by Liz Bradbury
“Kathryn, I hope this wasn’t... I hope we can... um...” I said. Suddenly I needed reassuring. The little insecure being that lives in the back of my head was peeking out. I’d done some of my best work and if that wasn’t good enough for her...
“You’re not done with me now, are you?” I laughed making it a gentle joke.
“Done with you? Are you kidding. Ha! I’ll never let you go, now.” She took me by the shoulders and looked right into my eyes for a long moment. We both grew very still. Volumes passed between us, without speaking a word.
Finally she said, “If you were thinking I might be one of those women who becomes bored after, after she gets exactly what she wants, I promise you I’m not like that, Maggie, I’m really not. And I don’t require, or even desire, that we do this kind of thing all the time.” She looked into my eyes steadily again.
I smiled and exhaled a little bit of nervous relief.
“Or were you wondering if we can have this kind of adventure again? Oh Maggie,” she said in a deep low voice, “I’m already thinking of new... uh... things... we could try.”
I’m sure my expression became raptorial for a few moments, which perked the same on her face. “Shall we? Right now?” I asked. I looked at my watch. “It’s not even that late.”
“Well, OK. I’ll do my best, but I have to admit to exhaustion. I think I used more energy in that one moment at the end than all I’ve spent in the previous month. I need to use the bathroom again and then I’d like to fall asleep in your arms.
We took turns in the bathroom and then she snuggled into me.
“You know, Maggie, being with you is one adventure after another,” she sighed. “Happy Birthday.”
We held each other and Kathryn fell asleep. But I lay awake for a while. I felt kind of different. We’d created a framework in which each of us became the steel drummer chasing away the problems we needed to defeat. We had made this good thing happen together and I was pleased by it.
As I drifted off, I thought about the crazy quilt of the last week and realized lazily that the threads were all wound together. I fell into a deep sleep and slept for many hours abstractly trying to untie them.
And then, I dreamed.
Chapter 20
The Dream
I was in Amanda Knightbridge’s living room at a Neighborhood Watch meeting. Amanda was talking to me. There was another woman with her. After a moment I realized it was Dr. Isabella Santiago. I tried to look closely at her to see whether she was a ghost or a real person, but I couldn’t get her in focus.
Amanda said in her precise voice, “Man may only chase the demon messenger of grief with unbound charity,” as though I should understand. Both she and Dr. Santiago nodded.
I tried to ask them what it meant but they drifted into the crowd and I couldn’t find them again. Frustrated, I left the house and found myself standing in the cemetery alone. It was getting dark. I started to weave through the graves.
I came to The Lost Bride clearing near the stand of yew trees. Suddenly Frankie Kibbey stepped into view. I remembered that the last time I’d seen him he’d been shot to death in the cemetery. I tried to move and tell him to run, but my feet were stuck in clay and nothing came out of my throat.
I gasped because Frankie already had a big hole through the middle of his chest. I could see trees through it. He walked toward me like a horror movie zombie. I realized I wasn’t afraid of him though, just sorry he was dead. At that, he fell on the ground and didn’t move again.
Mist enveloped the Evangeline statue. When a shaft of moonlight sliced through the clouds, the statue began to grow larger and change. The blurry Lost Bride finally took the shape of Suzanne Carbondale. I could see Samson Henshaw standing near the edge of darkness, staring at Suzanne. Suzanne had one hand covering her throat. She waved to Samson with her other hand and he reached out to her, but she looked me in the eye, then turned and pointed toward the yews.
They parted. Inside was Gabriel Carbondale with a big tub of mortar and a trowel. He was cementing up the crypt’s entrance. Then he wheeled around and staggered away from the building like a drunk on a jag. He retched and nearly threw up, but it was only a dry heave. Mortar dripped from his trowel onto the ground, punctuated by steel drum beats. He heard the drum and looked around nervously.
