“Emily actually does not admit to a nightmare, Mrs. Hudson. We just assumed her story arose as a result of a nightmare.”
Hudson raised his hand as if to cut off Mrs. Post. “Please tell us exactly what my daughter said.” His unexpectedly hoarse voice drew startled glances from both Marne and Mrs. Post.
“Of course, sir.” Mrs. Post continued in hurt tones. “Emily’s story centered around the claim that a monster wanted to get in her window. She insisted she was not asleep. She said the monster stared at her and took a few swipes at the window before her screams woke us. When we entered the room, we did notice some gunky slop on the window, probably from a large bird smashing itself on the pane. The fact that she is on the second floor convinced us it had been a nightmare.”
“Why are the police and the fire department here?”
“That is another matter entirely. This morning, I happened to inspect the back yard, just looking for anything unusual in view of Emily’s nightmare. Oddly enough, underneath her window, I found a hole in the ground. It had not been there the day before. The smell of sulfur seemed to rise from the hole. I dropped a pencil into it and could not hear it land. So I called the police. They called the fire department because of the safety issue.”
Mrs. Post abruptly rose to her feet. She stared at Hudson, mouth agape. “Sir, are you okay?” Hudson’s legs had failed him, forcing him to grab on to the back of Marne’s chair.
“Get my daughter in here, now.” Turning to Marne, who sat with a shocked look on her face, he demanded, “Go pack her clothes; she is coming home with us.”
“Honey, what’s wrong? You are scaring us.”
He put a tired hand on her shoulder. Attempting to force a lighter tone, he let his words silence their questions. “Marne, we will discuss this later. Please pack Em’s clothes quickly. We will send for anything else. I want to be out of here in the next twenty minutes.”
“Mr. Hudson, this is quite irregular.”
“I am sure it is, Mrs. Post. I am sure it is.”
*
All the way back home to Newtown, Marne’s questioning pensive eyes weighed him down. She knew they couldn’t speak of the matter in front of Em, and would bide her time until they got home. He’d better have a good explanation for her. At the moment, he didn’t. God knew, he couldn’t tell her the truth.
So he withdrew into himself for the entire six-hour drive. Marne sang nursery rhymes to their thirty-one-year-old daughter as she played in the back seat with her favorite doll.
*
“But why do you have to go now? Can it not wait until Monday? And you still have not explained this mad decision to bring Em home with us.” Marne looked like she was holding tightly to the very last lock on her temper, her patience beyond exhausted.
Hudson closed the door to his closet, his sheriff’s jacket in his hands. He sat on the bed next to his wife, putting his arm around her. “Baby, do you trust me?”
“Yes, of course. Why would I not trust you, Hud? Please tell me what is going on. And what does it have to do with Em?”
“Honey, I think it is time to bring Em home and introduce her to the rest of the family. I want you to call the kids and invite them over to Sunday dinner. We need to do this now.” He looked into eyes flickering with trust, love, confusion, and was that a hint of fear? It broke his heart to do this to her, but he knew no other way out. He just needed to check one more thing before he made up his mind. He rose to his feet, pulling Marne up with him.
“I love you more than my own life. Do you know that, Marne?”
“Yes, Hud. I knew that the day I married you.”
“Is Em still sleeping?”
“Yes, Hud.”
“Promise me you will not let her out of your sight.”
She nodded her head, the questions still in her lovely eyes. He took a finger and traced the curve of her lips, caressing the side of her face as he bent down for a final kiss. Lifting his jacket from the bed, he turned and left the room.
*
Sheriff Hudson stood in the cool graveyard, pulling the collar of his jacket tight to ward off the bite of the northern wind that claimed the graveyard as its own. He clutched a piece of paper in his hands; directions to Netty’s lover’s grave. The poor kid, so needless. He made his way down the rows of unmarked graves, wondering where the boy’s family lived and if they’d given up on his return home. Funny, he didn’t even know the young man’s name.
He followed the directions that led him to a dip in the topography of the graveyard, creating a shallow crater that sheltered him from sight. Not that he had any company, except for the unclaimed forlorn bones of the indigent, nestled in their ignoble final roost.
