by Glen Krisch
“Nice one, Clarabelle!” Poppa said.
The front door opened and Robby let out a blood-curdling scream. “Help! Please, someone help my mom!”
Clara nearly dropped a carton of eggs before setting it on the counter. By the time she turned around, Heidi was already running toward her brother, and Poppa wasn’t too far behind.
Robby stood in the doorway. Tears streamed down his tan cheeks. Snot bubbled from one nostril. The front of his shorts was stained dark with urine.
“What happened, Robby?” Poppa asked.
Heidi charged outside, calling for her mom.
Poppa struggled to one knee to meet Robby’s eye level.
“She’s … she’s at the grave. Nan’s grave. She heard …” The boy fell into a fit of tears that choked off his words.
“What is it? What did she hear?” Poppa said, his voice a reedy rasp.
Heidi’s voice faded as she got farther from the summer house.
Robby cleared his throat and when he spoke again it was in a frail croak. “She heard … Nan. She heard Nan and she’s trying to dig her out.”
“What in the world?” Poppa gasped.
Heidi screamed in the distance.
Poppa took off as fast as he could for the front door, Clara and Robby a step behind.
Clara easily overtook Poppa and sprinted in the direction of the graveyard. By the time she reached the tiny alcove, her lungs were burning.
Heidi was weeping as she pleaded with her mother. “Mom, please … please stop!”
Aunt Leah stood waist-deep in a muddy hole. She glanced at Heidi before returning her attention to the grave. While she didn’t say anything, the look of madness in her eyes said plenty. She was using a gardening trowel to scrape at the widening hole. Rain from the night before had certainly helped loosen the soil, but it wasn’t effective to dig with such a meager tool. Mud streaked her face and upper torso and caked her hair, as if she’d been rolling around in slop. The whites of her eyes flashed—unhinged madness. Abrasions and gashes littered her filthy knuckles and hands. Blood trailed from a number of wounds, mixing with the mud.
“Aunt Leah,” Clara whispered.
Heidi noticed her arrival and practically fell into her arms.
“Aunt Leah!” Clara shouted, gaining her voice, even as she tried to console her cousin.
“What do you want?” Aunt Leah said, and turned toward the girls with a snarl.
A twig snapped as Poppa entered the alcove. “What are you doing, dear?” His voice was gentle and warm, but his eyes were full of worry.
“She’s here. Alive. I heard her,” Aunt Leah said with a tremble in her voice. “She asked me to get her out. She wants to be free. She wants to feel the sunlight on her skin.” She turned back to the widening hole and made another scraping pass with the trowel. While she still attacked the task at hand, she began to cry. “I have to get to her. She needs me.”
“Oh, my poor girl.” Poppa reached low and placed a hand on her heaving shoulder.
She jumped at his touch. The madness filling her eyes softened.
“Poppa? Poppa, what’s wrong with me?”
She fell over at the waist at the lip of the hole, her head resting near his feet.
Poppa shushed her like a baby woken by a nightmare and patted her back.
Poppa turned toward Clara and said, “I need you to get your father and uncle. Okay?”
Aunt Leah allowed Poppa to help her from the hole. He wasn’t manhandling her by any means; he was far too weak to offer her anything besides a gentle guiding hand.
“Yes, of course,” Clara said.
“Make sure you tell them how imperative it is they come here right away.”
Clara nodded.
Robby ran to his mom and wrapped his arms around her neck. “Mommy, I’m so scared.”
“Please, Clarabelle?” Poppa said, his eyes showing deep worry.
Clara nodded again and started sprinting across the front lawn and around the side of the house. A cramp quickly built up in her side. She barely felt her bare feet as they slapped across the grass. Her robe loosened as she reached the sand. She wanted more than anything to rest her hands on her knees and catch her breath, but noticed her dad and uncle dragging the boat ashore. She started off again, waved her arms above her head and called out, but they didn’t notice her.
By the time Uncle Jack saw her, cramps stabbed her ribs in two places.
Uncle Jack pointed her out to her dad. They both ran to her.
“What is it?” Uncle Jack said. “Did something happen?”
Clara dropped her hands to her knees, sucked in as much air as the cramps would allow.
Her dad touched her shoulder. “Clara, you’re scaring me. What happened?”
“Aunt Leah …” She paused to draw in more breath, “she’s … she’s digging.”
“What?” her dad said, confused.
“Nan’s grave...” she wheezed. “She thinks she hears her, that she’s alive and needs to get out. Poppa, he’s with her.” Saying the words made it sound insane.
Uncle Jack took off, kicking up sand.
“Are you okay?” her dad asked, rubbing her shoulder.
“Poppa said it was …” she said and sucked in more breath, “that it’s imperative you come as fast as you can. I’m fine. Just a little cramp.”
Her dad gave her a quizzical glance.
She panted, catching her breath. “Really, I’m okay.” She waved at him to leave, and he followed in Uncle Jack’s footsteps across the sand to the side of the house.
