The Atheist's Daughter Page 12

  Inside the cabinet’s lowest, deepest drawer was her blade, wicked and cursed. She lifted the knife from its bed. Refusing to indulge herself in the luxury of hesitation, she clutched its handle tightly. The thousand tiny needles mounted on the hilt impaled her palm, biting into her.

  Mrs. Norton gasped but held her voice. As the wires pierced her hand, there was a swoosh of sound. The candlelight vanished as air escaped from the room. The strips of skin brightened, each rectangle glowing, as the space around her lost its light. The dark blade in her hand turned white, its luminosity guiding her to the platform at the center of the room.

  Sinking to the middle of the square, Mrs. Norton rested to her knees. She opened her mouth, screaming at last, knowing the vortex would capture the sound and swallow it.

  Inside her throat, her hunger whirled, faster and faster, singing inside of her. It cried for attention, pleading for notice, begging, begging for Khagean the Guardian to hear its prayer.

  Mrs. Norton’s body shook, vibrating as she made her incantation. Extending her arm, she cut into it with the edge of the knife. The fine tip slipped beneath her crystalline skin, carving a trail of fire from her wrist to the center of her forearm. Agony washed over her but her vocalization never wavered.

  She dropped the blade, letting it fall beside her. Her arm wept, a single clear pearl splashing onto the knife.

  Her body burning, her head bent, she felt the vortex start to slow. The platform trembled beneath her. Above her, the ceiling opened and was gone. She sensed rather than saw the emptiness erupting above her head.

  One of the deities was manifest. Although it could never truly be in this reality, the Dark One was as close as a whisper, its presence brushing at the nape of her neck. She could feel its enormous power.

  Inside herself, she heard his voice. Tell me.

  Khagean was the Guardian of the Void and he had come to her. Twice before, he had answered her call and, twice before, he had deigned to answer her questions. Consequently, all of her sacrifices were made in his name. When she triumphed, she thanked the Guardian in her prayers. When she failed, she cursed his enemies for her fate.

  Ever his faithful servant, she dared take little for granted. She knew she must pose her question carefully, saying nothing of Kristin Faraday. Her Lord did not care about mortals.

  Nor did she, the truth be told. It aggravated her that the girl, this insignificant thing, was somehow still alive. Alive and here, in Winterhaven, as if she was normal and whole.

  What was wrong with her family? Even if they lacked the decency to rid the world of her, why weren’t they shamed enough to flee with the pest, taking her to another city? Yet, here she remained...and she was curious about her betters.

  Her very existence had brought Mrs. Norton to her knees. Alice Poe, Miss Sweet, Mr. Brass – they carried no obligation to the Other. If they choose to leave, they could.

  Not that they’d survive for long without her.

  Finally, she asked the one thing she needed to know: May I leave this place?

  This is why you summoned me?

  An irritated wind whipped around Mrs. Norton’s body. She heard the silver candle holder fall from its perch, clattering to the ground.

  You bother me with THIS?

  Was the Guardian somehow unaware of her situation? It was possible, she supposed. His duty was to the Void. His interest in his followers was, at most times, superficial.

  Mrs. Norton fought to clear her thoughts, keeping her secret to herself. It was for naught.

  A new voice entered her: It’s because of the girl.

  Ajanosek, the Protector of Newborns, carried no love for Mrs. Norton or her kind. The Protector was rarely cruel without reason but she could be vengeful.

  You stole from her, Ajanosek chastised.

  It was a trifle, Goddess, Mrs. Norton offered. The tiniest of thefts. I meant no disrespect.

  A debt is owed.

  The words twisted in Mrs. Norton’s stomach, threatening to make her sick.

  The girl must be given an opportunity to make her claim.

  An opportunity? I understand, my Goddess. I obey, my Goddess.

  But for how long? How much time must pass while she ponders her choices?

  Above her head, the cosmos swirled.

  What if the girl should leave this place? Mrs. Norton asked. Or if she should choose to – to make a more permanent exit?