Hudson counted carefully, following the directions to the correct grave. But he needn’t have bothered. He only needed to search for the grave that looked as if a bomb had exploded from the inside. Like the one in front of him. Compressing his lips until they turned white, he leaned over the edge of Netty’s young lover’s grave, finding it empty; just as he’d expected. Bad time to be right; a very bad time.
Hudson knew he didn’t have to bother to look for the expected holes at the bottom of the grave. His nose clearly detected the faint trace of sulfur which he knew emanated from them. Just like the holes beneath the window of his daughter’s bedroom. Mrs. Post had fortunately interrupted the monster before it could abduct Emily. Or kill her for the same reason it had killed Eli. Revenge. Now the monster appeared to be extending its quest to his family. Why? There must be an unfathomable connection between the monster and Netty’s unorthodox family. If the monster just wanted to kill him, opportunities presented themselves every day. Why go after Em?
Hudson suddenly fell to his knees, a germ of a thought, previously relegated to the recesses of his consciousness, arose mightily to claim its rightful place as the only true answer to his impossible question. It wasn’t just revenge. It was vengeance. It wanted him to suffer before it killed him. The monster could think and reason. It had a plan. It wanted him to feel pain and loss; just as they’d caused it to feel the pain and loss of Netty, her lover and the unusual creature brutally and callously murdered by Eli. Was that it? Oh, my God! Hudson rocked back and forth on his heels as the realization of the danger he’d put his family in hit home. The monster wanted him to suffer by killing his family.
A tear escaped a brimming eye as he arose, a resolute solution filling him with regret and sadness. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and started the trek back to his patrol car. One quick stop at his office and he could put an end to the threat to his family.
*
Sheriff Hudson hurriedly finished the letter to Marne, slipped it into an envelope and held it to his heart. He took a last look around his office, then stepped out to Hilda’s desk.
“Hilda, I need you to do me a favor. This needs to stay between us, do you understand?”
Hilda looked blankly at the sheriff. “Of course, Hud, what do you need me to do?”
“I want you to take this letter and give it to my wife.”
“Your wife? Don’t you want to give it to Marne yourself?”
Sheriff Hudson placed a shaky hand on Hilda’s shoulder. “Hilda, I am asking you for a favor that must stay between us. You must promise me. No one else can know.”
Hilda frowned, looking searchingly into Hudson’s face. She apparently read something in his expression which told her he meant business.
“Sure, Hud, I will be happy to do this for you.” She took the envelope, placing it in her purse under her desk as Hudson watched. Turning back to his office, he slowly headed for his desk and closed the door behind him.
He sat down in his worn desk chair, took a deep trembling breath, focused on the photo of his Marne, took out his service revolver, held it to his temple, and pulled the trigger.
Epilogue
Life moved on for all involved in the strange covert murders on Lily Pond Road. Robert’s men found their lives initially taking a hu
ge turn in prosperity as he paid handsomely for the silence of his henchmen.
The loss of Eli unexpectedly grieved Robert. The fact that Robert was his employer failed to diminish the rousing camaraderie and confidence they’d shared when executing Robert’s despicable and illegal deeds for well over two decades.
He refused to return to Lily Pond Road after his men had reported the fire and Eli’s death. A simple telephone call to Sheriff Hudson had directed the matter to his capable hands. Unfortunately, the disturbing results of Hudson’s report had terrified him. Putting Netty behind him no longer appeared to be the effortless proposition he’d first anticipated.
The sheriff’s death had shocked the entire tri-county area. The day after Robert had relayed directions to the drifter’s grave, Sheriff Hudson had returned to his office and blown his brains out with a single shot from his service revolver. He’d left an adored wife, three adult children and two grandbabies. Robert heard unsubstantiated rumors that he’d left his wife a suicide letter with some sort of purported explanation that allowed her to carry on with her head held high, unlike the wife of a man who’d taken the coward’s way out.
