Nursery Rhymes 4 Dead Children (12 page)

Chapter 18

Wylie ran his hand over the back of his head and flinched. A car horn blared and he hit the brakes as a compact car swerved around the front of his pick up. He slammed his palms against the steering wheel and looked both ways before hammering down on the throttle, his scalp itching. He tried to remember exactly what the hell had happened. Fragments of Pat walking down the road, Tiffany’s phone call, a gunshot, his dream, all swirled through his mind. Part of him feared that Pat had shot him, but he couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten to Division’s crappy police station.

Unless Pat shot me and drove my truck over here
.

The idea scared him. Head feeling stuffed with broken marbles, jagged edges digging into tender tissue, he pulled the visor down and drove toward 87, his arms trembling.

He felt around for his cell phone as he stopped at the crossroad. No dice. Wylie took a right and headed toward Pat’s house, hoping he got there before Pat hurt Tiffany. He looked at his watch.

Morgan should still be in school. Thank God for small blessings.

* * *

I floored the cruiser. A half mile ahead, I glimpsed Wylie turning onto 82, headed toward Slattery. I jerked Cat’s phone from my pocket and dialed Pat’s number. The sheriff answered, huffing. “You think you pulled a fast one, huh, McDonnell?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the school. Gonna take my daughter home and have us a sit down with her momma. Why don’t you bring Wylie by? You need to pick up your Jeep anyway. Thing doesn’t drive as good as my Charger. But I ain’t got that anymore. Know whose fault that is? You realize who you’re protecting?”

“Not happening. I’m keeping you away from Wylie. I understand though, what you’re feeling.”

“Don’t try to fuck with me, kid! You have no idea what I’m feeling!”

I stopped at the junction and looked both ways. A logging truck, laden with timber, passed. The dead girls from the woods sat on the back, staring at me, still, mouths firm lines, eyes dark. I followed them out past the Our Lady on the south side of the road, trying to think how I could get Pat to calm down, get Morgan out of danger, ease it all over to the side where nothing could escalate further.

I looked in the rearview mirror and saw a black car racing up behind me.

Pat said, “What would you do, John? Just let it go?”

“I don’t know.” The car filled my rearview, Herb behind the windshield, his face pale, both hands wringing the wheel. I eased off the gas and pulled over to the shoulder. Herb followed me. “I wouldn’t want to go to prison though. Get a divorce, something like that.” Knowing even as I said it that it was a lie. I had no idea what I’d do.

“She’s been fucking another man. If Catherine fucked another man—”

“She wouldn’t.”

“But if she did?”

Herb walked up and tapped on the window. I raised a finger to tell him to hold on a minute. Every second I kept Pat talking felt like it kept things from going too far.

“I don’t know what I’d do. You don’t see any other way to handle this situation?”

“I’m going to slit her throat. I’m going to teach my daughter not to be like her mother.”

Pat hung up. I wiped my hand on my pants and rolled down the window. Herb leaned in. His breath stank like rotten meat. “You have to follow me, John.”

“I can’t. I have to get over to Pat’s house. Some stuff is going down. Call the state police.”

Herb shook his head. “Not yet.”

I stared down the road and chewed on my lip. “Why not?”

“I have my reasons.”

“I don’t have time for this, Herb. Or you and your bullshit. I’ll call the state police myself.”

“I wouldn’t. Remember who owns you.”

“Owns me? No one owns anyone.”

“You’re wrong, John. So wrong. But I feel for you. For everybody. Go to Rusty’s house after you’re done with whatever it is you think you have to do.”

“I’ll call him. I’m calling the state police first. I think Pat is going to kill Tiffany.”

Herb’s mouth opened. He closed it, gave a small nod. “She’s a slut. She wasn’t any different when she was younger. I was surprised he ever married her. That’s what happens when you marry trailer trash, a girl twenty years younger than you. I should have known what a fool he was back then.”

“You’re quick to judge and quick to tell people what to do. But you lost my respect yesterday morning.”

“What are you going to do? You’re involved. Your brother’s involved.”

