," I said with my mouth full. "Really smooth, Romeo."
Halfway through my breakfast, a woman caught my eye outside the window. Dripping wet, she was staggering through the parking lot, moving as if she were drunk. Her hair hung in sodden ropes down her shoulders. As she got closer, I could see that her lips were moving as she talked to herself. Absurdly, she was holding a pink clutch purse that s
he clasped to her chest.
"Dekker," I said, nodding to the woman.
"Jesus Christ," said Dekker. "That's Abby Stromberg, the county treasurer."
"She looks like she's coming off a bender," I said. "What day is it?"
"Monday, why?"
"Because I know church clothes," I said. "And she looks like she hasn't changed since yesterday morning."
Dekker stood up, wiping food off his face with his napkin.
"Where are you going?"
"To help her," he said. "She can't come in here like that. She'll lose her job."
"Too late," I said, as Abby Stromberg pushed open the door. The bell tinkled as she stood inside the front of the small restaurant, dripping water onto the greasy white tile. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion that looked almost like shiners, her eyelids puffy. She scanned the dining room, still holding the pink purse tightly to her chest. Dekker took a step toward her, a look of grim determination on his face. Abby didn't seem to notice him, even when he said her name.
She lowered the purse, holding it in her hand and unbuckling it as Dekker took another step toward her.
"Abby?" he said gently. "You all right? Maybe we should go outside." She still didn't look at him, even though he wasn't more than five feet from her. But something about the way she was reaching into her purse set warning bells off in my head.
"Dekker, no!" I shouted, rising from my chair and running toward him. I barreled into him as Abby brought the handgun out, pointed it toward Dekker, and pulled the trigger just as the two of us hit the tile floor hard. The restaurant erupted in chaos. People were screaming, pushing to get to the back doors, children were crying. And I smelled blood.
Dekker suddenly wasn't under me any longer, and I realized he was right in front of Abby, his hands held up as if in surrender. He was trying to talk to her, crooning, being delicate, even though everything about his body language told me he was on high alert. I glanced around at the nearly-empty room, chairs on their sides, people shoving to get through the back door. Food was strewn everywhere as plates were overturned in the pandemonium. The waitress, her smile finally faded, was on the floor, blood spreading out underneath her. Her arm was spread out where she fell and I could see that she had a telltale white mark on her arm, shining where only I could see. She had the blood of Cain. She was dead.
I looked back at Dekker and Abby, where he was trying to woo the gun away from her. But she still wasn't looking at him. She was looking past him. Right at me.
"Take your little knife," said Abby. "Frankie Mourning, take your little knife and carve out her heart."
I couldn't breathe for a moment. Abby's eyes never left mine. Dekker was trying to talk to her, but when she said my name, he looked back at me. I raised myself up to my knees. "How do you know my name?"
"Frankie, get down!" Dekker shouted, which startled Abby. Her wild eyes moved to him, aiming the gun right at his chest. I saw a smile widen on Abby's face and she took a small step toward him.
"I could bring her both. Two hearts, one blood. Two hearts are better than one, aren't they, Frankie?"
"Abby, look at me," I said. "Don't look at him, look at me. See, I have my knife. It's right here in my hand. Do you see it?" Abby blinked and her gaze shifted to the knife, held up in the air, because I'd raised my hands above my head.
"There's so much sin on that blade I can taste it in the air," Abby said, her eyes going wilder, her smile splitting her face. "Do it, Frankie. Cut her heart out. It'll make such a nice present. Such a gift."
"A gift," I said, nodding. "We'll make a gift. Together, Abby. Come help me, I've forgotten how to do it." I moved on my knees closer to the body of the waitress, warm wetness soaking through my polyester slacks, the toes of my shoes sliding in the blood. The smile began to fade from Abby's face.
"I've never done it before. She said you would know how. She said I should ask you for the heart."
"Who said that, Abby?" Dekker said, his voice sweet and polite. "Who wants you to bring her a heart?"
"Stop talking to me!" Abby screamed, and she moved the gun to Dekker again, her finger squeezing the trigger ever so gently. "Frankie Mourning," she said, eyes shifting to me, her voice ringing out in the empty restaurant.
It happened in a blur of movement. Dekker lunged at her, reaching for the muzzle of the gun, Abby shrieking wordlessly, twisting away, still grasping the gun as Dekker twisted her free arm. She fell to the floor, Dekker holding her arm at an odd angle, but she was still smiling. And she still had the gun. She looked at me.
