The dead silence that followed was soon broken as the pantry door creaked open, and Annie peered into the kitchen. Seeing no one, she crawled out of the cupboard to close the back door just in time to hear a banging noise at the front of the house.
“Annie!” Christian shouted, bursting through the front door. “Annie! Where are you?”
They found her in a pile on the kitchen floor. Her hair was a mess, a spray of blood was on her face, and she was covered in dirt. She was pressing a dish towel against the palm of her hand, and her body was trembling.
“Annie!” Christian hurried over to kneel in front of her while he looked madly about the room. “I’m so sorry. I just got your message. Are you all right? Did Culler do this?”
Annie nodded— tears forming parallel streaks of grime on her cheeks— and pointed to the backyard.
Christian and Edmond scrambled for the door. As they yanked it open, Annie screamed, “No!”They turned to face her. “No.” She shook her head and gathered herself. “I reset it.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
Curtain Call
Something was wrong.
Mr. Culler sensed it immediately. He picked himself up from atop Danyer to look around but could make out very little in the dim light. The only thing he could say for certain was that they were not in the rose garden behind Miss Aster’s house.
They appeared to be in a living room. The shades were drawn and the only sound to be heard was a barely audible drone. As they stepped farther into the room, flies— hundreds of them— lifted from the floorboards, swarming around the two men. Culler stared at the stain that had attracted them and began to speak softly so as not to aggravate the pounding in his skull. “That damn woman,” he said.
Danyer turned, making his plodding way back to the door, but Mr. Culler grabbed his arm. “Not just yet,” he said. He tightened the tourniquet on his leg, checked the state of the cuts on his forearm, and turned to stare at something standing in the corner— a red door. “We killed a man for that,” he said.
The air seemed to close in with Mr. Culler’s comment. Then, as if the silence had been stretched to the breaking point, twin explosions cracked through the darkness. Mr. Culler jerked involuntarily at the sound, blinking in confusion at a stain spreading across Danyer’s chest. He looked down and dropped to his knees. There was a stain on his chest to mirror Danyer’s. He covered it with his hand, looking up when he heard the tread of shoes on wood.
A match was struck, its flame bobbing and flickering before merging with the glow of a gas lamp.
A figure emerged from the shadows.
“You!” exclaimed Mr. Culler. He wagged a bloody finger, his mind struggling to make sense of the image resolving before his eyes. He coughed, and a fine red mist sprayed from his chest, settling to a gurgle that leached into the cotton of his shirt, the stain swelling to merge with the dried blood he’d acquired at the hand of Miss Aster.
Twirling a gun, the assailant walked across the room and sat on the sofa. He crossed his legs and rested his arms over the backrest, the gun dangling from the index finger of his left hand.
“But you’re dead,” Culler blurted.
David Abbott considered the bloodstain on the floorboards. “Indeed, it appears that I was.” He lifted his head to return Mr. Culler’s gaze. “It should follow then that I will be again. But who knows? At the present, I am very much alive.” He lifted his chin. “It’s your mortality we should be discussing at the moment.”
Mr. Culler watched as Danyer lowered himself to the floor and leaned on the edge of the rug, bracing his torso with one arm, his unencumbered fist pressed into a bullet hole to slow the bleeding. “How can this be?” Mr. Culler asked. “I saw you fall. I watched as your blood spilled.” He glanced at the fly-infested stain, heedless of the fresh one being created as his blood dribbled beneath him.
David leaned forward to confide in Culler. “I have no knowledge of it,” he said. “You see, whatever you may have done in your mean, petty little way is yet to transpire for me.”
Mr. Culler blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you?” David leaned back against the divan and managed to look almost offended. “It’s quite simple, really. I was forewarned of your intent and skipped through time even as you knocked on my front door. I’m sure you know by what means.” David turned to gaze pensively at the door standing in the corner. “But I must give my creation its due. It chose the perfect time and the place for me. For here you are, and I’ve exacted my revenge for a murder that is yet to take place.” He whispered, “It’s my intent, even now, to cheat death, though”— his eyes lost focus as he tried to understand something that was just out of his reach—“I wonder…” He cut the sentence off, smiled, and returned to his dialogue.