  Suddenly, the sensation of illness was gone. Mrs. Norton felt well and whole and, for the moment, not hungry.

  Without words, Ajanosek had given her the answer. With his silence, Khagean had allowed the answer to stand.

  The room fell into darkness, its ceiling in place again. The gods had returned to their dimension.

  And, for now, Mrs. Norton would remain in Winterhaven.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  His dead wife said, “Where have you been, Howard?”

  What could he say that wouldn’t anger her? Start with the truth, perhaps. “The doctor told me I needed more sleep, Eustacia. I only did what the doctor said.”

  “You’re sleeping now.”

  “It’s not the same,” the Reverend Hawkins said. “When I see you at night, it haunts me throughout the day. Because...because I miss you so.”

  She smiled, torn flesh rising.

  “You’ve been coming to me so often lately. Two or three times a week. I thought, with a little more rest, I’d be better company.”

  “Silly.” She fluttered her remaining eye flirtatiously. “I like your company, no matter what. I want you with me always.”

  He knew she did. He used to want the same thing. “The medications help me sleep more soundly.”

  “Medications.” The tone of her voice went flat. “You mean, drugs.”

  “Medicine. Prescribed medicine. Doctor Barnes –”

  ”Drugs are the gateway to Satan’s playground,” Eustacia interrupted. “How many times have you said that very thing from behind your lectern? How many times have you implored your congregation to do the right thing?”

  “Not prescription drugs, darling.”

  “It’s a fine line, Howard. A damned fine line.”

  Now she was angry. She never cursed unless she was angry.

  She turned the shattered half of her body toward him, forcing him to confront the damage she’d suffered. “Does Gideon know?”

  “It’s none of Gideon’s business.”

  “Has he seen you swallow your pills? Does he watch his father stagger about in a stupor?”

  “No.”

  “Has he seen you stumbling about like a common drunk?”

  “It’s Ambien, love, that’s all.” He swallowed deeply. “One white tablet. The smallest dose.”

  “Well.”

  “I’m cautious when I take it. I never drive after. Never.”

  She softened, showing the undamaged portion of her face. “I only ask because I care.”

  “Of course.” He reached out his hand, stroking the unbroken skin at the left side of her cheek.

  “Do you remember the last time we talked?”

  “You know I do.” He wasn’t sure he did, though. Sometimes, the dreams remained vivid for days. Lately, with Brenda in his life, some of those memories had started to blur.

  “I told you there was evil in Winterhaven.”

  “Yes, you told me. I do remember.”

  “What are you doing about it?”

  He tried to remember exactly what she’d said but nothing came to him. “Doing about the evil?”

  “The unclean spirits.” Her green eye fixed at him. “The ones who come to us from the mouth of the dragon and from the mouth of the beast.”

  Was she quoting scripture to him? Eustacia, who always liked being a preacher’s wife but never quite found the time to open a Bible? “What do you want me to do?”

  “Kristin Faraday.”

  “Kristin? Gideon’s friend?” the Reverend asked. “What about her?”

  His bedsi
de alarm went off. His eyes came open.

  Eustacia was gone.

  He breathed in slowly, calming himself.

  Time to start the day.

  * * *

  His father was at the lectern, waiting for him. There was a bucket of soapy water at his feet and a large orange sponge in his right hand.

  Hawkins’ heart sank. “Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?”

  “You know what I think about that kind of humor.”

  Yes, he surely did.

  “Think before you speak, son,” the Reverend continued. “The people in this community watch you. You’re a role model for others.”

  Me, a role model? Hawkins thought. Get real.

  How much of a role model could he be, when everybody knew his best friend wasn’t a believer? She wouldn’t come to his own church, no matter how often he asked. It bugged his father – it bugged him, too, truth be told – and he knew people talked about it behind their backs.

  Too bad. He loved Kristin.

  Not in some perverse way. He didn’t have those thoughts about her. He did have those thoughts about other women, he wasn’t some religious ‘bot free from lust in his heart, but Kristin was somehow absent from the graphic fantasies that intruded into his day.

