Children of Eternity Omnibus

by P. T. Dilloway

  From her pocket she removes a picture of the late Rodriguez family in San Diego. The husband, wife, and two young children stand before their new house like an ad for a real estate agency. “You remember them?” she asks.

  “I don’t know nothing,” he says.

  She breaks his nose, blood gushing down into his mouth. “You remember yet?” she says. When he shakes his head, she knocks out a couple of his teeth. “I can do this all day.”

  He spits blood into her face. She lifts him to his feet and hurls him into the arms of his mistress. Samantha retrieves her pistol and his from the floor, tucking both into her waistband. She doesn’t need a gun to kill this son of a bitch.

  He lies on the floor, Suarez wiping at his bloody face. “Please, leave us alone,” she says. “Diablo!” Samantha drops the picture at Suarez’s feet.

  “The devil killed those people,” Samantha says and points to Gutierrez. She kneels down in front of Gutierrez, her fist cocked. A punch to the windpipe and his evil would be exorcised from the planet forever. He didn’t deserve to rot on Death Row for a dozen years or however long it took the legal system to finally deliver justice. She could bring justice to the Rodriguez family right now with one blow.

  Her hand trembles with rage. Gutierrez’s eyes widen as he waits for the killing strike. His mistress shouts something, but Samantha can’t hear her. She focuses on Gutierrez’s eyes, the soulless eyes of a killer. He doesn’t deserve to live.

  “Kid, what are you doing?” Fitzgerald shouts. He waddles across the room, taking hold of Samantha’s arm. She could free herself with no effort, but she doesn’t. “Go on, get out of here. I’ll clean this up.”

  “Fine. I’m done here anyway,” Samantha says. The killer will live, but he won’t be free to murder anyone else. That’s enough, she thinks.

  Later she’s holding a glass of whiskey in some little bar near the beach. It’s three in the morning and still she can’t get the thought of those eyes from her mind. Those eyes that lacked any basic human decency, that cared nothing for life. She motions for the bartender to bring her another drink.

  Fitzgerald plops onto the stool next to her. “You have any idea how many bars there are on South Beach?” he says, signaling for the bartender to get him a whiskey.

  “I don’t care,” she says.

  “Look, don’t worry about today. No one’s going to bring any charges against you. He was resisting arrest. Not to mention he’s pretty much a scumbag to start with.”

  “I don’t care about that,” she says.

  “What’s eating you, then?”

  She can’t tell him. She can’t tell anyone. No one else would understand. She throws back the whiskey, feeling nothing except the burn of the alcohol on its way down. “It’s nothing.”

  “You can’t let guys like that get to you—”

  “I wasn’t worried about him,” she says.

  “I’m sure you weren’t. You got a good head for this, kid, but it isn’t going to be on your shoulders much longer if you go charging in like that. I know you think you’re invincible like all people your age, but take it from one who knows, you aren’t. I’ve seen it happen more often than I’d like.” The joviality drains from his voice with the last sentence. He motions for another drink and then slaps a twenty on the counter. “Let me tell you something else: this stuff doesn’t help.”

  Samantha looks down at her glass and concedes the point, pushing the glass away. Those eyes. So much like her eyes that night. Samantha wishes she could find a drink to wash the memory of that night away. And no matter how many times she beat up the Gutierrezes, the killers, of the world it wouldn’t change anything. Nothing could bring them back. “You’re probably right,” she says.

  “Of course I’m right.” He puts an arm around her shoulder. “You want to crack skulls that’s fine with me, but next time we do it together. As partners, capice?”

  “Right. Partners,” she said.

  “I’m glad that’s settled. Let’s get out of here and get some sleep.” He leads her out of the bar into the night.

  Samantha folded up the newspaper article, stuffing it into her pocket. Fitzgerald had been her partner for three years before being reassigned to a desk job, a fate Samantha had vowed to avoid. No one stopped murders from behind a desk.

  She went back up to her motel room, wondering who would have killed Fitzgerald. As a former agent he had plenty of enemies more than happy to take him out. She tried to remember if he ever mentioned anyone in particular who had it in for him. Her mind drew a blank.

