Mother (67 page)

Tears welled in Mother’s eyes, but Claire had no remorse. “This baby isn’t Tim, Mother. And it doesn’t belong to you.” She touched her stomach.

Mother’s eyes blazed. “You would
deny
me what is rightfully mine? What the
Lord
himself has commanded?”

“The Lord has nothing to do with this, Mother. And I assure you, if Tim
could
come back, he wouldn’t want to.”

“Timothy
wants
to come back!” Mother shrieked. “How dare you say-”

“This letter says otherwise.” Jason stepped forward. “It’s to you, from Timothy on the day he died. Claire stored it away.”

Prissy’s mouth worked. Her eyes darted. Her voice was a rasp. “Give it to me.”

Jason did.

Prissy’s gaze ravaged the letter. Her hands began to shake. The color drained from her face, and tears raked ragged patterns down her powdered cheeks. “Lies. These are lies. My Timothy did
not
write this!”

“Yes,” Claire said. “He did. And what you did to him is inexcusable.” She couldn’t even bring herself to name the crimes. “You’re a child abuser. A molester. And you’re going to pay for it.”

Priscilla Martin threw her head back and shrieked. “LIARS! All of you!
LIARS!”

From the corner of her eye, Claire caught sight of Paul and the two priests, Andy and Dave. Motionless, but tense, they listened.
 

Jason made a move toward Priscilla, swiped at the letter, but Priscilla jerked her hand away. “Give back the letter, Priscilla.”

“No!” She stepped back. She had the look of a cornered rat, her eyes wild and darting, unbelieving. Her mascara was smudged, her mouth was tight, and the veins in her neck and forehead stood out. “Get away from me! All of you! Get away!” She backed toward the dressing table, swatting at them with the letter. Her entire body shook and her perfectly-coiffed hair was falling from place, standing out in rough cowlicks.

Jason looked from Claire to Priscilla and saw red. He took a deep breath. He needed to get that letter back. It, along with the journals, would incriminate Priscilla and send her to prison, and that was the punishment she deserved. He stepped closer. “Give me the letter, Prissy.”

Paul stepped into the room, standing at Steffie’s side, while the two priests moved to flank Jason.

“Priscilla,” said Father Andy, his tone gentle. “Listen to me-”

“Listen to you?
Listen
to you?” Prissy held the letter up. “Carlene wrote this! Isn’t it obvious? She’s lying to all of you! And you’re fools for believing her!”

“No, Mother. I didn’t write it.”

“My Angelheart would never say these things about me. Never!”

“He did,” said Jason. “And I don’t blame him. Holy water enemas, Priscilla? You gave your teenaged son holy water enemas?”

The priests looked at each other. Dave nodded, then both stared at Prissy.
 

“Lies!” Prissy swiped the open tin of paint thinner and threatened to douse the letter.

“No!” Jason lurched forward but Father Dave got there first, wrapping his hand around her throat, shaking her. The thinner tin fell to the floor, spilling, but Prissy had the letter in a death grip.

“Enough!” said Dave, tightening his grip. “Enough!”

Prissy’s eyes bulged. She made gagging sounds. Her face went purple.

With his free hand, Dave Flannigan went for the letter, missed.
 

Jason swiped at it, and missed.

Priscilla wrenched out of Dave’s grip. Screaming, she pistoned her fists down on his head and shoulders. Jason and Andy tried to pry her away. Forgotten, the letter dropped to the carpet.
 

“You filthy, godless liar!” Prissy whaled on the priest, trying to claw his eyes out.

Her sharp nails slashed across Jason’s cheek, and Andy took a fistful of her hair, and wrenched her off Dave. She writhed out of his grip and shoved Andy against the dresser. The candle rocked, then fell. It hit the floor, kissed the spilled paint thinner, and the carpet blazed. The flames crawled up the crib’s legs, starved wolves on fresh meat. It flared, melting the mobile, as
Magic Flute
tinkled out death knells
.
Fire raced across the room, licked the curtains, then climbed them.

“No!” Prissy lunged for the crib, beating at the blaze. Her sleeves caught, and Jason pulled her away. Then Andy grabbed her, pressed her to him, extinguishing the flames. He shoved her toward the doorway, toward Paul.

“Where’s the fire extinguisher?” Paul screamed in Prissy’s face. “Where’s the goddamned fire extinguisher?” He shook her.
 

Prissy stared at him with uncomprehending eyes.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Steffie yelled. “Now!”

