Abby set a bottle of generic alcohol gel on the counter for the final pass and reached for the dispenser of upended soap, too pink to be natural. False pine and caustic mint seeped from the stalls.
Abby hated to remove her shirt because the voice had told her to—but the voice was her, and she needed to wring it out unless she wanted to smell like a stable. She’d finish the shirt in a New York minute and wear it damp.
Playing whack-a-mole to keep water flowing from the faucet, Abby worked soap into her paisley shirt, rubbing the material together in the places covered with… caramel. No, what had she—? Peanut butter.
Abby looked in the mirror. The woman looking back was ten years older than she remembered. The double was not a young mother—not anymore. The woman in the mirror was pushing thirty, had a network of lines and wrinkles beginning, and her eyes were poached eggs that bulged along the bottoms.
She was tall, but she’d lost her figure. Lost her… pizzazz. The woman in the mirror went through the motions, but she didn’t fully partake in the washboard work, nor the squeeze-and-release in the sink.
Why would she?
It was nasty work. The soap was oily, her hands would chap, and her right elbow ached.
Stupid to imagine another woman in the mirror. She was seeing herself. It was the stress of leaving Kenna alone—almost alone—and there was the issue with the diaper, and the hell of sleep debt, and the fever that had settled into her joints and gummy eyes.
And then there was the voice…
She caught herself gazing into the mirror as though it were a lake. Had the woman moved again? Her reflection was slightly out of synch, but Abby felt out of synch with herself, so maybe that made sense. Perhaps it was a manifestation of the voice—her, but not her.
The voice added nothing to this, but Abby could feel it slithering through her thoughts, browsing. What had it said? Silence was not absence.
Abby found it difficult to remember what the voice said, specifically. The sensations remained—guilt, anxiety, doubt, nausea—but Abby wouldn’t be able to recite exact words and phrases verbatim by the time she pumped in the evening.
She worried that it was not the only voice she had the potential to hear. A much older voice was questioning whether she looked as fat as the mirror suggested; as sallow as the overhead light depicted. Was she ugly? The addition of weight had taken her from homespun pretty to a full-on big girl—and it showed in her face.
Did John persevere through love or inertia? Was it his predilection for accepting his duty, however unpleasant?
Should she chop her hair like Nell—and like Tina, a week later? Not to copycat, but… seriously, who had time for long hair?
Abby finished the shirt, grateful for the pull-stop-pull of brown paper towels—these she used to rub circles into the stain on her hip, to dampen and encircle her elbows. More pink soap, another round of brown towels, half a bottle of the travel-size hand sanitizer she’d placed on the side of the sink.
Kenna was waiting. Maren, too, who might need to get on to other things. It was easy to take advantage of old people’s time—they did little with it—but still.
She washed her hands. It took three rounds of slimy soap and a constant elbow pressing the rebounding faucet’s plunger to keep the water going.
Abby took a long look at herself—she was the woman in the mirror, of course—and pinched at the loose skin crawling over the waist of her pants.
Nell had nothing on Abby’s jelly-belly, and Abby’s breasts hung in a slumping, pragmatic bra with inserts for pads of cotton that sopped-up milk until they soured and stank.
The trash container gonged like wintertime ducts when the heater kicked-on.
“What in the world?”
The woman in the mirror had no idea.
At the wrenching scream, Abby’s blood broke through her veins, her pressure spiking, then bottoming-out.
Kenna’s voice joined the old woman’s.
The voice in her head burst from hiding, its uncontained laughter following as Abby spun in the waste and the water, the fetid smells of earth and urine, slipping, wetting her crotch-line against the edge of the sink as she leaped into a double-axel and missed the landing, her hands reaching for the floor.
The swollen diaper popped like a charge of black powder within the trash canister, spraying gravel and pooching the sides, brightening the metal where it had nearly broken through.
Abby jumped over an expanding pond of feces and gruel, slipped again, snagged on a stall’s coat-hook, tore open the handle to the outer doors, clipped her hip on the jamb, overcorrected, clipped her opposite shoulder, and cried-out with the exasperation of a mother hearing her child in pain.
She ran for the gazebo, knees pumping, hands flat.