“We’ve all got to pay for our sins.”

“Says you.” Herb stepped back, shaking his head.

“Says life.” I put the car in drive and let off the brake. “You’re going to have some fessing up to do, Mr. Miller. But like me, and everyone else, you’ve brought it on yourself.”

“It’s not my fault that—”

“All we have in life is our choices and time. I think I’m starting to learn that it’s best to make the most of both.” I waved out the window, glanced in the rearview to make sure no cars were coming, and pulled back onto the road. I dialed Rusty’s number. No answer. My guts squirmed. I pressed my foot down. Trees blurred on either side of the road. I wiped the sweat out of my eyes and pulled the shotgun closer.

Chapter 19

I figured I had a little time with Pat at the school. The mountains rose and fell like waves. My stomach hurt like everything was giving me an ulcer. Sunshine glared off the windshield. I put the visor down, but it didn’t help. I slowed and took a right on Slattery road, blinked swarms of black dots away.

Wylie leaned half way out the side window of his truck, ahead on the left, parked on the road out in front of Pat’s house. Tiffany held a small chrome pistol, her free hand on Wylie’s cheek, standing outside the driver’s door.

The nearest neighbors were a mile down the road. Woods crowded the edge of the lawn, the ditch. Shadows danced beneath the trees. I stopped the car behind Wylie’s truck and jumped out. Their voices sounded far away. Wylie’s head sank, rested on his forearm. I hoped he didn’t pass out, knowing it was my fault for whacking him with the tire iron, yet I hadn’t seen another way to stop him and Pat from killing each other at the time. I took a step and almost lost my balance, finding it hard to focus.

If I don’t handle this right it could get bad, real bad.

Four dead girls sat on the porch of the Andrews’ house, heads hanging like a marionette man had released their strings.

Tiffany met my eyes. A flash of shame, at being caught in her adultery perhaps, spread across her face. She hung her head like the girls. I didn’t care. I didn’t know her all that well and the only disappointment I held bore Wylie’s name. “Pat’s on his way back here. We have to get both of you out of here.”

Tiffany shook her head. “No. I’m going to stop him from ever hurting anyone. Do you know about the girls?” She stroked Wylie’s hair and flakes of dried blood drifted in the air like she’d wiped off a dusty, well-loved table she’d neglected for too long.

He told you how they buried them?

I cleared my throat. “I know about the girls. But Pat has your daughter. He’s on his way. You drive Wylie somewhere safe. I’ll get Morgan away from Pat.”

“Why did he grab Morgan?” Tiffany’s fingers flexed around the pistol’s handle. She touched Wylie’s shoulder as he stirred. “What is he planning to do with our daughter?”

Pat’s words rang in my head…
I’m going to slit my wife’s throat and teach my daughter to never become her mother.

I turned my head at the sound of the Jeep’s whine, gravel crunching. “Push him over and get out of here!”

Tiffany wiped a tear off her cheek and shook her head. “I’m not running from him anymore.”

“Goddamnit!” I ran back to the cruiser and grabbed the shotgun. When I slammed the door shut, Wylie raised his head, his face ghostly white. I looked back toward the highway. The Jeep raised a cloud of dust. I racked a shell into the shotgun’s chamber, unsure how to stop Pat without anyone getting hurt.

Birds quieted. The Jeep’s brakes squealed as it stopped behind the cruiser. Pat jumped out, left the engine running. Tiffany shifted her feet behind me and I heard her scream building, felt the force of Pat’s hate and disappointment rising to meet hers.

I shouldered the shotgun. Morgan sat in the passenger seat, tiny hands on the dash, body leaning forward, almost nose to glass. Pat stepped in front of the Jeep and blocked my view of the girl. From the ditch, a blur of white and red moved. Angela’s dress swished, pressed by wind, as she opened the passenger door, jerked Morgan out and pushed her down. The woman leaned across the seat and pulled the gear shift. The Jeep leapt forward and Pat took another step, his mouth twisted, eyes shimmering in the sunlight, all of his attention focused in front of him. He raised his pistol. “You took what I gave you and shit on it.”

