Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Wrath of Isis

by P. T. Dilloway

  “Yeah, well, traffic and all that.” Louise didn’t move from where she stood. She nodded towards the book Emma had set on her lap. “Good book?”

  “It’s OK. I’d rather have the new issue of Geology Quarterly.”

  Louise took hold of the doorknob to brace herself. “Mom?”

  “It’s me. More or less.”

  Finally Louise found the strength to move. She flung herself at her mother—or at least the girl who would grow up to be her mother. “Oh thank God. I was so worried,” Louise said.

  Emma patted her back as Louise cried into her shoulder as if she were the child. “It’s all right. She’s not going to kill me. Not until she’s done having her fun.”

  Louise collapsed onto a chair beside the bed. She looked down at the floor; she didn’t want to look at the adorable little girl on the bed with her legs propped up. “I thought after what she did to Amanda and Tim—I don’t know how, but one minute I was standing there talking to Amanda and the next everything went dark. When the lights came back on, she was a prostitute. And Tim—” Louise put both hands to her face.

  “What about Tim?”

  “He was trying to rape one of the girls.” Louise waited for her mother to react, but Emma said nothing. “She even got to Dr. Pavelski.”

  “I know. She took my bedpan a few minutes ago.”

  “Everyone’s gone now. We’re alone.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Dan’s dead. Becky too. And Megan. She killed them all. And Aggie, she did the same thing as she did to you—only worse.” Louise thought her mother would cry at this grim news, but little Emma’s cute face showed no reaction at all. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes.” Emma reached out with one small hand to pat Louise’s.

  “What do we do? How can we stop her?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

  “What if we can’t stop her? What if Amanda and Tim and Aggie and you are all stuck the way you are now forever?”

  Emma gave Louise’s hand a squeeze. “Take it easy, baby.”

  “Take it easy? Look at you! You’re six years old!”

  “Six and a half.”

  “That’s not funny!”

  “I know it’s hard, but you have to calm down. You can’t get carried away with fear. That’s what she wants. She knows you’re young and inexperienced. She’s trying to rattle you so she can get what she wants.”

  “The book.”

  “No matter what happens, you can’t give it to her.”

  “What’s in that book that’s so important?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Louise shook her mother’s hand away so she could stand up. “You don’t know? After all of this. Dan and Becky and Megan dead—for what for all we know could be a fucking cookbook!”

  Emma cleared her throat, which sounded far less authoritative now. “Language.”

  Louise gaped at her mother for a moment in shock. “Are you kidding me? We’re facing the end of the world and you’re scolding me for using a curse word? Jesus Christ, Mom!”

  Though the rest of her might appear to be six and a half years old, Mom’s eyes were still the same, The Glare as potent as ever. “Whatever I look like on the outside, I’m still your mother on the inside. Is that understood?”

  As always, Louise wilted beneath The Glare. She nodded and then sank onto the chair again. “I don’t think I can take any more of this. What if tomorrow she decides to make you a baby? Or an old man? Or a junkie? I can’t let her keep toying with us.”

  “You can’t give in to her. No matter what she does to me.” Emma reached out to take Louise’s hand again in her much smaller one. “I know it’s hard for you to accept, but I’m not important. Not in the scheme of things. I’m just a broken down old lady who happens to love you very much. Do you understand?”

  Finally Louise couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. “Don’t talk like that, Mom. You are important. To me.”

  “I know, baby. But you have to remember what someone once told me: nothing is gained without sacrifice.”

  “I don’t want to sacrifice you!”

  “You might have to, baby. She might not leave us any choice about it.” Emma gave Louise’s hand a light pat. “Now, you should go get some rest. I’ve got to see how Nancy is going to find out who burned down this house and where the woman’s husband is.”

  Louise couldn’t help but smile at this. Her mother—who right now could be Nancy Drew—had probably figured out the mystery after the first page. “Mom—”

  “Go on, shoo.”