Too late, too late! Your daughter is dying, Abigail. She won’t disappear, not like Samuel. Maren Glover didn’t have the stomach to feed. She will watch the gift fade; you will watch your daughter die.
Abby ran as if possessed, a part of her aghast that she could think such horrible thoughts, especially when she could scarcely follow her own meaning.
I’m not you, Abby. The proof lies ahead. Look—they’re still there! Maren should have run with your baby or dashed alone… she’s bombazed. I did what she could not, as I was promised by my creator. Take heart, Abigail: I will let you have your child’s body to bury. Delight in her last breaths.
Abby mewed with anguish, her lungs too busy to scream—she couldn’t see Kenna through the carrier’s shade, but she could see Maren’s terrible wounds: the old woman’s jaw was broken, hanging like a kerosene lantern. Blood dripped from her orange teeth, her chin cloven as if it had been hit with an axe.
In the Vista Patzer restroom, the mirror reflected an empty container, the final pink drops squeezing through a gap in the push-plunger.
The pool of soap widened as if a lawn flamingo had spontaneously melted.
11
Abby stopped over Kenna, chest heaving. A hissing cockroach the size of a child’s shoe was scaling the carrier’s slick sides. Abby batted it away and whirled on Maren.
“Are you… Can you talk? Tell me.” Abby was calm and polite—it seemed the right way to cut through the cacophony; also, her lungs rebelled as if they might leave her chest at the slightest encouragement.
“A moment,” Maren said, and twisted viciously at the lower section of her face. Abby reached for Kenna, but Maren slapped her hands away. “Wait.”
“I need to take her out of the—”
“—No! That hive dropped from the sky,” Maren shouted, pointing at the wad of toilet paper Abby had noticed earlier. “More piñata than hive. Ten kinds of insects crawled out of there. It’s safer in the seat. I used a lesser ward.”
Abby pinched at the drying yellow crud on the rims of her rheumy eyes. “Ward? Was Kenna—did she get bitten? Stung? Was it a bee, Maren?”
Kenna’s face was purpling, though how much of that was from a thirty-second scream, Abby couldn’t tell. Maren reached for the side of Kenna’s neck but retracted her hand before she made contact.
“Bees and… it was a mixed bag: bumblers, hornets, roaches. A black wasp had a go at her throat before I caught it in my purse.”
“I saw one earlier,” Abby noted, too upset not to be calm.
“The bullet ants are gum on my shoes, but a mosquito plugged into her ankle. It got a hot meal, too. That ugly bug popped like a grenade.” Maren inspected a series of small red marks on Kenna’s arms and neck. “There are more nips on it than I saw inflicted. Didn’t bring my swatter.”
Abby felt as though she were floating outside of herself. She let the sensation carry her, as it permitted a degree of self-control. This was a crisis, yes, but Kenna was here. Not gone. This kind of emergency could be contained.
“Was she stung by a bee?” Abby asked again, discarding Maren’s extraneous information.
“Said so, didn’t I?”
“Then we have to watch for—”
“—I can’
t eat this now!” Maren exclaimed, her mouth open and slightly askew, gold flashing, highlighting orange teeth. She popped her jaw into its socket. “The gift is ruined. Stolen from under my very—”
“—What gift? Maren, think. Bees and wasps are—you said a mosquito? In October? Are you certain?” Abby indicated the toilet paper that had been stuck to the gazebo’s roof. It did look as though it had cracked open. “They can’t have been living there together. Hornets don’t get along with wasps.”
Maren straightened as though she’d been stabbed. “You’re right. These were hand-picked goodies, and not one of them made by nature. Big as my fist! Forgive me, Abigail—I got addle-pated when the gift… when the hive fell. We are dealing with more than an allergy.”
“What happened to your—?”
“—What is your name, Abigail?”
“John and I don’t… you know my name.”
“Your surname.”
“Surname? I don’t understand what that has to—Maren, I have an epi-pen. In the diaper bag. If Kenna’s reacting, we can fix it. That’s what the pens are for. We just need to focus on her—”
“—Death? No pen will save your child. Not when… What is John’s name? His family name.”