The steel drum notes became a rolling tune. The music got louder. Suddenly the steel drummer wailing on his drum burst out of the cement Gabe Carbondale had troweled over the crypt entrance. Gabe saw the drummer, drew back, and staggered away. Just before Gabe disappeared into the night he turned around so I could see his face. He had a gunshot wound in his head, and he now looked just like Larry Storch.
The steel drummer came toward me in an ominous way. His terrifying expression mixed homicide with greed. But suddenly Kathryn appeared by my side.
The drummer froze. I felt stronger. I stepped in front of Kathryn and she put her hand on my shoulder. The steel drummer laughed grimly and patted his stomach. The drum suspended in front of him became a plate of fruit. He speared a piece with one of his mallets which had changed into a long two-tined fork. He pointed the fork at the statue that looked like Suzanne Carbondale. Then he brandished the fork toward us aggressively. He put it in a bag hanging from his drum and morphed into a cartoon. First he was Colonel Rimfire, and then Cool Cat, who finally became a puff of smoke that wafted into the leafless trees.
Buster trotted into the clearing. He shook his head, rattling his dog tags like coins in a bag. He dropped something from his mouth on the ground. Kathryn picked it up. She held it out to me. I reached for it. A stream of fine white dust shifted between her fingers onto the ground.
A frightening figure came toward us along the path. I tried to gasp out some words but before I could say anything, I realized the hideous face was nothing more than Lois Henshaw, garishly costumed as the bizarre clown in the painting on her wall.
Lois spun around in a spot of moonlight and capered over to the Evangeline statue that still looked more like Suzanne. Lois stuck her tongue out at it, then pirouetted back to speak to me.
Her voice had that surreal low tone that dream people have. Lois shouted slowly, “Where’s Samson?”
Before I could answer, her clownish figure slipped backwards out of the main gate. She passed in front of a truck coming down Fen Street. I could see a lamp go on in a second floor apartment on the other side of Fen. Samson Henshaw sat there looking out. He stood up when he saw Lois. Seconds later I could see them together. Lois wasn’t in her clown costume anymore. Samson was cooking. He handed Lois a spatula. Lois hugged Samson. Samson pulled the shade.
I turned to Kathryn, but she and Buster were gone. Back across the street the shade went up again. This time Kathryn and Nora were there. Nora had a teapot and Kathryn had a cup. Kathryn gave me her half-smile and Nora waved and winked. I beckoned them out; they nodded and pulled the shade again.
Piper Staplehurst, dressed to the hilt in her expensive burgundy coat and a Gucci scarf, drove a truck with glaring lights through the cemetery entrance. She stopped it near the crypt in the clearing. I tried to wave to her but she got out of the other side and couldn’t see me. When I went around the truck, the steel drummer in a Hawaiian shirt with a burgundy background, was there. Now he had the face of Larry Storch. He tilted his head back to laugh, but thought better of it. He dragged a huge wrought iron gate out of the truck, lifted it over his head and disappeared into the crypt.
The truck shrank. Now it was the old Chevy Astro van. Cue and Willie in their fake water company uniforms carried boxes out of the van. The Lost Bride statue altered again into the beautiful form of Evangeline. Her normally serene features were those of a fury.
The two thieves ran toward the yews where a duck fluttered around quacking. Red appeared and joined them. I ran after them calling at Red to stop, but he ignored me. Judith Levy came out of the trees and managed to trip all three of the gang. They dropped the boxes and scrambled away.
; Mausoleums and monuments began to loom up out of the shadows like scenes in a shaky camera mockumentary. I went into the crypt, through the floor, and into the underground passage.
When I got to the main tunnel I heard a rumbling that got louder and louder. The tunnel took on the shape of a subway platform. Cool Cat was there waiting. A subway train pulled up. The doors opened. Inside the car was Col. Rimfire, Gabe Carbondale, the steel drummer, the religion-spouting drunk, Larry Storch, Piper Staplehurst, Lois Henshaw, and the duck. Cool Cat got on. Lois and the duck got off and the train pulled away.