Paul and Steffie yanked Prissy into the hall and moved back, letting Claire stump from the room. Jason and the priests followed. Andy slammed the door as flames spread and jumped, knocking a dried wreath off the door.

“Go!” Jason yelled. He followed Claire on her crutches toward the landing.
 

Claire halted in front of Fred Martin’s room. “Dad!” She yelled. “Someone get my father!”

Prissy shrieked. “My baby! Timothy’s jewelry! His baby pictures! My baby’s things!” She wrenched out of Steffie’s grip. Dave lunged at her, but she was quick, running toward a room at the far end of the hall.

“Priscilla!” Steffie yelled.

Dave turned to her. “Go. I’ll get her! You two,” he said to Andy and Paul, “get Fred out of here!”

Flames licked beneath the door. The fallen wreath caught and was devoured. The fire climbed the side table, seeking the massive arrangement of dried flowers. Within seconds, the flowers exploded and flames grew to consume the walls and carpet.

Andy grabbed Dave’s arm. “It’s spreading too fast! If you go after her, you’ll be trapped!”

Dave yanked his arm, but Andy’s grip was a vise.
 

“Don’t,” said the younger priest. “Let her go. She’s not worth your life.”

Dave looked Andy in the eyes. “Let me do this.” There was something in his voice that left no room for argument. “I have to do this. This is my chance to set things right.” A look passed between them that only Andy seemed to understand. “Let me go,” said Dave.

Andy, his reluctance apparent, nodded and released the old man’s wrist, and Father Dave took off down the hall after Priscilla. Within seconds, the fire spread and rose, building an impassable wall between Andy and Dave.

“Come on, Paul, let’s get Fred,” said Andy, but for a moment, he didn’t move. He seemed mesmerized, shocked. Finally, he crossed himself, and turned.

“Paul,” said Steffie.

He looked at her. “I’ll just be a minute. Go on down!” He threw himself against Fred’s door. Andy joined him.
 

Jason scooped his wife into his arms and, as Fred’s door gave, he carried Claire downstairs, Steffie following, her head turning to watch Paul.

They reached the ground floor and entered the living room. Steffie threw the front door open wide.
 

As they left the house, Jason had a strange sense of carrying his bride over the threshold.

A Pleasure to Burn

Priscilla Martin, the woman whose clothes never wrinkled, whose makeup was always flawless, and whose hair never dared stray, now looked like a madwoman, a picture of chaos and ruin.
 

In her bedroom at the end of the hall, she shrieked, threw drawers open, swiped contents off of dressers and desks, shoving her pockets full of necklaces, bracelets, rings, and hanks of golden blond hair tied with baby blue ribbons.
Timothy’s hair
. The realization made Dave feel ill. She shoved them into her blouse, down her yellow pants. A dozen framed clown portraits were piled in the corner near the closet. She ignored them.

She clawed framed photos from the walls and when she saw Dave in the doorway, she screamed, “Don’t just stand there! Carry these, for Christ’s sake!” She crushed photo albums into his arms, piled on clunky pieces of jewelry and more ribboned blond hair, her eyes haunted and wild, her mouth a smeared red gash.

“No, Priscilla. It’s over.” He let the photo albums and accessories fall to the floor.

Priscilla gaped at him. “What- what are you doing? We have to hurry!”

“It’s too late.”

“What on God’s green earth are you
talking
about?” She shoved him aside, peered into the hall, and gasped.
 

Dave turned to see. The fire, fed by Priscilla’s dried flowers, had progressed rapidly. It was tall, furious, and headed their way, a burst dam of flame. The hallway walls, floor, and ceiling were engulfed, and Dave felt the heat of it, coughed on the acrid black smoke as he slammed the door to buy time.
 

“The slider!” Prissy shoved Dave out of her way and began pulling at the balcony door. “Help me! It’s jammed! We can climb down the trellis!”

Father David Flannigan sat down on the bed, clasped his hands, and closed his eyes. He wasn’t praying - it was too late for that - he simply wanted a moment of peace before the pain, before the end.

“What are you
doing?
Have you lost your mind? Help me!” Prissy pounded on the glass. “Help me! Someone, help me! Up here!” But Dave knew no one on the street would see them; they’d be looking at the front of the house. He took a breath and stood. Placing a gentle hand on Priscilla’s shoulder, he said, “Come. Let’s not make this worse than it is.”

She jerked from his touch. “Get away from me! How can you just
sit
there?” She pounded a fist on the glass door. “Help me! Help! We have to break it!”

