by M. Leighton
As the particles settled, every eye in the room was focused on my mother. We all watched her blackened body, waiting to see if the flames would return. But they didn’t. When she lay, still and silent, for several minutes without catching fire, one of the orderlies called quietly on his radio for an ambulance as the other began to clear patients out of the room.
Grayson and the remaining orderly had backed up some and were speaking in hushed tones about the incident. I hadn’t moved an inch. I just stood there in shock.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of the burned corpse that lay only a few feet away. That woman had given life to me and now, eighteen years later, she’d given her life for me.
I looked down at my curled fist. I relaxed my fingers and the gold chain fell from between them. In the center of my palm was the charm my mother had given me for protection. She’d moved the cross hairs off me and onto herself. She’d known what would happen and she’d done it anyway. That must’ve been the other part of why she needed to prepare. She was preparing to die. By giving me the charm, she’d given her life so that I could have that protection for the rest of mine.
Looking back up, I noticed that her easel had been turned over in the struggle and I walked around to pick the wet canvas up off the floor. The easel had been facing away from me the entire time so I never saw what she was painting. I couldn’t suppress the gasp that bubbled up when I looked at it.
Grayson heard me and walked quickly to my side.
“What the—” he said when he saw the picture.
It was a woman with red hair standing in a shaft of sunlight just like the one my mother had been painting in. She’d been a talented enough artist that it was easy to recognize the work as a self portrait. The sweater was similar to the one my mother had been wearing, but I couldn’t tell about the pants. They weren’t visible behind the long orange flames that were consuming this woman’s legs. Just like the invisible ones had consumed my mother’s.
He’ll make me burn for what I’ve done, she’d said. And she was right. He had. Like he’d done with the girls he’d killed and like I’d done with the dog, he’d hurt her with his mind. Killed her even.
Was this what was in my blood, this evil? Was this what he’d made me?
My brooding thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of all sorts of administrative, medical and law enforcement personnel. For the next two hours, we talked to an assortment of people, answering questions and explaining over and over again what had happened, what we’d seen. It gave me little time to think of other things, which was probably for the best.
When we were finally able to leave, I glanced once more at the blackened spot on the floor where my mother had burned to death. As I turned to walk away, I saw the rolled canvas she’d given me. I must’ve dropped it at some point during all the commotion. I rushed to collect it before we left.
Once we were out in the car, we sat there in silence for a long time before Grayson started the car. He looked over at me, grabbed my hand and asked, “Are you alright?”
It was a silly question and we both knew it, but I understood what he was trying to do and it comforted me just the same.
“Did you look at the picture yet?”
“No.”
He gaze flitted between me and the canvas. “Are you going to?”
I knew the cop in him was dying to know what she’d painted and said she didn’t want to see. And since we hadn’t gotten the last name of my father, he was undoubtedly hoping that it would somehow be helpful to the case. That was enough reason for me to open it, too. I wanted him caught and preferably killed, not only for what he’d done to my mother and those other girls, but also for what he’d done to me.
I started to unroll the canvas and then I stopped.
“Do you think that evil can live in a person’s blood?”
He watched me closely as he considered my question, his eyes never leaving mine. “No,” he finally answered. “I believe evil is in the choices we make.”
I nodded. As for me, I wasn’t sure what I believed. There was a lot for me to learn about my father, what he’d done to me and what it meant in my life.
“Do you think I could be dangerous?”
“Anyone can be dangerous if they don’t control themselves. Humans are capable of some pretty terrible things.”
“But do you think I’m dangerous?”
“No. No more so than I am.”
“But what about—”
“That doesn’t change who you are. You’re a good person, Mercy. I know it. I can feel it.”
“You don’t think you should stay away from me? I mean, look at all the trouble that surrounds me. Death and pain and torture. Who can live like that?” I could feel panic rising in my chest. I wasn’t sure I could live like that.
“I can. I do every day. It’s my job.”
“But I don’t want to be a job to you. And I always will be if this is what my life is going to be like.”
“Mercy, you—”
“I think you should stay away from me. I care too much about you to hurt you and I’m afraid that’s what will end up happening.” The thick ache of a sob was pressing in on my lungs.
“Mercy—”
“I’d never forgive myself if you got in trouble because of me or got fired or- or what if something happened to you? I couldn’t stand it!” I cried, my voice quivering.
