She replied by flipping him the bird.
Detective Chan didn't say a word as they trudged back to the car. Lost in thought, most likely. Hopefully ruminating over how much time she'd wasted. How she'd never bother with the farm again. How she'd listen to Goodwell next time, follow his leads. Slap the cuffs on Spratt - God knew the bastard deserved a couple extra years in solitary for what he'd done - and call it a day.
Goodwell was sure she'd file a report on him. Call him out for being unhelpful, obstructing the investigation, wasting police time. He deserved it. He knew exactly how much of a prick the coverup had turned him into, and he hated it.
And yet... as his finger had tightened on the trigger... hadn't he felt that excited squirm in his belly? The sick little twinge in his groin as he felt metal grind against metal, mechanisms on the verge of snapping together, the anticipation of gunfire in the rain?
"Christ," he whispered. "What an asshole."
"What?"
"Nothing." He sagged into the passenger seat. "Get us out of here, Jeeves."
"Up yours, Bertie." Chan cranked the key once, twice, three times. The engine made noises like a dog trying to chuck up a bone lodged in its throat. The car lurched, sputtered, and died.
"Goddamn junk." Chan stepped out into the rain and popped the hood. "You know anything about engines?"
Goodwell stayed where he was, hands folded in his lap. "Not a clue."
"You want to help me or something?"
"I'd only make it worse." He toggled their police radio. Dead as well. "It's the battery," he called. "You must've left the lights on."
"I never leave the lights on!"
Goodwell leaned over and checked the switch beside the wheel. Sure enough, the headlights were off. One less thing he could needle Chan over, he supposed. "Checked the sparks?"
"I thought you didn't know anything about engines?"
"I don't." He looked down towards the farm at the base of the hill. The well squatted beside the faded barn like a canker on an old woman's heel. The lid had been replaced but he could still feel something radiating out of the brickwork, a sickness seeping from the mortar that made his back teeth itch.
God as his witness, those boys had been dead when he dumped them down the well. Dead as old beef, dead as roadkill, dead as coffin-nails. He could go on for hours. Bits of brain and spine and eyeball slick across the grass. Not a breath left in them. He'd flopped them over the edge and watched them tumble bonelessly into the depths, skulls bouncing off the stone. Bonk, bonk, bonk, down into the dark.
But someone had moved the rocks he'd left atop the well. Moved the stones, moved the bodies and replaced the lid.
Someone was messing with him.
Chan slammed the hood down. "That tow place, Ace Mechanics. They're by the Pentacost river, right?"
"Couple hours hard march, I think. They'll give us a lift back. Put it all on the company card."
"Yeah, if there's even anyone working this late." Chan sighed. "And here I was thinking this was going to be an easy little afternoon excursion."
Goodwell couldn't even crack a smile.
Chapter 14
Fitch was sitting crosslegged on the main stage, packing molotovs into empty beer crates, when Kimberly returned. She stomped into the theatre, stolen maps in hand. "Change of plans, Fitch. I found you a back door into the convent."
Fitch snapped around, a bottle in each hand. The rags stuffed into the caps were bunched over his fists, already soaked with petrol. The stink was dizzying. "Where've you been?"
"Clearing my head." She unfolded the maps before him on the stage, jabbing at the little square that marked the convent. "Forget kicking in the main gates. There's a mineshaft that runs underneath. Starts here, ends here. Straight line."
Fitch's eyes narrowed down to tiny, suspicious points. "Where'd you get this?"
"Department of Records. I did my homework. Sort've thing we should've been doing from the start." She felt a flush rise into her cheeks as Fitch abandoned his bottles and set to poring over the stolen maps. Was that... pride? She knew it was childish, but seeing Fitch so captured by what she'd retrieved made her want to fist-pump the air. "Rosenfeld doesn't want us walking through the front doors? Fine. We don't have to. The convent used to be a smelter and coal dump. Bet you a hundred bucks they just stuck a spire on top when they converted it."
"And the shaft goes..." Fitch whistled. "If they built the convent on top, they would've repurposed the shaft as a cellar. Nuns probably store their jam down there. Or whatever the fuck those things are... Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost, the old mines. Of all the places I never wanted to walk."
