Nursery Rhymes 4 Dead Children Page 8

  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.

  Chapter 11

  Herb Miller shook himself of the nightmare clinging to the back of his eyes. He sat up, trembling, striped pajamas drenched. Margaret snored next to him, buried under the blankets. A faint ringing, like a faraway church bell, slipped into his struggling consciousness. He pulled his earplugs out. Rain tapped against the windows over the dresser.

  The door bell rang. Herb stood slowly, his mind thick, groggy. The central air chilled the sweat soaking his sleepwear. He grabbed the shotgun next to his bed. Margaret never flinched as the doorbell rang again. He walked into the hall, left hand trailing along textured paint.

  Thunder rumbled as he neared the front door. He forced himself to grab the cold knob. The person outside beat against the wood. Herb jumped. He drew in a deep breath, wondering how late it was and what had happened now. Shadows shifted against the opaque glass in the center of the door.

  “Who is it?”

  A man’s voice came over muffled. Herb couldn’t understand him, not over the rain, thunder and the pounding of his own heart.

  You can’t stand here all night. You know who it is and what this sonofabitch wants.

  The shotgun felt like a barbell, loaded with cast iron weight. It reminded him how weak he’d become over the years, his physical bearing a mirror image of what he’d let his soul become.

  Herb flipped on the porch light, the apathetic muscles in his arms burning. He drew a deep breath, let it out, opened the door. The man outside pushed past him, drops of rain brushed from one soul to another. Herb choked on saliva, his nerves jumping. The visitor shut the door and pulled his hoodie off.

  “I thought you were Pat.” He nodded at Rusty and locked the door.

  “You got a towel?”

  “What are you doing here?” The glowing doorway faded into the hallway’s gloom. “What happened to your head? Were you out there?”

  “No. But we need to talk. About Pat and…” Rusty looked at his arms and pulled his hoodie away from his scrawny chest.

  That word, Repent, been bothering you?

  Rusty shook like a dog.

  “Don’t do that. I’ll get you a towel.”

  His teeth flashed in the dark. “I thought that’d get you moving. Can we sit in the den?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Do you want to go to prison?”

  “Prison? What are you talking about?”

  Rusty grabbed his arm. For once he didn’t stink of whiskey, which came as a shock. “You’re not drinking.”

  “I had an accident. My car’s totaled. You know who came to my rescue?”

  “Pat?”

  “No.”

  “Who?”

  “John.”

  Herb tried to read into whatever it was Rusty suggested. “So?”

  “Pat suggested we bury the girls, Herb. He forced me to agree. You know how, don’t you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “So, you just agreed to it too, for the hell of it? I doubt that. He’s got something on you, too, doesn’t he? He’s slick. Always watching people and using their secrets against them.”

  It surprised him to hear someone else come right out and say what he’d wanted to all along.

  “I can’t have him come out with what he knows about me. I’m sure your secret is the same.”

  Rusty looked at his hands. “I used to save people with these when I was in the military. A medic. You know what they do now?”

  “I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”

  “They’re always touching the dead, Herb. They touch the dead more than the living. Pat had a hand in that, too. It’s a long story. Can we sit in your den?”

  Herb nodded. “This way.” As Rusty followed him, he wondered what his one time friend had thought of his own life. Herb thought of how awful it’d be to lose it. Lose his family. Lose everything.

  After he gave Rusty a towel from the half-bath next to the Den, they sat in the chairs next to the fireplace. Herb poured them both a drink.

  Rusty nodded. “Thanks. The pain killers are wearing off.”

  “I never thought John or his brother had anything to do with those girls’ death. I just didn’t know what I could do about it.”

  “About stopping Pat from burying them?”

  “Like you said. Pat has the upper hand. He might not be good at much else, but he is at that.”

  Rusty sipped his drink and melted into the chair, eyes on the ceiling. “We need to take the ball away from him.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  Rusty met his gaze. “Or you don’t want to risk it?”

  Herb tapped his wedding ring on the crystal. “Both? I don’t know. If we do anything to him, we’re fucked.”

  “I think he killed those girls, Herb. I’m willing to let light on my secret if it puts him in prison. Can you?”

  “Get involved even more? We’ll go to prison with him. We knew they were out there. We helped him bury them.”

  “We should go and dig them up.”

  Herb spit his drink over his pajama top. “What? Right now? You’re mad.”

  “I don’t have the strength to do it tonight. But soon.” Rusty swirled the drink. “And I think we sh
ould let John know.”

  “I think he should be left out of this loop.”

  “His dad and I were best friends. I owe it to his son.”

  “Only in your head. If, and that’s a strong if, we dig those girls up and bring some outside law enforcement into it, John doesn’t need to know.”

  Rusty stood and sat his drink on the table. “This town has gone to shit. I’m not keeping secrets anymore. Did Pat tell you how he got Mark’s key?”

  “No. He never tells me anything. He only makes orders.”

  “Kinda like he’s the mayor. You should grow a pair, Herb. Quit taking his shit and be a man.”

  “Get out of here, you drunk.”

  “You know why I drink?”

  “I don’t care, Rusty.” But it caught Herb off guard. He closed his hands over his glass and looked into the amber.

  “It’s not because I lost my wife. Not completely. Pat knows why, holds it over my head. But not anymore. What skeletons of yours is he making do his dance? Is it worth losing your family? Your career? I’ve always been a coward. I’ve always bowed down. When John Sr. moved to Arizona, he stopped calling after a while. I never tried to get a hold of him. I was scared he didn’t want our friendship anymore. And I didn’t want to ask him, or push it.”

  “You better leave. I don’t care about your problems. I’ve got enough of my own.”

  “I was fucking Jim’s wife.” His eyes grew misty, his face taut. “I was fucking her all the time, and man it felt good. She loved to drink, too. Loved to drive high as a kite. We did it one time too many and ran my wife into a tree. Pamela and my Becky both went through the windshields. Pat came by that night. He told me that no one else had to know that I was even there.

  “I was on the verge of leaving Rebecca. Pam was on the verge of leaving Jim. And both of us lost our wives because I was careless. Pat knew it all. He watched. He loves to see people destroy themselves and those around them.”