The Atheist's Daughter (20 page)

“Bible class?” Kristin said. “It’s Saturday.”

“Dad always teaches a class on Saturday. About fifty weeks of the year, anyway. Tomorrow, I’m at the podium.”

“Can you skip it?”

“My first class? No  way.” In the background, she heard his father say, “Roaming charges, Gideon, roaming charges! Hang up!”

“I really need to talk.”

“Roaming charges, Kristin, roaming charges,” Hawkins said. “Gotta go.”

“Wait,” she told him. “When will you get back to the church?”

“My church? You’d meet me at my church?”

“What time?”

“Ten o’clock, give or take.”

“I’ll be there.”

* * *

Hawkins flipped his cell phone closed. “Well, well,” he said. “Hallelujah, indeed.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sheriff Archer wondered if he should have changed into street clothes before returning to the café. If this were a social visit, he decided, that’s just what he’d have done. For now, though, it was better to stay in his blues. It was a way to remind the jittery Alice Poe that he represented truth, justice, and the American way. At least, to the extent that the good people of Winterhaven still believed in such things.

Somewhere inside the first story of the building, a light glowed. Upstairs, a smear of yellow flame flickered back and forth. He didn’t need to see the
Sorry, We’re Closed
sign in the window to tell him the restaurant was shut down for the day.

Rubbing his badge with his sleeve, he climbed the porch and knocked at the front door. It was his polite knock, three taps and done.

If his call went without answer, he’d use his Sheriff’s knock. Then he’d drum on the door with such power that it shook the wood beneath his fist. It almost always elicited an urgent, usually frightened, response.

The door opened in front of him. The reed-like Alice Poe said, “Evening, Sheriff.”

He brought an index finger and thumb to the brow of his hat. “Good evening, Alice” – and saw her face tighten almost instinctively. “May I come in?”

She continued to block the doorway. “Mr. Brass isn’t back yet. He probably won’t return until morning.”

“Him and his boss, right?” Archer shifted, trying to peer past this shadow of a woman. “I haven’t been in Piotrowski’s since it changed ownership.”

“There haven’t been many changes. Hardly any.”

From the dining area, he saw the pretty boy, Mr. Locke, coming their way. “I’d appreciate a look around if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Locke filled the space behind Alice Poe. When he rested his hand on her shoulder, she softened, melting with pleasure from the contact.

“Got a warrant?” Mr. Locke asked.

“A warrant? Now, why would I need a warrant?” Archer was surprised to feel the cold base of his metal baton touch his palm. He didn’t remember reaching for it.

“Typical.”

“This isn’t an official visit, is it?” Alice Poe asked. “There’s nothing to see. Really, there isn’t. Mr. Locke and I are the only ones here.”

“Don’t forget Miss Sweet.” When Locke mentioned her name, some strange mischief filled his head. Archer could practically see the gears grinding. “Although she’s easily forgettable, our Miss Sweet.”

Alice Poe shook her head, either in response to the statement or to stop Mr. Locke from saying anything more.

“Who’s Miss Sweet?”

“The café’s fortune-teller,” Mr. Locke said.

Sheriff Archer felt a smile grow on his face.

Alice Poe said, “Not for money, Sheriff. She does her readings for free.”

“Free isn’t a crime, is it?” Mr. Locke asked.

He knows it isn’t
, Archer thought.

“If you’d like to get your fortune told,” Mr. Locke continued, “we’ll invite you in.”

A twitch of fear crossed Alice Poe’s brow. It was probably this display of anxiety that decided his next step.

The Sheriff removed his hat. “Might be fun.”

* * *

It was ten o’clock and Liz still hadn’t called. Her summer class had ended hours ago and, for whatever reason, she was ignoring her text messages. She was ignoring her voice mail, too.

Could she be busy, studying?

Liz? Not a chance.
Sighing, Kristin entered Nana Beggio’s phone number.

After a single ring, the old woman picked up. She said, “Sweetie, I’m sure I told you. All of Doctor Silva’s more challenged students are having a sleep-over.”

“A sleep-over?”

“At the professor’s house,” Nana Beggio said. “They’re playing math games all night long. Calculus flip cards, calculus Pictionary. They must be having so much fun.”

“Liz agreed to this? Our Liz?”

“She needs the help. The final exam is tomorrow, you know.”