Lois Henshaw stood on the platform forlornly. She looked at me with tears in her eyes. She dropped her spatula. It clattered on the stone floor.
Farther down the tunnel a door flew open and out stepped Victoria Snow in all her glory; sleeves pushed up, wild hair pinned back, with an intense expression of purpose on her face and a hefty wooden carving mallet raised high in her hand. Victoria moved rapidly down the tunnel toward me, then turned and reached out her arms into the darkness. There Evangeline was moving swiftly toward her, but the quacking duck got in her way. She stopped short.
The duck grew larger and more grotesque and finally expanded into Gen. Merganser Hunterdon on a big black horse. He was angry and menacing. He reared the horse up in front of Evangeline, but Victoria shouted, “Man may only chase the demon messenger of grief with unbound charity,” and threw her mallet with all her might. It struck Merganser and he fell to the ground and began to age hideously. Then he shrank back into a weak little duck.
The duck flew over Victoria, who was now standing in her studio. The duck dropped twenty silver coins into her hand. She closed her fingers but one of the coins dropped to the floor. She searched for it. Then she looked directly at me, pointed to the floor, lifted her foot and under it was the coin. She picked it up with a nod and then we were both back in the vast tunnel again.
Victoria saw Evangeline and swept her into her arms in a triumphant moment that made me feel as though there was hope for the world. But Merganser’s riderless horse, big and dark, with fire in its eyes, snorted back into view. It was charging Evangeline.
I moved to warn her and suddenly I was being chased by the threatening animal. Its eyes were murderous, just as the steel drummer’s had been.
I heard Kathryn’s voice calling me. She was standing on the steps to the studio, high above the tunnel floor. She reached out and pulled me up out of the way of the charging horse. Kathryn had something in her hand. She gave it to me; it was her cup.
But then we saw the crazed beast. It didn’t look like a horse any more; it was just a terrifying mass. It was chasing Suzanne Carbondale. She screamed as the dark cloud bore down on her. She changed into Frankie Kibbey, who turned to run. But the mass fastened to his arm dragging him along with it. I could see Frankie turn into Gabe Carbondale, who yelled and struggled as he was being carried off. And then Gabe changed into Evangeline, who turned to look desperately at me. She held out her hand. She called, “Help us....”
I jumped down and ran after them. The cloud of darkness was moving away along the tunnel faster than my leaden legs could go. I saw the face of the victim again; it was every victim I’d ever tried to help, and I couldn’t reach them. I called out as darkness surrounded me, “Stop...” But my voice was so soft I couldn’t hear it myself. I desperately tried again...
“sssssSSSSStop STOP!” I groaned.
I tried to claw through the darkness but it was like climbing a ladder through mud, near the edge of panic. Then I heard Kathryn’s voice calling me and I could see a tiny light overhead. I felt stronger. I drew oxygen into my lungs. Her voice got clearer. And suddenly I was awake and in her arms.
“Oh, Kathryn...” I said, shaking my head to rid myself of the last gripping vision. I looked at the clock. It was 10 a.m. I shook my head again.
“No, no,” said Kathryn, holding my head still. “Tell me, tell me what you were dreaming about, before the dream slips away!”
“I need...” I grabbed a drawing pad from the nightstand drawer and furiously began making sketches of the scenes in my dream. After a few minutes I stopped to look carefully at what I’d drawn, and then I drew in some more details.
When I finally stopped, Kathryn looked at the drawings and said, “Tell me.”
I told her each person, each thing, each place, and every action I could remember using the sketches as prompts. I added more details as they came to me. She listened without speaking.
When I was done, I stared at her and she stared back.
“Do you know what it all means?” she asked.
“I think,” I squeezed my eyes shut and sat still with my hand raised. I’d known some of it already, but now the rest of the pieces were fitting together. I nodded, slowly.