"I dreamt my father had a face!" Abby screamed, still trying to twist away from Dekker. "I dreamt my father had a face, Frankie Mourning, that's the message. Only for you and no one else." She screamed as Dekker tried to grab her other arm, but she somehow twisted away yet again.
"The message?" I said. "Whose message?"
There was a wet pop and Dekker's expression changed to one of horror. The arm he'd been trying to subdue Abby with fell to the floor, limp. It looked like it was dislocated. Dekker looked at me as Abby stopped screaming and began to laugh, the peals echoing in the empty restaurant. She met my eyes through tears, but whether they were tears of pain, madness, or laughter I couldn't tell.
"I'll tell the Mother you send your love," she whispered, still smiling, tears pouring down her cheeks. Then she put the gun to her temple and pulled the trigger.
EIGHT
"Hell of a way to start a new job," said the police officer, handing me a steaming mug. Dekker and I were sitting in the back of an ambulance, watching the police swarm around the parking lot.
"It's not ideal," I said. Dekker was watching me, probably waiting for me to say something stupid so he could swoop in and explain it away. I shot him a look, irritated. We shouldn't be here like this. It didn't feel right. Dekker seemed to want to control the situation so people in Westport would be safe, and I saw his point. What happened in Helmsville was horrific and a lot of good people died. That wasn't on us, we'd been trying to save them. But impersonating the FBI had me jumpy.
"Well, I'll tell you something," said the officer, watching as a man and a woman in rumpled jackets got out of a sedan. They headed through the caution tape, walking with purpose toward the restaurant, flashing badges to the officer posted at the door. "We don't really know how to handle this sort of thing. They sent those two in from Salem to help us out.” He nodded toward the restaurant as the detectives disappeared inside. “Between those frozen bastards and poor Abby, seems like the whole world's going to hell."
"That might actually be an accurate description," I said, remembering my dream.
"Anyway, you've given your statements," said the officer. He had a sweet face, boyish, with hair that had started receding early, seeming to make up for it with a well-groomed mustache. "I guess you can go. You were saying you wanted to show Ms. Peck the morgue, weren't you?"
"Special Agent Peck," Dekker corrected, avoiding my eye. "Yeah, thanks, Ron, I'm going to throw her right into the deep end."
"Well, no one's saying they're going to call this in to the FBI," said Ron. "Seems to be a local matter unrelated to the other deaths, so no need to trouble yourselves."
"Damn shame, though," said Dekker.
Ron nodded, looking down at his own cup. He frowned.
"Just seems so odd, doesn't it?" he said. He looked at me and shrugged, shaking his head. "Sorry, ma'am, I'm just not accustomed to these things. I've never seen so many corpses in my life, let alone in a couple of weeks."
"You can call me Dot, Ron," I said, ignoring Dekker's look. "It's understandable. This isn't something you ever get used to."
"I suppose not," he said. "Anyway, I'd better get in there. I'll be seeing you around."
"See you, Ron," said Dekker.
When he was out of earshot, Dekker reached over and took the mug out of my hand and set it on the back of the ambulance, pulling me down and out of the cab. "Don't get too familiar, it's dangerous."
"Stop saying shit like that," he said. "You sound like a TV show."
"But you are afraid I'm going to blow your cover."
"Well, you do have a habit of telling people the truth about things."
"Like you?"
I followed him as he headed toward the Challenger, which the cops let us pull out of the parking lot earlier. "I'm worried about those Salem detectives," said Dekker, glancing toward the restaurant. "We're going to avoid them as much as possible."
"You think you're driving?" I said, as Dekker headed for the driver's door.
"Do you know where the hospital is?"
"No, but it doesn't mean I'm not driving. Hand over the keys, fly boy." I got into the driver's seat and Dekker watched me as I started the car and put it into drive. "Don't the cops think it's sketchy we're driving a car like this?"
"That's the least sketchy thing about us," he said.
The hospital was on the edge of town and we had to drive the windy coast highway to get there, trailing along the edge of the world, the ocean spraying up onto the windows every once in a while. Dekker sighed. "Why did you give me your real name?" he said. "Speaking of telling the truth."
"What?"
"When we met. Back in that shitty bar. You didn't know me, I was just some drunk schlub in a shady bar. You must be used to guys hitting on you. Why the hell did you tell me your real name?"
"Something on your mind, Dekker?" I kept my eyes on the road, turning on the wipers occasionally when water splashed the windshield.
"I've just always wondered," he said. "It seems dangerous."
"Well, calling the Starlight Lounge a shitty bar is a little harsh." I smiled, glancing at him.