“Mercy—”
“It’s for the best,” I said, shaking my head and closing my eyes against the heartbreak. “I can’t—”
“Mercy!” He shouted. This time he interrupted me. “Would you listen?”
“Grayson, I can’t. I can’t let you do this. We can’t be together. It’s too much of a risk. I just—”
“It’s too late, Mercy,” he interjected.
“What?” I asked, my eyes jerking up to his.
“It’s too late for this.”
“For what?”
“For this conversation.”
“Why?”
“Because I think I’m falling in love with you.”
My heart came to a sudden stop and then it felt like it exploded in my chest before it started to beat again. I squeezed my eyes shut again and just listened. “What?” I whispered.
“I said I love you,” he said quietly.
And then I felt his fingers slide into the hair at my ear as his thumb stroked my cheek.
When I turned to look at him, his hazel eyes were warm with the truth of his words. It was all right there in the soft expression on his face, in the tilt of his head, in the smile that graced his lips. And right then I knew there would never be another man for me.
“I love you, too,” I said, an unbelievable, surreal happiness bursting inside me despite the horror that lay outside the car and everywhere else in my life.
When he leaned over to kiss me, it was the sweetest, most wonderful kiss I’d ever shared. He pulled away and looked into my eyes, serious all of a sudden.
“Whatever happens, we’ll handle it. We’re in this together.”
I nodded, once again brought back to the harsh reality of my situation. And that reminded me of the painting.
“Wanna see what she painted?” I asked.
Grayson nodded and I unrolled the canvas.
I stretched it out full length and looked at the picture in confusion. I glanced at Grayson and he was watching me.
“No!” I cried, flinging the canvas into the floorboard. I kicked at it with my foot, denial my first reaction, and then I started to stomp at it furiously. “No, no, no! It can’t be!”
The painting was of my father, but his name wasn’t Robert. It was Roger. Roger Holloway, my adopted father.
EPILOGUE
The bottom fell out of my world when I closed my eyes and could still see the smiling face of my adopted (and biological) father from almost twenty years ago. Eventually I picked up the painting again to make sure my eyes hadn’t deceived me. But they hadn’t. There was no mistaking my father.
All this time, he’d managed the ultimate slight of hand. He’d let my mother think she’d won when he’d been waiting in the wings to claim me the whole time.
My head swam with disbelief and denial. I refused to believe that the man that had loved me and provided for me, who’d nurtured me and protected me all my life was a killer. A cold-blooded, wicked, vicious killer.
Just then, the hairs on the back of my neck rose to attention, tickling in recognition. Immediately, those feelings I’d been having started to make sense. I realized why I’d had that sensation two nights before when Grayson had dropped me off and my Dad had been in the kitchen. It wasn’t a threat outside that I’d been feeling. It was a threat inside.
“He’s watching us,” I whispered.
“What?” Grayson shifted straight to Def Con Five. “I’ll call—”
When he started to get out of the car, I stayed him with a hand to his arm. Panic was rising to the surface as one thought circled in my mind.
“Mom!”
“What?” Grayson asked, looking from my hand to my eyes and back again. “What is it?”
“Grayson, please. We have to go find my mom.”
I could see his instant rejection of the idea, but before he denied me, I asked again, “Please. We’ll find him. Now we know who we’re looking for. Put out an APB or a BOLO or whatever it is that you guys do, but just do it on the way home. You have to take me to her.”
Grayson looked at me, his love for me warring with his sense of duty. I wondered for a moment if his love for me was enough, if we could pass this simple test, but then he slid back into his seat, jerked the gearshift down into drive and sped out of the parking lot.
I can’t decide if it seemed like we were in hyper drive all the way home or if it was the longest trip of my life. Either way, when we arrived, I wasted no time jumping out of the car and flying into the house.
“Mom!” I started roaming from room to room looking for her, calling her name. I hadn’t called to forewarn her; I didn’t feel like it was fair to drop a bomb like that over the phone.
When I’d scoured all the rooms and hadn’t found her, I started thinking about logical places she might be. Then I remembered it was Sunday night.
I closed my eyes as relief flooded me. Grayson’s hand on my arm brought them open. He looked worried.
“She’s at church,” I explained. He nodded.