"Bad?"
"Never been in there, but shit, dark places in Rustwood never feel right to me. You hear stories. Big fire about forty, fifty years back sealed off the mines. They flooded the place to put it out but that didn't help the men trapped down there. Couldn't get out of their chains in time."
"Say what?"
"I didn't believe it either, first time I heard it. Turns out the local union decided the mines weren't safe enough for blue-collar men, so the police rounded up all able-bodied suckers from the jailhouse and set them to work instead. Spend a day in the mines, get a day off your sentence, you know. Progressive stuff in the 40's. Poor bastards got bunched up down the far end of a shaft when the fire came through. Roasted all together, and what were left got drowned when they flooded the place." Fitch shrugged. "But that's history. These days, most of those shafts are blocked up. Couple still open to the rain... Kids go missing there sometimes. But maybe that's just teenagers being stupid. Easy enough to get lost down there in the black." Fitch ran one trembling finger up and down the veins of deep-sunk mineshafts. "If we just had more time..."
For the first time, Kimberly took in the equipment arrayed across the stage. Not just the molotovs but a crowbar, a knife with a taped-up handle, flashlights, and a plastic milk-jug half full with what looked like blood. "Jesus Christ. You going to war or something?"
"We, lady. We are going to war." He twirled the knife in his hand, the point brushing the tip of his sixth finger. "Rosenfeld got in contact. She's feeling the tug, stronger than ever. Someone's arriving in Rustwood." His attention was fixed on the blade, tongue protruding over his teeth in concentration. "Someone's arriving tonight."
They packed the Audi fast. Kimberly didn't ask where Fitch had collected the flashlights or crowbars, and Fitch didn't offer the information. Streetlights blurred past as they drove to the Mission. It felt like she was on a high-speed train, hurtling through a tunnel at mach five. She'd been strapped in, aimed at something terrible and fired, unable to change course or reach the brakes.
Too fast. It was all too fast. She still hadn't made sense of the paperwork she'd collected from the Department of Records. They were folded inside her coat, pressing uncomfortably against her chest. Something about dates... It was hard to hold on to. Like trying to keep a coherent image in mind in the minutes before falling asleep, or holding water in her cupped hands, slipping through her fingers as easily as rain sliding down the windshield-
Fitch slammed the Audi into fifth, narrowly missing a red light. "Don't tell Rosenfeld about the mines, okay? She'd only worry."
"Gotcha." Bottles clinked in the trunk. "We'll get arrested if you keep driving like this."
"No police out tonight. Too cold." Fitch glanced at her sideways. "What were you doing looking up old records, anyway? Seeing if you were born where they say you were?"
Kimberly's breath caught in her throat. "How did you know?"
"Tried it myself, but they don't have any record of a lonely old asshole called Fitch."
"So where were you born?"
"God only knows. God only cares."
"Maybe you were looking under the wrong name?"
"Think I know my own name, lady. At least, all the name I care to have." They slewed around a corner, jerking to a stop in front of the Rosenfeld Mission. "Quick, huh? The tug won't last long."<
br />
Kimberly didn't argue. The Department of Records had been her show, but this was Fitch's. They splashed across the street together, heedless of oncoming headlights, and stumbled into the relative shelter of the awnings out front of the Mission.
The lights were off inside, chairs set upside-down upon the long trestle tables, soup pots put away, mop propped at attention in the corner, but when Fitch tried the door it opened easily. A dark shape was waiting at the far end of the hall: Mrs Rosenfeld, one finger crooked, motioning them inside.
"This is it," Fitch said. "If she gives us the time, we're going in. If you're scared, if you're not sure-"
"I'm sure."
"Good." Fitch slapped her on the shoulder. "Ready and scared. Scared'll keep us alive."
"You sure know how to make a girl feel good about a night on the town."
"Old-school charmer, me." Fitch held the door, ushering Kimberly in. She slipped past, glad to be out of the cold, and...
That creeping, tickling sensation at the base of her spine. The hairs on her arms stood tall.
She spun, glaring into the shadows on the far side of the street, the black pools massing in between the glow of flickering streetlight. They were alone.
"You see something?" Fitch whispered.