“That’s not going to happen, Priscilla.”

Her jaw dropped. “Of course it is!”

“No. It isn’t. I’m not going to let it happen. You’re not leaving this room, Priscilla. Neither of us is leaving.”

She gaped at him. The room was getting hot; smoke curled under the door, choking the atmosphere. “You’re mad. You’ve lost your goddamned mind.” Wetness spread across the crotch of her yellow pants, and trickled down her leg.

Dave smiled. “Perhaps.” He grabbed her left wrist, then the right, and pulled her away from the slider.

“Stop it! Let me go!” She kicked, flailed, scratched, even bit him, but his resolve was iron.
 

“No. Confess, and meet your end with dignity.” He had no interest in absolving her, but for years he’d yearned to know the secrets hidden in the darkness that was her soul.
 

“You’re mad. You’ve lost your mind. You can’t keep me here! We can get out!”

He squeezed her wrists hard. “Confess, Priscilla, and pray for forgiveness.” Smoke grayed the atmosphere.

Prissy’s jaw was hard, her eyes like stones. “I’m not confessing anything, and if you think I’m going to die here with you, like this-”

With the strength of pure rage, Dave lifted Prissy off the floor, and tossed her onto the bed. Her long-dead dogs bounced from the mattress and tumbled to the floor. Dave climbed on her, pinned her wrists, using his body to keep her down. She bucked and writhed, kicked and screamed, but she was no match for him. “Confess!”

He heard the fire burning outside the door, crackling and ravaging the dried flowers and carpeting. The house groaned. Even through the door, he felt the heat searing his back. The smoke thickened, made it hard to breathe, and clouded his vision as it grew heavier and blacker. They didn’t have much longer.
 

“No!” cried Prissy. “Let me go! Let me go!”

“It’s over, Priscilla. Confess your sins, or risk the wrath of God.”

Something changed in her eyes. She went blank. Then tears spilled. “I can’t die, not like this.”

“But you are going to die,” Dave said with utter calm. “We both are. Today.”

Prissy’s fight had gone out of her. For a long moment, she wept and choked, whispered rapid and unintelligible things.

Dave leaned close and heard her.

“I did it for you, Timothy.” Her eyes met Dave’s. “I did it all for Timothy.”

“What did you do, Priscilla?”

She mewled. “I broke my daughter’s leg.” Her voice was a croak. “Drugged her. So I could do it. She never knew. And I … I did other things. Things that would make her feel crazy.” Her eyes pled with Dave. “I just wanted that baby. That baby is
mine
.” Her face crumpled.
 

“Go on, Priscilla, say it all.”

“I hid Jason’s medication so he’d have a seizure. I needed to get rid of him, too.”

He’d guessed as much. “What else, Priscilla? Tell me what did you do to your son! Tell me what you did to Timothy!”

She cried out. “No! Let me go!”

“Say it, woman! Say it!” He shook her.

“I used to … to hurt him. And Claire, too. And, and … Frederick. Oh, God, Frederick.” She wept. “He saw me. He saw me touching Timothy - and threatened to take the kids away. I tried to kill him, but he wouldn’t die. He was
supposed
to die.” She shrieked. “God
damn
it, why didn’t he die?”

“What did you do to Frederick?”

“I loosened the rungs of his ladder.” Her voice was that of a little girl.
The Bad Seed,
thought Dave.
 

 
“He wouldn’t die! I started drugging him. So he could never tell anyone.” She coughed. “I’d do it again, and I’d make sure he died this time!”

Smoke burned Dave’s lungs, stung his eyes, and the charcoal-gray haze blurred his vision.

“We’re almost out of time, Priscilla. Confess before God! What else?”

“I got Claire’s doctor suspended, so I could have Gerald Hopper attend to her. Gerald will do anything I ask. Anything. He has to!” She coughed. “And I sent Claire an instant message. I said I was Timothy. And I gave her LSD and put up pictures of clowns to frighten her.”

“Why? Why, Priscilla?”

She sobbed. “I wanted to make sure everyone knew she was unfit, so I could keep the baby - otherwise I’d have to kill her.” She sobbed. “You don’t understand - none of you understand! It’s Timothy! He’s coming back! That baby is
mine
! He’s
mine
!”

Dave felt the heat rising in the room. He was getting lightheaded and could see by Prissy’s rolling eyes that she was near unconsciousness. “What else, Priscilla?” He slapped her cheek and shook her hard, bringing her back.