“We don’t share personal—” Abby looked at Maren’s glinting stare, at Kenna’s purple face, and reconsidered. She spoke as Kenna inhaled. “Bell. Johnathan S. Bell—Sergeant First Class.”
“Thought as much. There will have been another child,” Maren said, bending to review the blue welts rising from the infant’s buttery flesh. Kenna cried lustily, but Abby detected a growing constriction in the sound. “There would have been a son.”
Abby blanched, her hands rigid at her sides. “How can you know? We haven’t told anyone about Samuel. Not since the move.”
“Didn’t have to, as it happens. I’d have predicted that loss before the child was conceived. Your first—your son—disappeared on you, did he?”
Abby nodded, tears spilling over her high cheekbones, the admission of Samuel’s loss and Kenna’s continuing screams shattering her calm. “He was abducted. I let him—”
“—Oh, that wicked, wicked witch!” Maren raged.
“Maren, can you focus on… we have to help Kenna.”
“Do we? Won’t be easy. Today is a time for tricks, and Hallett has immense power over the Bell line. Whatever else, Abigail, do not touch the child. We know next to nothing of this spell. To hold your daughter may accelerate her death—or it may cause yours.”
“What?” Abby said, paling despite her skepticism.
“She is dying, yet she is not dead. We must ask ourselves why.” Maren breathed deeply. “Turnips and tommyrot! I will burn her sacred grove! Should’ve known I was being led like some… but then again, I did know. Let myself get flummoxed by the pull. Oh, for her to influence my stone—”
“—Stone? Maren, let me—the pens are the diaper bag. You’re in the way.”
“No touching; no pens,” Maren said distantly. “Let me think.” Maren pulled sticks of chewing gum from her pack, tossed the contents at the anthill, and compressed the wrappers into her ear canals. “Tinfoil,” she said, which did nothing to quell Abby’s growing concern.
The voice returned with an ebullient cackle, and the resurgence stoked Abby’s emotions. Her daughter was gasping with distress, the perpetrator existed in her head, apparently—and now a strange old woman was refusing to let Abby assist her dying child.
“Maren!”
“No pens, I said. Mary has thought this through. We must act with a cool head. What if you are intended to be the agent of death? We don’t know the extent of her plan. Adrenaline won’t help your child.”
Perhaps Maren was confused. Abby knew the prescribed remedy. She’d gone to the immunology invites. The pens were a breeze to use—and sooner was better. Each second the old woman squandered brought Kenna closer to anaphylaxis.
Her maternal spirit roused, Abby snarled and leaped at Maren, swinging a right hook with her full strength.
The elder woman sidestepped the assault, skidded her wrist down Abby’s forearm, gripped the mother’s shoulder with the strength of a polar bear, twisted on stout legs, and delivered an elbow of iron between Abby’s eyes, which crossed in response.
Stunned past pain, Abby registered the crunch of her nose; her brain filled with a white light that skipped into a memory of a second grade field trip: she had loved the tiny burro with wet marshmallows for lips, corn cracking between his teeth. The donkey had nuzzled for his feed so gently, Abby had marveled that he could grind the dry corn, which was much too hard for her own teeth (she’d tried a dozen kernels, ultimately swallowing them whole, not one of which made a cornstalk grow out of her tummy despite the dire pronouncement from Mrs. Hartmann to that effect).
“Get up, Abigail,” Maren said conversationally. “Uriah Lee wrestled with the heroes of old. We’ve toyed with improvements and counters in all the centuries since. That, and your bones are… you won’t win.”
“Shinfths,” Abby said, which even she did not understand.
Sensation returned quickly; Abby found that she was on her hands and knees in the buffalo grass. Red droplets pattered the ground, the grass, and the damp shirt she’d just rinsed.
Folk wisdom suggested that Abby tilt her head back. A sluggish river seeped into her throat, forcing her to swallow. She dropped her head and fought her gorge.
Pathetic. Beaten to the punch by an elderly woman.
The urge to concede defeat was all-consuming—she had been trounced by a woman who could be a founding member of the AARP. She’d failed her daughter miserably. As predicted.
Or had she?