“Death is the greatest illusion. Perhaps I’ve mentioned that before?” He paused, allowing Mr. Culler the space to respond. When none was forthcoming, he continued. “And am I not a master of illusions?” he asked. “You should know that your eyes can be betrayed by someone possessing the requisite skill.Think of this”—David extended his arms flamboyantly—“as my command performance. My final curtain call.” He stood to bow before dropping back onto the divan with a chuckle. “I’ll understand should you not feel compelled to applaud.”
Pulling the gun from his holster, Mr. Culler pointed it at David with an unsteady hand, the mad spark in his eyes dulled by pain. “Not many people can boast that they killed the same person twice,” he said.
David shrugged, throwing his arms across the back of the sofa. “To what end? Am I not already dead?”
Unruffled by the comment, Mr. Culler attempted to train the barrel of the gun on David, but it swayed and teetered across the intended target. Steadying the revolver with both hands, he focused on the gun sight and pulled the trigger. It clicked dully. With his mind on the weapon, Mr. Culler didn’t notice as David flinched imperceptibly before a glimmer of a smile passed over his features.
Mr. Culler pulled the trigger again and again as David looked on with increasing mirth. Mr. Culler paused, puzzled. Then he remembered. A shot to warn Miss Aster. Another shot as Elsbeth’s dog escaped through the door. Four more as it ran behind the barn. He’d emptied the chamber of his six-shooter and forgotten to reload.
He ran numb fingers over his gun belt.
David leaned forward and put his forearms across his knees to study Mr. Culler’s actions.
The man’s vision was becoming as unreliable as the legs that gave out beneath him, so he simply knocked a bullet from its loop on his holster and watched stupidly while it rolled across the wooden floor. He fished for it drunkenly before finally collecting it between forefinger and thumb.
Opening the cylinder to his pistol with a shake, Culler dumped the spent shells on the rug and tried to insert the bullet in a chamber but gave up when his hand spasmed and the room began to spin.
He smothered a cough. Feebly wagging the gun at David, he turned to his companion. “Mr. Danyer?” he asked.
David followed Mr. Culler’s gaze, then turned back, entwining his fingers under his chin. “Mr. Danyer?” he said. “Oh yes, your hatchet man.” After a moment, he dropped his head between his shoulders. Tears of laughter wet his eyes when he looked up, and his next words sliced through the room like a scythe. “There is no Danyer here.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
Danyer Reprised
Danyer returned Mr. Culler’s stare, his eyes full of pity.
Something in his expression reminded Mr. Culler of his childhood— admissions he’d buried, confessions he’d never spoken. It struck him suddenly how much Danyer’s eyes were a reflection of his own, almost like a mirror— the very things he avoided like the plague. Mr. Culler’s eyes jerked toward David before resting once again on his partner. His whisper became husky, urgent. “Mr. Danyer!”
Danyer only shook his head in response, causing Mr. Culler’s eyes to dilate as confusi
on gave way to panic.
In sudden comprehension, David said, “Ah, I see now. What a pitiful state of affairs.” He walked over to crouch in front of Mr. Culler, canting his head to the side before following the man’s gaze. He stood abruptly and strode across the floor.
Mr. Culler watched as Danyer averted his eyes, raising his arm as if to ward off the very devil himself, but David walked right through him as if he were made of vapor.
David turned. “You see? It seems that there never was a Mr. Danyer. And that makes you something of an illusionist yourself, Mr. Culler— a kindred soul.” He crossed his arms. “It appears you’ve been doing your own dirty work all along.”
Teetering and dangerously close to collapsing, Mr. Culler spoke with childish petulance. “You lie.” He turned back to Danyer, the muscles of his eyes tight. “This is no time for your usual reticence, Mr. Danyer,” he said and reached feebly for his associate, who simply shook his head and spoke words only he could hear. “I’m sorry, Mr. Culler.”
Those words, sounding so final, broke the spell. Danyer raised his palm to his maker and faded away.