"No. Nothing. Or maybe-" Kimberly shook her head. "The wind's getting stronger. Come on."
But she couldn't shake that tickle along her neck. The thrumming in her skull, plucking at her nerves.
In the moment before the door slammed closed, Kimberly was sure they were being watched.
Chapter 15
Fitch and Kimberly were half way across the hall of the Mission when Rosenfeld croaked, "Came alone?"
"Always," Fitch replied.
"You feel it?"
"Not as strong as you, but it's there, for sure."
"And you're one hundred percent? You want to go?"
"Wouldn't be here if we had any doubts."
Rosenfeld nodded. In the darkness of the Mission she was almost a shadow herself, drinking in what little light came in from the street. She looked to Kimberly like something carved from stone, like she'd been waiting for them a lot longer than a couple hours. Years, maybe, if not decades.
The poor woman had aged. Rosenfeld had looked fifty, maybe fifty-five when Kimberly had first been introduced to her, but now her face was furrowed deep by crow's feet, the puckers around her mouth turned to canyons. Her eyes were rimmed with yellow, and Kimberly was reminded of her aunt-in-law Hailey, dying of liver failure in a dusty hospice on the outskirts of Rustwood...
Rosenfeld noticed Kimberly staring and snapped, "You think this is easy? Whole town's got fishhooks in me. You feel what I feel, you live what I live for one damn day and you see if you look half this good in the morning." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "Back room, now."
It was the same storage closet where Kimberly had spent half a day twiddling her thumbs, but for some reason she found herself shivering as Rosenfeld locked the door behind them. The click of the latch was a fingernail scraping down her naked spine. "Is that necessary?"
"Nope," Rosenfeld replied. "But I like to know doors aren't gonna open behind me." She wiped sweat from her forehead, and Kimberly saw for the first time how flushed the woman was. Hard to tell in the gloom, but Rosenfeld was dripping.
"Are you sick?"
"Just tired. Been fighting the tug since I woke. Started like a tingling, a heart attack coming on. Ignored it as long as I could, but now... Means things are getting closer." Rosenfeld forced a grin that was all teeth. "Think you got here just in time. I can let go now. Let it pull me where it wants me."
"I've got no idea what you're talking about."
"You'll see, girl. You'll see." Rosenfeld sagged against the wall. "Jesus wept and Moses crept, the things I do for you. You bring binoculars?"
"In the car," Fitch said, even though Kimberly hadn't seen any binoculars tucked away in there. "Camcorder, too. Whatever happens, we'll see it."
"Good that you're being cautious," Rosenfeld whispered. "Just like I told you. This'll happen again. Little bit closer each time. Step by step, you'll get home. I promise."
It was on the tip of her tongue. The need to blurt out the truth was overwhelming. God, Rosenfeld was so old, so beat up. Lying to her was the worst betrayal. But when Kimberly looked to Fitch, his expression was set.
"Yeah," Kimberly whispered. "Step by step."
"The things in that place... The noises." Rosenfeld's eyes were squeezed closed, like she was warding off pain. "You promise you're taking this slow? You gonna play it careful?"
"I already told you-"
"You be stupid, you take risks, and I'm not gonna have your back. Fitch, you listening to me? I'm trusting you."
Fitch inched across the storeroom and took Rosenfeld's hand. "You okay?"
"Like I'm being torn in half. You ever heard me scream, Fitch?"
Watching Rosenfeld shudder in the grip of what she called the tug was enough to make Kimberly want to call an ambulance, but Fitch was only getting frustrated. He shook the old woman by the arm. "I know when you're talking in circles, Rosenfeld. Don't hold out on me. For Kimberly's sake, we need to know. Where, when, how. You remember what happened last time? You want that again?"
Rosenfeld shook her head furiously. "No, no, never. But-"
"You worry for me."
"Every day, Fitch. And now I worry for her. You're gonna show her such things, such places..."
Mrs Rosenfeld jerked like a live wire had been applied to the base of her spine. She snapped back so suddenly that her head impacted the wall. Plaster fell in drifts around her shoulders and dusted the fine black curls of her hair.
"Fitch," Kimberly whispered.
"Yeah?"
"Fitch."