  He guessed most guys had similar needs. Did his father?

  Once he’d have doubted it. Now....

  “The windows?” Hawkins asked. “All of them?”

  “From top to bottom.”

  “I cleaned the pews. Even the ones on the far right side, the ones no one sits in.”

  “You did a good job of it, too. Ed couldn’t have done any better.”

  “Can’t the windows wait until he gets back?” His stone-faced father didn’t bother with a reply. Hawkins let his shoulders slump forward. “Do you know how many windows we have in this place?”

  “Since you ask, yes, I do. A man of the Lord knows everything about his particular house of worship.”

  “A preacher can’t know everything about his church.”

  “Let us count the number,” he told him. “Six windows in the nave, two on each side of the chancel, one at the apse, and two across from the altar. Thirteen windows.”

  “Okay, I get it,” Hawkins said. “I need to pay more attention. But I did notice we have seven big stained glass windows. I mean, big. When it comes to cleaning something like that, a stained glass window is like ten ordinary windows. That’s seventy-six windows altogether.”

  Reverend Hawkins let the orange sponge splash into the bucket. “Good thing you got here early.”

  * * *

  Mickey Mouse sat on the dashboard, his head bobbing on its coiled spring as the car cruised down the street. Mickey’s bright happy face suggested he was in a much better mood than the frowning Liz Wheeler who waited at curbside.

  “That’s because Liz isn’t a morning person,” Kristin told Mickey as she directed the car to the side of the road.

  Liz opened the passenger door. “I prayed your mother wouldn’t let you borrow the car.”

  “She was good with it.”

  “Just my luck,” Liz said, climbing inside. “I got up at dawn, just so we could drive over to Susannah’s? You couldn’t call her, instead?”

  “I did call. Last night.”

  “And?”

  “She’s fine,” Kristin admitted. “She wondered why I was on the phone, I think, but was too polite to mention it.”

  “But we’re still going out to her place this morning. For some reason.”

  “Because I’m feeling gitchy about things.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? Now I get it. You’re gitchy.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Do you have any idea what time my alarm clock went off this morning?”

  “Ten minutes ago?”

  “That was your alarm clock, fashion disaster. Mine screeched at me over an hour ago.” She surveyed her companion. “Girl, what’s the matter with you? No make-up, no perfume, naked nails, and wearing shoes so out of style it would embarrass a hobo.”

  “A hobo?”

  “What are you going to do if you meet the perfect man today?”

  “Hope he likes someone with no make-up, no perfume, naked nails and hobo shoes.”

  “As if.” Liz relaxed against the head rest. “At least we’re not traveling in the Hawkmobile. This car is totally lacking in Cheetos smell.”

  “You’ll notice the absence of mustard-stained hamburger wrappers as well.”

  “So I did,” she said. “I’m doing this exactly why?”

  “Because I’m worried about Ms. Guitierrez.

  “Hmmm?”

  “I had a dream.”

  “Right, right. You were in a meadow and Susannah turned into plastic or started bleeding or something. Then, the next time you saw her, things were all wrong – whatever. But that’s you. My point is, why am I doing this?”

  “You’re my friend.”

  “I’m your ‘get me up at noon so we can go shopping’ friend. Hawkins is your ‘it’s so damn early I can’t believe it’ friend.”

  “Hawkins is doing some kind of a church thing.”

  “At this hour? He’s an idiot.” Liz closed her eyes. “Me, too, I guess. After we see Susannah, you are so taking me to breakfast.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Miss Sweet had found them the car a week ago. It was a used two-door sedan, bleached white, and with a deep scratch carved into its rear bumper. It started easily and ran well, it was dependable, and not even the most avid car aficionado would give the vehicle a second glance.

  Piece a shit, Mr. Brass thought, as he had when he first saw the car. I’m ashamed to be seen in it.

  Mrs. Norton took the passenger seat, cranking her window down a quarter turn. She didn’t like automobiles, had never driven one as far as he knew. Cars were for going places and she found this one satisfactory for that purpose.