He would have put a lot of money on a bet that Hudson hadn’t had a cowardly bone in his body. So why the suicide? And unaccountably, his entire family, including his adult children and their families, had left town for parts unknown after the funeral. Why the rush? What were they running from?
*
A public burial held at the local cemetery had put Eli’s body to rest. Quelling the rise of local gossip, Robert had concocted a simple cover story involving a fall and a fatal rattlesnake bite; hardly original, tediously routine. Not much different than the story circulated to explain Netty’s death. Accidents happened every day. People died every day; sad, but unremarkable.
Robert sat in front of the fire in his library, contemplating his future. The emptiness in his life, exacerbated by the loss of Eli, continued to disturb him. The accumulation of wealth no longer interested him. Irrevocably securing his fortune and influence far beyond his dreams, he saluted the plan hatched fifteen years ago when he’d discovered that Netty would become heir to half of the vast Woods’ fortune.
He paused to consider how easily the gullible Woods had swallowed Robert’s suddenly smitten sensibilities enough to marry a common country waif. Smiling, he remembered how he’d found a few kicks to amuse himself with after the wedding, although her unfortunate broken nose and subsequent hair loss robbed him of his interest in forcing her to submit. Time to move on. Let me see, what else? Ticking them off in his head he continued the auspicious list.
His pursuits on the bench no longer interested him. The petty legal problems of the pedestrian public wore him down. Prohibition had soon gone down the tubes. Not that he needed the money, but dabbling with thugs late at night had given him a worthwhile thrill.
He’d even found himself bored with his special evenings, the brutality of rape no longer seen as powerful and exciting, now merely churlish and unrefined.
Tapping his finger along the side of his imperial nose, a solution occurred to him; a concept that needed a little feedback. Rising from the sofa, he stuck his head out of the library door into the foyer.
“Martha, get in here, please.” An intriguing expression settled comfortably on his haughty features. Crossing to the burled walnut sideboard, he poured brandy into tiny crystal snifters.
“Yes sir?” Martha stood at the library door, the bun on her head unwinding from the heat and labors of her bustling day, her apron wrinkled and stained. Robert grimaced, eyeing the apron.
“Put your apron in the hallway won’t you, Martha?” She regarded him with a blank look in her eyes. “The apron, the apron.” He waggled his fingers at her, the gesture dismissive. She quickly removed her apron, returning from the hall to stand before him.
“Yes, yes, much better. Please sit down, Martha, I have an announcement.” Handing her a snifter, he directed her to the sofa at the fireplace. He took his customary seat at the other end. Martha sat, eyeing the snifter, looking as natural as a defecating woodpecker in her hand. Oblivious, Robert chattered on.
“I have definitely decided to marry Miss Kathryn. I have yet to ask her, of course. But I do not anticipate a problem. It is high time we fill this house with children. As you will agree, she is quite suitable. Drink up, my dear.” He again waggled his fingers at her. “Please arrange time, beginning next week, to sit with her to plan the arrangements. Give her anything she asks for. The wedding will be held here, of course.” He glanced at Martha, still frozen with the snifter in her hand. “Martha, if you are to be my new major domo, you must learn to relax. Now drink up.” Blinking slowly, he watched her raise an eyebrow and bring the snifter to her lips as he continued to happily rattle on about his extravagant wedding and the new direction their lives would take.
*
The years evaporated quickly. Robert and Kathryn, the toast of Norristown’s exclusive social whirl, found branching into New York City society presented many intriguing opportunities. Over the years, he’d converted his vast fortune into the banking business, burnishing his now impeccable reputation. No one ever condescended to peek under the veneer of genteel hospitality to the worm holes and rot in the foundation of his wealth and soul. Not even his wife, Kathryn.
As the joyful celebration of Robert’s seventy-third birthday passed, he showed tentative signs of waning strength. He no longer cared to attend the season’s social calendar, choosing to closet himself in his library to pass the day.