  The article had opened a door in her memory, but it was one of thousands or even millions. Whose eyes had haunted her? What had happened on that night in question? Try as she might, she couldn’t think of any answers.

  Someone knocked on her door. Samantha again considered the gun, but it was probably just a maid here to clean up. She threw open the door to find not a maid but a FedEx deliveryman. “I’ve got a letter for Samantha Young. Is that you?” he said.

  “That’s me,” she said. At least she knew that much. She signed for the package, waiting for the deliveryman to leave before opening it on the bed. Inside she found only a map of Iowa with a red circle around the town of Junction. At the bottom someone had written in red ink: ‘Catch Me If You Can.’

  “Oh my God,” Samantha said. The map fell from her fingers. She picked up the telephone and without thinking dialed the number for the Dallas office. “Hello, this is—”

  “Young, where the hell are you?” a gruff voice said.

  “I’m in Savannah, sir,” she said. “Someone murdered Steve Fitzgerald a couple nights ago.”

  “That’s out of your jurisdiction—”

  “I know, sir, but I just received a message from his killer. There’s going to be another murder. This time in Junction, Iowa.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not sure. We have to warn the local authorities before it’s too late.”

  “Damn it, Young, are you hitting the sauce again? I’m not about to scare the daylights out of some little town in Iowa because you’re seeing pink elephants again.”

  “But sir—”

  “When I come in tomorrow I better see you at your desk. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand.” The connection broke, but she continued to hold the receiver in her hand. What kind of life have I been leading? she wondered again.

  It didn’t matter at the moment. She had to get to Junction, Iowa and try to prevent another innocent person from dying. The hell with the FBI and anyone else who got in her way.

  Chapter 12: Love & Marriage

  As soon as Prudence rolled over, she could tell something was wrong. The effort needed to turn over and the dirt brushing against her cheek were sure signs of something amiss. Then a hand fell across an explosion of fat at her midsection. This can’t be right, she thought. She patted the globular thighs, sagging breasts, and finally bulging cheeks to make sure they all belonged to her. I’m a whale, she thought.

  In her last memory, she was a thin little girl being hurled by a man in black into a pit of red water. Now she lay here on a patch of dirt in a bloated grown-up’s body. Then it was all a dream, she thought.

  At last she opened her eyes to see a sheet of rough canvas forming a crude tent around her. Beneath her, as she suspected, was only dirt and patchy grass. With some effort, she sat up to take stock of the situation.

  She put a hand to her head as she tried to think. The dream had seemed so real, full of colors, tastes, and smells as vivid as anything around her at the moment. To make certain this wasn’t the dream, she pinched a flabby wrist and winced. This is real, she thought. But where am I?

  “Mrs. Gooddell, you’re awake! I was afraid you would sleep forever and ever but now here you are, wide-awake. It’s a miracle. Absolutely astonishing! How do you feel? I know sometimes when I fall asleep for a long time I feel more tired than before I went to bed and then I wonder what was the point in the
first place?” said a little girl with red hair tied into long braids and wearing a dirty white dress. As she prattled, the girl brushed dust off Prudence’s gray frock.

  “I feel fine,” Prudence said. “Where am I?”

  “I’m not sure. No one is quite yet. I’ve heard mention we could have landed in Virginia or Massachusetts or perhaps all the way up in Newfoundland. Mrs. Bloom said she hoped we landed in the Indies, but Mr. Pryde said we can’t be in the Indies because he’s been there before and these trees are all wrong. I would have liked to land in the Indies. It’s so much warmer there. Are you feeling a chill? I can find you a blanket.”

  “No, that’s all right.” Prudence studied the annoying girl for a moment, trying to place her pale, freckled face. “Have we met before?” she asked.