“Man must chase the demon messenger of grief with unbound charity,” I said. I put my hand on my forehead, trying to make sense of it. Then I looked up. “Either what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she lose one piece, doth not light a candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find it?”
I could feel Kathryn watching me.
“You know, don’t you?” she asked.
“Victoria wasn’t repeating a parable. She was giving us directions. Yes, I have the motive and it’s a good one. The same for all four murders. A few parts of it are still alphabet soup, but I think I know, almost everything.”
“Four murders? Who else was killed?”
“Evangeline.”
“But that doesn’t have anything to do with what’s happening now,” insisted Kathryn.
“Yes, it does. It has everything to do with now.”
“Maggie, who did it? Who killed Suzanne?”
“It was the steel drummer.”
“I’m not clear on this. That wasn’t Gabe?”
“No, he was the drunk. And she wasn’t stabbed twice with an ice pick. She was stabbed once.”
“But who is it? Who is the killer?” asked Kathryn.
I opened my mouth to tell her who I thought it was, but her phone rang with a text. She looked at it impatiently, then glanced at her watch and said, “Rats, it’s Jessie. I have to walk Buster with her. I really should go. I’m already late.”
“You go help Jessie with Buster. I’ll call the cops and try to convince them of my theory. You’d better leave or Buster will take a dump in Farrel and Jessie’s living room.”
Kathryn kissed me goodbye and hurried out the door.
I sat down with my laptop to wade through the rest of the alphabet soup and put into order a series of events that began with Victoria Snow rescuing Evangeline Fen from financial ruin and ended, I hoped, with a single shot to Gabriel Carbondale’s head.
Just as I entered the part about Victoria Snow becoming a grief-ridden artist in an underground studio committed to creating hundreds of images of Evangeline Fen, my head snapped up.
“That’s how she did it. Oh shit... Buster!” I said after a lucid realization slapped my forehead like a hard-swung sea bass. And then my phone rang with a text from Jessie.
Oh, no. This is bad.
I threw on clothes and opened the gun safe in record time. I stowed my gun in my shoulder holster and pulled on a ballistic vest. I hit the street at a run and made it to the back alley behind Fen House in minutes.
Jessie was at the back gate. Farrel had just joined her, out of breath. She’d run all the way there, as soon as Jessie had texted her.
“Where’s Kathryn?” I asked panting.
“Inside,” said Jessie. “She followed Buster into the house and then after a few minutes Nora went in too. Who knew Buster could open this gate by ramming it with his head?”
“Nora! How did Nora... And why doesn’t Kathryn just come out?” asked Farrel.
“Kathryn and I saw Nora on our walk and she came along. Kathryn just texted that she thinks there’s someone else in the house and to tell you that. I’ll just
call her,” said Jessie.
“NO! Don’t call! The killer could be in the house and hear Kathryn’s phone. Kathryn is texting because she doesn’t want anyone to hear her voice. You and Farrell go around to the front and ring the bell. I’m going in.”
“Wait. Killer? It wasn’t Gabe?” asked Farrel.
I shook my head, straining to see into the upstairs windows.
“But who? And why be in there?” asked Farrel.
A huge Baskerville howl rose from inside the house. It made birds flit from the trees.
“Oh crap, go to the front. NOW. Ring the bell and then move back. And call the police!”
I slid through the gate and into the backyard. I waited until I heard the front doorbell ring to peek through the backdoor glass. Buster barked when he heard the bell. There was no one in sight. I heard the bell ring again and then, faintly, a door creaked in the middle of the house.
I squatted and squeezed through the dog door. The barrel lock on the inside was snapped off. There was a dog-head dent in the middle of the oak panel. Buster had broken into his own house because he knew something was wrong there. I could see his fresh paw prints and some human knee-scuffs following after him.
Where was Buster? Surely he’d have heard me. His ears were as big as satellite dishes.
I decided to chance that if Kathryn was hiding, she would have put her phone on vibrate.
I texted, < Im in house where r u >