~
By the time Clara reached the front yard, everyone had returned from the graveyard. From the mouth of the alcove, she saw the crazed defiling of Nan’s grave and felt soul-sick. She couldn’t imagine what had driven Aunt Leah to such madness, but there could be no other explanation than some kind of mental break. She turned away, haunted by her aunt’s crazed digging and ranting about trying to save Nan. When she reached the front door, her father stepped outside.
“Is she okay?” Clara asked.
He paused before saying, “I’m not really sure.”
“What happened?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, but she needs help. The cell service is still down. The land line isn’t working either.”
“What can we do?” Clara asked.
“I’m going to drive her to the hospital in Grand Haven. She’s calmed down quite a bit, almost like whatever had come over her had never even happened. But she still needs looking after. Heidi is coming with to help keep her calm. Your aunt seems in much better spirits with Heidi nearby.”
“What about Mom?” Clara pressed.
“There’s not much we can do if we can’t call her, right? So I want you to stay here with your uncle and Poppa. Watch after Robby and Trev. Okay?”
She wanted to plead to go with him, but she knew it was better if she stayed. She wasn’t an adult, but with Poppa being so weak, and Uncle Jack acting flaky, someone had to keep an eye on things.
“Okay, Dad.”
The front door swung open and Aunt Leah stepped outside. Heidi stood next to her, acting as both guide and crutch as they made their way to the car. As she walked past, Heidi made eye contact with Clara. Her cousin looked beyond scared.
Clara had seen that fear before. It reminded her of Breann’s panicked expression just before she snapped and went digging into the mound of rocks. Clara touched the heart charm through her shirt, which brought her a small amount of comfort.
Poppa joined them on the porch and put an arm around her. Together they watched her dad load Aunt Leah into the front passenger side of her Hyundai minivan. Faded bumper stickers covered the rear bumper: Bernie or Bust, Got Tofu? and Namaste.
“She’ll be all right.” Poppa sounded uncertain, as if he w
ere trying to convince himself.
“I hope so,” Clara said.
Her dad closed the door for Aunt Leah. As he hurried around the back of the car, he gave them a harried wave.
Clara felt a mad urge to run up to him to give him a hug. She was being foolish, but she had an overwhelming feeling she might not see him again.
“She’ll be fine,” Poppa reiterated. “She’s just … really tired.”
They watched the minivan pull away. When they were certain it wouldn’t just turn right around, they went inside.
“Poppa …” Clara broke off into a sob as they neared the kitchen. “I’m so sorry, but …”
“What is it, Clarabelle?” Poppa placed a hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s stupid. Just so stupid. But I don’t know how to make pancakes, and you must be starving.”
While the tension in Poppa’s expression eased, it didn’t altogether leave his wrinkled face. “Don’t you worry. I know how to make them. How about I teach you?”
“Aren’t you tired?” she said.
“All the time, sure. But teaching you how to make pancakes? I can always nap later.”
Poppa smiled and Clara couldn’t help following suit. She walked with Poppa’s arm wrapped over her shoulder as they made their way to the kitchen.
Uncle Jack and Trevor were sitting at the island. Upset over what they’d witnessed, Trevor sipped a tall glass of ice water while Uncle Jack tipped back a can of beer.
“That sure was something,” Uncle Jack said.
“Not another word about it, Jackson,” Poppa said. “Not now,”
“It’s just that—”
“We are making breakfast. You can either help out, or go off some place to drink yourself into a stupor. In either case, not another word.”
Uncle Jack nodded but didn’t say anything. He crushed the can in his palm and tossed it in the recycling can. He went over to the cabinet, and with the help of Trevor, set the table.
In no time, Poppa taught Clara the rudiments of making golden brown pancakes.
CHAPTER 31
Edgar repeated, “So, the old man, he’s dead, right? That why you here?” His lips curled into a grin as he examined her reaction. He sucked on his front teeth, as if trying to dislodge a bit of food.
The question hung in the air, and when Krista couldn’t immediately find her voice, she felt a surge of panic. She looked back at the steel door with the small viewing window. Burkhart’s broad back blocked the thick pane of glass. She was on her own.
She took a calming breath.
“No, he’s not.” She finally turned her gaze to him, meeting his cold blue eyes with an unwavering stare. She pulled out the chair across from him and sat. When she clasped her hands in front of her on the table, she noticed him looking at her fingers. He arched one eyebrow.
Is he smirking about my wedding band?
She felt uncomfortable being so close to him. No, not just uncomfortable, but sickened. She lowered her hands to her lap.
“He’s not dead, but he’s not well, either. Right?”
She wasn’t expecting the intense knowing projecting from his eyes. It was unnerving.
“What does it matter?”
Edgar laughed, as if he’d pieced together the entirety of Poppa’s plight by parsing her few words. “I miss good ol’ Pierce. He’s always been good to me. Kind. Understanding. I don’t see much of that in here most days.” He again sucked on his teeth, easing back against the back of his chair and slumping until his chest was level with the table. He didn’t look like a killer, more like a janitor, or perhaps a post office clerk.
“He told me,” she said, trying to catch him off guard, “about you and Breann.”