I stood in the kitchen, looking around at the place I’d called home for almost nineteen year. Like a slide show that rolled by at the speed of light, my life here flashed before my eyes. All the happy memories and touching moments, all the struggles and normal family stuff we’d suffered through. None of it seemed like a lie. And yet…
My eyes drifted to the kitchen window. A tiny decorative bag hung between the glass panes. Mom had said Dad bought it for her to scent the kitchen. Said it smelled like cloves. But, seeing it, I thought of the sachets that Debbie had said my father had placed all over her house.
I walked over and pulled the little bag down. It was made of material that looked like it came from a blouse or a dress. Pulling on the drawstring closure, I opened the bag, dumping the contents out onto the counter.
As I had feared, this was no sachet. There was no potpourri or scented beads inside. Instead, there was a piece of bone, some small teeth, a few sprigs of hair, a silver locket, and what looked like several dried herbs.
Was this like the bags that had been placed all around my mother, Debbie’s house when she was pregnant?
Something else Debbie had said clicked in my brain and I rushed to my room. If my father had done something to my mother’s bed, maybe he’d done something to mine as well. This was all about me, after all.
I fell to the floor and crawled to the bed, flinging the bed skirt up and poking my head underneath. Much to my relief—and confusion—there was nothing but a dirty sock, a magazine, an empty candy wrapper and dust bunnies under there.
I could’ve cried. I sat back and looked up at Grayson. “Nothing.”
He didn’t look as encouraged as I did. Purposefully, he walked to the bed, grabbed the mattress and yanked it up.
And there on the bottom, sprayed in black paint, was a circle with all sorts of symbols drawn around it and an eye in the center.
My chest was tight with fear and a thousand other emotions I couldn’t describe. I sat in the floor staring at the mattress for a long time before Grayson let it down and walked to me. He lifted me to my feet.
“Come on,” he said, ushering me out of my bedroom.
“Wait,” I said, turning back into the room. Nearly suffocated by the betrayal I felt, I had to rid my room, my most personal space, of all traces of the monster that my father was. Is.
Frantically, I searched through every drawer and corner, every vessel and vase, every box and bag, but I found nothing. It looked like I’d just have to get rid of my mattress. Maybe everything else was safe.
We walked into my parents’ room and the first thing Grayson did was lift the mattress and peek underneath. I didn’t look, but when Grayson lowered it and turned to me, his expression told me that it had a symbol of some sort on it as well.
I walked numbly to the dresser, intending to search their room and throw out anything I found that I couldn’t identify. I opened the top drawer, almost afraid to look inside, but it was nearly empty. I closed it and opened the second. It just had a few articles in it, too.
Every drawer I looked in was like that, even in the chest. I walked to the closet and flung open the doors. There were a few things hanging inside, some barely clinging to their hangers like someone had been jerking clothes off in a hurry.
I went to the hall closet and looked inside. The luggage was gone.
My parents were gone.
Questions raced through my head. Had my father kidnapped my mother? Or, worse, had she known about this all along? Had she been complicit?
All the answers that I sought for all the questions I had could only be answered by one person. My father.
I looked at Grayson and he looked at me.
“I- I—” I stammered.
“I know,” he said quietly. Walking toward me, he stopped with only inches separating us and stood looking down into my face. “You’re not alone, Mercy. We’re in this together,” he said, repeating what he’d told me earlier. Maybe he thought I didn’t believe him the first time. Or maybe he thought I just needed to hear it again.
I smiled a weak, watery smile and leaned my forehead against his chest. I felt his arms come around me and somehow, despite the disaster my life was turning out to be, I felt a tiny twinge of happiness.
I inhaled, letting the scent of soap and cinnamon soothe and comfort me. Silently, I ticked off all the positive things I could think of. First among them was Grayson. As I made my way down the list, I realized that many of them were either directly or indirectly related to him somehow.
“We’ll find them,” he whispered.
And I knew he was right. We had a name and a face and we had me. I knew my father—or at least somewhat—and I had something that he wanted. If I couldn’t find him, he’d find me.
Picking up my head and raising my eyes to find Grayson’s liquid hazel ones, I had but one thing to say, the only thing I knew for sure and could derive some small amount of peace from.
“I love you,” I said.
“And I love you.”
Wiccan
by
M. Leighton
http://mleightonbooks.blogspot.com
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