Kathryn proved to be a loving fertile wife, blessing Robert with five children. Their firstborn son, Garrett, hard at work polishing the chrome of their 1956 Cadillac Convertible, planned to drive the family to Summit. Robert and Kathryn’s eldest daughter, Judith, having married at seventeen, needed to return to her home with her baby after enjoying a short visit with the family.
Riotous laughter emanated from the car as they piled in. Robert fondly waved goodbye to his wife and five children from the wide, columned front porch, declining as usual to accompany them. Even though he adored his family, the fact that Judith’s husband, Edwin, planned a surprise unveiling of their new home didn’t tempt him to join the party.
Robert returned to the sanctity of the library, ringing for Alice to bring him his specially blended licorice tea. Martha, having failed to achieve a modicum of the confidence he used to share with Eli, had retired shortly after Garrett’s birth. Perhaps she’d sensed his disappointment in her.
As he awaited his tea, his mind catalogued the many highs of the last two decades since he’d reformed his life and married Kathryn. The list was prodigious. The highlights truly culminated with the birth of Garrett, his favorite son and heir. The boy, almost a copy of Robert at his age, showed promise as a financial wizard, an asset in the banking empire he planned to leave to him.
The only bedbug in the mattress centered around the mysterious deaths, purely a coincidence of course, of most of the men involved in the cover up on Lily Pond Road. Robert had decided twenty years ago to edit the name of his first wife from his memory. He’d even convinced himself that the two thousand acres he’d stolen from her had passed to him legally. Unfortunately, his persistent dreams and sweats had proved to be uncontrollable, refusing to allow him a single untroubled night’s sleep.
Eli and Hudson’s deaths had only been the beginning. Subsequent deaths befell three more of his men, another shocker. The only thing left of the men he’d sent to the train station to pick up some freight had been their skeletons. No clothes, no blood; just a macabre triangle of desiccated bones lying in the dirt. And, heaping insult on injury, no witnesses. Son of a bitch.
“Your tea, sir.” Alice placed a silver tray with a filigree teapot and one fine bone china tea cup on to his partners desk.
“Pour for me, won’t you, young lady?” The fifty-six-year-old housemaid poured his tea and returned to her duties, leaving him to savor the ambrosial fragrance in seclusion. Ah, ye
s, small pleasures. He sipped the sweet tea slowly, his face suffused with blood, warmed by the steam of the tea. His thoughts returned to the cause of his woefully inadequate sleep.
The most disturbing death belonged to that of Simpson and his wife. They had regularly worked late in their shop two nights a week with the help of a young female employee. Their bodies had been found behind the butcher’s shop near the garbage receptacle. They protruded from a perfectly round hole in the ground which had opened to a small tunnel that had collapsed around the bodies. The coroner’s report blamed heart failure, for both of them. When asked, their hysterical employee had claimed she ‘never heard nothin’.
Robert’s blood froze in his veins every time he thought about the mysterious holes. He wondered why he remained alive. How long could one withstand relentless stress and sleeplessness? Perhaps his refusal to leave the house protected him. The commonality of the deaths (they had all occurred outside) suggested that he probably remained safe as long as he stayed inside. He could not know for sure, but eleven years had passed since the last death.
Discovering his teapot empty, he rang for Alice, requesting a refill and directing her to serve his dinner.
As he waited for the tea, he happened to glance in the direction of the French doors that led out to the terrace and his glorious emerald lawn. The same French doors Netty had fled through after first stealing his gold coin. Damn. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t think her name. Concentrating on the glass of the French door, his squinty eyes widened as a looming form quickly disappeared. Was his imagination playing tricks on him? For God’s sake. Rising to investigate, the shrill sound of his telephone forced him to pause. Distracted, he picked up the heavy receiver, hearing the annoyed voice of his son-in-law, Edwin.
“Hello, Robert, just a quick call. I hoped everyone would be here by now. They are at least fifty minutes late. I wanted to take them to the new house before it got dark. I am surprised at Judith. I made it clear to her she must keep to schedule. Did they depart on time?”
Alien Species Intervention: Books 1-3: An Alien Apocalyptic Saga (Species Intervention #6609) Page 16
