Nursery Rhymes 4 Dead Children (7 page)

“You like annoying people with questions.” She played the same Bach piece he’d played earlier. Only better. The girl smiled at him, tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

Mike walked outside, letting the music wash over him, a little jealous, but if she played like that every day he thought it might help him get back into the groove of finding out what happened to his sister before their mother died. It’d been on hold long enough.

You best get used to having company. That girl isn’t going anywhere.

As he circled the house, he realized he hadn’t asked her name.

Plenty of time for that later. And it’s not like it matters. She’s trouble. I can smell it on her.

Chapter 9

Wylie woke to Tiff propped on her elbow, staring at him. His mind rambled over the day they’d hit it off, after Pat had hired him to take down a tree out in front of the house a year ago, this winding maple that ran its hands over the power lines out by the road. He rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

She got out of bed and he licked his lips, staring at the sheer ivory of her naked body as she walked to the window and looked out over Jackson Street. He’d never expected this, being attracted to a woman a decade older than him. “It’s almost six.”

He jumped up and grabbed his Levi’s from the floor, pulled them on. Looking at the closed door, he faced an image of Pat on the other side, gun in hand, all his rage about to spill forth. Wylie shivered and threw some of the clothes piled on the floor to the side, looking for his shirt. “He’ll be home anytime.”

Tiff leaned her elbows against the window’s trim and pressed her forehead to the glass. Her sigh came out long and wispy. “What would you say if—”

Her voice trailed off as he found his shirt and pulled it on. His head swam with the guilt he’d been trying to hold at bay for the last couple weeks. Her daughter Morgan said something in her room and Wylie stilled. Tiff opened the window. She turned and ran a hand over her stomach. “I don’t know if I can keep on doing this.”

Wylie turned, heart in his throat. He swallowed. “Are you saying you want to end it?”

“I don’t know what I want anymore. Just to be loved and not judged.” Her chin dropped and she glared at the messy floor, clothes—clean and dirty, books, drawings that showed a knack for it, but none of them finished. “My whole life is in ruins. More every day.”

He crossed the room and looked out the window. Pat’s old cruiser went north up Slattery, slow, toward 82. Wylie turned to Tiff. “You want him to find me here. For what? So we can kill each other?” He knew that a short jog through the woods, across the highway and onto the other side of Slattery and he could be home, watching someone else ruin their life on TV. But he couldn’t move. Not yet. He wanted to hear her say it, whatever consumed her. She shook her head and a breeze sent wisps of her hair across his face. He leaned into her and the tone of his voice irritated him. “I’m not into games. I thought you loved me.”

“I do. I think…”

“Well, you better do more than think.”

Her nipples grew hard and he wanted to play with them, wanted to ask her,
This get you off, all the tension you’re creating?

He touched her chin, leveled her face to look him in the eye. “What’s the truth, Tiff?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s bullshit. Do you love him? Or do you love me?”

“I don’t know.” She whimpered and rested her head against his fingers. Wylie pulled away and paced the bedroom, taking in all the things he’d always wanted in his own life, seeing past the cracks, realizing this was another man’s life he’d been living. A fairy tale headed toward disaster. His nose ran. He wiped it. “You need to figure out what you want.”

“I want you.” She set her hands on his shoulders and kissed below his ear. Wylie shivered and leaned his forehead against hers. Tiff’s breath tickled his chest. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“What do you mean?”

Her voice came out choked, and she squinted against private pain he wished he could peel away like dead skin. “Like I cheat on Pat with you. Don’t you worry that even if we were together I’d do the same thing to you eventually? How can you trust me?”

Good question. I don’t have an honest answer.

Wylie ran his hand through his hair, wondering how much time they had before Pat turned around, came home, pulled in the drive and all hell broke loose.

“Do you want me to stay and end this tonight? Is that going to make you happy?”

“I don’t know what would.”

“If you don’t, I don’t either.” He wiped her tears away, rougher than he intended. Tiff flinched. “You need to cut back on your drinking. At least if you want to keep me.”

She shook her head again and sniffled. “That’s so easy for you, but it’s not for me.”