Mr. Culler blinked slowly, and his head rocked backward before he retrained his eyes on the spot where Danyer had disappeared. He screamed Danyer’s name only to notice in some small part of his awareness that the sound rolled out of his mouth as a whimper. Stifling a sob, he repeated the same declaration over and over: “No. No. No—” as if his associate, his constant shadow, would be resuscitated by it.
Instead, his denial did something more insidious, unlocking long-suppressed memories and observations. Even as he tried to block them, to shove them back into his subconscious, they eluded his grasp and overwhelmed his mental barriers.
They blinked like tiny sparks before his mind’s eye as they were lifted from his memory. Danyer’s uncanny talent for going unnoticed in a crowd. His almost pathological fear of physical contact. His hesitance to speak in the presence of others. Their absolute disregard for him on the occasions he did. Sparks flew as a spool of scenes played out in Mr. Culler’s mind—gaining momentum, swelling. Recent scenes involving Annabelle Aster, David Abbott, and Elsbeth Grundy burst like fireworks inside his head. He could recall no direct interaction or contact with Danyer in any of them. None.
A tattered valise leaped into Mr. Culler’s consciousness—the one he kept at his side but never opened. In it were a duster, a Stetson, spectacles, and a costume beard that he donned from time to time to carry out his more vile tasks. Finally, as if to bind the images together in a single piece, a blinding light swept across Mr. Culler’s inner vision as his memory trailed back to his childhood and to a case of the mumps that had left him sterile and his twin brother, Chauncey, dead from encephalitis.
A sigh escaped Mr. Culler’s lips, and he found himself looking at David in shock. A flicker of movement captured his attention then, and his eyes wandered to his own torso.
At first, he thought he saw caterpillars inching up his trunk, but his heart thudded, trying to escape his chest when he recognized the various pastel shades. Terrified, he tried to brush them off— the pinkie fingers of his victims—but they merely melted into his clothes, resurfacing seconds later to continue their progress.
He clawed at his shirt, trying to rip it off, but they continued their irrepressible march, crawling up his neck and into his mouth, between his teeth and gums, under his tongue, down his throat, filling him to the gagging point until he was certain he’d drown in the flesh and bones of his victims. Then, as the chug of his heart became labored and his blood thickened like porridge, Mr. Culler arched his back and screamed, dying not so much from his bullet wounds, but from fear.
David watched the man’s fit with a strange detachment, wondering what plagued him. When Mr. Culler’s life finally fled, David leaned forward on the sofa to rest his elbows on his knees, covering his head with the palms of his hands. He rubbed his temples with his thumbs, then stood up wearily and walked past the side table. A clock captured his eye. On an impulse, he paused to stop the hands and turn the clock face down.
Satisfied, he circled the den and stood before the red door. He hesitated for a moment. Staring at the dried bloodstain and struggling with the inevitability of what was to come, David began to tap out instructions on its facing. He paused and, with a look of rebellion, altered the commands at the last minute. As he disappeared into the doorway, David smiled while considering a dim prospect. I may elude it yet.
The door flew open and he stepped back into the room only to hear tapping coming from the front of the house. Startled, he pivoted sharply and looked at the door. “I didn’t— ” He added in a whisper, “Ah, you are a fickle friend.”
Gathering his resolve, David said, “I am the master here, and I determine the outcomes.” He walked through the living room but slowed to reflect on the fact that his former associate had vanished and the room was free of bloodstains. It was as though the murders— his and Mr. Culler’s— never happened…or had not yet happened. Time had been placed out of order yet again by the peculiar faculty of the door.
Remembering his unwelcome guest, David’s gaze flicked to the closet and its cantankerous contents. He lifted his hand and waved, a sad gesture, before crossing the room. A moment later, his voice carried weakly from the foyer. “What an unexpected surprise. Please come in.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
Sacrifices
June 3, 1995
That cut looks pretty bad,” Christian said, examining the laceration on Annie’s hand.