“I don’t know no Bree-ann.”
“Yes, you do. You killed her. She was my friend, and you killed her.”
Edgar pointed an index finger and clicked his tongue as he cocked his thumb forward, as if firing a gun. “You know, I remember you. You have the same eyes as when you were nothing but a lithe little girl. I see the rest of you has changed. You’ve become a beautiful woman. Comely, they call it, right? But those eyes … Just like back in the day.”
He stared at her, but Krista wouldn’t look away, even though she wanted to cry, even though it was hard not to vomit.
“You killed my friend,” she said, slowly, deliberately, “and I want to bring her home. I want to bring her peace. She never hurt anyone.”
“I know. That’s why I took her—”
“You said you didn’t know her,” Krista cut in.
“Yeah, well, I lied. I wasn’t ever good at jokes. But guess what? I’m imprisoned for the rest of my goddamn life, and I fully admit to my crimes as a serial kidnapper and child killer. One of the only honest people in this joint. So, yeah, I knew little Breann McCort. Knew her real good. I knew she was nice, just as nice as you and your sister.”
“What, were you spying on us?”
Krista knew this from reading Poppa’s manuscript, but a fount of information was opening and she wanted it blown wide. Not only was she sitting across from Breann’s killer, he was speaking unguardedly.
“To a point, I guess you could say. I had to study until I figured out which of the three of you would be going for a ride in my van.”
“But why us? Why at all?”
“That’s a complicated story,” he said with a sigh.
“But Breann … you liked her pain. That’s why you chose her over me?”
“You’re asking a question, but it sounds like you already know my answer.” Edgar leaned his forearms against the heavy table, stooped as far across the divide between them that his manacles would allow. His eyes narrowed. “Did Pierce ever finish his book?”
“I … I don’t know.” She screwed up by revealing information she could’ve only learned through Poppa’s manuscript. She’d wanted to project an air of innocent ignorance about the broader information regarding Breann’s disappearance.
“But you’ve read it. I can’t imagine him talking to his granddaughter about our private conversations. He never came across as someone who’d talk about my proclivities, my …” he broke off in a chuckle, “… demons.”
“Yes, I’ve read some of it. And yes, you’re right. Poppa is sick. Almost gone, really. To be honest, he doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t need to know, either. I don’t think I could trouble him at this point, not with how sick he is. I just want answers. Please … Mr. Jenkins.”
Edgar’s smile faded, his humor gone. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the chair again. “It’s a shame.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“I never got to see it completed.”
“See what?”
“My masterpiece. Just one more piece to the puzzle, and it would’ve been complete. But Pierce put an end to all that. Dropped that dime and put my ass in here.”
She had a million questions, but hesitated. She didn’t want to risk him clamming up if she said the wrong thing.
“What did your ‘masterpiece’ do for you?” she finally asked.
“Working on it fixed me. Like new. Like, the demons inside me were no longer there, had never even been there.”
“So, your killing set you free?” she asked, confused.
“Yes. I’d killed before I came to your neck of the woods. I’d been angry since I was a tyke. So goddamn angry all the time. But all that changed. Even as I started collecting pieces for my masterpiece. The anger had gone. And the shame of it, not being able to see it completed really is a shame. But, I suppose I’m better off for the bargain. Now, imprisoned ’til my last breath? I consider myself a free man.”
“Nothing could change who you are.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. The urge to kill, it’s gone out of me. That’
s what I’m talking about. The urge is quiet.”
“The children … they were a sacrifice?”
“I suppose they were,” Edgar said and crossed himself.
“Tell me, how did it all start? I mean, what makes someone decide to do what you did?”
“When I was young … Jesus … when I was young, I didn’t know what I was doing. You know, with the killing. It was totally random. Messy. Inelegant.”
“But something changed?”
“I needed guidance. Understanding to my outbursts. I always focused on strong girls. Kind girls. But flawed girls. Girls with underlying pain.”
“And, Breann?” Krista asked, trying to steer him.
“She fit the mold, totally. The potential of my … obsessions, when they were on the cusp of adulthood, that’s what I sought. To find someone strong, and to snuff them out.”
“What was your relationship with your mother like?” she asked, hoping to provoke.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Apparently, everything.”
“Don’t you fucking talk about my mother.” He stood so quickly that the chair tipped backward and rattled against the tile floor.
Krista eyed his manacles, took a steadying breath.
“I’m sorry, but I just want to understand. Why did you take Breann? Where is she? Where is my friend?”
“She’s dead,” he said, leaning forward with his palms against the table. “I wrapped her in plastic, hung her feet from a meat hook. I sliced her throat to drain her dry. Then I cleaned the blood off her freckled fucking face.”
“Where is she?”
Edgar burst into hysterical laughter.
“Where is Breann?” she said between gritted teeth.
He tipped his head back as laughter wracked his body.
Krista felt her rage rising. This little man no longer frightened her. She came around the table and he turned to face her. He was no more than an inch or two taller. Her fear nearly returned because of his closeness, but she kept it in check. She grabbed his shirt collar and shook him as hard as she could.