  “You know it’s way past bedtime for a girl your age.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Louise leaned down to kiss her mother on one freckled cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “OK, baby.” Before Louise could reach the door, Emma called for her to stop. She held up a black marker. “Sign my cast before you go, would you?”

  Louise smiled and then took the marker. She wrote her name on both casts; she dotted the ‘i’ with a heart as she’d done when she was six and a half. By the time she’d reached the door, Emma had the book open again; she calmly read as if the world weren’t ending all around them.

  Louise left the door open a crack for a minute to watch her mother read. She wanted to remember her that way in case tomorrow she came back to find Emma even littler—or gone entirely. On her way out, she passed Laura Pavelski, who pushed a cart loaded with bedpans. “How’s she doing?” the candy striper asked.

  “Just fine. She’s still reading, happy as a clam.”

  “Such a good kid. I keep selfishly hoping she never leaves. Is that wrong of me?”

  “Not at all. I feel the same way.”

  Chapter 26

  Cecelia had learned all the tricks over the years for how to stalk her prey. In her apartment at the main safe house she had an entire closet full of clothes from every decade in the last century and a half and for every style, age, and gender. She had a safe inside the closet where she kept the various potions that could make her fat or thin, young or old, and male or female for a few hours, long enough to complete the job.

  Most of the time she didn’t need to rely on any magic to disguise herself. In predominantly white countries she could fade into the background easily enough with the right clothes. In other parts of the world, if she needed to get closer than a tourist or businessperson could get, she would take a potion to look Latin, Asian, or African. She used these sparingly as the ingredients were expensive and there was always the chance of side effects, like the time she’d used a dash too much bunkberry and looked like a Smurf for two weeks.

  To stalk Emily Cabot she didn’t have any of these luxuries. Maria’s body was much too far along in the pregnancy for her to go around as anything except a pregnant young woman. She could have tried to dye her hair, but there weren’t the range of shades available in the ‘40s as in the 21st Century and most wouldn’t go with her olive skin anyway so that she’d only stand out even more. The best she could do was to use some of the little money Sue had given to her to buy a hat with a wide, floppy brim to somewhat disguise her face.

  As it turned out, she didn’t need to worry much about a disguise. Emily Cabot was the Irish equivalent of Maria Costopolous, a young farm girl too recently arrived in the big city to realize the dangers. The way Cabot’s gangly body strolled the sidewalks with her purse loose on her shoulder just begged someone to snatch it from her. Could a girl that dumb really be Dr. Emma Earl, the Scarlet Knight? Maybe she put on an act for anyone who might be watching, to disguise herself as the naïve farm girl come to the big city.

  For most of the day Cabot walked from one office to another, all of them with “Help Wanted” signs in the window. Cecelia followed her, usually from the opposite side of the street, in her new hat and an overcoat she’d “borrowed” from a chair in a coffee shop. This caution was unnecessary, as Cabot looked down at her fe
et most of the time.

  As the day went on, Cabot’s sunny expression began to fade. Cecelia could imagine it had been a day of polite rejections with all the usual excuses of needing someone with more experience or more skills. Those were probably valid to some extent as Cabot had probably never done more than bake pies and darn socks back on the farm. More valid was the bulge in her midsection that she couldn’t conceal with a loose dress and coat, at least not from someone with experience at that kind of thing. Cecelia doubted Cabot was as far along as Maria Costopolous, probably more like four or five months along. In another four or five months she would give birth to Gladys Cabot, Emma Earl’s future aunt. That was if she lived long enough.

  Cecelia was grateful when Cabot finally decided to end her futile day of job seeking at four o’clock to slip into a diner. Though it was a slight risk, Cecelia decided to follow her inside, mostly because she needed to rest her swollen feet. To further demonstrate her lack of awareness, Cabot sat at the counter and faced the kitchen. Cecelia took a booth in the corner, from which she could observe her prey.

  “What can I get you, honey?” the waitress asked Cabot.

  Cabot took a change pouch out of her purse and spilled it onto the counter. She even had her future granddaughter’s soft voice as she asked, “Is this enough for a cup of tea and a piece of toast?”