Pat pulled the trigger, a burst of fire filled my vision. The bullet passed over my left shoulder with a loud crack; bone breaking in complete silence. I turned. Tiffany fell forward, her nose obliterated, the back of her skull on Wylie’s truck, in his hair. Wylie jerked his head up, eyes wide, gulping air and so out of it for the moment he licked her blood from his lips without realizing what he was doing.

The Jeep’s bumper nudged Pat in the ass. He started to turn, but it pushed him forward. He dropped the pistol as Wylie wiped blood from his eyes, his face red. Tiffany lay still on the hard packed dirt, a blossom of crimson spreading from her blond hair.

I tried to move, but my body froze. My mind, too. I felt like someone had wrapped chains around me, bound my arms to my sides, and the helplessness only added to the horror swirling all around us.

Wylie threw the door open, his teeth gnashing, spittle at the corners of his mouth. Pat threw his hands on the trunk lid of the cruiser as the Jeep held him tight, trapped between the vehicles. Wylie grabbed the shotgun’s barrel with his left hand, the stock with his right. He wrenched it free and I said, “Wait. Don’t.”

Wylie stepped forward. His ankle twisted and he almost tumbled. The dried blood in his hair looked black. His eyes settled over Tiff on the ground, then came up to me. Wylie shook his head. When he turned to Pat, the old man howled his pain, “Pull this truck away, you motherfucker! Fight me like a man!” Pat raised his hands, his eyes scrunched up as the Jeep’s bumper bit farther into his legs. Angela held Morgan in the ditch, put her hand over the child’s eyes.

Wylie shouldered the shotgun and pulled the trigger. Pat’s right hand disappeared, pieces of bone and skin taking flight. He screamed and beat the stump against the hood of the cruiser. “Come on!” He tried to lean forward and grab the shotgun’s barrel.

Wylie racked a fresh shell and pulled the trigger again.

One second, I stared into Pat’s face, drops of blood dotting his right cheek. Then the face was gone, a black hole that leaked fluid. The sheriff wobbled for a second, left hand still clutching air, and then he pitched forward like his wife had and thumped against the cruiser’s trunk. Blood ran down white and black paint, it dripped from the bumper.

I grabbed Wylie’s shoulder and spun him around. Wylie hung his head and tears spilled, glistened in the light. He looked at Tiff and pushed the shotgun to my chest, then hobbled over to his dead lover, sat by her, pulled her into his lap and stroked her hair.

From the ditch, Morgan cried while Angela rubbed her back and smiled at me. I walked toward them, pulling Cat’s phone to call the state police. The neighbors wouldn’t call. Gunshots out here in the mountains didn’t perk anyone’s interest. They were woven into the fabric of existence and most people smiled, thinking someone who knew someone they knew had just scored themselves a trophy buck. A deepening numbness wrapped its arms around me as Wylie cried, cradling the broken pieces of his life.

* * *

The officer’s name tag read “Duncan” and he moved with an easy grace for such a beefy man. I waited on the porch, wringing my hands, my arms still riddled with gooseflesh. Angela played with Morgan, their voices and chuckles carrying out of the open living room window. Part of me was grateful that Angela was distracting the child, that she hadn’t let her watch it go down. An ambulance parked in the road. Two men, faces slicked with sweat, loaded Wylie on a gurney and tucked him in the back.

Duncan leaned against the railing, ran the hand holding his notepad back through his gray hair. He smelled like Old Spice and Irish Spring. “Hot day. Twenty degrees above normal for this time of year. Some people think it hits record highs and people start acting stupid. What do you think?”

I think it’s preceding a bad storm.

I said, “I don’t know.”

Duncan nodded and put his hat on. “So, you’ve told me everything?”

“Yeah. Pat found out they were sleeping together. He shot at Wylie and me in town. I had to knock Wylie over the head to get him out of there. I tried to get Wylie out of here but it was too late.” Shock still had a hold on me. I wasn’t looking forward to when it wore off.