  “Of course we’ve met before. I’ve been in your employ for five years now, since I was a tiny little girl. My Aunt Clara sent me over. She was always a spiteful old woman and she told me if I had to stay with her on account of my parents dying of fever then I might as well make myself useful and earn a little money. Don’t you remember, Mrs. Gooddell?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “You’re not playing a trick on me now, are you? Aunt Clara always complained about my wits being slow. She was always hounding me with one thing after another. ‘Did you feed the chickens, Molly?’ ‘Did you get the eggs, Molly?’ ‘Did you remember to close the door, Molly?’ It was enough to drive a person batty, God rest her poor soul.”

  Prudence put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Look, Molly, this isn’t a trick. I can’t remember anything before I woke up and I had the strangest dreams.”

  “I have strange dreams too. In one I turned into a chicken, I suppose on account of Aunt Clara hounding me so much about the blasted chickens. I don’t think I’d mind being a chicken, though. It might be quite fun—”

  “Molly, please, can you tell me the date?”

  “Why it’s October 13 in the year of our Lord 1649 as Reverend Crane would say. That has such a nice sound to it, don’t you think?”

  Prudence tuned out the rest of the girl’s prattle. 1649? Something about that didn’t seem right. That would mean her dream had taken place over three hundred years in the future. What a feat of imagination, she thought.

  “Could I have a moment alone please, Molly?”

  “Oh yes, of course you can, ma’am. I’m sorry to be such a bother. My mouth runs away with the rest of me is what Aunt Clara always said, bless her soul. Would you like me to fetch Mr. Gooddell? I believe he’s over talking with Mr. Marlow and some of the others.”

  “Mr. Gooddell?”

  “Your husband, ma’am. You don’t remember him either? That’s a terrible shame. I would hate to ever forget my husband, should I ever have one. I won’t bother going into what Aunt Clara said about that.”

  “Molly, could you please find my husband?”

  “Right away, ma’am. I’ll be back with him so quick you won’t even notice I’m gone.” Molly dashed out of the tent, leaving Prudence alone to think of her husband. How could she forget her own husband? What had happened to her?

  A man with a long face and sad brown eyes compacted his tall, narrow frame to fit inside the tent. He took Prudence’s hand in one of his. “Thank heavens,” he said. “I thought perhaps I’d lost you. Are you feeling well? Molly mentioned something in her ramblings about losing your memory.”

  “I can’t remember anything,” she said. “Who I am or where I am or how I got here. It’s all a blank.”

  “You took a nasty bump to the head when we ran aground, so I suppose it’s only natural. I’m sure you’ll recover soon enough. For now, you lie here and rest. I’ll have Molly bring you in something to eat.”

  She patted her stomach. “I’m not all that hungry.”

  “Now, dear, you must eat something to keep your strength up. We have a lot of work ahead of us—” he stopped and shook his head. “I won’t trouble you with such nonsense right now. You needn’t worry about a thing. Everything will be better, you’ll see. We’ve finally made it to the promised land.”

  He kissed her on the lips. A dry, yet familiar kiss.

  Prudence stands at the makeshift altar, adjusting the fit of the white gown she finished sewing last night. “I don’t know why you can’t wear one of your regular dresses instead of some showy thing you’ll never use again,” Mother had said.

  “It’s my wedding, Mother. I want it to be special.” Daddy had bought her the finest lace and ribbon in London for the dress. She now wonders if perhaps Mother is right and if it is too ostentatious even for her wedding. When else am I going to have this chance? she thinks and feels better.

  She never thought this day would come. Most other girls in Wessenshire married or were at least betrothed by sixteen. At seventeen she hadn’t received one gentleman caller. No one wanted her hand in marriage, as if they all knew. As if they could see through the layers of fat to what lay beneath. The unspeakable, horrible blemish on her soul. Because of it, she would end up dying a spinster like her Aunt Faith. Her entire life would be spent in the same house, in the same bedroom, growing bigger and bigger until she couldn’t move.

  He’s here now, standing next to her before the hastily-erected altar. Like most girls in Wessenshire, she dreamed of getting married in old St. Michael’s the former cathedral with its Gothic spires, arches, and gargoyles. She always imagined herself standing at the altar with some handsome prince or duke, the organ thundering with music. As she looks over at him, she doesn’t mind that her childish fantasy will never come true.