  Mr. Brass parked the car two blocks from their destination. He locked the doors manually and the pair of them started down the sidewalk.

  He didn’t mind walking. Better to walk, anyway, than to be seen in that sorry bucket of bolts.

  “It appears we’ve arrived, Mr. Brass,” Mrs. Norton said, touching her finger to the last of the black boxes on a mail stand. At the top was the label, 24B. Beneath the number, there was a name: S Guitierrez.

  Indistinguishable from its neighbors, 24B was a two-story row house. Each of the red brick units had its own cement walkway leading into a small courtyard. Every courtyard featured an eight-foot circle of grass and most of them boasted a single tree in the center of the grass enclosure. Hiding behind each courtyard was an entryway with a secluded front door.

  They followed the cement pathway to the end unit.

  Pressing his eye to the peephole at the front door, Mr. Brass saw only blackness. He jiggled the doorknob but it remained firm and unmoving in his grip.

  “What happened to small town values?” he said softly. “Neighbors trusting neighbors?”

  He removed a folded leather wallet from his jacket’s inner pocket. The wallet unfolded to display a series of lock picks, each nestled in its own sleeve. For the door handle, he selected the next to the smallest pick. For the pair of upper deadlocks, he’d need something bigger.

  “Careful,” Mrs. Norton said. “We don’t want any scratches, even on the strike plate. No damage to the jamb.”

  She said it as if he was still green. As if he was as raw as Mr. Locke. It bothered him, like the car bothered him, but he knew better than to let his feelings show.

  He focused on his task. “Do you remember when we had the locksmith shop? Was there ever a better business for us?” He twisted the bent wire up, up again, and then down. The spring-driven latch released and the handle clicked open.

  “It improved your skills.”

  Thirty seconds later, the door was unlocked. Inside, a semi-circle of polished tile marked the home’s entrance. White carpeting flowed into a modest living room on thei
r right and onto the steps of the stairway on their left. From one of the unseen rooms in front of them, a pot gurgled. The smell of fresh coffee was in the air.

  On the second floor, a sliver of light shone from beneath a closed door. Inside the room was the muffled sound of running water.

  The meat is awake.

  Mr. Brass was so hungry he almost didn’t care. From experience, he knew he could be up the stairs in seconds. Even if the bathroom door was locked, it wouldn’t slow him. Made from plywood or press board, it would shatter beneath the strength of his need.

  In less than a minute, he could have his hands on his victim’s throat. There was a time, long since passed, when he’d have acted on his desire. Now, he didn’t move. Knowing the blood lust was on his face, he waited for Mrs. Norton to speak.

  “Quietly,” she said.

  Disappointment washed over him. Softly, he went up the stairs. At the mouth of the hallway, he paused to listen to the noises around him.

  To his left, nothing. To his right, faucets squeaked as the roar of running water diminished and disappeared. He crept to the bathroom door, hearing the sound of flesh rubbing over porcelain. It was followed by a splash and then the sound of water lapping inside the tub.

  She was in there, exposed and helpless. He wondered if her eyes were closed. Had she left her bathrobe in a pile on the floor, never to be needed again? Was she in a bubble bath, soap suds floating above the skin of her naked body?

  The contemplation of her demise was so delicious he wished he could linger in the hallway, savoring it. But his hunger drove him forward.

  The knob turned easily in his grip. Her arms supported on the edges of the bathtub, Susannah Guitierrez gave a startled cry when he entered the room.

  I wish I could let you scream, meat, we’d both enjoy it so. But Mr. Brass knew better. Covering Susannah’s mouth, he shoved her under the water.

  Her eyes had been open when he entered the room. A pink bathrobe hung on the hook inside the door. The water was clear and steaming; there were no soap suds.

  Life’s mysteries, so easily answered.

  Water splashed around him as she squirmed beneath his hold. Susannah’s hand shot forward, finding purchase on the side of the bathtub. Her other hand followed, her fingernails scratching uselessly over the arm of her assailant. A nail broke as it struck his vacant forearm, snapping as if it had struck stone.