“Ahhhhh.”
Now
it made sense. “Goodnight, Nana Beggio.” Before Nana Beggio could start another sentence, Kristin disconnected the call.

I’ll see her soon enough
, she thought with the faintest twinge of guilt.
We’ll talk then.

Or, more accurately, she’ll talk, I’ll listen.

Pushing her ear buds in place, she turned on her music player. What was it Nana Beggio had said? “Calculus Pictionary”?

Was Dr. Silva really going to play a game combining Liz’s complete disinterest in math with her serious lack of artistic ability? If so, her friend was in for a surprise.

For the first time that day, Kristin relaxed. No matter how bad things seemed, it could be worse. She could be at a math sleep-over and about to discover the joy of playing Calculus Pictionary.

With music playing in her ears, she fell asleep.

* * *

On the second floor, Sheriff Archer went through the first door to his left. It was a small room and dark inside; darker, anyway, than his aging eyes preferred. With Mr. Locke and Alice Poe following him, he coughed to announce his presence.

An old woman sat on the floor, a small table in front of her. Candlelight flickered from three wavering wicks, throwing unkind shadows on her face.

Christ almighty
, Archer thought.
You need a movie witch, I’ve found your girl. This Miss Sweet could have come straight from Central Casting.

Mr. Locke spoke from over his shoulder. “The Sheriff has come for a reading.”

Miss Sweet asked, “Does Mrs. Norton approve?”

“She hasn’t returned. Sheriff says he won’t leave without a reading.”

The hag nodded, tilting her chinless head toward the table. Whatever her thoughts, she hid them from view.

“Tarot cards, right?” Archer said. “Or a Ouija board, maybe a crystal ball. Parlor games for the gullible.”

The insult brought her face up. “I play no games.”

“Sugar, it’s all you know.”

“Sit,” she told him.

Aware of Alice Poe and Mr. Locke behind him, he closed the door in their surprised faces.

“I like my room open,” Miss Sweet said.

“See, that’s where I disagree with you. I prefer a little privacy. Since I’m the client with the badge, we’ll do it my way.” Sliding his legs under the table, he laid his hat on the floor beside him.

Looking like she’d bitten into a lemon, the fortune-teller reached across the table. “Give me your hand.”

He stretched it out. The old woman held his open palm over the center of the table, directly above a long, black rock. Archer was still in her grip when her other hand flashed forward. Something bit into his finger.

“Owww!” He tried to pull away as her hand tightened over his. “Let go of me.”

She twisted his wrist and he saw a large drop of blood tremble on the tip of his finger. “I ask only for the smallest sacrifice. Do you give it?”

“My blood? You want my blood?”

She waited, her eyes like onyx pebbles.

“Do it,” Archer said. “I’m here. I might as well see your voodoo.”

The red droplet fell, spreading over the rock. The rock seemed to glow as she released him.

“Before the future, the past,” Miss Sweet said. “I see your father was a policeman.” She waved a hand over the stone. “Your father’s father wore blue as well.”

“Not exactly a revelation,” he told her. “Cops run in my family. As long as there’s been a Winterhaven, there’s been an Archer boy with a badge on his chest. Anybody could have told you as much.”

Unperturbed, she remained focused on the stone. Through some trick of the candlelight, the rock changed color under her gaze. “Once you loved your work. Now, your heart is heavy.”

“You ever hang out with a bunch of cops? Burn-out happens. Occupational hazard in my line of work.”

“For others, yes. Never before for you.”

He scooted away from the table. “Begging your pardon, Miss Sweet, but this is getting a little New Age-y for me. Only thing missing is the wind chimes.”

“You shouldn’t go,” she said, “until you’ve seen the life ahead of you.”

Despite himself, Archer leaned forward.
What do you think you’ll find in there?
This isn’t a high-def t.v. It’s a damned lava rock.

But he looked down at it, regardless.

Miss Sweet said, “I see five years before you.”

“Five?”

“Hard years. Bitter years. The corruption is spreading inside of you.”

“Sweet Mother Mary, does anybody ever buy this line of happy horseshit?”

“In your heart, you know it’s true.”

He brought his eyes up, searching her face. It appeared as cold as the stone beneath her fingers.

“You’ve suspected for a while but you were frightened to act,” she continued. “Too late now, much too late. You’ve always been strong but your strength is fading. Soon, you’ll suffer.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Taking his hat, Archer returned it to his head.

“I give you the truth.”