  “Toast? You sick or something?”

  “Or something.”

  The waitress eyed the change and then scooped all but a nickel into her palm. “That ought to do it.”

  “Thank you.”

  The waitress shouted back to the kitchen for a piece of toast. Cecelia couldn’t hear the response from the kitchen, but it prompted the waitress to shout back, “You going dumb back there? Just one piece of toast.” The waitress then turned back to Cabot. “You want any butter or jam on the side?”

  “Some honey would be nice.”

  The waitress eyed her skeptically for a moment but returned with a bottle of honey. “Knock yourself out, honey.” She then snickered at her own joke before she sauntered over to where Cecelia sat. “What about you?”

  Cecelia’s appetite had finally caught up with her, now that she didn’t have money for much more than a cup of coffee. “Just coffee. And a piece of pie. Apple, if you got it.”

  “All’s we got left is cherry.”

  “That’ll be fine.” The pie would put a slight dent in her budget for the day, but she didn’t care. In a few minutes her time here might be over and then it would be up to Maria Costopolous to figure things out again.

  She wolfed down the pie while Cabot daintily nibbled on her toast, which she’d liberally doused with honey. As she watched her prey, Cecelia reached one hand into the pocket of her overcoat for the hunting knife she’d managed to lift from a sporting goods store. It wouldn’t be all that much better than the steak knife from Malloy’s, but it was better than nothing—and it should be enough to finish off Emma Earl and with any luck get back to her rightful time. How she would manage this she still didn’t know; she would just have to hope that once her business was completed, a way out would present itself.

  It didn’t come as a surprise to see Cabot leave her last nickel on the counter as a tip. That was the kind of foolish nobility that would lead her granddaughter to become the Scarlet Knight. Cecelia left only a penny; she had no money to waste on nobility. “Thank you,” Cabot said to the waitress and then went out the front door. Cecelia watched her take a right turn and then made her way to the door; she tried to seem casual as she did so.

  Cabot made her way back to a motel not unlike the one Cecelia was staying in for another day or two, until she ran out of money. Along the way, Cabot walked with head down and shoulders slumped to wallow in disappointment. Cecelia stayed back a few feet to let the other pedestrians form a buffer between them.

  She took her biggest risk of the day when she followed Cabot into the motel. She started up the stairs while Cabot went to the front desk. “Did anyone leave any messages for me?” Cabot asked, the hope evident in her voice.

  “Nope,” the clerk replied absently.

  Cecelia leaned against the railing to watch as Cabot climbed up the stairs, her eyes still on her feet. This made it easy for Cecelia to keep one floor ahead of her, until Cabot finally stopped on the fourth floor. Cecelia waited a moment for Cabot to start down the hall before she hurried down to the fourth floor herself. Cabot shuffled along slowly enough that Cecelia managed to fall into step behind her. When Cabot turned to unlock the door to 406, Cecelia turned to the door of 404 and pretended to unlock it.

  This caution was unnecessary as Cabot simply unlocked her door and went inside, without even a glance around the hallway. Cecelia sprang into action then, not as fast as she would have liked, but fast enough to get her foot in the door before Cabot could shut it. From experience Cecelia knew Maria Costopolous didn’t have much strength, but she did have bulk and the element of surprise. This was enough to batter the door back and knock Cabot to the floor of the tiny room.

  “Who are you?” Cabot asked as she looked up at Cecelia.

  “No more talking,” Cecelia said. She reached into her pocket for the knife. Cabot didn’t even twitch, probably paralyzed with fear as Cecelia bent down and put the knife to Cabot’s throat with one hand and used the other to take a handful of Cabot’s red hair. Cecelia yanked the woman’s head back so she could see her eyes—her hazel eyes. “Shit!”

  From her own experience, Cecelia knew this couldn’t be Emma Earl. Earl had blue eyes, not hazel. If she had taken possession of her grandmother’s body, she would have the same blue eyes, just as Maria Costopolous had Cecelia’s green eyes at the moment. “Shit!”