“Easy or not, it’s not helping you. Or me.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. I’m sick of being judged. Why can’t people just accept other people and their flaws?”

“I’m not judging you. And there’s a difference between a flaw and something that only pushes you closer to the edge. You keep slipping further—”

“You better leave.”

“You know what you want now?”

“At this moment, I want you to leave.”

Wylie shook his head. His hand came up, of its own violation, or an inner need to renew the connection they’d had only hours ago, but she slapped it down.

“Get out before Pat gets home.”

“Are you trying to hurt me now, by reminding me that I’m just the guy on the side?”

Her face tensed and teeth flashed. “Is that how you think of yourself? Just the guy on the side?”

“Sometimes.”

“Leave, Wylie.”

“Sure. I’ll talk to you.” He opened the door and peeked into the hall. Morgan’s door was shut. He frowned.

That poor kid.

At the sliding door in the kitchen, he stepped outside and slid on his work boots. He tried to ease the tension building around the walls of his heart and shook his hands until his knotted fists relaxed.

Wylie stepped into the woods, dusk pressing against the trees.

Chapter 10

Cat crossed her arms and leaned her head against the bedroom wall. I waited for the voice I loved to break my heart, saying,
It’s over, I can’t handle the quiet, the storm swirling inside, the poison waters drowning our relationship.

It brought me back to the river, which sucked, because I’d pushed it out of my mind for a while at least, and I couldn’t help but question if thinking about the dead girls was only a way to distract myself from what I’d done to Mark.

She uncrossed her arms and sat on the bed. “I thought you were going to talk to me.”

I pulled on my boots, nearly in a fever with excitement.

I don’t know why I didn’t check the Wright Mill out before.

“John. Are you even listening to me?”

“I heard you, but I have to go out for a bit.”

“You just got home.”

I nodded and pulled my hunting jacket from the closet. The Remington 870 leaned in the corner. I picked it up and slipped a box of slugs into my coat pocket.

“Where are you going with a gun? Can you at least tell me that?”

If I tell you that it leads to the girls in the woods. And you have enough shit on your mind already, honey.

I rested the shotgun in the crook of my elbow and cleared my throat. “I’m going to tell you everything when I know more of what the hell is going on. Right now I’m only speculating.”

“But what’s it about? You’re scaring me.”

I leaned the gun against the bed and sat next to her. I put my hand over hers and stroked the tender flesh on her wrist. Cat wiped her nose. “If you really love me, tell me what’s happened. What gave you the bump on your head? Why do you seem so withdrawn? I can’t help if you don’t say what it is. Show me you love me. That you trust me.”

If another girl had said it, I’d have thought it a manipulation tactic. But Cat always shot straight. She always strived for communication. I opened my mouth and that morning’s events, the morning I woke among the dead, gushed out.

She looked out the window over our bed and said, “Why would they hide it? How did Mark’s key get inside one of the girls? I saw it, too. It was buried with him.”

“I know. They think he killed them before he died.”

And from the way Pat acted, they might think that I had something to do with it as well. Like maybe I had helped him or knew about it and just slept walked out there or some crazy shit.

I swallowed. My stomach groaned. I slung my arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “There might be something at the Mill. It’s the closest place to where the girls are buried, just a half mile east. I’m guessing whoever took them out there used the overgrown access road that runs back to it.” I pictured the town on the far left, Main Street cutting through it, Worlds’ End State Park to the east, butting up to the edge of town, hills rising, foliage heavy, rock walls like towers in the night. If a man continued east through the park, or went south of it and came in by River Road, he’d be able to take Ash Trail up to the old mill.

I bet whoever did it killed the girls there. Lured them, murdered them, butchered them to leave me a message.

It made me think that Mark did have something to do with it, but not while he was alive. An act of vengeance following death.

Insane.

“There’s more than just some girls you found though, isn’t there? Tell me all of it. Don’t hide anything.”

I bowed my head for a moment.

There’s Mark’s ghost, there’s a gorgeous redhead that seems to know a lot more about me than she should. There’s the bowl Uncle Red gave me that I still haven’t had the courage to open. Wylie’s lied to me about something and I don’t know what. The girls are around, one of them trying to show me the black pit that use to hold her heart.