Mrs Rosenfeld's eyelids opened. Her eyes were rolled back in her skull and her lips pulled over her teeth in an animal snarl. By her sides, her dark hands clenched into fists so tight that Kimberly was sure she'd draw blood from her own palms with her nails. Beneath her long skirt, her arthritic knees trembled like maracas.
"She's having a fit!" Kimberly darted to Mrs Rosenfeld's side and grabbed her by the arm, guiding her towards the bedding in the corner. "Lay her down. Fitch, help me!"
Fitch hadn't moved an inch. "Best you don't touch her."
"What're you-"
"Listen to me! She's done this before."
"She what?"
"Something's coming to her. She stopped fighting. It's the pull taking over." When Kimberly stared at him blankly, Fitch shrugged. "Explain it later. Just let her be!"
Reluctantly, Kimberly pulled back. Mrs Rosenfeld rocked on her feet. Sweat shone on her brow and her tongue was clenched between her teeth. Blood beaded along the swell of her lower lip.
And then, like a thread drawn too tightly, something broke and Mrs Rosenfeld sagged to her knees. She shuddered, blinked, and looked around the room like she was just waking from a deep and restless sleep.
Rosenfeld licked her lips, tasting the blood. Her tongue shone red. "Tonight. Bedroom. Quiet. Sleeping."
Kimberly shuddered. There was something deeply unsettling about Mrs Rosenfeld's voice. Her words were... greasy. Like they'd crawled up from somewhere deep and dark and locked away.
If Fitch had noticed, he didn't seem to care. "When? What's the hour?"
Mrs Rosenfeld sighed. Her breath rattled in her throat. "Two. Eight... eighteen. See it on the clock. Little clock, little dwarf. Grumpy."
"What's she saying?" Kimberly jerked at Fitch's sleeve. "How does she know?"
"I told you she was a seer." Fitch knelt down and took Rosenfeld's hand. "Two eighteen in the convent. Is that right?"
Tears shone in Mrs Rosenfeld's eyes. "Oh, Fitch. I don't want you to go."
"Tell me! In the convent? Is there a way?"
"They'll eat you alive," Rosenfeld whispered.
For a moment Fitch was frozen, down on one knee, Rosenfeld's hand clasped in his. The
n he nodded, patted her on the shoulder, and grabbed his jacket from the bed. "We need to go."
"We can't leave her."
"You heard what she said! Two in the morning. If we leave now we'll barely be in place."
"Jesus, Fitch! She's in shock. Give me the blanket-"
"Do you want to get home or not?"
Kimberly looked back and forth from Fitch to the old woman and back again. Rosenfeld was shaking so hard it was like she was trying to buck someone heavy off her shoulders. Her teeth chattered, beating out a timpani rhythm.
"We can't," she repeated weakly, but Fitch was already guiding her out.
Fitch had shoved her halfway through the glass-double doors and into the chill of night when Rosenfeld came stumbling out of the storeroom, slippers making shush shush shush noises on the linoleum. "Fitch! Listen to me. You take care. You be careful." She grabbed at Fitch's sleeve, yanking him back, hanging on like he was the only thing keeping her upright. "Be careful, I said. Please! You don't take risks, you don't stick your neck out. That place..."
"We'll be back, sooner than you think." Fitch leaned in to kiss Rosenfeld on the cheek. "Keep some coffee on the stove. Full report in the morning."
He pulled a sloppy salute, one that left Kimberly wincing - she'd known vets in New York who'd snap Fitch's wrist for such a slight - and pulled away. Rosenfeld was left grasping at air, like a mother standing at the harbour as her son's boat pulled away, taking him to distant lands in search of war and fortune. A woman already in mourning.
It was best not to meet her eyes.
Kimberly stepped over a figure sleeping in the doorway, wrapped in rags and cardboard - man or woman, impossible to tell - and peered into the night, one hand on the doorframe, the other thrown up to shield her face. A sedan was parked at the far end of the street, and in the darkness she couldn't tell whether someone was waiting behind the wheel or whether it was purely her imagination. She was seeing monsters in every shadow, men with hats pulled low over their faces hiding behind every streetlamp.
Rust: Two Page 13