“And after he shot his wife, you shot him?”

I swallowed, kept my gaze locked on Duncan’s, then looked at my Jeep, at the clumps of bone and blood peppered over the hood, not sure if I’d be able to keep it or have to sell it. “Yes, sir.”

“Hmm.” Duncan looked at the ambulance. “Your buddy there, Mr. Wright, he says
he
shot the sheriff. He feels real bad about it now that his rage has passed and he’s left with only that hurt and emptiness.”

“He’s delirious.”

“So, you’re not covering for him?”

“No. I shot Pat. Wylie was passed out in the front seat of his pickup.”

“Weird thing is he had no idea how the sheriff’s car got torched in the cemetery. Any idea who did that?”

“Not a clue. If I did, I’d tell you.”

“It’s your first day as deputy?”

“My second, but it already feels like a lifetime.”

Duncan nodded. “Crazy stuff. Watching death unfold in such a violent manner is never easy, you never get used to it.” Memories swam behind the older man’s eyes and I wondered what horrors lurked in his sleep, what he’d seen and numbed himself to. “And the woman? Who is she?”

“I don’t know that either, other than her name. Angela.”

Duncan pushed himself off the railing and centered his hat low on his forehead. “Kinda odd that she just hops out of the woods. And she put the Jeep in gear, right?”

I motioned for the door. “Yeah. Feel free to ask her all the questions you want. I’m interested to hear her answers.”

Duncan gave me a funny look. Then opened the door and we stepped into mild air conditioning. Last year we’d had the heat on at this time of year. Made me wonder if there was something to global warming. The house was mostly clean, everything in its place, as I had imagined Pat would keep it. The smell of blood clung to my clothes from helping the state boys work Pat into a body bag. Far off, I thought I heard a chopper beating at the sky. A news crew from Scranton probably.

Kitchen to our left, living room to the right, I closed the front door and my gaze fell on Angela with Morgan on her lap on the couch—both of them on the edge of the cushion, a blue quilted blanket thrown haphazardly over the back of it. The girl giggled as Angela spun a quarter on the coffee table and it hopped over a box of Kleenex. Morgan clapped. Angela turned her head and smiled. “She wants to learn some magic when she’s older, Johnathan.”

Duncan looked over his shoulder, his face knitted full of questions. I shrugged, “She knows my name, but I don’t really know her.”

Duncan frowned, turned to Angela. “You mind coming into the kitchen here a second, Mrs…”

“Forte.” Angela gave Morgan a quick hug and pulled a doll from behind her back and handed it over. I shivered. There hadn’t been anything in the space between her and the back of the couch. I looked at the slider-door at the back of the kitchen, expecting to see the dead girls. A wasp bumped against the glass, dying leaves stirred across the grass, nothing else.

Angela crossed the room, hand extended.

Duncan paused for a moment before shaking it.
You sense something odd about her too, don’t you?

I sat on the couch next to Morgan and picked up her doll. Its brown hair tickled my wrist. I leaned forward and touched the doll to the top of Morgan’s head and made a kissing sound. “She likes you.”

Morgan’s shoulders tightened up, little muscles twitching in her face. I wondered at how time passed, how I’d forgotten what it’d been like. Morgan snatched the doll out of my hands. “I don’t want to play with you.”

“Okay.”

“I want to play with her.”

“She’s busy, kid.”

“With the man like my dad?”

“Yes, with the man like your dad.”

“Is he going to hit her?” Her eyes teared up and I tried to wipe them away but she jerked back, on her knees, and almost toppled straight onto her back. “Don’t.”

“All right.” I glanced at the kitchen. Trooper Duncan and Angela both frowned at me. “I was trying to stop her from bumping her head on the floor.” They turned to face each other again. I strained to hear, but part of me fell into the pit of endless questions. I didn’t know what had happened to Morgan up to this point in her short life, but I was glad the worst was over.

As if matching my thoughts, Morgan wiped her eyes, and her eight-year-old hands squeezed the doll’s neck. “My mom and dad coming back?