Cat rubbed my knee. “You need to call the State Police.”

“I can’t.”

“What if they killed the girls, John?”

“Who? Rusty, Herb and Pat?” I frowned. “No way.”

“Do
you
think Mark did it?”

I pulled my hand away and grabbed the shotgun. “I don’t know. Mark had some deep problems my parents didn’t know about, even though they thought he was a saint.” Which almost made me laugh, because our dad, the preacher, had never told us why he’d named us Mark and John. It never occurred to me it was because of the disciples. I thought they were names, like anyone else’s.

“And you found them while you were hiking?”

I nodded. I kissed her temple, the sanctuary of all her greatest hopes and fears. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Her hands played with each other in her lap. “When I build the courage there’s some things I need to tell you, John.”

“Okay.” I stood and stroked her cheek. Her skin soft beneath the tips of my fingers. I couldn’t imagine her old and gray, teeth gone, eyes faded, lines in her skin marking the passing of time. Even stranger I couldn’t imagine not loving her just as much then. “Stay inside. Don’t go out back.”

“Why?”

“Just don’t. Okay?”

I don’t know if Angela’s out there.

Cat nodded and stood. “Will you come help me tuck Ethan in?”

I grabbed her hand and looked at the gun in my own. I didn’t want her son to see it. I went to the back door, propped the Remington against the washing machine, and followed her into the bedroom at the front of the house.

Ethan played with a red toy train, making little chugging sounds, pudgy hands clamped tight over the plastic smokestack.

He’s such a good kid. Sometimes I wish he was really mine.

Cat picked Ethan up, his black hair clinging to her shirt. He dropped his train and tried to squirm out of her arms to reach it. I picked it up and set it on the dresser. I pulled
Zin! Zin! A violin!
from the bookshelf and the kid smiled and stuck his arms out.

Cat sighed. “He wants you.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing.” I grabbed Ethan and sat on the edge of the bed, found it hard to believe that I was once that small, innocent, and fragile. I kissed the top of his head and the boy looked up and met my eyes.

Sometimes he almost looked like me.

Cat sat on the floor by my feet and rubbed my shin. “He loves when you read to him.”

“I love it, too. Uncle Red brought it up earlier. He used to read Ray Bradbury to me all the time when I was little. It’s good for kids. They should hold on to their imagination as long as possible.”

Cat smiled and it felt like the tension between us lessened. “I wish you knew how much I love you.”

“Ditto.”

Ethan grabbed at the book’s corner and tried to rip it open. I tickled him and the boy laughed. Then they were all laughing and I didn’t want it to end.

But the dead girls stood in Ethan’s doorway.

* * *

Brandy Miller kicked her blanket aside and laid the book across her chest. She looked at the clock. “God, it’s almost midnight.” Listening to the quiet of the house, the soft dribble of rain running down the gutters, she took a deep breath. Thunder rumbled. She hoped the power didn’t go out. Her dad’s snores sounded down the hall.

She giggled.

He’s so loud. God, how does Mom sleep at all?

Setting the book on her nightstand, she sat up and placed her feet on the floor. A cup of hot chocolate sounded good.

And then I better hit the sack. If my grades start slipping I’m never going to get what I want.

Brandy stretched. It relaxed her. She’d thought the tenth grade was going to be a lot harder than what the first week offered. Mom always said she could coast through with Bs if she wanted and not stress so much, but Brandy wanted to do her best and go to UCLA and get her degree in psychology. And she knew she’d never get to do that if she slacked off.

Halfway to the door, a sound clicked in the rear of the house. The door lock. Her shadow splashed across the wall. She froze. Her body temperature rose and her palms grew sweaty. Dad’s snores, louder.

Someone is in our house.

She feared calling out to her father. If he ran out into the hall, whoever came in might hurt him. Nice people didn’t just walk into your place in the middle of the night carrying cookies. Looking back at the Stephen King novel on her nightstand, her brain rummaged through countless books and movies, trying to latch on the sensible thing to do.

Hurry. You need to decide on something and do it.