“Christian, listen to me.” Annie put her good hand over his and squeezed to get his attention. When he looked up, she locked on to his eyes and said with deliberate slowness, “He said he was going to put both hens in the same coop.”
“Who? Who said that?”
“Mr. Culler.”
It took a second for the words’ meaning to sink in. “Elsbeth!” he gasped.
Annie nodded. “I can’t go,” she said. “You know I can’t.” He shook his head firmly. “Annie, no, not now. I need to get you to a doctor. And what happens if— ”
“I’m fine!” More gently, she repeated, “I’m fine. And I don’t think Mr. Culler will be coming back.”
“You don’t know that!” He closed his eyes, starting over. “That hand needs stitches, and you’ve been seriously traumatized. Your health is delicate at the best of times. I’m not taking a chance.”
“But, Christian, you— ”
He was about to shut her down when he heard, “I’ll go.” Edmond lowered to a crouch in front of them.“I’ll go,”he repeated. Annie looked to Christian. When he nodded, she wrapped the towel around her hand and struggled to her feet. The worry lines that had appeared on her forehead eased, and she embraced Edmond while taking care not to mark him with her blood. She stepped to the door and tapped out a complex pattern, watching from the corner of her eye as Christian drifted to the other side of the room. “Thank you,” she said, turning back to Edmond. He reached for the doorknob.
“Hey!”
Edmond looked over his shoulder to find Christian fussing with a drawer by the refrigerator. “Be careful,” he said, glancing at Edmond from under his brow as he rummaged noisily through its contents.
The color returned to Edmond’s face as he prepared a goofball response,but something in the moment,maybe something in Christian’s remote expression as he said, “Be careful,” stopped him. Edmond glanced at Annie, who regarded him with an apprehensive, hopeful smile. He looked back to Christian, who had chosen that moment to inspect a pair of scissors, and marveled yet again at the man’s absolute willingness to lay himself open—to risk mockery—with such sincerity.
And that he was able to do so with two simple words.
Ill-equipped to express what he’d learned in the blink of an eye, Edmond did the only thing he could think of. He disappeared through the door.
Annie closed it behind him and turned to regard Christian.
She
reached over, cupping her hand lightly against his cheek. “What?” he asked, flustered.
“I didn’t say anything.”
Christian rubbed the heel of his hand against his brow and went to the pantry to pull a medical kit from the shelf. While he washed her hand in the sink, Annie said, “You have a courageous heart, darling man.”
Ignoring the comment, he began to rewrap her hand with gauze, but Annie was not willing to let him withdraw. “And you mustn’t worry about Edmond,” she added.
The comment surprised Christian, but he nodded stiffly before cutting several strips of tape with the scissors.
“You’ve given me a gift, you know.” She watched as he placed them in parallel lines across her palm. “Hope.”
Christian looked up from his task and searched Annie’s eyes, clearly mystified.
She gathered her skirt and walked to the kitchen window, where she leaned against the sill. She beckoned to him and, when he joined her, took his hand in hers and said something unexpected—something that perhaps only the two of them could understand.
“You sacrifice too much. You always have.”
If he suspected her meaning, he gave no immediate indication.
Presently, however, the muscles around his eyes began to tighten, and the warm kitchen light played off a translucent line of moisture collecting on each of his lower lids. “I don’t—” He swallowed, looking for words.
Annie shook her head, interrupting before he could say anything else. “Listen to me.” She sounded almost angry. “You can spend all the time given you on earth making terrible sacrifices for others who, without ever having walked in your shoes, presume to decide right and wrong on your behalf—people who want the world only on their terms, parading their intolerance, their ignorance and narrow-mindedness while calling it morality. Or you can set your own course.” She held his hand up. “You know right and wrong, Christian—better than anybody. It’s your particular genius.” Confused and very near to tears,Christian attempted one last little rebellion. “Annie, you’re d-doing it again. I duh-don’t… understand.” It was clear from his broken speech that she’d upset him, but it couldn’t be helped. Some things simply needed to be said. She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Yes, you do, my dear, dear friend. You’re a good man with a huge heart. Let it choose for once.”
The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster Page 28