“Lady, as old as you are, maybe you’re still new to the bunco game. Let me tell you something. There’s no coin in an ugly story.” Candlelight swayed around him. “You want my money, you’re supposed to promise me things. Romance or money or maybe the condo in Vero Beach I’ve always wanted. You’re supposed to tell me all the pretty lies I want to hear.”

“I said you had five years.”

“Five bad years? Like that’s some prize?” he asked. “Or maybe you’re playing things a different way. Maybe you want to scare me. For the right price, you’ll do a little spell, and suddenly I’m healed. The corruption disappears. Is that it?”

Miss Sweet picked up the fallen stick pin. “You know better.”

“Bull.” Seeing the pin, he looked down at his injured finger. He blinked his eyes rapidly, as if coming out of a daze. “You stuck me. You took a pin and stuck me!”

With a flick of her finger, Miss Sweet sent the pin flying into the corner waste basket. It made a
dink!
sound as it fell atop a dozen of its twins. Leaning forward, she blew out the first of the candle flames.

“I’ve had enough.”  Archer’s thumb found the puncture site and massaged it loosely. “I’ve never had much truck with people like you. I don’t like how you operate and I don’t much like this place.” He reached down to dust his pants. “When your boss arrives, tell her I’m contacting the County Attorney. Between us, I’m guessing we can find reason enough to shut you down.”

He threw the door open. Mr. Locke was in the hallway, waiting for him.

“Get the hell out of my face,” Archer said.

“How many years?” 

“What?”

“How many years did she say you had?”

From the room behind him, Miss Sweet said, “Five years.”

“Five years,” Mr. Locke repeated, honeyed pleasure in his voice.

“There’s more,” Miss Sweet said.

Mr. Locke came closer, wanting to hear her message. Archer shoved at the man’s chest. “Move.”

Mr. Locke felt surprisingly heavy but the push pushed him aside. It gave the Sheriff enough space to escape the gypsy’s room.

Abandoning Miss Sweet, Mr. Locke shadowed him. Archer was at the top of the stairway when he felt a hand fell on his shoulder. “Hey, cop.”

Turning, the Sheriff saw a flash of silver. He brought his arms up as Mr. Locke slammed a chrome-covered pipe against the side of his head.

A thousand colors erupted within his mind’s eye. Archer fell backwards, the stairs racing up to meet him. There was another burst of color as his head hit the top stair.

Then everything went black.

* * *

Mr. Locke felt such power as the meat collapsed, its skull striking the edge of the top step. The body gave a spasm when it hit the floor, bouncing and rolling down the stairway. A smear of blood marked the police officer’s progress to the bottom of the landing.

The cascade of noise brought Alice Poe from her room. As useless as ever, she stopped when she saw what had happened, her hands fluttering in fear and indecision. He heard Miss Sweet call out but he ignored her.

The greedy cow can fill herself later. This one belongs to me.

He raced down the steps, his shoes streaked in blood. The meat jerked, sending the vortex inside Mr. Locke’s throat whirling in hungry anticipation. Ready and eager, he spread his arms to embrace the feeding.

Nothing happened.

Beneath him, the meat’s chest rose and fell. Somehow, it had survived the beating. Its head lolled sideways and its right eye blinked open.

He’s strong. Good, good.

Mr. Locke raised his arm. He heard the pipe whistle as he swung his fist downward. The metal bit into flesh, cracking the skull and spraying his victim’s blood into the air.

Pinpoints of red sprinkled over him as brain and bone slapped wetly at the bottom of his trousers. He didn’t care. Outside of his control, he felt his jaw drop and his mouth extend.

Now
, it was his time.
Now
, he could feed.

The life force rose to meet him. In shimmering waves, it surrounded him, falling onto him. It filled him.

Was there ever a more glorious feeling than this?

Sensation crowded around him. Suddenly, the smell of spilled blood filled the air, thick and cloying. It teased him and his mouth watered. He felt vibrantly alive.

Lifting the chrome-covered pipe, he admired his reflection. Spots of blood were scattered over the beautiful brown of his face. He watched himself bring his fingertips to his full, pink lips. He watched his fingers drag streaks of blood along his strong jaw line. It felt wet and even this wetness felt wonderful.

He had regained his color. He was strong and beautiful.

There were so many things he wanted to do. Things he’d stopped doing as their pleasures faded. Everything was different now.
He
was different now.