The quiet tread of feet on carpet in the hall pushed her toward the window. She slid it open. Cool night air, a fresh, longed-for dampness, slid over her skin. Door knob twisting, Brandy threw one leg over the sill. Her whole body shivered.

She felt like crying out.
Mom! Dad! Wake up!

The door’s hinges squealed the way her mother had when their cat, Tabby, had been hit by a car. A flash of movement as he ran across the room, this dark wraith, eyes a glimmer of white. Brandy let go and fell as his fingers snagged her shirt and ripped it. She hit the wet ground and breakfalls she’d learned in gymnastics came to her rescue.
Let the air out before you hit.

She shook as she stood. He threw his leg through the gap like a funnel spider crawling from its nest.

“Dad, wakeup!”

Brandy ran for the street. The rain fell in a hard slant illuminated by yellowed streetlights. Trees ran alongside the curb and hid the sidewalk in a deeper darkness.

“Help!”

His feet splashed puddles against the back of her legs. His breath came in ragged gasps. “Your dad…”

She slipped on the grass, almost to the road.

On her back, she looked up and saw the stars twinkling, realized they were rain drops filled with light. He loomed over her, grabbed her hair and pulled. Brandy tried to scream and he clamped a hand over her mouth, pulled her beneath the waist high shrubs.

She clawed at his face, but her hand slid off the rain and sweat. His belt buckle reflected a shaft of light onto her right arm. He dropped his pants and leaned forward. Brandy kicked, hoping to land her foot between his legs. He caught her ankle between his knees and grabbed it with his hands. He twisted and she screamed again as the rain came harder. Brandy rolled over on her stomach. His weight pressed down against her butt and she felt his hardness against the back of her thigh.

God, don’t let this happen!

He grabbed the nape of her neck and slammed her face on the ground. The world exploded in a blanket of wet rainbow colors and she went limp.

Half aware, her mind tumbled over her father’s face, and how the other kids at school treated her because she’d been born to Herb Miller. Some of them wanted friendship; some of them thought she was stuck up.

Her head cleared as a set of hands pawed at her pajama top and ripped it free. Bare breasts against the damp grass, she heard him moan, rub his penis against her back. He grabbed her shoulders and turned her over. Her eyelids fluttered. She tried to catch a glimpse of his face but it lay shrouded in blackness.

Groggy.
He thinks I’m unconscious.

She knew there had to be a way she could use that to her advantage, but she didn’t know how. Her body tensed. The rain glimmered over his shoulder and a shape took form. A woman walked behind him. The rain fell around her but didn’t touch her skin. She wore a raven mask.

The man jerked Brandy’s pajama bottoms down. She cried out and he raised his hand to slap her. The woman behind him snagged his wrist and her head jutted forward and the beak pierced his skin near the inside of his elbow. Blood sprayed out in an arc. He fell forward, on top of her. His weight knocked the breath from her. She struggled to draw another.

* * *

I drove the Jeep south through town, and took a left onto River Road, shotgun on the passenger seat, Maglite between my legs. The headlights cut a swath through the gloom, revealing trees that towered on either side of the narrow road. A half mile up he came to Ash Trail and I took another left. The Mill hadn’t run since my teenage years, but the weeds had been bent recently by another vehicle. It gave me a sliver of hope. Though half of me worried that Mark had something to do with it, the other half didn’t buy it. I always envied people who had good instincts. It’d never been my strength.

The mill rose out of the night, light glaring against broken glass as the Jeep bounced over ruts. I parked by the door and shut the engine off, but left the headlights on. As I got out, the wind howled through the trees and set branches to clacking.

Wet weeds quickly soaked my pants up to my knees and slapped at my thighs. Skin tightened along my scalp as I looked around the woods, wondering if someone was out there watching. To the north, the Johnston manor’s windows glowed through the gloom, murky in the distance, perched on the highest point north of town. I turned back to the mill and approached the door, flashlight and shotgun in hand.

A chain, padlocked, ran between the handles.

I walked around the side, blackness stretching into what seemed forever in front of me, branches and shrubbery scraping the wall. At a side window, I found a piece of plywood dangling by one nail. Pushing it to the side, I climbed through, flashlight beam cutting across the littered concrete floor.