The diaper bag was inches away, and Abby fell forward, rolled with tucked elbows, and began digging. Groping past the pepper spray (the thought was momentarily tempting) she located the epinephrine auto-injectors in a two-pack. Each would deliver 0.15 milligrams—half an adult dose—in the event of… well, in this event.
“Got you,” Abby said, and closed her fist around the pens.
She pulled at the noisy flaps, found her phone, and held it to her face several times. This form of owner recognition failing to grant access, Abby drew a shape, tapped a sequence of numerals, unlocked the device, and dialed the first number she’d ever learned.
“Precious moments, Abigail. This baby should be dead already. Mary wants additional suffering. There is no other explanation. Do you hear me? Cruelty is the only thing keeping your daughter alive. We must use that while we can.”
Abby pressed speaker and leaned into the phone, waiting for dispatch to answer. “They’ll know what to do. How to help.”
“No—they’ll do as they were trained. Intubate and… heaven knows what Mary has planned in that case. Dump the phone, Abigail. Chuck those pens, too.” Maren sighed heavily. “I made my decision before the hive fell. I’m in for a penny; in for a pound. Get off your duff and I’ll help you save the child, if it can be done. She likes carrots, by the way. Told you she would.”
A double tone of warning sounded in Abby’s ear. “How can it be disconnected? It’s nine-one-one! How?”
Abby bent to try the line again; a drop of blood splashed the phone, and further tactile input refused to register. Abby howled, her hands slick and shaking too badly for her to throw the phone properly. It landed less than three feet from the bench.
“Glad I’m not alone in hating those. A most frustrating invention.”
“Please help me, Maren. Wipe the screen and… you can call.”
“I can call upon more than medics. Stop lying around while your daughter inflates. Mary Hallett commands magic that won’t be overturned by regular means.”
“Why is Mary—who is she?”
“You would call her a witch. I won’t quibble. She has certain rights, but she’s exceeding her tithe. We can use that to press her retreat. I need you strong, Abigail. Useful. Your child—what’s its name again?”
“Kenna! Do you li
sten to anything?” Abby reached for the phone, looked at the smeared screen, and tossed it into the diaper bag. “Her name is Kenna. She’s everything I have.”
“Only because Mary took your son. Little you could do there. I dread to contemplate what she has done to him. You have a fighting chance in this round… Mary knows you won’t run. She’ll want you to freeze. To watch. To do nothing. That is her prank.” Maren frowned. “Has she spoken to you?”
“The voice?”
“If you have heard a voice, then yes. Has she said anything? Anything important?” Maren tapped her wrist, indicating a watch she was not wearing.
“She… she said I would fail. That I wouldn’t be there for Kenna. Like I wasn’t there for Samuel. She you were… she said Kenna will…”
“There, you see? Our mystery is solved. Now to stop the murder before it occurs. The Hallett entity will expect you to wait for an ambulance, which is the same as doing nothing. You must do neither.”
“Okay. I won’t. But we need to… I’ll—”
“Hear what I need from you. We’re not dealing with a wayward chant or the curse of a novice. If your daughter is to live, we need the worst kind of blood magic. No time to prepare. You may perish in the attempt. What will you do to save your daughter?”
“I’d do anything to… oh my God. The… the voice. She asked me… Mary asked if I would do that. Do anything.”
“It is easy to see a future you have made yourself. Staunch your nose. I wouldn’t care on a regular day, but we need to conserve our resources.”
“I told her I would,” Abby said, applying pressure until her eyes watered. “I said I’d do anything. I will.”
“What needs done is not anything, Abigail—it is something. Quite specific. There are fifty ways to build a cat, but the tried and true methods require ingredients that—speaking of which, I require four of your fingers. Try not to make hamburger of them, but I understand the clock is ticking. It will hurt.”
Abby sat on her heels and held her hand to Maren. “Do it then. Will you use a—?”
“—I was unclear. I need four fingers. Boneless, bone-in, nails or not—but they must be removed by you. It is the nature of the sacrifice. Get that hand out of my face. Smells like soap. Cooperate. When I ask for bacon, don’t throw a pig at me. Your fingers. Now.”
All Hallows Page 14