He wanted to taste food, to eat so much he vomited. He longed for a cigarette, wanting to feel his lungs burn. He’d drink liquor until he couldn’t stand. Most of all, he hungered for sex: Dirty, hard, raw sex.

There were times when the others talked about the pleasures of the flesh but he never heard them speak of fornication. Well, Alice Poe did, but only in whispers and only when they were alone. Making promises for when she was filled.

As if he’d desire her even then.

“Oh, no.” It was her voice whimpering from the stairs above, the faint words filled with fear and regret. Alice Poe gripped the top of the half-wall. Miss Sweet waited beside her.

“He was nothing,” he said, not liking how they looked at him. “Less than nothing.”

Miss Sweet said, “He wasn’t meant to be taken.”

“Because he’s the Sheriff?” he asked, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice. “
Was
the Sheriff? He has one deputy, a woman. Who cares? The only thing more useless than meat is female meat.”

“That’s not what I said.”

He snorted derisively. “Because it wasn’t my turn, then?” He laughed, enjoying the full, rich sound as it erupted from his mouth. “It would have been my turn soon enough.”

“He wasn’t whole,” Miss Sweet said.

Fear stabbed at his sense of elation. “You said he had five years.”

“So he did. Five full years. Not good years.”

“Why didn’t you say?” Mr. Locke demanded. “You dumb, worthless –”

Suddenly, his left side tore at him. Gasping, he clutched for the stairway banister to keep himself from falling.

“He carried disease,” Miss Sweet said.

Alice Poe’s face was drawn. “It comes quickly for our kind.”

Trying to straighten, Mr. Locke felt his feet slide out from him. His right hand splashed through fleshy matter before it found the floor.

He raised his head. “What now?”

“Agony. Despair.”

“I heard ‘five years’!” Mr. Locke shouted up at her.

“There was more to hear than those few words.” Miss Sweet shook her head. “When someone returns from the Void, there are things they think they remember. Funny how much the pit steals from you.”

“Make an effort, ancient beast. Try to make sense.”

“It takes a day to remember how to eat, a week to talk, and a month to walk. You’re still learning. You can’t do as much as you think.”

“I can do more than you know. Something you can’t. Something Mrs. Norton can’t do, either.” His discomfort easing, he managed a sneer. “I can drive a car.”

Alice Poe covered her face with her hands. Her eyes blurred through the layers of her fingers as she tried to hide from Miss Sweet’s gaze.

Miss Sweet said, “There are so many things you don’t understand.”

“Like what?”

“Mrs. Norton,” Alice Poe said from behind her hands.

“Her? What can she do to me now?” He pushed himself upright, using the wall as support. “She returned me to this body but she can’t take me out of it. You’re all so scared of her – and for what? There are few things here that can kill us. Mrs. Norton isn’t one of them.”

“There are worse things than dead,” Miss Sweet said.

Mr. Locke felt a tremor run through his legs.
From the pain
, he thought.

“Run,” Alice Poe told him.

He saw pity and fear and desire etched across her face. No matter what he did, she’d follow him.

“Come with me.” He put his hand out. “We’ll see the world. We’ll take what we want instead of letting others tell us what we can have.”

Not answering, Alice Poe ran down the hallway.

“That’s it?” he called after her. “I don’t even get a good-bye, you empty bitch?”

From the upper floor, her bedroom door slammed shut. Only Miss Sweet stayed in place, looming over him.

“Why are you still here?” he asked.

“Would you like me to tell your fortune?”

“Shut up.”

She cocked her head, watching him.

“Without your rock, you’re nothing,” he said. “Less than nothing. Certainly less –” He straightened the collar on his shirt, “– than me.”

Kicking at the meat, Mr. Locke rolled it over. Sweat beaded across his forehead as he bent to take the Sheriff’s wallet and gun. Clutching at his stomach, he stumbled from the kitchen.

He would run, just as Alice Poe had suggested. But there was one thing he needed to do first.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Hawkins’ eyes were burning and it felt like there was grit clawing at each of his eyelids. The only thing keeping him awake was his unhappy bladder. It demanded he leave the car, find the nearest tree, and pee for the next hour or so.

Inconvenient or not, he’d have to answer Nature’s call soon. Given a choice, he’d prefer to do it in a well-lit gas station bathroom instead of hiding behind some leafless dogwood tree.