  “Please don’t kill me,” Cabot whispered. “I don’t have much money left, but you can have it. Just let me and my baby alone.”

  “I don’t want your fucking money.”

  Cabot’s hazel eyes filled with tears; her pale cheeks turned red. “Please don’t hurt me,” she said again. “I only came here to find a job. My husband’s in the Marines and he sends back what he can, but it’s not enough for me and the baby and the farm. I just thought I could find work here until he gets back. I don’t want to die!”

  “I’m not going to kill you,” Cecelia said. She pulled the knife back. She probably should kill Cabot. Without Emily Cabot there would be no Emma Earl to take the Scarlet Knight’s armor sixty-four years from now. She didn’t really believe any of that quantum nonsense about a paradox to destroy the universe or anything. What she did believe was that every innocent life deserved a chance. She had never killed a baby and she wouldn’t start now.

  Cecelia tucked the knife back into her pocket. Then she took Cabot’s hand and helped her over to the bed, where she sat next to the woman, who’d begun to sob. “I’m sorry,” Cecelia said. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “I shouldn’t be here,” Cabot said. “I shouldn’t have ever left the farm. If Charlie finds out about this he’d be so awful mad.”

  “Then why did you come here?”

  “Because it’s been such a bad summer. The weather’s been terrible and the boys are all overseas. It’s just been Mama and me trying to make a go of it and now—I thought I could get a job just until the baby’s due, so we won’t lose the farm.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “You shouldn’t talk like that. That’s a sin.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard.” Cecelia didn’t know why she was still here in Cabot’s room; she should have taken off two minutes ago. She supposed it was because for the last couple of days she’d found herself in the same position as Cabot was in. She heaved a sigh and then said, “Are you serious about working?”

  “Yes. I’m a good worker and I don’t ever complain.”

  “I can imagine.” Cecelia shook her head and chided herself for what she was about to do. “I know someone who can help you. Her name’s Sue Johnson. She works over at Harmon-Farmer. I happen to know they just let go of a coup
le people and will need some good strong hands.”

  “Do you mean it?”

  “Yes.” She borrowed a pen from Cabot’s purse to write down Sue’s address on a piece of paper. “You should wait until tomorrow morning. Not safe out there for a young lady like yourself this late.”

  “All right.” Cecelia cried out when Cabot lunged at her, but it was only to hug her. “Thank you so much, Miss—”

  “That’s not important. I’d better go.”

  “God bless you!” Cabot called after her. Cecelia bristled at this; she’d given up on God a long time ago. On her way down the stairs, she told herself it wasn’t Christian charity or any of that nonsense, only the desire to make things even with Sue.

  Then she stepped out into the night—and promptly into the clutches of three men with shotguns.

  ***

  In any job—successful or not—timing was everything. Fire the gun or throw the knife a second late or a second early and the target would probably go home with just a nasty wound. Show up at a rendezvous a minute late and the whole operation could unravel.

  In this case Cecelia showed up at the front of Cabot’s motel at the exact moment the three drunk yokels were cruising by in their rusty truck. She knew from the overalls and homemade shirts that these three men were not with any of the mob syndicates in town; the mob had a lot more style than that. The mob also didn’t use shotguns very often as these were far too imprecise and noisy.

  The moment Cecelia stepped out of the motel, the driver of the truck stomped on the brakes and all three got out. It wasn’t bad timing so much as sloppiness that she was too preoccupied after her encounter with Cabot to notice the men until she practically ran into them. “Well looky here,” one said and flashed a crooked yellow smile.

  Another said, “Seems like we found ourselves a little Mexican whore.”

  From this sentence and a certain family resemblance she knew who these men were: they were Gert’s family, come to the big city to take revenge on Cecelia. They had probably cruised around all day to find her and it just so happened she was unfortunate enough to leave the motel as they passed by. “I’m not a Mexican,” she said. “I’m Greek.”