  He gives her a hint of a smile and whispers, “You look more beautiful than I imagined.”

  “Thank you,” she whispers. Reverend Crane approaches the altar then to begin the ceremony. Prudence pays no attention to the reverend’s words. She stares at Rodney, her beloved fiancée, soon to be her husband. She traces every curve and line of his face with her eyes, memorizing them. These will soon belong to her. Her husband.

  She repeats the necessary words at the reverend’s prompting to become Mrs. Rodney Gooddell. His wife. Rodney leans down to kiss her, a dry peck on the lips that to her is the most wonderful kiss. Her first. He takes her arm then to lead her away from the small crowd of family and friends gathered in the meadow. She can’t believe it’s happening at last. Her first steps as a married woman. All those girlish fantasies of princes and dukes riding up in carriages to sweep her off to a castle can’t compare to the feel of his arm in hers, leading her away to a new life.

  They don’t have far to go. The new house is within sight, a gift from Daddy. Rodney has enough money for his own house—possibly even his own castle—but he told her he wanted “something small and cozy to start off with.” All those years of city living have gotten him used to cramped spaces.

  He opens the door to the house—their house—and ushers her inside. “Oh, this is lovely,” he says as though it were a palace. She sees how small and plain it is, without even a parlor for entertaining company. Not that she intends to invite anyone, but should one of the old women from the village happen by she’ll have to offer them tea at the rustic hearth.

  She nods and smiles, demurring as Mother told her a lady should. “Would you like some supper?” she asks. Clara, Mother’s servant, has left a roast chicken and potatoes for them. They eat their first meal as husband and wife at the little table in the miniature dining room. Daddy has made sure to equip the table with an extra-wide chair for Prudence and an extra-tall chair for Rodney.

  “I thought tomorrow I’d go into town and see about buying some seeds,” Rodney says. “Would you like to come?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve been thinking of looking for some new material for a new dress,” she says. Mother would never approve of such an extravagance when Prudence’s old dresses still fit. But now that she is a married woman, Prudence no longer wants to wear those same clothes, those child’s clothes. She’s a woman now with her own household to manage.
/>   “Well then, we can make a day of it,” he says.

  After supper, they sit in customized rocking chairs before the hearth. Rodney lays out his plans to farm the land Daddy gave him. She doesn’t hear the words, listening instead to the enthusiasm in his voice. To him, planting a field of grain is as glorious and challenging as vanquishing an entire army. She sighs to herself, thinking how lucky she is to have such a man.

  When the fire in the hearth burns down to embers, he leads her to the bedroom. Like a true gentleman, he waits outside as she changes into a nightgown and brushes her hair out. She lies down on the bed she will now share with her husband.

  Only after changing into a nightshirt and blowing out the candle does he settle onto the bed next to her. He leans over and kisses her again, this time a wet, passionate kiss with his tongue. Prudence stiffens at this sudden outpouring of emotion. She isn’t sure what to do. His hand roams down her back before coming around to cup her breast. Sweat breaks out along her forehead. Her breathing turns shallower.

  He climbs on top of her. In the moonlight his face is transformed into something ugly and hateful. His face. She whimpers. Her breath comes out in ragged gasps. Spots form before her eyes. “Prudence, what’s wrong?” Rodney asks.

  “I’m not ready for this,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  She expects him to protest or to take what he wants without her permission, as his right as her husband. Instead, he sinks down next to her on the bed. He puts a hand on her cheek, brushing hair away from her face. “If that’s what you want.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says again.

  “Don’t be silly. There’s nothing wrong about waiting.”

  “Thank you,” she says, but she feels like a child. She’s supposed to be a woman now. They’ve been married for less than a day and already she’s disappointed him. Tomorrow she wouldn’t blame him if he asked Reverend Crane for an annulment now that he’s realized what a terrible mistake he’s made.

  She had hoped marriage would somehow magically change her into someone else, but she still feels it there, on the inside, eating away at her. The ever-present stain nothing can erase, not even a man like Rodney. It will follow her forever.